Not biting

Fishing has not been a family tradition. The most memorable attempt at fishing was probably around 35 years ago on a family holiday to Maria Island. There were fish in abundance at the jetty, and to us children (actually, as oldest child, I was probably an adult by this stage) it seemed a sure thing that you would get a bite if you only cast a line … if you only had a line to cast, which we didn’t. So we found a piece of string and a nail to improvise a fishing rig, and it seemed a sure thing that you would never get a bite because what fish would be stupid enough to go for an un-baited nail? But we did get a bite, and of course we had no idea what to do with the resulting fish (and it was not small fry, either). After some thought, we put it on the back of the push-bike, sandwiched in the pannier rack, and cycled up to Mum who was at our accommodation at Darlington, but she wouldn’t have a bar of it, so we cycled back down to the jetty (at least 400m away) and returned the poor fish to the watery deep, where, miraculously, it swam off and then, unmiraculously, swam straight into a pier pylon. We’re not sure what happened to it after that; what happened to my fishing career after that was identical to what had occurred with it before then: nothing (and, as I wasn’t even responsible for casting and catching the Maria Island piscine specimen, only for transporting it (I think), my fishing career has been entirely devoid of fish or, even, the act of fishing).

So, when a friend offered to take me fishing she had to reassure me that she would take care of anything that was caught and, also, instruct me on how to actually catch anything for taking care of. We had a very pleasant time at the river mouth, waving hooks and lines in the general direction of the water, but the fish (apart from one small example caught by one of my friend’s children) were playing very hard to get.

Her lucky bucket is looking forward to a change of fortunes on another occasion … but I doubt that it will be me providing it!