It’s taken fifteen years to shake them… but I think they’re finally gone.
I’m talking about my barramunkis.
Not a typo.
A barramunki is a specific genus of mental monkey that takes up permanent residence on your back after you’ve hooked — but not landed — a metre+ barramundi.
The first time it happened, I was sure I’d never forget it. I didn’t. Neither did the ’munki. She plonked her hefty weight on my pride and made herself at home, whispering reminders about where I went wrong.
There are five now. Or were.
Each one represents a fish. Five metre+ barra. Five spectacular almosts. Each one a lesson I wore like a backpack of regret, with bonus commentary from my internal critic.
Artist Impression of the ’munkis on Jo’s back.
And like Ebenezer Scrooge’s famous hauntings, three in particular have never stopped visiting me. They appear in dreams. In flashbacks. Sometimes even mid-cast. They love to remind me of the lost opportunity — the moment I forgot my rod angle, or mismanaged the boat, or just misinterpreted the signals.
But here’s the kicker: they weren’t wrong. Each barramunki taught me something. Something hard-won. Something enduring. They put a fire in my belly and kept the flame lit — and during the tussle with my 29kg conquest, they each returned. Not to taunt me this time, but to coach me. Calmly. Reassuringly. As if to say: This time, Jo…
Let me introduce you to the ’munkis I’ve finally set free.
In the days before ’munkis came to roost, every barra was a gleeful marvel!!
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Ignorance
I’d never hooked anything that big before. Thought I was snagged.
My trolled lure — a deep-diving Poltergeist — just stopped dead. No head shakes, no pull, no clue. I even got the girls to stop the boat so I could “ping” the line loose. It wasn’t until it took off and jumped that I saw it… and nearly burst my own eyeballs from shock.
That barra taught me: big fish don’t always hit like a freight train. Sometimes, you hit them — and the world just stops.
No fish is yours until it’s safely in the net.
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Hesitation
A 150mm minnow. A subtle bump.
I felt it… like a bit of flotsam on the tide. I turned to check. If that was a fish, it was subtle! Too late.
When I reeled in, the scuff marks on the leader were more than 100mm up from the tow point — a full-body encounter. I missed my cue.
She taught me: Barra are ballistic feeders. Blink and you miss. React, or regret.
This 89cm model from the South Alligator River remained Jo’s PB for 14 years.
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Desperation (The mother of the ’munkis)
Tournament day. Pressure mounting. I’d cracked the pattern. Knew the fish was huge. Wild. Fit. Full of fight.
We battled hard — the fish and I — while boats floated nearby, watching. I could feel them willing me on. I was so close… and desperate to get it done. We were on spot-lock, the motor down as a rudder. It ran under the boat, between both. Threats everywhere.
I had maybe a rod’s length of line out. I coaxed her back gently, guiding the rod the other way. And she came through. I could see her. See her smile. She watched my rod angle rise. It was too high. Too tight. And just like that, she used it against me — leveraged my own mistake. Rolled. Popped. Vanished.
I swear she winked before she went.
She taught me: keep your cool, manage your angles — and never let desperation override execution.
When you’re wearing a barrel‘o’munkis, every successful catch is a massive celebration. Thanks, Chrystalla!
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Immobility
Another tournament. Another freight train run.
But this boat was bigger. Slower. Unwieldy. We couldn’t chase, and the barra knew it. She ran straight for the parade of returning anglers. I had a choice: protect their boats, or chase the fish. No choice, really. You don’t mess with other people’s safety or gear.
I locked the spool. Tried to steer her. Waited for the boat to move. It didn’t. She was gone.
She taught me: some vessels just aren’t built for the dance. You can’t win a sprint in a tank.
A stolen frame from Jo’s recent catch shows her calmness as she listened to her ‘munkis. She finally understand why they haunt her.
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Resignation
Lake Monduran. Pedal kayak. Timber maze.
She fell for my pitch. I set the hook. She ran hard — but the wrong way. There was one tree between us and open water. And it was close. The line angle bent like a hairpin. If the snag had been further away — the angle more obtuse — I might’ve had a chance to steer her free. But double back? No way to get to her without slack. And slack, with a barra? That’s surrender.
I knew then she wasn’t mine. There was nothing I could do but hold the rod steady and listen to the splash… and the cheers of my girlfriend nearby who’d seen it all.
And I was okay. I really was.
She taught me: sometimes, no matter how right you do it — it just isn’t yours to land.
Jo’s new PB proved good enough for her ’munki mentors to pat her on the back.
They’ve been with me a long time, these five.
But on November 5, 2025, something changed. That was the day I landed a 29-kilo barramundi — a fish worthy of its own folklore.
And for the first time, the barramunkis arrived at the right moment.
No heckling. No flashbacks. Just five quiet voices offering calm reminders from battles lost.
This time, Jo… watch your rod angle.
This time, Jo… relax and trust your timing.
This time, Jo… don’t rush.
They didn’t jeer. They guided. They reminded me of the angler I’ve become — and what they helped me learn.
And when that fish hit the deck…
Silence.
The ’munkis were gone.
JThis epic catch wasn’t all Jo and her ’munkis. Without the unrivalled knowledge and guidance of Dean Silvester, it would never have happened. Thank you, Dean!
Farewell to the Barramunkis
I haven’t heard a peep since.
Maybe they’re off haunting someone else who needs to lose a few good ones to truly earn one. Or maybe their job’s done.
Either way, this editorial’s my tribute. My thank-you. My send-off.
So if you’ve got a few ’munkis of your own? Don’t carry them in bitterness. Carry them in reverence.
They’re not curses. They’re teachers (albeit annoying ones).
And if you let them, they’ll guide you to the fish of your dreams.
Jo Starling
Author
Jo is the Founder and National President of the Women’s Recreational Fishing League. Her greatest passion is sharing the empowerment that invariably grows through the sport with any women who care to listen.
Although battling for over thirty years, Jo has only recently been diagnosed with PTSD. This diagnosis was an epiphany, explaining why she’d felt estranged from herself for so long.
Jo came late to fishing, but since being introduced to the sport by her loving sisters-in-law, life took a positive turn. With the clarity of her diagnosis, Jo is able to understand why fishing became such an imperative. Today, she is committed to ensuring everyone learns of its magic.
