Susan Buckland: Cam goes for the best angle

The older I grow the more I realise I don't know. When the invitation came to go surfcasting I hesitated to ask what that entailed. The person inviting me was wildly enthusiastic and I didn't want to dampen his spirits.

"I'm Cam," he said, beaming from ear to ear. "We've got a beautiful morning for it. Let's go."

Surfcasting in Cam's Queensland coastal environment meant fishing of some sort. But precisely how one cast oneself upon the pounding surf to catch a fish was an unknown as far as I was concerned.

Our surfcasting expedition took place on a magnificent beach on South Stradbroke, an island lying off the Gold Coast and home to Couran Cove, an attractive family resort sitting between the broad water and the ocean.

With quiet pride, Cam said that his surfcasting trips had become everyday events at Couran Cove. "The guests seem to love it. Chrissy is about the only day I get off."

Not that Cam wouldn't interrupt Christmas Day for a spot of surfcasting if called for.

"Don't you think this is beautiful?" he asked me, his sun-bronzed arms embracing the fabulous stretch of coast and shining ocean. On this early spring morning, the temperature a balmy 21C, he pointed out the distant skyscrapers of the Gold Coast etched against the sky. Way down the beach were two other people. Otherwise, the world belonged to Cam and a novice surfcaster.

"You'll never get me fishing on the broad water side. Here on the ocean you have the challenge of wind, waves and rips. You figure out where the fish are, depending on the season. There's a lot going on," he said with relish.

Sharks too? "Yeah, I've had a shark swim between my legs once or twice," said Cam. "You just don't walk out too far."

Not that the thought of sharks would ever put him off. Cam gave the feeling that, beneath his laid-back Australian persona, was a man who could handle most of what the ocean threw at him.

As he expertly threaded pippies on to hooks in preparation for the promised surfcasting he shed light on his love of the sea. The son of former Wallaby front row forward Peter Dunn, Cam excelled at sport and represented his country in swimming and surf lifesaving before winning a scholarship in America. He chose the landlocked state of Kansas to complete his education because he believes he never would have finished the degree if the university had been close to the sea.

He then turned the conversation back to our island location. "See how the waves are petering out," he said, his practised eye scanning the arching surf to either side of a flatter spread of water. That's where the fish will be running."

With rod in hand I trailed Cam into the shallows and hung on his instructions. "Bring the rod from behind and flick it forward on the count of 12, let the line unreel for a few seconds, turn the reel back into position and don't choke the line."

At the same time I was to "escort my line up the gully", keep my eye on the direction of the line, walk with it, hold the rod upright and reel in only if there was contact. Ah yes, the magic moment when something beneath the water took the bait and all was tense with expectation.

After several aborted attempts at rod-flicking and tangled lines the moment finally arrived. The courageous fighter on the end of my line was pulled from the sea, a pretty, silver specimen called a dart fish. And I was desperate to save it.

Cam reads people as well as the ocean currents. He guessed I would decline the standing invitation from Couran Cove to cook my catch for breakfast. He cut the line, explaining that to extract the deeply embedded hook would kill the fish and, being nickel instead of stainless steel, would disintegrate within the fish within a week. And I let the waves take the dazed looking fish back out to sea again.

What did you think? asked Cam as we drove back towards Couran Cove and a breakfast of toast and marmalade.

I think this, Cam. I now understand why surfcasting surpasses all other forms of fishing for you. And sharks or not, I would happily return to stand in the swirl of foam again, rod in hand, with the cry of sea birds and poetry of the ocean for company.