This Fishing Life

Take the other week. Having worked my socks off the previous month I was ready for some fishing after cancelling a previous trip. The scene was set, except just as I turned my PC off to leave, my mobile rings. It was Sarah, one of the chiefs from LA. “We need your revised project plan asap.”

This fishing life

Bollocks, I think, they’re behind schedule and looking to share around some blame. I turn my PC back on, fix a couple of typos, and resend the file, knowing full well they won’t read the thing anyway. Just manage to get out of the office before the MD can get me. Bump into Geoff the sales director in the car park, who insists on showing me his new car, so that’s another 20 minutes wasted listening to how the low profile tyres make it go round bends faster. Don’t these people ever realise Southern England is a car park during the hours of daylight.

It’s now 6pm, the traffic is already bad and it takes me 10 minutes to get out of the office car park. Eventually I make it to the River at 8pm, following the usual accidents, traffic jams, and road rage. Dream away the time thinking about how I will capture a big one, average 12.6 miles per hour.

I ask a couple of lads who are packing up, if they’ve caught anything, “nope,” they reply, “it’s fishing bad again.”

Great, I think, they’ve spent the day baiting up for me. I imagine how I will work the float through their swim. Then I unpack the gear and realise I’ve left the hemp in the freezer. Bugger it, no worries, I can fish maggot instead, they work equally well. A few more cars arrive in the car park. Now the anxiety sets in. Do I:

A)Leg it to the best swim and unpack the gear before the others get there?
B)Do what the experts say and walk the length of the river and find some fish and bait up?

I decide on option C, and go and have a chat with them to see what they’re doing, except before I can open my mouth the phone rings. It’s the MD asking about the project. Fortyfive minutes later the lads have already legged it to the best swims, while I have to make up some project forecasts. He thinks I’m still at work so none the wiser that I made the figures up.

It’s starting to get dark now so I have to get in a swim fast. I go to a spot a couple of hundred yards downstream and get the rod set up and ready to cast the bait dropper out. Crack, five quid’s worth of polished metal makes a perfect splash right on the mark and the line waves around the end of the rod. bugger it, I’ve twisted the line round the rod in my haste.

I decide to change to a standard blockend feeder setup, however, because it’s now getting dark, I struggle to tie the hook. Eventually I’m ready and the rods in, although I now have a nagging doubt in my head. Is the feeder in the weed? Do I need to put more bait in? Is my hook too small? What about that kink on the hooklength? I have to light a fag, the nerves are killing me.

Nothing happens for a while and then I start to get a few flickers on the tip and my confidence starts to rise. I sit up a bit straighter in my chair when…… “RIP” and collapse on my arse in the mud as my old faithful chair gives way at the seam, just as the tip rattles away. I dive for the rod and strike heavily, there’s a whoosh as the light feeder launches itself at me, so I dive for cover just in time as it flies past my head into the trees behind.

I have to pull for a break and retackle, this time just using a straight lead with meat on. I manage to get everything right and cast out within five minutes. The naggings doubts in my head return, the meat has already made it out to sea, the lead is too light and I’m surface fishing on the bank downstream.

Then it happens, the little continuous tap, tap on the tip. It must be an eel. Bugger it, I’ve still got my best work shirt on and the missus will kill me, my mind races… do I:

A)Swing it in and try not to touch it?
B)Hope it will go away?

My conscience gets the better of me and I decide to wind in and unhook it. Of course it’s swallowed the hook and I can’t grab it whilst trying to protect my best shirt, so the line snaps and it falls back into the water. I sit there for a minute and smoke a fag, feeling guilty. I cast in again, this time with a lump of meat so big no eel alive will be able to get its chops around it.

The familiar tap, tap on the tip returns. My heart skips a beat as I contemplate explaining to the misses that it was the mother of all eels that covered me in so much slime. So I reel in, only to reveal another bootlace.

After untangling everything it’s time to go. I pack up the gear, struggle to the car and head home. It takes an hour and half to drive back through the emergency roadworks, average speed 17.4 miles per hour, Southern England is a 24×7 car park. I tell the misses about the huge eel that caused all the slime, but don’t think she believes me. So it’s off to bed thinking about the big one and how I will get it next time.