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Sea Fishing Learning Curve - Ashley Ford-McAllister
I didn't wake up at 5.30am. I woke up at 7am – too late, really, especially since the dogs were also awake by that point, and thus needed to at least be fed and put out in the garden before I headed off; with four large, rambunctious specimens of the canine persuasion, taking them with me, if I intended to fish, wasn't really an option. I probably should have admitted that I'd got it wrong, and gone down to the beach for a dog walk, but I'm stubborn in small, stupid ways, so, dogs fed, watered, and scampered, I grabbed my kit, and set off. Second mistake – I assumed I'd put everything I'd be likely to need in my tackle bag the night before, when I was packing it. I didn't check, and I should have done. The reason why would become evident later.
It was a bright, crisp morning, the dawn just finishing, giving way to cobalt skies and soft light. It was fresh without being cold, although I'd taken the precaution of wearing thermals under my joggers, and a hoody and t-shirt under my waterproof jacket, as well as the thermal fingerless gloves I wear everywhere, and which are particularly useful for fishing. I decided to go through the town centre, rather than down to the railway station and across – it takes the same amount of time, but I've always had an affinity with towns and cities in the hour or so before they start opening for business, when everything's quiet and clean, and the only people about are dog walkers, and those hi-vis coated souls whose unacknowledged work keeps capitalism and commerce ticking over. Far from boardrooms and Parliament, but far more vital.
Walking along the road that fronts the harbour, and which would take me over the bascule bridge, I looked out to my left, down the length of the harbour mouth, to the sea. The water and sky were almost the same colour, everything was quietly still, and the way the lights hit the water made a somewhat rundown passage, a place wholly focused on servicing working needs, and on practical demands, rather than tourist whims, look briefly beautiful.
Heading across Royal Plain, where the fountains in front of the faded elegance of the now-abandoned East Point Pavillion, that has been many things in its lifetime, but is now, thanks to the council's shortsightedness and the state of the economy, too expensive to ever become anything other than some bland chain restaurant, probably, would begin playing later in the day; arcing jets of bright-lit water shooting skywards, delighting children, dogs, and the old folk passing by, who always stopped to watch. I glanced up at the statue of Triton; a seagull is perched on his head, a silent, focused sentinel. In Lowestoft, the running joke is: “So, d'you know that new film's coming here? The one with Steven Seagull in it?” (I never said it was a good joke, did I? Just a running one.) As the pier came into view, I saw three more seagulls, lined up along the wall, eager, beady eyes fixed on the two boats on the horizon, one of which was drawing slowly closer through the haze of the rising day. Commercial fishing boats, probably, heading home, while the seagulls wait for an easy breakfast. Nature and commerce conspiring to remind me of that first mistake – not setting the alarm clock. I'm too late for decent fishing, but I'll take some photos, at least, and put the rod out for half an hour or so, while I'm here. Get the feel of it.
Ignoring the pier for the moment, I head down to the beach, and prop my rod against the rocks of the sea defences. This isn't fishing, it's a photo shoot, and a reminder of another hobby I can't really afford the gear to pursue to its fullest. It's still a pleasant way to pass the time, though. I set up the shot, take the photo, pleased with the way it looks. At least something's gone right, despite my overconfidence around waking naturally at the right time.
Picking up rod and tackle bag, I head onto the pier, past the silent intensity of the waiting seagulls, well beyond the lifeboat station. The very farthest end is gated off, but the majority of the 300yard pier is accessible, giving anglers the option of fishing either into the open sea, or into the harbour basin. Not wanting to accidentally scratch the paintwork on someone's new yacht, I opt for the sea, and set my rod up, tying on a mackerel feather rig, baiting up with something I've not tried before; dried sprats, intended and sold as dog treats. When I used to fish for whatever lived in the lake my dad took me to (we caught small, bright, silver things – I didn't know what they were called then, and can't remember what they looked like clearly enough to identify them in retrospect: all I can remember is a flash of silver against the sun, a spray of richly scented water, and my dad's soft, gentle voice; “Be careful with it, now – set it down there, hold it gently – like this, watch – now, careful, get the hook out, don't jerk it... that's it... just hold your hands in the water, and let it go – there it goes...”), we used bread, corned beef, sweetcorn. When I've been out on sea fishing trips on boats, the buckets of bait have included mackerel heads, worms, chunks of rich, red, raw meat, and probably other things I either didn't notice, or didn't remember. There are no bait shops in my part of Lowestoft; it would be an hour's walk, or a bus ride, to the closest. We could do with one on the pier, really, or perhaps back at the now-empty pavillion on the seafront. Affordable tackle for the have-a-go holiday makers, bait for the locals who want to change up during a session, something which, unless you've driven to the pier, and have a selection of bait with you in the car, you can't do without dismantling your set up, heading away from the pier and the beach, and being gone for at least an hour.
A small bird, some sort of tern, tiptoes along the wall, watching me with a focus that seems almost human. Hopping down, the bird dances over to me, eyeing me up all the while: What're you doing? Why do you need all that stuff? The seagulls don't, and they always catch fish. Yes, folks, it's true – I'm the kind of guy who gets judged by the local wildlife. As you'll see, though, that little tern had a point...
Set up, bait box locked down and stowed safely away from the seagulls, I run the line out, letting the 4oz weight I've tied on take the hookbait below the gently swelling waves. I give it a bit more line, walking the rod back along the wall until the rig disappears below the surface. Every couple of seconds, I can see the glint as the sun makes it through a break in the waves, and catches on part of the rig. Shadows darken the water, shades that may be passing fish, or could just be my imagination, but nothing bites. I let the rod idle for a bit, the tide giving it motion. The seagulls watch me. The tern's still on the ground, peering up at me in puzzlement.
The rod twitches. I bring it up, remembering my father's advice from years ago, the echo of a ghost: “Don't work the reel until you know there's something worth having, and don't try and reel against a fish on the run – he's got more strength than you have.” The line comes clear of the water; one of the sprats has gone, another's lost its tail, but there's nothing hooked. Probably a crab – there's plenty of them around the pier. Presumably lobsters, too, since there's a sign on the railings, as you approach the fishing end of the pier, advising that you may only use up to two lobster pots per person, and they must be attended at all times. I start to reel in – and end up with a massive tangle of line on my spool. The rig gets snarled in the line, too – I'll need to cut that free, the hooks are too sharp to work around in these gloves.
You remember I said my second mistake had been not checking my tackle bag before I headed out, and just assuming I had everything I needed? You've guessed it – I had nothing to cut the line with. I tried to untangle the line; not a chance. With a sigh, and a moment of thanks that I had a telescopic rod, I collapsed the rod down, and packed up. I'd have to sort the line out at home. I took off the remaining sprats, grabbed a handful more from my bait box, and tossed them into the sea. The seagulls launched, a shrieking circle passing overhead. If more people fished off the pier, and the beach, on a daily basis, and everyone fishing threw a handful of bait into the water at the end of their session, the seagulls would soon learn that there was an easier, better buffet to be had out on the waves, and would leave the unwary souls who thought eating their Greggs' sausage rolls as they walked through town in the summer months alone. I've lost a steak and cheese wrap before now; my wife has done battle with a bird for a sandwich (the way she tells it, she's lucky no one was passing by with a smartphone; Mad bird fights sandwich-snatch bird would have almost certainly gone viral...), and plenty of kiddies have ended up in tears. Last year, the council paid for a hawk to be flown through the town during the peak tourist season; that put the gulls off, but I have a feeling they'll be back.
I headed home, feeling happy despite the catalogue of mistakes that had led to a session that never really got started. I'd been out in the fresh, bright air at the beginning of a new day. I'd watched the tide coming in. I'd seen the way the soft, first light fell on the water in that magic half hour just before the sun really gets going. I'd seen that little tern, cute and curious. And I'd been able to admire the seagulls, rather than seeing them as a menace, coastal muggers who didn't even need knives to be all threat and aggression. It had been a good time, even if I hadn't really gone fishing. And I had some good photographs, at least. New memories.
I got home, sorted out my gear, and watched a couple of YouTube videos on how to avoid line tangles. My reel was second hand, an Okuma that came pre-spooled with line I forgot to ask about; I'd liked the line because it was red, and I have trouble seeing clear or fluorescent lines, owing to a slight visual impairment. From what I could gather, watching the videos, I'd need to try a brand-new line, and would probably be best off going for braid. Something to look up on the great tackle shop of the internet next payday. Leaving YouTube, I headed over to the site I use to check tide times and anticipated fish activity; the next time I'd be able to get out would be the last Sunday in January – when, it seemed, the suggested best time for fishing would be between 8.55am-10.55am, then again from just before midnight into the early hours. I don't really do night fishing, but the morning peak seemed perfect. I'll set an alarm this time, though – and check my tackle before I head out!
