I’ve never really liked boats. It’s the deceit in which they present themselves. Gently tugging at their mooring; a vision of serenity as they bob to and fro, waves lapping tenderly against the hull. Lulling me into thoughts of long summer days floating on cloudy peaks as the breeze caresses my face. Land far behind; the ocean's tears on my lips and the horizon my ambition. I would be free; free to roam the planet with only my wits, my strength and the breath of God to guide me. The reality however is somewhat different. The instant I step aboard, my insides lurch and my legs lose their natural ability to keep me upright. The vicious dark water beneath trying desperately to unnerve and unbalance until it can reach in and drag me down. Don’t even get me started on sharks. Damn you Spielberg.So why am I here? What could have convinced me to set aside the solidity and familiarity of terra firma for this? A sense of adventure I suppose; an inbuilt desire to challenge myself and my place in the world (the fact that there are no decent mountains within easy access might also have had something to do with it), but I digress. Here I am and I’m ready to roll. Signed up and kitted out for a battle against the elements and a chance to test myself against the might and fury of the ocean. A journey where I’ll find out more about the man within, the true worth of what I am. I’m going sea fishing.
I’ve been fishing before obviously but this might prove more of a test than hanging my piece of garden cane (with size 12 hook) over a rock pool and keeping very quiet. I’m not sure the need for silence was entirely necessary but Grandad was especially particular about that. He used to rock back and forth humming one of those tunes that you recognise but can’t quite place while small puffs of smoke escaped the corner of his mouth. I think it was there with pipe and rod that he was happiest; away from Gran and her constant craving for conversation. God she could talk. He told me once that the milkman chose to deliver in the dead of night just to avoid her smiling face waiting there on the doorstep for him.
I pull into the car park to find that most of the others have already arrived. Why Mike chose this as a stag do instead of the usual drink until you drop affair only he knows but cocky smile, smoke lit and step with spring all present and correct, I get out there as though I’m happy to be along for the ride. I’m greeted with a chorus of “Geeeeeeezer”s and once the shadow boxing and back slapping have settled I wander over to Marcus. I used to work with him way back when but now only see him at weddings, funerals and the likes of today. “Thought you weren’t into all this?” he asks waving around at the boats in the distance. “I’m not. But you know, Pete’s wedding and all. What can I do?” Nodding, he offers me another smoke and we soon settle back into that comfortable conversation that distinguishes friends from acquaintances.
“Come on then boys, we’re good to go”, Mike shouts and as a group we bounce (or trudge) towards the old man waving from the other side of the car park. He leads us up onto the dock and towards a weary looking blue boat that looks about to fall apart in fright at our approach. “You gotta be kidding me” I mutter to no-one in particular and with steps as light as fairy wings I board. I find a place about half way down as I can’t decide which end might be safest and hug my knees as the guy goes through his safety talk. We’re given bait and rods and with what sounds suspiciously like a backfire we set off.
Almost immediately I can feel the sea shaking the bottom of the boat like a snow globe, wanting me to join the flakes floating through the nothingness. I light up again which helps a little and pop the bait onto the hook. With a stomach better suited to washing clothes than breaking down food I pull myself up just as we break out of the harbour and into the open sea. Marcus looks over and begins a remarkable impression of a man about to turn inside out just to make me feel better. What are mates for eh? Ignoring him I cast and settle down onto the bench that runs down the centre of our little vessel.
Three hours later and the boredom is starting to kick in. The lack of beer on board (safety issue don’t you know) is causing consternation and nobody has had even a whiff of a bite when it happens. The rod suddenly comes alive in my hand; I’ve got one! Wearing my smugness like a windbreaker I lap up the bitterness all around, plant my feet firmly against the hull and start to reel it in. Man against beast, intelligence against nature, the hunter and its prey in the perpetual struggle for the ownership of life. I breathe deeply and try to centre myself to avoid being drawn into the maelstrom of adrenaline that stalks on the periphery of my emotion. I become the hook, biting and gripping against the terrified thrashing. I feel the tension slacken as at last fatigue stands shoulder to shoulder with me and the monster starts to tire, the fight for survival almost at an end as I pull it towards me and oblivion. With a final gargantuan effort that saps the final dregs of my strength I drag the beast from the depths.
With laughter ringing in my ears, I console myself with thoughts of the quid I’ll get if I return it to Tesco.
No comments:
Post a Comment