Are you ready for a shark fishing story?

 Are you ready for a shark fishing story?

I know I'm accustomed to all the fishing stories on this blog starting in the 2000's. Well, Fishing Adventures magazine, Drill club (the first spinning sports club in the country since 2007, sic!). Not this time, we're giving the film a lot, much later, until 1993. Someone said to me, somehow, nicely, recently:


Do not ignore the memories of youth on any beach, with the sunrise, with waves and skies like waves and vice versa. There's a lot of magic on that beach. Shark, like a shark, but the nights, the sea, the waves, the fear… ”


In the beginning, before shark fishing, it was mIRC

So, it was as if I was on the beach on May 2, on a warm summer night in 1993, the year in which the first spinning competition in Romania took place (see here a brief history), Rapala-Silstar Cup. Through the waves, with fear, I circled like a shark of hippies undressed under the skies and vice versa. Aoleu, that's another story, sorry, the wave took me. Let's go back. In 1995, mIRC was born, the first “social network” through which I managed to meet online, then physically Cătălin Onea, Florin Ghimișliu, Ioan Radu "Massive", Sorin Dragoi and many, many other fishing addicts like me at the time. Especially for predator fishing. I also met some girls on mIRC, but that's from the hippy story series. It happened, it happened in 96 ', 97', 98 '.

But what has this got to do with shark fishing?

Well, he has. In those years, the saying “whoever resembles, gathers”, halieutically speaking, the meetings between fishermen was limited as space at the stalls and fairs in Obor and Calea Moșilor, at least for me one. That's where I met Laurențiu Andronic, Victor Țăruș (Barbosu 'forgive them!), Eugen German, Misu Palada, Viorel Teleianu, Iliuță Goean, Cristi Puscărie, Florin Negrețu and many others that I do not mention now, with the necessary excuses. In short, I was a "privileged" with many fishing friends, but also because I spent half my childhood behind the stall of Dan Florescu from Obor. I won't tell you the years, not the other way around, not to feel older than I am or other characters in this story. Speaking of the Internet, after the mIRC era they followed launched in 2000 (formerly a sort of “mailing list” for fishermen dating back to 1998),, then in 2004 the site and the forum. Here, on the forum, it appeared, out of nowhere, MeHigh, alias Mihai Balais. Who had just moved to New Zealand and was catching sharks. Jedi level at that time, even now, for me one.

Shark fishing 2004-2021, a New Zealand dream

Since 2004, from the first post on the forum until now, Mihai has been catching sharks and trout, and I have been following him. With longing, appreciation and frustration that I have not been able to get to New Zealand so far. He mixed my holes and he still mixes them with me, but one sunny day I still get there. Oh, here's my dream of getting to New Zealand, and he's a partaker Ștefan Florea, another Romanian fisherman who managed to move there. Before he emigrated, Ștefan and I “shared” our emotions with trout, Sibiu, fly fishing, the Porumbacu River, bears and “turnkey dreams” common for New Zealand. But let's go back to shark fishing, because we jump too much from one to the other. As usual, but no, that's it BLOGS. Let's move the telephoto lens to 2021, I say.

Ski nets pass, shark fishing remains…

The years have passed. Yes, I know, I'm abusing this Eminescu phrase. Well, it's from here and whatever I write about the past, it fits too well… For the youngest… (and that's why I abused, I abuse and I will abuse again):

The years passed like long clouds on the plains
And they will never come again,
Because I don't like the way they move me today
Stories and doines, riddles, heresies,

What a foolish forehead of my child,
Understandable, meaningful -
With your shadows in vain today you weigh me down,
Oh, the hour of mystery, sunset.

To snatch a sound from my past life,
Oh, my soul, let me tremble again
With my hand in vain on the slippery pound;

Everything is lost in the horizon of youth
And move the sweet mouth of other times,
And time grows behind me… I'm getting dark!

Mihai Eminescu

What is certain is that after 2004 (according to information and means of communication in the tagma of predatory fishermen exploded. Magazines, Sites, forums, competitions, national championships and international events, exhibitions, events, Facebook, Instagram, Tick-tock, YouTube, etc. Platforms in which we find ourselves and at the same time get lost. In 2021, even though I talked to him in the meantime, I found MeHigh in an article on his blog about shark fishing. He mixed my thoughts up again. We asked him to do a Romanian translation for us and that's about it. Enjoy!


East Beach Beast Hunt

Despite appearances, it makes perfect sense to sit naked in the garage at 12 o'clock on Wednesday night with only a military jacket on my shoulders: "I'm hunting the Beast of the East Beach!" You have to understand that beyond surrealism, dementia, we could say, the situation, there is a method, a reasoning… a plan! Or at least an excuse.

It all started a few days ago, when The news they were inundated with interviews with surviving witnesses of the encounter with the Beast. East Beach Beast. Terrifying experience… for them. Shocking! "It simply came to our notice then. Urgent! ” So the beach was closed. Authorities have made public their concerns. The community has entered a latent panic, specific to the sea view villas. A handful of conscientious citizens began their rounds, patrolling the warm sand and alerting potential victims of the danger lurking beyond the blue silk of the waves caressing the beach. But I was in the ninth heaven.

Nothing could resonate in my being like the proximity of the Beast; because that means an emotional cocktail assimilated instantly and at a crazy volume, a serious dose of adrenaline - one of my favorite drugs - burning in my veins in electric bursts. Reality can be lived at different levels of materialization of intentions, practically different games; or rather different levels of the same game. At the level where I play, adrenaline is not just a vice, but a necessity. Without it, I would lose the tension necessary for a precise and decisive reaction, which is fatal in the troubled waters in which I bathe.

The Great End!

Of course, many of you will consider this to be a mental problem, an intellectual disorder, and you may be right, because this "game" of mine ends with… and… the Great End!

Come on, I'm not going to ask you now where you think your game is going, so as not to stray too far from the subject. From my point of view, however, the risk is worth it! Because when you escape with your life, the reward is huge. And I'm referring here to a reward in life-relevant values, not necessarily money! To be less cryptic, it is about self-confidence, love of life, optimism, intelligence… perennial human values, not just the tools of the business meant to fill the ghiolban.

As I was saying, the news in question provoked an atypical reaction in me for any member of the community in question: singing, I started to prepare my hunting tools! We reach the stage with bare skin immediately, you have a little patience! Enthusiastic, but attentive to every detail, overflowing with energy, while I anointed my tools, eliminating any squeak as small as possible, trying countless times the weakest points of the mount, I was preparing my "weapons", because from that moment, I was officially engaged in:East Beach Beast Hunt! ” Life had the necessary level of madness again.

The weapon of war, an "overhead 8000 wide" armed with a 150lbs textile, finished in 100 meters of monofilament with the same specifications - for the elasticity necessary for the battle with the beast - shone golden, hungry for strong sensations. Carefully, we checked every guide bearing on the boot capable of stopping any monster hidden in the Pacific waters. A successful game is the fruit of the diligent preparations, prior to the fight with the "beast". The mount, invented by the undersigned, is the result of years of experience in the field, and especially of the failures to stop "the Motherships" which once launched offshore, could not be stopped. The main problem was always the final part of the fight when the beast reaching the surf, with the ridge cutting the surface of the water, was absolutely impossible to bring ashore.

Doug, a handsome '90s lunatic with whom I practically invented this sport - or madness, you might call it whatever you want - used climbing ropes armed with canes, pulleys, or a car winch to get them out. But that means killing them. Fishing on the beaches of Australia, he did not think of "dancing" partners. To him, they were just man eaters. I, on the other hand, love them too much to do such a thing. In addition, the difference between the beauty of the living animal and the hideousness of the corpse is colossal. So I had to find solutions.

The steel forward, armed with a 20/0 hook, was followed by a "Big Game Fishing leader" of 500lbs, about 10 meters long, which, entering the water up to the waist, I grab and take out the beast in its element, to end the fight and the monster in the pictures - the jeweler of the athlete… or the madman, is just a matter of perspective. I use the term "beast" in the most positive way possible, thinking of Jordan Peterson and the "inner monster" with which he defines human nature. Those who can only love helpless creatures lose from the possible relationship with a dangerous animal exactly the quintessence of our contact with the outside — the quintessence of life — its understanding. In other words, I don't have to romanticize them to love them! I love them as they are: perfect killers.

I know my sharks!

I know their inner mechanisms and the way they think, I understand their behavior and I know their stimuli.

I experienced their abrasive skin and colossal force, life and death. Diverging a little from the subject, but speaking of the forerunner big game fishing, I'd like to tell you a little story. At one point, in the last phase of the fight, in the water up to his waist, about two meters from the deadly part of the beast, he takes a wave on both of us and takes us a few steps. I find the sand with my feet and recalculate the situation, because obviously I had lost control. The thread was soft in my hand, and the beast — about twice as big as me — also recalculated the way I interacted with it. The roles had suddenly become ambiguous, and the hitherto clear demarcation between prey and predator was lost. From a position parallel to me, the little monster turns with almost imperceptible ripples, pointing its toolbox at the undersigned. His on-board computer had changed its strategy.

But in the end it doesn't even matter

I was saved by the madness and adrenaline I talked about above. I mean, both.

At that moment, the shark had the azimuth already fixed towards the fleshy parts of the Romanian. Maybe a little angled, but still moving. This posture of shaorma with all I can not say that I calmed down terribly! So I stretched the string - I don't think there were more than two meters left between us - and pulling a healthy one, I started pulling it to shore: "Come on, buddy!" In the shadow of Marin Moraru, the beast returned to the sea, giving me a fighting end worthy of a predatory apex. A "normal" man would have run to shore. Through the water. Through the water of the beast. Chances of survival: zero. But let's get back to the present, I hunt the Beast of the East Beach! In the bare skin, in the garage… in the dark.

Tonight I arrived at the beach at sunset, in the magical moment when the flow returns, so I didn't have to swim much with the bait. This trick never gets old! Swim half a ton bleeding through their water. To raise the political level of experience, I hum the famous chords from "Jaws": "Daaaadam… daaaadam… dada-dada, dam-dam-dam-dam… dadaaaaaaa, damdam…". The water below me opens up into monstrous fishing possibilities and opportunities to lose your life accordingly. "I bloody love it !!!" I think in English. Rooster skin - goosebumps have others!

I go back to the boot and Răzvan receives me by taking out the homemade cocktail bottle, invented especially for the occasion and aptly named: "sharknight." It's a mix of walnut liqueur, rum, L&P - a New Zealand lemon juice and paeroa - and freshly squeezed lemon. Brilliant! Wet, experiencing the darkness and the related coolness, a little touched by the masculine amount of alcohol in the mix, I remark: “Comfort kills our life. Universe 25! We like fish food, tattoos and navel holes… we should learn to like stress too! ”


The ocean water is warm, soft and bitter, washing our feet. Magic moment: hunt the Beast!

For an hour we continued to philosophize under the stars, on the deserted beach, me trembling between the mouths of liquor. When I see the belly thread it's late and I panic. "Since when is that so?" I lift the brake crank and grind carefully… and grind… and grind. My pupils enlarge and my grin appears on my face. Are you there! I put on my harness - you have to fight with my whole body in these battles - and I explode into action.

Grumbling as I grabbed, I run back and when I think the thread has stretched, I sting violently. When you prick the float it's something else! I used to push the handle down so that the spike would arch up and stick the "surprise". Here the sting is much more physical, so I pull the heavy boot with all my might upwards, accelerating in reverse. My legs stumble in the sand, I make a Tzukahara and a double Tuluk with a drop in my ass, full of sand, with the thread… still soft. The direction of the line changed by 45 degrees. That means the bait has moved a hundred yards in front of me. But no one is with her. Take outside. The tone disappeared from the hook. The beast is chewing somewhere in the dark depths of the Pacific.

Full of electricity from contact with the Beast, I say goodbye to Răzvan, get in the car and drive home. Wet. Trembling. The cropped jeans I swam in turned into a kind of ice-cold cement, scratching my feet, and the trembling became violent. The car doesn't heat up until I get home. I carefully put my tools in the garage, take off my wet towels, carrying the only coat I can find on my shoulders - an army shirt.

Burn, look how it burns…

I sit on a couch on the couch, grinning in the dark - I don't turn on the light because I have no reason to.

I'm happy because tomorrow is a day too; a new one, in which I will

...I sell the Beast of the East Beach!

Mihai Balais “MeHigh” - December 2021


Will follow…

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Andy Arif

Fishing is a beautiful game, especially when you take it seriously. Fisherman's child, fisherman's father, fisherman's friend, storyteller, traveler, nature lover, dreamer in this wonderful world of fishing. Be it spoken, written, photo, video or online.

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