THE following is the final instalment in a three part series on Harry Larcombe, a true Broughton Island character.

To read the previous parts, visit www.newsofthearea.com.au and search ‘Harry Larcombe’.

Part Three – Harry the Mayor

Island culture shock for Sydneysiders

MANY years later on Broughton Island, as recalled by Gordon Nevin, a group of Sydneysiders had pitched a tent on the grassy patch in the northern corner of Esmeralda Beach.

Always keen to ignite the rivalry between Sydney and Newcastle, the city boys were challenged to a game of rugby league on the beach.

It must have looked very one sided as the Newcastle team, represented by every old fisherman on the island, appeared totally outclassed.

Skinny legs, navy singlets and baggy shorts seemed to be the requirements as the boney boys from Broughton walked out of their huts on the beach.

A large trap buoy was cut from the rope and used for the ball.

Harry Larcombe, the island’s unofficial ‘Mayor’, was the referee and pulled on a life jacket which had a whistle attached on a length of cord.

“Peep!” the whistle squealed.

The game commenced at a mighty pace with the Sydney team showing great skill, tossing the trap buoy around with confidence.

The island side attacked without fear, charging every opposition player whether they had the ball or not.

One by one the city boys dropped like flies and the injury list grew as they hobbled and crawled off the beach.

The game ended in a scoreless draw when Harry blew the whistle for the second half and the lads from the big smoke wouldn’t come out from their tents.

Old school fishing techniques in action

A passionate angler, Maitland City Offshore Fishing Club eventually made Harry Larcombe an honorary life member.

Speaking for the club, Bob Dyer said Harry would always be remembered for his incredible fishing skills and knowledge of the island.

“We caught one tailor for bait between one to two kilograms off East Head one afternoon and decided to set off in my 14 footer to the ‘Big Gibber’ some twelve kilometres northeast of the island,” Bob said.

“Harry and I left at 3pm and returned to Esmeralda at 6pm with 35 magnificent snapper between four and five kilograms.

“The snapper were going crazy, unfortunately our one tailor had been used up.”

On another occasion, the crew fished behind North Island, floating mackerel bait for snapper just before dusk.

Harry was a little ‘under the weather’ after a few afternoon ales and was quite content to snooze when his rod screamed off, waking him.

“Another bloody big shark,” he mumbled in a disgusted manner.

For two or three minutes, the giant fish charged around the boat until Harry was convinced to get up and fight the fish.

After 30 minutes of grumbling and moaning, a 30 kilogram jewfish floated belly up to the side of the boat.

Not noted for his personal hygiene, Harry once joined Bob and Col Hutchison on board ‘Banyanda’, a regular island visitor, for a morning’s fishing for snapper.

The morning was bitterly cold, so the men huddled together in the cabin to keep warm.

“Phew! What’s that stink?” gasped Col.

A quick search discovered that Harry was wearing an old coat used as bedding for his dogs.

“Either get out of this cabin or take your coat off!”

Needless to say a box of snapper up to ten kilograms were caught.

Harry would fish for anything at all but concentrated his efforts on luderick and jewfish from the boat.

Included in his best catches were a fifteen kilogram snapper off the bombora in the middle of Esmeralda and a fifteen kilogram blue groper taken on a prawn while fishing for luderick with a float.

Anyone who has caught a groper would realise that this achievement was quite amazing.

On many occasions, Harry joined Dave ‘Çhappy’ Chapman, Rosco Wilson and Peter Bless, willingly sharing his incredible local knowledge.

Known as the ‘Mayor’ or the ‘Moth’ because of his attraction to light, Harry lived on Broughton Island for 25 years before passing away in December 1990, aged 70, no longer to sing his favourite songs, ‘Donkey’s Serenade’ or ‘Brokenhearted Clown’.

By John ‘Stinker’ CLARKE