Fishing without water
FISHING WITHOUT WATER
A cool summer sun was resting on my shoulder as my oversized landing net gently tapped at my back. The rod flicked forward and a perfect loop of fly line uncurled in front of me. As the line reached its limit the light glistened thorough my silken leader as it gently unfurled onto the water. A perfect cast with the fly coming to rest a few feet from the opposite bank and slowly drifting towards a low overhanging tree and an unsuspecting wild brown trout lazily rising to tiny surface flies.
My eyes half opened. The familiar hum of baffled engines filtered into consciousness. Doubled up in a cramped airline seat I awoke, returning from two weeks holiday in the Med. It had been three weeks since I had wet a line and those all too well known yearnings had started over a week ago.
Never mind I thought its only Friday and I have all weekend to plan my next outing on the water.
Saturday was out. That will be taken by domestic chores only a wife away from home can conjure up. So it would have to be Sunday. It had been raining while away so the river should have a little life in it. My eyes closed and the fishing began once more. Every cast perfect and every fish a perfect specimen.
We were home. The cases dumped. The kettle on and a welcome slump into a familiar chair. It’s good to be home. We have to go my mothers tomorrow and Katie needs a new pair of trainers and you’ll have to do something with that gate before we go back to work and……… Sunday wasn’t looking good.
By work on Monday cold turkey was hitting hard. Being a fortnight in arrears the bedlam of employment eased the suffering but once late evening arrived each day the thought of escape was never far away and all hope focused on the next Sunday. Every empty minute was speedily filled with tactics, fly choice, location. Location!, Would I return to my quest in the Irwell. Should I opt for the instant fix of half a dozen fat rainbows? It’s driving me mad. I am a sensible adult. What’s wrong with me, I have a daughter, a wife; I haven’t seen the family in months. So what flies should I take?
It’s Friday. I put my foot down. Family stuff Saturday and bliss on Sunday. I turned on the computer. Oh an email from Jonsey. “Don’t forget the annual charity shoot this Sunday”. “Get there early and help set up”. ******! It only happens once a year and think of those deserving kids. Its back. The lump rises once more. You know the one you felt when that bird found out about Alison. The very same one you when you drop a clanger at work and know you’ll have to take the rap. Eventually the realisation that it’s going to be another week before you can hunt another take begins its grip.
A great open charity shoot. Several old buddies, opponents present and past. Friendly banter and good food from the catering van and a phone call. “Haya love it’s me”. “Give me a call when you’re done and we can all meet up for tea”. FOR GODS SAKES.
My last glimmer of hope slips away into a deep dark chasm. I have the tackle in the boot. The river is on my way home. I could just manage an hour and still be back before Katie goes to bed. Its half three. The shooters are going home. I make the text. Sorry luv Iv no chng of clothng. Ill c u back home @5.
A mad dash later Im on the bank. I have fished this area a dozen times and blanked. I only have an hour. I step down onto a barely surfacing shingle island and approach the opposite bank. A small fish rises in front of me just under a low overhanging tree. The cool summer sun was resting on my shoulder as my oversized landing net gently tapped at my back. The rod flicked forward and a perfect loop of fly line uncurled in front of me. As the line reached its limit the light glistened thorough my silken leader as it gently unfurled onto the water. A perfect cast with the fly coming to rest a few feet from the opposite bank and slowly drifting towards………………………..
It took me four weeks fishing to catch this fish. The harder it is the greater the rewards.
Iain
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One fish, one fly, one man, several hats.
激しいセックス
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Eddie
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