Baptism by Saltwater: My Greenhorn Trial Aboard the Lyndy

Lyndy

They say the best way to learn is to be thrown in the deep end. In commercial fishing, the learning curve is steep, the elements are unforgiving, and the margin for error is razor-thin.

For six months, I worked full-time with my dad on our estuary prawn trawler, the Lyndy. I was as green as they come—eager but inexperienced. Every knot, weld, engine part, and winch operation was a new piece in a puzzle I was only just beginning to understand. But I had something many greenhorns don’t: a mentor with decades of wisdom under his belt—my old man.

Then came the day he said I was ready. It was time to head out on my own... What followed was a string of mechanical breakdowns, unexpected challenges, and steep learning curves that tested both my patience and my resolve. From winch failures to steering breakdowns and engine overhauls, each day presented new obstacles that required not only grit but guidance. I was forced to think on my feet, adapt to rapidly changing conditions, and constantly troubleshoot problems that often felt bigger than me.

With each issue that cropped up, I found myself drawing on the lessons my dad had passed down—his calm voice echoing in my head or, more often than not, on the other end of the phone. I relied on his experience, not just for technical fixes, but for the confidence to keep pushing through. These moments taught me that knowledge in this game isn’t just about skill—it’s about community, resourcefulness, and having the humility to ask for help when you need it. It’s about knowing when to push forward and when to pull back, when to fight the tide and when to go with it.

The Winch Barrel That Nearly Cost Everything

It started with a noise—a grinding groan that sent a jolt through my spine. I glanced over to see the winch barrel shaking violently, held together by what little weld remained. If it gave out, I’d lose the entire set of gear. I slowed everything down, inching the gear up as carefully as I could. The grinding didn’t stop, but the weld held.

I got the Lyndy back to the mooring and took the barrel straight to Dad. Without hesitation, he fired up the welder and stitched it back together. By the next morning, I was back in business. That moment reminded me—support doesn’t just come in words, it comes in action.

The Engine Swap Saga

Disaster struck at the worst possible time—peak season—when a blown head gasket in our 6LXB Gardner brought operations to a grinding halt. Time was tight, and every lost day was a financial hit. We made the tough decision to replace it with a newly refurbished engine. What followed was a deep dive into the engine room and a crash course in diesel mechanics.

For six long weeks, I was elbow-deep in grease and grime, learning on the job. Cooling systems, exhaust setups, wiring, fuel lines—components that once looked like a foreign language slowly began to make sense. Each task, from aligning mounts to troubleshooting fuel delivery, built not just my technical understanding but my confidence. My dad was there every step, guiding and pushing me to get my hands dirty and learn properly.

Refurbished 6LXB Gardner

Just when I thought we were finally past it, electrolysis struck, corroding a hole straight through the sump. Four weeks after the initial install, we were back to square one. We had to remove the engine all over again. More long days in the bilge, more sweat, more late nights under floodlights tightening bolts and rechecking clearances.

Doing it once was tough—doing it twice tested everything I had. But we pulled through. The sea doesn’t hand out lessons gently, but it makes sure they stick. If resilience is a currency in this trade, I was starting to build a bank.

Front engine pulley

The Engine Pulley Nightmare

We finally had a good run when the front engine pulley split. The nut had fused to the shaft from vibration and refused to budge. We battled for days, but in the end, had to grind the whole thing off and got a new pulley machined. It’s sobering how something so small can bring the whole operation to a standstill.

Tearing Down the Winch

Next came a seized winch bearing, one of those failures that halts everything until it’s fixed. With no other choice, we pulled the entire winch off the boat and laid it out piece by piece on the workshop floor. It was covered in salt, grease, and grime, and the bearing had completely locked up, refusing to budge.

I spent hours degreasing each component, scrubbing them clean with brushes, rags, and anything else I could find. Every bolt and washer had its place, and I made sure nothing was lost in the process. It was the kind of detailed, repetitive work that forces you to slow down and be precise.

While we waited on replacement parts, I took the opportunity to better understand the winch's internals—how the gears meshed, how the bearing sat in its housing, and where stress points tended to form. Once the new bearing arrived, we carefully pressed it in, reassembled everything, and got it back on the boat.

All up, the job took about a week, but what I gained in practical knowledge was worth every hour. That hands-on work—that real-world problem-solving—is what fishing is really about. It's not just catching prawns; it’s about being prepared for when things go wrong—and knowing how to put them right.

Drifting Towards Disaster

One day off Patonga, the steering assembly sheared clean off its mount, leaving me completely adrift. With no control over the rudder, I found myself slowly drifting toward the beach, the current pulling the Lyndy closer with every passing minute. I rang Jason, another fisher I knew was nearby, hoping for a quick rescue—but his son, absorbed in a game on his phone, missed the call entirely.

Just as the shoreline began to feel uncomfortably close, I spotted Carl returning from upriver. I waved him down, and without hesitation, he threw me a line and towed me safely back to the mooring like it was just another part of his day.

Back at home, Dad and I wasted no time. We stripped out the broken frame, measured up a new design, and fabricated a replacement steering mount from stainless steel—stronger and better than the last. Less than 24 hours later, the Lyndy was seaworthy again and ready to head back out. That kind of teamwork and quick thinking is what keeps a boat and a greenhorn afloat.

Blubber, Bycatch, and the Unknown

There’s no preparing for your first haul of blubber—massive, slimy, and far too heavy to land. I had to dump the entire catch—something that, for a while, became a frustratingly regular occurrence. The sheer volume and weight made it almost impossible to manage, and I quickly learned that timing, tide, and net technique could mean the difference between a successful haul and a wasted effort.

The blubber rash that followed? Absolutely unforgettable. It left me itching for days—red, burning welts across my arms, neck, and legs—no matter how hard I scrubbed or how hot the shower. That discomfort became part of the routine for a while, and it drove home how physically punishing this line of work can be.

But it wasn’t just blubber that tested my limits. Over time, I hauled up an odd catalogue of bycatch—crab traps tangled in my nets, old tyres coated in slime, massive waterlogged logs, and even an Otto bin, of all things. Each unexpected item reminded me just how much rubbish is out there and how unpredictable each tow could be.

Every haul became a lesson in staying sharp and adapting on the fly. The estuary has a way of keeping you humble—always ready to throw something new at you, whether it’s a mountain of jellyfish or the rusted-out flood-driven debris.

I’ve learned more in one season than I could have imagined. The biggest lesson? No one does this alone. You need people around you with experience—people who’ve made the mistakes, fixed the problems, and are willing to lend their hands and knowledge when things go sideways.

Fishing is more than a job. It’s a living heritage, shaped by generations who’ve worked these waterways before us. It’s a test of grit and adaptability, where each day brings new challenges and the sea shows no favour. For greenhorns like me, it’s also a rite of passage—faced one breakdown, one repair, and one hard-earned lesson at a time. What you pull from the water is only part of the story; what you build in yourself is what really lasts.

Who will be the next generation, or will we be the last? It's a question that weighs heavily on my mind, and on the minds of many seasoned fishers across our coast. We’re witnessing a slow but undeniable shift—boats sitting idle, licences going unused, and fewer young people taking up the call of the water. The skills, the stories, the deep understanding of the tides—these things are at risk of fading if we don't actively pass them on.

In the next article, I’ll be diving deep into the looming succession crisis our industry faces. It’s a complex issue rooted in economics, regulations, lifestyle, and generational change—but it's one we must face head-on if we want to keep our heritage alive and our estuaries working. 

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