Bait that bites back

From as early as I can remember I went sea fishing with my Dad, be that off a pier, a beach on some random part of the coastline, or some ‘hard to climb down’ rocks. Even though at the time it was often very cold or wet, it gave me and my father time to find out more about each other without any external demands being made on our time.

It really did feel more like two mates doing something together rather than a figure of authority and a child.

This is a crucial part of the healthy growth of a young mind and a potential source of ‘bonding’ which thousands of fathers and sons (or daughters!) may well miss out on in the future.

I’m 35 now and a lot of the memories have merged or faded, but there are some things that have really stuck in my mind. Firstly lets start off with addressing the title of this article, ‘Bait that bites back’, as most of you know this is referring to ragworms (or sandworms for any Americans). Ragworms unlike their much friendlier cousins lugworm have teeth, oh yes, little black fangs that not only do the pesky little beggars use to bite things, but they can hide them too.

Now I can imagine all you hardened tough fishermen types laughing and thinking ‘so what?’.

Well as an eight year old, a foot long worm that can attack you is something out of a Roald Dahl book, and especially when the first you know about it is when your Dad is unwrapping the newspaper and just says, off the cuff, `Watch out son, these worms have teeth’.

Suffice to say I wasn’t eager to be eaten alive, I’d seen the film piranha, I knew that even small things could have you thrashing around facing impending doom whilst a dizzy blond screamed nearby (We didn’t have a blonde along, but I figured one would show up!).

To demonstrate the relative weakness of these fangs my Dad let one bite him and naturally it did very little, the sheer bravery of such an act really took me back. At the time I couldn’t conceive a situation where I’d take such a risk and this filled me enough confidence to have a go myself, and of course, there was no thrashing about, no pools of red seawater or beautiful but stupid fem-fatales to be seen.

One sunny weekend we were up visiting my fathers family, which meant we went fishing off the pier. We’d done this for many years and mostly I would fish off the end of the pier into the mouth of the harbour with all the other youngsters, but for a while my Dad had been teaching me to use a much bigger rod along with a multiplier, even one without a guide for the line.

A multiplier was a huge step for me, and a happy one, mostly because like most other shore-casting sea fishermen I hated conventional reels, and with no lack of modesty I’ll say now, I was pretty damn good at using a multiplier.

So, with multiplier and a rod 3 times the size of me in hand we ventured onto the sea wall, a part of the pier that faces directly out into the sea, with many rocks below, so it was important to cast out as far a possible. Also this wall was of fairly limited length, so accuracy was crucial.

Beside us on the wall was a fellow, who I recall must have been around the same age as my Dad, and he was either with his (older than me) son, or a friend.

They had all the gear, really flashy rods, lovely shiny reels (multipliers) and a bait box you could have stuck wheels on and taken on holiday to live in. Suffice to say, they weren’t impressed with us, in particular me; I was about 12 I think, probably wearing an old pair of off-shore overalls, wellies and a huge thick blue ‘fisherman’s’ jumper (you know, the really scratchy ones).

So our ‘pro’ friends spied my rod and reel and seemingly had no concerns telling my Dad that I was not ready to fish off the wall, I wouldn’t be able to cast far enough and ‘is that a multiplier? He wont handle that!’. This obviously upset me a little and Dad could tell, but rather than confront ‘the pro’, he allowed him to rather generously demonstrate to me how it’s done, and swish, out went his cast.

Now as an adult and father myself I would have understood it if my Dad had made a convenient excuse for me to go fish with the youngsters, not being a ‘pushy’ father I knew he’d care that if I messed up my cast it would lead to much embarrassment and upset.

However he didn’t, and I was ready to cast out.

There I stood, on the wall, feeling like the world was watching me, the pride of my family at sake and if it went wrong then newspapers across the nation would ridicule us and we’d have to move to Wales or something in complete shame.

I knew my Dad didn’t really care, we’d been fishing 100s of times, we were there for fun but I also knew that behind the calm exterior he would have liked to thread ‘the pro’ on as bait.

The lead weight swung behind me on the end of the line, the reel unlocked and my thumb on the barrel. I spied my destination, between the chap to our rights line and ‘the pro’ on our left, not a huge channel but big enough.

In a single quick action, well taught and well practised, I arced the rod over my head and slightly to the right, lifted my thumb as I saw the slack line come into line with the end of my rod, now at about a 40 degree angle. A lot of people will try and watch the weight to determine when to bring their thumb down as a brake in order to stop overrun, but Dad had taught me to listen to the sound of the reel, the change of pitch as the momentum of the weight falls off and it makes it’s path towards the sea.

I hit the sweet spot, braking with my thumb, perfectly. Too soon and the line snaps back and shortens the cast, too late and the line forms itself into a 60′s ‘beehive’ hairdo for you to untangle. Not only was my cast much further than ‘the pro’, on his next cast he actually crossed over my line!

Many hours later my Dad and I returned home, enjoying our own stories of the event; my own pride not in the fact I had shown ‘the pro’ up, but far more that my Dad had quiet faith in my ability to cast properly, born from 100s of fishing trips and dozens of rocks, beaches and piers along with patient guidance with no false expectation to achieve more than having fun and being a team.

In this country many parents and kids bond over a variety of activities, be it Football, Rugby, Boxing, Cricket, Racing, etc. Like thousands of others, our bonding experience was sea fishing.

Whilst many trips saw us return home empty handed that didn’t really matter – at least we knew there was a chance we could catch fish – how much longer will fathers and sons be able to enjoy that simple pleasure.

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