When the Nets Drew a Crowd: A Childhood Memory of Patonga’s Mullet Season

Jocelyn Maughan - Painting hanging on the wall at The Boathouse Hotel in Patonga.

I was nine years old when I first felt the excitement of mullet season.That morning, I woke up before the sun, rugged up in layers of warm clothes, ready to join my dad for a day of mulleting. We pushed off by boat, bound for Broken Bay Sport and Rec camp, just around the corner from Patonga on the Central Coast of NSW.

When we reached the beach, five or so other fishermen were already gathering. The day always began the same way: collecting driftwood for a small campfire, hands thawing against the crackling warmth as we waited for the first light to spill over the headland.

As the sky turned from black to pink, Dad nudged me. “Come on—we’re heading up.”We climbed the hill to the lookout, the perfect vantage point to spot schools of fish rounding the corner. Sometimes we’d wait there for hours and see nothing. But that day, Dad’s voice sharpened with excitement.“Look. Fish coming now.”

I squinted hard, trying to see what he saw. To me, the water looked no different. But I trusted him. He sent me running down the hill to spread the word. He had a handheld radio, but he wanted me to feel important—to give me a job of my own. I bolted into camp, breathless, shouting, “Fish! Fish!” The men sprang into action.

The net boat was shoved into the surf. One man held the rope while another rowed hard, spilling the net out in a wide arc across the water. I dashed to the other side of the beach, straining on the rope with all the strength a nine-year-old could muster.

Splashes shimmered in the net—good sign. Steadily, carefully, we pulled, guiding the fish into the bag end of the net. The haul was heavy, alive with silver flashes. While two men restacked the net in the boat, others prepared punts for bailing fish. And through it all, they waved me in, letting me help where I could.

When the first punt was full, Dad got me to jump in with him. We slowly trot across to Patonga Wharf, where the community was already stirring. A good haul meant everyone pitched in. Some helped sort fish—males in one box, females in another for their prized roe. Others lifted and stacked boxes, ready for market.

I wasn’t strong enough to push the trolleys, but I ran alongside them, buzzing with pride. Down the wharf, I spotted a forklift carrying a massive white tub stamped Markwells—a family company that had been part of this trade since the 1930s. Someone hoisted me up, plonked me into the tub of ice, and handed me a shovel. My job: to layer ice between boxes of fish. I did it with the seriousness of a man twice my age.

It wasn’t just fishing. It was a community event. Everyone had a role, big or small.

Fast Forward to Today

That world is gone.Not because the fish disappeared, but because the fishermen did.

Where once a crew and a community turned mullet season into a celebration, today at Patonga it’s three men and a single ute. They catch what they can manage alone. Any extra help would expect a cut, but the cut isn’t enough to go around. The nets are still there, the mullet still run, but the community spirit that made it all possible has been eroded.

A childhood memory of abundance has turned into a symbol of loss. Not a loss of fish, but a loss of people, of connection, of culture.

Ocean Truth Australia exists to remind us that the story of fishing is not just about stock counts and quotas—it’s about people, communities, and the threads that bind them. If we let those threads fray, we lose far more than fish.