Abie Poggenpoel pulls his battered hat a little lower and, shivering in the cold winter chill, tightens his boilersuit. Hunched over the helm, the 71-year-old skipper squints into the darkness as he guides the Anna Amelia beyond the harbour wall.
“I’ve ben fishing in False Bay for over fifty years and when I was a youngster, there used to be plenty fish in these waters. Now not so much,” he says sadly, as we ride into the star-filled night in search of snoek.
Abie and his salty sea-men must have stomachs of steel. We’ve barely crossed the bay and I’m already feeling queasy while my twelve companions are cracking jokes.
“You know, a snoek is just like Mike Tyson,” says Eddie Johnson, a fisherman for the past 45 years. “They’ve both got dangerous teeth and if you’re not careful, you’re gonna get bitten.”
I had been warned that a strong constitution and concrete stomach could come in handy for my adventure on the high seas.
“Nooit, you can’t go now ...and definitely not for the next few days,” stated Mymoena Poggenpoel, secretary of the Kalk Bay Fishing Residents Association, when I called a month previously to arrange my fishing expedition. “The sea is much too rough for you at the moment. The fishermen can handle it, but if you go with them now, you’ll get too sick.”
So four weeks later, after violent Cape storms and the worst June fishing for twenty years, I’m finally cruising the crests of the Indian Ocean swell. We pass the lights of Simonstown and as we approach Cape Point, the dawn breaks in golden glory over Gordons Bay’s distant peaks.
Even though we are pitching from side to side in the swell, my sea sickness miraculously stays away. ”Today’s quite calm really,” says Abie, who has obviously seen some mountainous seas in his time. “We’ve had a man overboard four times before but even then it’s not a problem. We just circle round and pick him up.”
The echo sounder indicates we are in 23 fathoms of water and the radar shows half a mile from the shore. Before the fishing frenzy begins, the men relax over a sandwich and cigarette and talk sport.
“That ‘Muis’ Roberts, finally...finally, he won the Durban July. Pity I didn’t punt on him though,” says one. “Ja man, replies another, “but what about these blerrie Boks! In two weeks time, the All Blacks are coming, then we’re really going to get donnered!”
Soon their laughter stops. Then donning their colourful oilskins, Kalk Bay’s finest get down to work. The frozen pilchards are cut in half, hooks quickly baited and the handlines are cast out.
But nothing is biting so we raise anchor and head further out to sea. We lurch past the Bellows, a rocky outcrop two miles off the Cape Point lighthouse. Then zig zag over the imaginary line, from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic and back again.
Suddenly the snoek strike.
It’s all action as handlines are pulled in at lightning speed. Keeping their fingers clear of the Tyson-like teeth, the fishermen quickly unhook the slithering fish, break their necks, toss them to one side and throw the lines back in again. Soon the boat is blood-splattered and dead snoek fill the decks. Their razor sharp teeth no longer a threat.

The history of Kalk Bay dates back to the late 17th Century when the village was created by fishing generations from the past. Before the dirty days of apartheid, the fishing folk led simple contented lives in harmony with one another. Then the racist laws shifted the people and divided the town.
“The old people never believed in fighting,” says Mymoena. “At that point, if you were black or coloured, you couldn’t ask questions, you just went along. We had no alternative but to move out of our homes and into low income flats we were forced to rent from the council.”
At one stage, the government tried to relocate the locals and their livelyhood to Strandfontein, the isolated shoreline some way past Muizenberg.
“Kalk Bay was an elite area and they wanted us out. They wanted it to be a ‘whites only’ place. They didn’t care that the fishing community had created the town.”
Luckily Strandfontein’s sandy foundations were not conducive to building a harbour and the Kalk Bay fishing community were allowed to remain.
Another obstacle they had to overcome was Government Gazette proposal calling for Kalk Bay to be turned into a yacht basin.
“We resisted. A petition was drawn up and signed by the whole fishing community before being handed to the authorities who eventually scrapped their plans.”
Even after being forced into the council flats, the residents were under pressure from the authorities. If no fishermen were living on the premises, the tenants were evicted.
“If the father, or the fisherman in the family, died, then the children and everyone else were forced to move out,” recalls Mymoena.
But Kalk Bay’s pride triumphed over the prejudice of apartheid.
“Seven years ago, we told the council we had had enough. It wasn’t about new people moving in but rather about keeping generations where they belonged.”
After seven years of difficult negotiations, the citizens of Kalk Bay emerged victorious. In March this year, they were finally assured of permanent residency when the council set a precedent and granted them the right to purchase their flats outright.
“It was a big victory. We were overjoyed that finally we could be home owners, start creating business and really improve our lives.”

From Cape Town’s southern suburbs, it’s a speedy drive along the M3 Blue Route until the pace slacks off as you turn down to the False Bay coast. Approaching Muizenberg, cars crawl good naturedly along. Speed doesn’t seem important anymore.
I freewheel past St James and its colourful bathing boxes, then a leisurely cruise along the winding coastal road into Kalk Bay.
It is another world out here. The harbour is abuzz with action. Fishing boats are returning from their hours on the ocean and the quayside is bustling. Eager buyers bargain over the snoek, geelbek, hottentot, kabeljou, red Roman and silverfish on display.
“ KA-bel-jouuu, KA-bel-jouuu!!“ sings a bearded fisherman. “Nice and fresh, caught this morning!”
“How much for this one?” asks a blond-haired surfer, pointing at a three kilo ‘kob’.
“For you my friend, thirty rand...and for the big one over there, fifty.”
“Too much my ‘broe’, twenty’s the most I’ll pay.”
It’s impossible not to like the Kalk Bay clan. These are not your been-there-bought-the-T-shirt type. They’re the down-to-earth type. The kind who welcome you with weather-beaten faces and warm smiles. Real.
Even though it’s peak business time, David Groenewald,  a 51-year-old fish cleaner who has been working at the harbour for ten years, is keen to chat.
“Ja, I’ve had a hard life you know,” he nods seriously. “I’ve been in prison, I’ve had my problems, but now I enjoy my life here. Other places they rob you or kill you but Kalk Bay is ‘mos’ a quiet place. The occasional argument, but it doesn’t go far,” he smiles.
As a fish cleaner, David is one of the peripheral, but no less important, links in the Kalk Bay fishing chain. After the fish are bought, the cleaners swing into action. I watch in amazement as a woman slices up six snoek at superhuman speed. In Kalk Bay talk, the process is known as ‘flekking’.
With quick-fire movements she slits the snoek from the tail towards the stomach, then rips all the insides out and throws them to one side. Finally she slashes off the head. Her gutting knife glinting in the sun.

Osborne Clarence and Dick Almazan are two of the elder fishing folk with the sea in their blood. Both in their sixties, these handline fishermen spend most of the year out on the ocean. They often run short trips to Cape Point and Hout Bay but sometimes spend up to two months at sea on longer expeditions to Saldanha Bay, Stompneus Bay and St Helena Bay.
“We’re actually fish hunters,” chuckles Osborne. “Where the fish migrate, we migrate. And if the weather permits, we’re out there every day.”
“Sometimes we even go as far as Port Elizabeth where we catch calamari,” adds Dick. “On long trips, we sleep on the boat and sell the fish in the local markets. But what I like most is all the fresh air.”
A controversial issue currently under debate in fishing circles is the law regarding fishing licences. In terms of the Sea Fishing Act, there are four classes - an “A” (commercial) licence, “B” (semi-commercial), “C” (squid) and “T” (tuna). Commercial licence holders are allowed to catch unlimited numbers of certain species while their semi-commercial counterparts are restricted to specific quotas.
But the problem is that no licences at all have been issued in the past thirteen years.
Existing licences can be purchased from current holders, but these are hard to come by and many aggrieved locals feel they are being denied a golden opportunity.
“I’m lucky because I’ve got an “A” licence but there are many who would love to obtain one and can’t,” says Eddie Rosslind, owner of the harbour’s fish and chips shop. “Without it, they are not allowed to fish and are losing out financially.”
The issuing of new licences was stopped in 1984, says Clyde Bodenham, senior clerk at the Sea Fisheries Department in Cape Town, because False Bay was becoming a “coastal sensitive zone.”
“Too many permits had already been issued with the result that all line fish species in False Bay have been overfished,” adds Bodenham. “The Sea Fishing Act is currently being reviewed and rewritten but we aren’t sure yet what the outcome will be.”
Rosslind however is optimistic that an agreement can be reached.
“We have our ideas and they need to be addressed so a policy can be found that is suitable for all. Kalk Bay is the only commercial hand-line fishing harbour left in the Western Cape. It’s part of our heritage and should be kept like that.”
Another contentious matter being disputed in the village is a proposed business development for the land immediately behind the harbour. Plans include for shops, restaurants and a fish packing factory.
Monica Kinrade, chairman of the Kalk Bay Village Business Association, thinks the development would ruin the neighbourhood.
“I’m not against progress but we must keep in mind that essentially it’s a fishing
harbour. It’s the fishermens area and they cannot be driven away. One thing’s for sure, a factory should never be built there. The smell and trucks would destroy the area.”
But Mymoena Poggenpoel points out that the people with the most to gain from such a factory are in fact the fishermen themselves.
“The packing factory would be used to process sardines in boxes which is used as bait by our fishermen. Every man needs a box of bait for a fishing trip and if the factory was in operation, they could buy it at much cheaper prices than they pay now. They would also be involved in running the business and would therefore be empowering themselves.”

Long after one has left Kalk Bay and returned to the world of speed and stress, the memories that linger are those of the fishermen. It’s impossible to forget their weathered faces. Their sunny smiles. Their quick wit.
Like the bushy bearded fisherman I encounter one afternoon, lazing away the last rays of sunlight with a beer and cigarette. “Ja of course you can photograph me, “ he smiles. “Just take my good side, okay?”  As I thank him for the photo opportunity, he retorts quickly with a hairy smile: “The pleasure’s mine, the baby’s yo-u-urs.”
Antony Cozette, a general handyman I meet one morning walking along the main road, sums up the spirit of this seaside suburb.
“This town is part of my future. I was born here, I’ve worked hard, I love it .. and I’ll never leave.”
In Kalk Bay, there’s a passion for life that is tangible. Rich in legend and legacy.
The Piscean pride.