Over the previous week, I had spent eighty-four days fishing without success. An epic undertaking with scant reward, maybe the bone spurs I had been diagnosed with were affecting my performance? Even my young nephew had decided to fish on his father’s boat, although he still came to see me every evening to ask how my fishing was going. Leaving my beachside hut, I resolved to set off further in my Kayak than ever before.
I rowed my Kayak, the Santiago, out onto the shining sea, the town receding into the distance. Dropping the lure one hundred feet deep, I felt a huge fish take the lure into its mouth and make a powerful run. I picked up the rod and felt the fish pull my kayak, its immense power soon becoming apparent (although there was a strong breeze blowing in the same direction I believe that this had no impact on the direction the kayak was heading, and I was being entirely pulled by the power of the fish. For hours, I battled the fish, my muscles aching with the power of the fight, the line cutting into my hands, the power and grace of the fish making it a worthy adversary. By the end of the third hour, I felt the fish weaken, and I, using the last of my strength, reeled it to the side of the boat. As soon as it broke the surface, I could see why the battle had been so intense. A mackerel of fourteen, maybe fifteen inches long, broke the surface. I lashed it to the side of the boat, too exhausted to bring it on board. I started the small outboard motor of my kayak and headed for shore, keen to show my catch to the others, but fearful that they may not fully appreciate what I had gone through to best such a magnificent fish.
But as I sailed, much further than usual, the blood of the slain mackerel began to attract the trophy fisherman’s greatest fear – seals. The first seal lunged for the mackerel, but I managed to bat it away with a rolled-up copy of the Times Literary Supplement, an effective tactic initially but the paper soon went soggy when exposed to seawater. I used the wooden sticks from the marinated Greek lamb souvlaki skewers I had for my lunch as a weapon to fight off the seals, but it was futile. Eventually, all that was left of the beautiful mackerel was the head, spine, and tail. Leaving the remains of the mackerel lashed to the side of the Santiago, I made my way back to the shoreline. Exhausted and disheartened, I went immediately back to my beachside hut and fell into a deep sleep.
The following morning, I awoke to much commotion. Although many people later claimed this commotion was simply locals being confused as to why I had tied the remnants of a mackerel to the side of my kayak, I believe that they were so overwhelmed at the size of the mackerel I caught that it had become the talk of the beach. Now aware that he could make such enormous catches with me, my nephew said that he would again accompany me fishing. I went back to my bed, where I dreamed about cats. As I have always said: “a mackerel can be destroyed but not defeated.”
Gregory “Piscis” Timothy is an award-winning freelance nature writer who specialises in angling. He teaches English Language and Literature with Creative, Descriptive and Expressive Writing at the University of East Anglia where he specialises in Excessive Adverb Use.
Return to The Expert View page by clicking here.