There’s a special kind of satisfaction gained from setting a target, and meeting it. Reaching life’s goals, however, is rarely smooth sailing. How we respond to hurdles we’re confronted with is often the difference between realising our dreams and wondering ‘what if’ for the rest of our days. The journey I undertook chasing my first barra wasn’t easy, but with help I got there, eventually.

The mission was pretty straightforward – I wanted to catch a barra on my favourite lure, which was painted a brilliantly-bright ‘taxi’ yellow. I was (and still am) obsessed with the colour yellow, and for some reason, nothing else would do.

After striking out during a very difficult week of fishing Lake Awoonga over Christmas, my Dad and I planned a return trip for the following September. During the gruelling nine month wait, I held nothing back with the preparations to catch my barra.

I read everything – and I mean everything – I could get my hands on about barra fishing. I took on a paper route to save up for my own barra-specific rod and reel combo just like Dad’s, and I built the rod myself to make sure I was 100% happy with how it felt. Tackle failure wouldn’t hurt me the second time ‘round. Needless to say, I was so excited I didn’t sleep the night before our trip.

The week of fishing in September flew by and our party hooked into some great fish. Everybody except me had landed several metre-plus fish by the third day, and while I’d hooked a few, I hadn’t earned the right to hoist one up for a photo. As our last night came around, Dad selflessly placed his rod in the locker and said “Matty, we’re getting you that barra tonight, and I’m not going to fish again until we do.” I knew how big a deal this was for someone who was on a once-every-few-years trip north. Talk about pressure!

Early into the night I hooked what we all thought was the fish. I had it on the line for a couple of minutes and had managed to draw it out of the timber. I had the big girl tired and thought she had expelled all her energy in the air. Success was so close, but then everything went pear-shaped. In one last jump – where she danced across the surface on her huge paddle tail for two or three seconds – the hooks straightened and my bright yellow lure came rocketing back at us. I didn’t even have to look at my Dad to know just how much he was hurting for me.

Hours passed without another hit before Dad pointed out a tiny bay that we’d overlooked all week because it was so shallow and filled with weed. Desperate times…