He’s been threatening to do it for weeks and on Wednesday he calls. "Dad, is
Saturday OK for you?" he asks, "To go fishing, I mean?" Fishing is one of those pleasures of life I occasionally indulge in, though
I haven’t been for years. Although I love it, my ability to actually fish is
in inverse proportion to the fondness I have for the activity. "Sure," I
reply, "As long as it’s in the evening." “Don’t worry. It won’t be before half
four." "Right, then. See you
Saturday."
Saturday comes along, and I unwrap the fishing-rod Son gave me for my
birthday less than a fortnight ago. It comes complete with a fishing-line,
which I duly proceed to hopelessly entangle the minute I try to tie
it to the rod. Luckily, there’s a shop catering for fishing aficionados just
round the corner and within minutes I am duly supplied with three
fishing-lines. I originally intend to acquire only one, but bitter
experience has long taught me that the likelihood I’ll mess up in such
situations is on the high side – so better play safe.
It is to be me, Son, Daughter-in-Law and Son-in-Law. Daughter is abroad
earning the crust – or so she claims. Son-in-Law kindly gives me
a lift to Xgħajra and at just before 5.00pm, after a ten minute walk over stony
paths and a rather rocky terrain, I am struggling to set up the
rather unwieldy 7-metre fishing rod with the newly-acquired fishing line, which
turns out to be a full metre shorter than the rod. Son-in-law is equipped with
a smaller, handier rod, while Son - evidently harbouring ambitions of
capturing fish bigger than the fry we are likely to catch with our traditional
rods - comes armed with a rod complete with reel.
Daughter-in-Law is apparently not too impressed with the collective wealth of
fishing knowledge displayed by the three males in her company and
opts to swim and sun-bathe instead.
I use plain bread for bait, while the other two, hoping to lure the fish which live and feed close to the bottom, opt for white-shelled snails. In a less than nonchalantly elegant gesture, I cast and the two white blobs of bread are quickly surrounded by darting shapes which congregate in a small dark cloud around them. The red and white float remains static, though, as the fish nibble away at the bread and avoid the sharp end of the hook. Even my rather limited knowledge of things piscine is sufficient to enlighten me to the fact that the fishy creatures feasting on my bait are mostly the scissor-tailed ċawl - small-mouthed and notoriously difficult to catch even by seasoned rod-wielders, let alone by the likes of me.
I use plain bread for bait, while the other two, hoping to lure the fish which live and feed close to the bottom, opt for white-shelled snails. In a less than nonchalantly elegant gesture, I cast and the two white blobs of bread are quickly surrounded by darting shapes which congregate in a small dark cloud around them. The red and white float remains static, though, as the fish nibble away at the bread and avoid the sharp end of the hook. Even my rather limited knowledge of things piscine is sufficient to enlighten me to the fact that the fishy creatures feasting on my bait are mostly the scissor-tailed ċawl - small-mouthed and notoriously difficult to catch even by seasoned rod-wielders, let alone by the likes of me.
Son-in-Law draws first blood and captures a green-brown tirda which thrashes about
wildly and wetly on the rocks, until it is freed from the hook and deposited in
an inland pool of sea to which it seems to adapt in no time. It is soon joined
by a local wrasse and the first of a series of ċawl Son-in-Law takes. Son is engaging in scrape after scrape
with a rather unkind sea-bed which ensnares his hook and line and
which he manages to free only when Daughter-in-Law and Son-in Law swim out
to pull it free from the bottom.
My first catch proves to be pretty elusive, but after an hour’s fishing - when
I have all but resigned myself to another catch-less fishing trip - the float
unexpectedly bobs down beneath the surface and a quick(ish) jerk of the rod
reveals a small brown ċawla ensnared the
way it should be, through its mouth, and not ‘misruqa’, that is hooked
accidentally from some other part of its body.
In between catches – not that there are many - I look out at the
pristine sea, blue and turquoise, the surface just ruffled by a very slight
current, the suspicion of a breeze helping to keep the temperature acceptably cool on this
early evening. Besides my family there is not a soul in sight. At one
point a strange sensation steals over me, envelopes me, then takes me in
its grip. It’s almost sickly sweet, maudlin. Images of past fishing trips with
the children, from two decades ago, flash from somewhere deep inside.
Mistra... two happy faces looking intently at a green and white
float ... little arms awkwardly wielding a rod which is
evidently too big and heavy for them ... eyes sparkling when a
fish is lifted and grimy hands eagerly reaching out for it. The arguments
on the way back ... who actually caught the first fish with Papà’s
new rod, if you count the one which slipped away while it was being
de-hooked? ... The eager run to Nanna’s house to brag all about
the vopi and the griewel bagged, and to make
sure that their fishes end up in the aljotta pot.
The memories aren’t many. There could, damn it, there should have been more of
them had not work and projects and books and useless, petty squabbles
not hijacked precedence over what was manifestly more important. If only I
could have seen it then!
Still, I should be thankful for what there was - and there is still.
It’s 7.00pm and it’s time to pack up. The half-score or so fish we have bagged
are taken from the inland pool and re-consigned to the open sea. The evening is
pleasant and we walk back to the car in silence. It’s almost as if my strange
mood has permeated the air and affected all of them. At one point Son
looks over and asks, "You ok?" I can’t really answer, so I just walk
over and give him a big hug. He responds – as he always does.
Maybe those fishing trips from 20 years ago – even if few and far between - did have an effect, after all.
