Fishing for Compliments: Ken Gibbs

 Living one on top of the other in mid-row terraced houses calls for some creativity in achieving ‘space’ for one another.  This perhaps explains why some men need their pub-night, or to play soccer or snooker.  Or even to walk the coast path.  The women’s night out in those days was considered to be when the old man was not at home – a break in itself.

We lived quite far from the coast so that a weekly excursion to tramp along the sea edge was not thought to be a valid option.  Besides, that part of the country was flat and some of it below sea level so that such a tramp would be along the sea wall in an area where generally the birds were only noisy seagulls.

Since coming to Britain, I had never tried fishing and as I had an old fishing rod unlikely ever to break – it was solid glass fibre from the 1950s and weighed a ton – I thought it might be worth a try.  I even had a reel that I had cleaned and greased before putting it away some 20 years previously and when I took it out, it spun effortlessly.  The line still looked in good condition and even the hooks and sinkers were bright and shiny.  It just remained to get some bait, which I did locally, and I then set off for the beach near Dungeness.

Dungeness is, in fact, a nuclear power station that most sensible people avoid since the fishing is said to be poor near it, and what you might catch probably would glow anyway.  However, I knew that Dungeness had a cooling water outfall near the power station and it seemed possible that the micro-environments caused by the slightly warmer water would attract a number of different fish species.  With any luck, one of them might be edible if it didn’t set alarm bells ringing on the Geiger counter.  Perhaps I could encourage the readership by renaming this piece as ‘The Nuclear Option’?

When I arrived at the beach, it was deserted.  I took this to mean that most of the keen fishermen preferred watching football on TV; or drinking at the pub; or simply sleeping off yesterday’s hangover.  Certainly the cod were not running, as you couldn’t get a space on the beach when that happened.  So, even if I didn’t catch anything, I would at least have had a peaceful time doing it.

I digress here for a couple of reasons:

First is that my editor had to remind me that surf fishing is a niche-sport and it comes with its own vocabulary which is totally incomprehensible to normal people.  I should thus avoid surf-speak.  For instance, while ‘salmon fishing’ is fishing for salmon, ‘fly fishing’ is NOT fishing for flies.  No, don’t ask me to elaborate, please, as you probably wouldn’t understand.

Secondly, my memory after 20 years of not having done any surf-fishing was – shall we say – a bit defective.  While I went through the motions, I must have missed out some steps and found myself looking down at a tangled mess of nylon fishing line after the first trial.  Ooopppsss !  Remember that ball of wool that the kitten found and started playing with – ending up having to be rescued by cutting the wool from the cat ?  In fishing terms, this meant cutting out the tangle with a penknife which took time.  Well, I was here to waste some time, and this helped in the process, didn’t it ?

I won’t bore you with the details of the next hour or two but, bearing in mind that it was approaching evening and that it was overcast and coldish and that, apparently, any nuclear glow that might have been seen in the water was completely swamped by the lights around the power station, there was nothing noteworthy happening.  Except that I hadn’t had a single bite.

Even ardent fishermen can become bored and I was rapidly approaching that state so I decided to reel in and proceed home. I felt that I had had enough ‘space’ for the moment.  

I started reeling in and immediately felt that something was on the line.  Why hadn’t the damn thing let me know earlier, I wondered ?  It wasn’t very big but was putting up stiff resistance so I played it in and dragged it part up the beach lest it become unhooked inadvertently.

I had caught a ‘dab’ or lemon sole that is slightly smaller than the upmarket Dover variety.  They are, in fact, delicious and I was most satisfied that I had something to show for my effort.  I unhooked it, cleaned it and carried it to the car.

All the way home, I whistled happily in anticipation of Mary’s surprise and happiness at having a really fresh fish for supper.  I walked in the door calling out that I was home and didn’t she want to see what I had caught ?

“Where did you buy it ?” came the immediate retort - indicating that our marriage had already passed the 15 year mark.

My protest went unheeded and I knew full well that when Mary had her teeth into something, nothing would budge her, so I let it pass.  At least I knew that I had caught it.  I asked how she was going to cook it and it was finally decided that it would be grilled under the eye-level grill with a blob of butter and some parsley.  I departed upstairs for a shower.

Now a shower can be most soporific and this was even more so than normal since I had an aura of well being having just caught my first fish in Britain.  Water heating was by gas which is highly efficient if a little noisy but the sound it made was not enough to drown out the blood-curdling scream I heard from downstairs.

I have been known to move quickly – usually when a cricket ball is approaching me rapidly, or when there is only one bottle left of my favourite beer and someone is about to steal it, but this time I moved even more quickly.  I didn’t stop for a towel or clothes and appeared a few seconds later in the kitchen, naked and dripping.  I would attend to water stains on the stair carpet, later.

Mary was standing well away from the grill with one hand over her mouth and was pointing with the other at what was now smoking quite heavily.  It seemed that the fish had been so fresh that it had curled under the grill – and Mary had looked up as it had started doing so.  She thought it was alive.

That evening, I couldn’t wipe the smirk off my face as I ate the part cooked and part burned fish.  The cooked parts were delicious and even though the burned parts were little different from some of the toast we had eaten when newly married and before we got the hang of things, it wasn’t going to do me any harm.  Mary would probably think twice next time I appeared with a fish – allegedly fresh from the sea.

*****

Ken Gibbs can be contacted via kengibbs1941@gmail.com