Thursday, January 17, 2013

Like Tears In The Rain

As a teenager, I am not any good at fishing. Stubborn persistence, in the face of all evidence pointing to me being rather inept, is occasionally rewarded with the odd fluke. Even in my immaturity, I am already aware that such bloody-mindedness probably says a lot about me. As does my chosen species: Pike.

There is something intangible about pursuing a creature which hunts others. Ego? A symbolic rite of passage? It must be something fundamental and psychological. This carnivore is solitary, watches its world carefully, and can bite if you treat it wrong. Perhaps there's not actually much mystery about why I choose to target such a fish. It's some kind of affinity.

But sitting still, waiting patiently by the water, has other rewards.

I find myself watching a mole burrow, at some considerable speed just below the surface, as it comes to investigate the strong smell of bait near my fishing tackle bag. It pokes its head out to sniff around. We share a moment of myopically staring at one another before it rapidly backs away and furiously heads off in another direction.

I find myself sitting by a lake, in weather much colder than it has been these last few days, marvelling at the gun-blue quality of the still surface of the water in the early-morning light. A tench jumps clean out of the water, only yards from where I am fishing. Even as the moment slows and freezes as the fish reaches the apex of its brief, curving flight, I know I shall always remember with absolute crystal-clear clarity, the image which is presented to me.

Bright green scales – so distinct I believe I could probably count them.

An orange eye that maybe registers me.

Water droplets arching away from its glistening body and erect fins.     

            I find my heart begins to race when I return from answering a call of nature to find the line slack. Something has taken the bait! I pick up my rod, reel in the slack, and sweep the rod back to drive the hooks home.

            The fish – the monster you see pictured here – comes in like it's a sack of potatoes. I try now to recall my excitement. I must have been nervous about capturing such a beast, but it's that tench I remember in far more detail.

Years later, in a brief exploration to return to something I once loved doing, I ask myself if fish feel pain. I come to the conclusion they undoubtedly do and put away the tackle.

I am glad that I was never any good.

 

Don't do stupid – it's just not clever.

Total recorded cycled miles this year: 274 (plus quite a number on the trainer)           

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