Anyway, with some haste I loaded my 6 year old son, Jamie, and my one year old Newfoundland dog, Mojo, into the back of the car, along with all the fishing gear I though we would need. We arrived at our possie after about an hour drive from home, a really fishy looking spot somewhere between Raglan and Port Waikato. A short walk from the farm track down to the sea confirmed my suspicions that the lack of wind in the last couple of days, along with the light easterly blowing, had flattened the sea to the stage it was comparable to Kylie Minogue's chest, and the sun was turning the day into a very pleasant spring day.

We decided to fish at the northern end of the beach, on the edge of several large rocky outcrops, where schools of kahawai like to roam, as well as the odd big snapper. On a couple of past occasions we have some very big kingfish scudding their way around the rocks, and it was these "hoons" that I really wanted to battle with. However, first things first, and I thought a handful of kahawai for livies would be the first order of the day, and would be a thrill for young Jamie to catch. After setting up some gear, I went to retrieve the skippy I had left to thaw on a rock, only to find Mojo shaking the last remnants of flesh from the skippies frame. Bloody dog, that was all the bait I had brought.

So, on with a couple of trout lures, and after half an hour of removing hooks from various parts of the anatomies of small boys, large dogs, and increasingly irate fathers, young Jamie finally managed to land the lure in the water, and within .0003 of a second it was nailed. "Is it a whale, Dad?" was the first question. "No, I don't think so" I replied after dismissing the first 3 or 4 responses that came into my head. After a fine display of gymnastics by both fish and fishermen, a small sleek kahawai was finally scooped onto the beach, and tossed into a rock pool to keep as a livie, and more importantly now, to avoid being eaten by the ever hungry Mojo. Actually, now Mojo had something to do, he set himself in a comfortable position to "guard" the kahawai in the rock pool, and within no time flat his snores could be heard up to 100 metres away.

After a couple of hours Jamie and I had secured another half dozen kahawai, all now swimming merrily around the rock pool, and being guarded by the ever vigilant Mojo, who's snores could now be heard 200 metres away. We figured that with those kahawai, and the skippy head that Mojo had finally regurgitated, we would have enough bait for the day.

I set Jamie up on an 8kg surfcaster rod with half the skippy head as a snapper bait, and plonked the bait into a good hole about 40 metres from shore, and then spent an hour or so working out how to get the casting kite into action. Jamie decided to check his bait, and all that came back was the gleaming half skull of the skippy. Bloody paddle crabs, I thought, as Jamie advised me the big bites he'd had must have been a whale.On with the other half of the skippy head, and what a brilliant cast. I watched the bait and sinker travel about 150 metres, before I realised I'd locked the spool up and the line had broken at the rod tip.

We had no more skippy for bait, and I have never been too impressed with kahawai as a snapper bait, so I was just wondering what a fillet of Newfoundland dog (marinated from the inside by skipjack tuna) would be like as bait, when my boy discovered a decent sized paddle crab in our rock pool. After a deft piece of butchery, half of the crab was dispatched on a hook in the hope a snapper would munch it.

I finally sorted the kite, and rigged one of the live kahawai onto a long 80kg trace with an 8 ounce ball sinker above the hook, and sent the kite to carry out its mission. I was using my 24kg outfit, a Gruntmaster rod coupled to a Swordd International (mightier than the Penn?) reel, freshly spooled with 2000 metres of Wombat 24kg pretest line. These West Cost kingfish are big, dirty fighting mothers, kept in the peak of fitness by the relentless efforts of the nature of their environment, making heavy gear essential if success is to eventuate.

The kite made out its merry way, and within a few minutes I had the kahawai about 20 metres off a rocky outcrop, about 500 metres off shore. The livie appeared to be swimming strongly in what I had hoped would be mid water, and I applied enough tension to the rod to prevent the kite or the kahawai from taking any more line. I put the rod in a rod holder about 30 metres up the beach, and then joined Jamie who was in the process of winching an 8lb snapper up the beach. He'd thought he'd hooked a whale, and couldn't understand how this little snapper had managed to put up so much fight. I told him the whale had probably been eating snapper, and when his hook had pulled out of the whale it probably hooked a snapper that had been caught up in-between the whales teeth. We tossed the snapper into the rock pool to join the kahawai, and Mojo, after having come down to check on the excitement, settled back down to guard his pool. At least we have a decent fish for tea, I thought, and if we keep him in the rock pool and "iki" him just before we leave we will have some prime fillets.

A massive growl from the big Swordd reel got my thoughts back onto track, and I turned in time to see my rod get hauled from its rod holder and make its way towards the sea. I sprinted after it and managed to grab hold of the rod a split second before it would have disappeared into the sea. Line was still disappearing from the reel, so I set the drag to strike, waited for the .00002 of a second for the slack to disappear from the line and struck hard, wound like crazy and struck hard again.

I could tell this was a good kingfish, by the speed line was being taken, and the fact that the fish was heading for the rocks. I keyed into the Swordd reels digital screen to hit the second strike setting, but that didn't even start slowing this kingi down. I keyed in to go for the third strike setting, which I had preset at 20kg, in a do or die effort to prevent the kingi from reaching those ragged rocks. The fish slowed and stopped, and I was finally able to retrieve some line. "It must be whale" young Jamie kept repeating, as he watched in awe as his Dad fought with this mighty fish. "I would very much appreciate it if you could fetch my gimbal belt and kidney harness, and give me some assistance to put them on" I kindly asked, as I became acutely familiar with the rough end of my Gruntmaster rod.

The kingi co-operated kindly while I got strapped in, and I settled into the task of recovering the 900 metres of line the digital read-out on the Swordd reel disclosed was absent. We decided to ease our way south along the beach, where some deeper water from the creek mouth would hopefully prevent this king from shredding the line. Even so, abrasion from the iron-sand can lead to bust off's, and after a journey about 400 metres down the beach, I figure I could key the drag back to a more comfortable 16 kg.

I was steadily making line, and the kingi had been behaving well for several minutes, when suddenly all hell broke loose. Somewhere close to where my kingi was, the surface of the water erupted and well over 1,000 pounds of seething black marlin launched itself into the air, its dorsal fin actually severing the kite line. I watched helplessly as my kite disappeared, and wondered what was going to happen next. I had very little time to wonder, as the kingi started going berserk. White water appeared again, and once more the marlin went into orbit. There was no doubt in my mind now, the marlin was going to make a meal of my kingi. I had never thought of using 40 kg kingi's for live baits before, but this is what appeared to be the case now.

Suddenly, all the weight came off my line. "Bucket" I exclaimed (or something similar) "that marlin of dubious parentage has just chopped my line." I started winding in the slack line, more than a little concerned that not only had I lost my very good kingi, but also my very useful casting kite.

Jamie had started making noises about huge black whales leaping out of the ocean when I realised my line was coming up tight again. Hell, it was coming up tight, and then, as the ocean erupted again with the marlin leaping skywards, a flicker of light registered in my tiny brain. The bloody marlin had made a meal of my kingi, and now had my Kamagutsa hook embedded in its mouth. I struck three or four times to ensure the hook was set in the marlin, and was wondering about my sanity of doing this when the marlin took off towards Australia, at a rate of knots which was totally unregisterable on the Swordd's digital screen. About a thousand metres of line disappeared in one screaming run, and the marlin showed every indication of arriving at the Sydney Opera House for the next performance of the Phantom.

Young Jamie caught my eye, wandering towards me with a bucket in hand. He must have misunderstood my earlier oath, but I was grateful now for him fortuitously fetching the bucket at this stage. "Quick, Jim, fill the bucket with water and throw it over the reel" I requested. By this time the platinum side plates of the Swordd reel were glowing red with heat, and the tyranium guides on the rod were also starting to glow. Wooosh went the water, and for several seconds we were enveloped in steam as the cooling effect occurred. The Swordd's digital read-out response was "Thank You, I needed that."

The marlin was finally coming under some control, having expended a considerable amount of energy on that initial screaming run. I took stock of the situation, and pondered what the outcome could be. If I was lucky enough to get the marlin in close, what use would a 6 year old boy or a dog be with the gaff ? How long would a marlin like this fight for ? Would it die and sink to the bottom like many black marlin do ? What was the 24 kg world record for black marlin ? Would it be the first marlin caught land based in New Zealand ? How much longer had my arms grown in the last hour or so ? Would the Kamagutsa hook straighten under this sort of pressure ? Would my boy ever shut up talking about bloody whales? These thoughts and many more helped to detract from the pain I was now in, and helped pass the time as the marlin and I slugged it out. I would get 50 or so metres back, and then loose that much as the battle continued. Whilst certainly the marlin was still able to fight, I figured that initial run had tired him considerably, but I was becoming increasingly aware that a fish of this size would not give in very easily, and it was probably building towards another big run.

The first hints of sunset were now appearing, so I dispatched Jamie and Mojo to collect some driftwood to build a fire. In between bouts with the marlin we collectively managed to get a fire burning merrily, and having become aware that we hadn't eaten since breakfast, we threw the whole snapper onto the embers at the edge of the fire. Somehow Jamie managed to cook the snapper pretty well, and after pulling most of the skin and scales off, both Jamie and I, and Mojo all had a pretty good feed.

The fight carried on into the night, and fortunately I'd had the foresight to load plenty of warm clothes in the car. After a fair old struggle to pull my swandri on and re-attach myself to my rod, I dispatched Jamie and Mojo to the car for a night's sleep. I continued my efforts on the marlin into the night, with the same cat and mouse tactics applying.

On a couple of occasions I was able to bring back a heap of line, and at one stage had the marlin about 100 metres from shore, but another solid burst would see the fish back out 400 to 600 metres. A few times during the night I managed awkward kind of a sleep, and kept myself amused from time to time by throwing another log on the fire, and watching the sparks spiral upwards. At times the marlin seemed to be resting also, and I guess we both took advantage of these opportunities to get our blood circulating again and relieve some of the cramp and pain from some extremely overworked muscles.

Just as the very first beams of warmth and light spread across the sea from the brilliantly red rising sun, the marlin decided it was wake up time, and exploded from the sea to tail walk for about 50 metres, before diving and then re-appearing in a display of gymnastics that would make Olga Korbut look like a geriatric one-armed paperhanger. The low level of light accentuated the marlin's own fireworks display, and I too was now well and truly awake and trying to put a bit more pressure on before being spooled. On this occasion I felt the marlin would never stop, and was getting more than a little concerned when 1,400 metres of line had disappeared.

I reduced the drag back to 10 kg, figuring that at least 10 kg of additional drag would be coming from the length of line in the water. The marlin showed no sign of stopping and continued porpoising toward the wild blue yonder. With the bottom of the spool becoming visible I began to panic, but all of a sudden the marlin slowed and stopped, and in fact I was able to make back an easy 700 metres of line in short time.

By this time Jamie and Mojo had risen, and struggled down to the beach rubbing their eye's. "What's for breakfast dad?" the young lad inquired, and Mojo thought. I became aware of my own hunger, and dispatched Jamie to build up the fire, collect a few more logs and to throw a couple of the kahawai from our rock pool on to cook. We breakfasted and settled in to do battle once more.

The new day followed the same pattern as the day before, winning some line and losing some. The fight dragged on into the second afternoon. Both Jamie and Mojo had kept themselves well amused all day, and I was beginning to wonder if, when and how this battle would ever end. As the second night drew close the heap of firewood was restocked, and it was kahawai again for tea. Right through the night the battle was on, and I felt at last I was getting the upper hand. Unfortunately the Swordd's batteries had gone flat, and I was unable to accurately estimate the amount of line still out, or the quantity of drag being exerted.

When dawn finally broke I found I had recovered all but the last 200 metres of line, and could still make line quite easily. Here goes, I thought, I've finally got this marlin beat. As Jamie and Mojo came to join me I felt the battle was coming to a close, and with a bit of luck I could drag the well beaten marlin up until it was beached. It surely wouldn't be able to take off again, it just had to be as equally stuffed as I was. Drawing upon all my resources for the final battle I was suddenly surprised to hear......

"Keith, Keith wake up, wake up and come and look at my car." were the words that shook me back into consciousness. "Where the heck am I?" I thought, and then I realised I'd been dreaming. My epic adventure with the black marlin had been a total figment. Who the hell is this waking me from such a brilliant dream ? It was my wife Diane, waking me to tell me her car has a puncture. See, she’s off to a dog show with Mojo, she’s running late and Jamie’s been playing with nails in the driveway again.

I get them sorted and off they go for the day with Mojo scoring another impressive victory.

Well done, Mojo, an excellent result, but Diane, next time, please have the courtesy to let me finally land my marlin before you wake me