In the past 30 years, I have read my fair share and I have fished some. Inevitably these practices lead me to skimming through a few fishing texts, but I have yet to peruse a worthwhile script on the noble pastime of fishing with your father. Ernest Hemingway, that clearest writer on “male” pursuits, probably did not have his dear-old-dad in mind when he wrote: “Somebody just back of you while you are fishing is as bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.” But it is said that the elder Hemingway, a prosperous real estate broker, was a very strict father … someone who probably had to have the bait just so. After writing a very few letters to girls, I would rather have my father there, looking over my shoulder. Maybe not while writing love letters, but in most other undertakings … certainly while fishing.
So off we went; three brothers and three sons. I was looking to take a break from the city, from the dreary daily slog at the office. I am sure each of the others had their own reasons to go and they convinced their wives that these were all compelling enough to make the trip. We were going to a remote part of South Africa, to a place on the so-called Wild Coast (of South Africa) that none of us had ever seen (except on Google Earth that is).
I have a feeling my wife was looking for a break from me as I woke her at a few minutes past five on a public holiday to take me to the airport. If she had read Zenna Schaffer, she might have agreed with the butchered old proverb designed, I think, to brighten the days of women who get left behind: “Give a man a fish and he has food for a day,” Schaffer wrote, “teach him how to fish and you can get rid of him for the entire weekend.”
In our case it was to be a red-letter week.
Friday, 27 April.
Two of us fly from Johannesburg, where we are met by chaotic queues, to East London. Despite the crowds at Oliver Tambo airport, we get on the plane only 15 minutes late, but (because of the public holiday?) the luggage arrive almost half-an-hour after. We land an hour late. I spend two hours talking to one of the group that arrived before me and, after depleting all fishing topics, we talk about toddlers at home. And the weather, because a storm has been predicted in the Eastern Cape that would last the entire weekend. I hope we can start fishing on the Tuesday. The others have to come from Cape Town, Kimberley and Tarkastad.
The six get together at the airport, minutes later we stop at the local supermarket and it is chaos again. At the start of the long weekend everyone in East London (and it seems within 500km from it) needs to stock up. The shops do not close, but they are probably all off to the unknown, like ourselves, and don’t know where their next meal will be coming from. A cousin and I get into a sign-throwing match with some idiot that thinks it is alright to park at the entrance to the supermarket and bring traffic to a standstill. We decide to postpone the buying experience and go for lunch instead. Adrenaline is flowing, so service seem immeasurably slow. All but one of us has two tall beers and the fishing trip starts.
While the others are still finishing up, two of the six, including myself, go back to the supermarket and whip out “the list”. The shop is still busy, but not as bad as an hour earlier. We buy huge quantities of bacon, bread, cheese and other essentials six men need for a week. We stop at the local tackle shop for last minute buys (read lead sinkers, as airlines now charge R20/kg for excess baggage). The liquor store is almost next door, so we make a brief stop there as well. At about 15:00 we set off for the coast, hoping to get to our destination before dark as the last bit is rumoured to be a bad gravel road.
This turns out to be untrue, the gravel bit (38km) had been graded the previous week – but it is cold and windy when we finally reach the sea. We unpack in semi-darkness and light the fire … the steak dinner goes down well, despite most of us still being full from the burger at our previous stop. It’s past ten when we get to bed – tired, but happy to be out of the city.
Saturday, 28 April
At the cottage next door our guide is spending the weekend. The wind is still strong, but we decide to take the tour. Fortunately Tony was a guide earlier in his live and, while showing us the places to find bait and (different) places to find fish, the howling wind and stormy seas do not bother us much. The weather forecast is not good and the (my) feeling is still that we will only start angling in three to four days time.
But fate smiles and previous visitors (owners) have built a concrete walkway to the mouth of the little river. Despite the tempestuous sea, we are off to make a relatively safe cast into the joint. And may the record show:
4lb cob (Argyrosomus hololepidotus) – fisherman A
4lb cob – fisherman B
6lb cob – fisherman C
Fisherman D did not make it to the concrete block at the end of the walkway and was therefore not unlucky. E caught a small blacktail (Diplodus sargus) and F (myself) caught nothing. Most of the catching was done on squid. Fish (fried on a stainless steel wok on the fire outside) was had by all that evening. At that stage I was still in charge of the menu, so the fact that the chicken was in the fridge and not the freezer had at least one of us worried. No-one got to bed before 22:30 and some beer was had by all.
Sunday, 29 April
The wind has died down, but the sea is rough. Massive waves break on the Wild Coast shore and it is impossible to get redbait.
The chicken, now thoroughly ready to be eaten, got cooked in a big black three-legged pot; with some bacon, onion, butternut and potatoes. I ate early to get going, but the tide is coming in and the six of us cannot even get onto the block. Our neighbour takes his family to a quiet little bay close to the house and catches a steenbras (Lithognatus lithognatus) of returnable size and a beautiful bronze bream (Pachymetopon grande).
We are a bit disheartened, to say the least, but someone else catching fish and dusk bring a few fishermen, notable fisherman A and C (no relation to the political party), back to the block.
The biggest fish of the week fell on the block that night, a cob of 13lb. To fisherman A. And another 6lb cob to fisherman C. They were having a ball. I think I caught a sandshark (Rhinobatos annulatus) that evening and fisherman B took a catfish (Galeichthys feliceps), but they were returned unharmed. The cob was frozen to take home to hungry wives.
Monday, 30 April
We found a little redbait, but the sea is still so rough that fishing there is almost impossible. D, E and F walk back from where we find redbait and cast in gullies, but no luck. With the wind blowing for the past three days the Wild Coast lives up to its name and massive waves pound the coast. This is ideal for surfers, I’m sure, but it makes for using very heavy tackle.
Our chokka is running low; A and B drive to the nearest shop (some 40 minutes) to try their luck. They return with more coffee, some pepper and muesli, but no more bait.
Fisherman C, now despised by everyone but his immediate family, does not go to look for redbait and chooses to fish the block in the middle of the day. He catches two cob, 6lb and 7lb respectively. Some are spreading rumours that if he catches the next one as well, he might be cast from the block. He is, unfortunately, the only doctor in the group, so there is little chance of this actually happening (not catching the next fish, but being fed to the fish).
Tuesday, 1 May
One of the less lucky ones decides to get up before dawn and fish from the block. He is alone and comes back with a tale of a big lost fish. He also comes back with a cob of 9lb. The sea has calmed and, after we get those who have caught most of the fish out of bed, we are off to cross the river and fish far away places.
The river is small and the canoe is treacherous. Fisherman B displays an amazing lack of skill and falls out, taking fisherman C (the despised one) with him. Yes, it’s funny, but the fact that C has caught more fish than anyone else forces us to laugh a bit longer and louder than is strictly necessary.
A three kilometer walk along a wide sandy beach brings us to rocks that are almost impossible to walk on. Round and green with moss or flat and slippery with brown algae. Fisherman A, now part of the 1st team after they caught most of the cob, manages to stay upright and catch three blacktail.
I think I feel a bite as I amble on to a sandy beach away from the others, but some creature steels my bait and I am forced to go back.
When I get back to the others, most of team A had fallen to the treacherous rocks. Even one of the 2nd team had met his match, but no serious damage. While I watch, struggling to tackle up again after getting snagged for the umpteenth time, the most serious fall (injury wise) of the week occurs. Fisherman B, who has never been known for his ability to stand up straight, slips and crashes down onto his back. I think he still has a nasty bruise to show. His reel needs urgent repairs, which we make with a handy stone and a screwdriver I carry in my bag. He is not happy.
A few casts along the sandy beach delivers nothing and we cross the river once again to light the fire and whip out the chops. Some of us, notably fisherman F (me) is growing a bit despondent. Urgent measures are needed.
Wednesday, 2 May
Thousands of redbait pods is exposed on the spring tide and even a few worms, an octopus or two and even an unmentionable bait or two is collected. This is the desperate measures I talked about earlier.
Fisherman A loses a big galjoen (Coracinus capensis) in the shallows.
I see this, but I walk on to fish a likely looking hole a bit further along the coast. I have on the unmentionable bait, on a heavy, double-nylon trace and I cast and wait. The secret bait is ignored by small fish, but a few minutes later I get a decent bite and lift a 2lb blacktail onto the rocks. A nice fish, but there is more to come.
Fisherman D, aka my father, catches a galjoen in the same range. It looks like we have the right spot for the day.
The fish bites like a blacktail, but when I tighten the line I know I am in for a fight. The fish turns and runs to the side of the gulley. Then back. Because I am using such heavy tackle, it does not stand much of a chance, but it is heading for the rocks and I put on as much strain as I can. I am using 30lb line and it can take some chafing on the rocks, but not much. It probably takes less than five minutes, but in that time I see nothing but the sea, the waves and the rocks – whatever can come between me and landing the fish. Where I was treading carefully minutes ago, I now stand sure-footedly.
I am trying to guide the fish into a gulley, but cannot quite reach it. This time the sea is forgiving and a wave washes the fish past my feet. I don’t see it at first. My father, who is standing next to me, says with a trace of surprise (if not awe): “It’s a musselcracker (Sparodon durbanensis) … careful; you are going to lose it.”
But it is my day and he grabs it and lifts it safely into a rock pool. I had barely put my rod down before I am running off to the others; to grab a camera and the scale. I’m not really shaking with excitement, but it is close.
After a picture or two I carry the fish back to the sea. I let it go, but it is spent and the silver creature is back in my hands. Like I have done so many times with trout, I hold it upright – there is no doubt about the wonder that I am feeling. I can feel its power in the first few flicks of its tail and then it is off. Sure I am proud to have hooked it, to have caught it and to have held it. But letting it go and seeing it survive, probably to never be bothered by another angler again, fills me with a feeling that is impossible to describe. Noble does not even come close.
Sure we caught a few more fish after that. Notably a bronze bream of about 5lb that was pure gold when lifted from the sea. It was returned safely as with most of the other kob, blacktail and other species that fell to our hooks. But the musselcracker made my week … as surely as I will return to these shores again next year.
Going home
I have fished since I could walk. For the first seventeen years I did so mostly with my father. We have now lived apart for more than that but, I hope, we have now started a tradition that brings us together again, to fish, at least once a year. Being with your father, even if only for a week in a year, is a good thing. An occasion not to be taken lightly – a time that can, and should be, remembered forever. And my wife even looked glad to see me.
