Killwell Jellytips by John Forbes

I searched the horizon without success. The big red-hulled trawler that had been way out in front was now disappearing over the horizon behind us. I squinted against the sun and glare. There was no sign of the small bobbing aluminium boat, Silver Hope. The depth was about right, seventy metres — that has us a little over ten miles off the coast of Opotiki. He has got to be here somewhere!

The activity along the 'ten mile line' has been virtually continuous. This makes finding Silver Hope an even greater sacrifice. Work-ups are scattered all over the place; they range from a few gannets and shearwaters here to thousands of them just over there. Dolphins are popping their heads up all over the place and skippies are marauding around in schools terrorizing smaller fish.

We carry on westward seemingly oblivious to the yellowfin that would fight over our lures if we put them in the water. Responding to a call from 'JT' meant pulling the pick on some snapper fishing that had gone quiet. I didn't mind that, as we had a heap of snapper in the bin, but this riding rough shod over schools of tuna was a bit much.

"Look, there is a speck — no, make that three specks — on the horizon."

"Hell, he's a long way west of where I thought he would be."

Slowly the specks take shape, becoming bobs and then boats. Silver Hope is definitely the smallest of the three — she's only a fourteen-foot tinnie. Funny how when someone's got a rod bent, others will always hang around trolling the area.

As we approach I can see Jon with his rod bent double. As we pull alongside, I waste no time in hopping across into his boat trying not to upset the delicate balance. As he has a moan about his hip getting sore and catching big yellowfin on his snapper rod, I assess the situation for myself. The Honda 4-stroke is in neutral, ticking over so quietly you would hardly know it was running. There are two good-sized gaffs and a large flying gaff close at hand. Seems a lot of gaff power for a fourteen foot tinnie but if you knew the Tilleys you would know they get plenty of work.

This is the same family that landed a world record black marlin in a smaller boat off the Motu. It is a family where everybody fishes, including Kerrin even though he is a tetra-plegic confined to a wheelchair. They don't just fish, they defy the odds and win.

Jon is fairly relaxed hanging onto a Kilwell Jellytip that is bent double and has been for two hours. He only moans once about his hip because I tell him, 'You old bastards should not go fishing for big fish if your moving parts are not up to it'.  He tries to lie that he was only pulling a couple of small skippie lures.

"I was heading out to the trench for some ‘puka and could not pass up the chance at some good bait", he reckons.

I gently idle the boat forward to try and put some angle on the fish. Jon hangs on grimly to the Jellytip as the see-saw battle continues. With the angle we gain a little line before the fish runs deep under the boat.

"I've had it up once", Jon admits between the gives and takes of line.

The little Penn reel is spooled-up with a Spectra line, which is something in our favour. I wonder how long the Jellytip can stay bent in such an acute angle but I should know better. Again the boat is idled forward to change the angle and again the tuna works hard to stay under us.

The two and a half-hour mark passes with us gaining inch by inch on a good fish. I know it is a good fish because JT keeps saying, 'It is a good fish!"  He knows:  Jon Tilley has hooked, fought and caught plenty of good fish. This is a good fish and it is nothing new to Jon.

I can feel things drawing to a conclusion as Jon starts to get a little more excited. I choose my gaff from the selection: a medium-sized one with a solid wooden handle.  Minutes pass.  Line is taut, rod tip almost touches rod butt. Time drags. Two and three quarter hours. Lines comes and goes in shorter bursts.

We've got colour.  Deep down I can see a good fish. Tilley says, "It's a good fish". He inches it closer.  It grows in size.

The biggest yellowfin I have seen boated is fifty-five kilos. This one is bigger. It is only metres down now and it is huge. The poor little Jellytip is quivering — me on the gaff, I'm trembling. Only centimetres to go, I bump the side of the boat, Tilley thumbs the spool...Ping! The fish is gone.

While Jon muttered a few choice words about fishing, most of them beginning with F, I quickly got on the radio to call my mates. I wanted to get picked up before he threw me overboard. Pretty soon I was out of danger heading safely home. The last we saw of 'JT' was Silver Hope heading out over the horizon for the hapuka that had for three hours been forgotten.

Thinking about the day, that night at home over a cold beer, I decided there had been two winners. One was a big yellowfin still swimming the ocean and the other was a little weather-beaten Jellytip that sprang back straight as soon as its load was released. I have seen enough yellowfin swim away. Jellytips are something else.

I have never owned a Jellytip but generally I do take a fair bit of notice of what other jokers fish with. I am usually most interested in whether my rod is bent or straight but you should always keep an eye on what others are up to.

What really prompted me to write about Jon Tilley's tuna was seeing an advert in a fishing publication proclaiming the tenth anniversary issue of one hundred limited edition Jellytips. The first time I had a close encounter with a Jellytip was about eight years ago. We had an extended trip covering the East Coast of the North Island from near North Cape to Hawke Bay. With five guys on board and a real arsenal of rods, to call the atmosphere competitive would have been a gross understatement.

The keenest fisherman, apart from me, was Chris who was also entertainments officer for the trip. He started rabbiting on about his Jellytip right from the start. 'Yeah, if there are any effing snapper within twenty effing miles, the tip on the effing Jellytip will start twitching, even if it is still in the effing rod rack', reckons Chris.

'Yeah, right Chris. Very entertaining, but there is no way you and your Jellytip are going to catch more or bigger fish than me and my...hang on...what sort of rod have I got? Well, whatever. You will not do better than me.'

The gauntlet had been thrown down. I should have shut up.

On the first day, Chris pulled the biggest snapper I had seen for some time. It did not get any better for me in the ensuing days. Chris caught more and bigger snapper, from North Cape to East Cape. The Jellytip worked hard, as he pulled in big john dory at Port Fitzroy and tough kingies off the Coromandel. It got so bad I actually started looking to see if I could see the Jellytip twitching in the rod rack.

Since that trip I have kept a beady eye on Jellytips. They are a very distinctive rod and clearly a local success story.  Kilwell make the rods in their Rotorua factory from which they export significant numbers around the world.  Kilwell appear to be at the forefront of technology and product development. They make a range of world-beating products like rowing blades, sail board masts, Americas Cup gear etc, all stemming from their rod building expertise.

It's amazing that they can compete with third world countries in a labour intensive industry when other countries have much lower cost structures. All power to Kilwell and great that you have opted to continue to manufacture in New Zealand when it would be more profitable to shift offshore.

I was surprised to find the range of weights the Jellytip fishing rods are being made in but not that they hold world records including the snapper record. I am about to make my most expensive tackle purchase ever: a Shimano 50-wide reel and I am going to couple it up with a 24kg Jellytip rod.

I think, on its tenth anniversary, that a local legend is in the making. Here's to the good old kiwi Jellytip. Another legend is also in the making — good on ya Tilleys.