The story that follows is a sort
of memoir-fiction, and appears in my Short Story Collection entitled ‘Snapshots
of Love’, which can be located at: http://www.amazon.com/Snapshots-Love-...
'Are yer feet still
dry, Donald? I hope thae auld boots are
keepin' oot the water. They were all I could find that wid fit ye.'
'Oh aye, Geordie,
everything's fine; dinna fash yersel. There won't be the same water fleein'
aboot once the skipper finds his markers and the launch starts tae drift ower
the feeding grounds.'
'Aye, richt enough,
Donald, and we should catch some rare fish the day. Spike seems tae ken just
where tae go.’ There was silence for a few moments, then Geordie piped up
again: ‘Aye well, here we are then, on your first fishing trip in Scotland for
an awfy lang time. An’ the weather's glorious too – almost Australian.'
The two old men
were securely seated on upturned fish boxes that passed for seats. Each had bagged
a place at the back of the boat, either side of the rudder. Fishing rods and
bait –
all supplied by Spike – were laid out beside each man, ready for action.
The brothers hadn't seen each other since 1947, some forty odd years, but the
old rivalry was still there. Each was poised, ready to begin.
They were wedged so
that they could see and speak to each other across the stern and also look
ahead along the gunwales, past the skipper's wheelhouse, taking in the sea and
sky ahead. The splendour of the scenery, the green fields and blue hillsides
running down to the sea, together with the fresh clean smell of the ocean,
seemed to inspire vigour in both of them.
The other men on
the trip were ensconced at various vantage-points on board. Proper introductions
would come later, probably in the bar of the hotel they were all staying at, or
maybe when it came to snack time on the boat.
'Have ye got your
baccy handy, Geordie?' Donald knocked the bowl of his pipe on the deck, and
looked up just in time to catch the old leather pouch his younger brother slung
across.
'That was a great
idea young Wullie had,' said Donald, filling his pipe, ‘that the pair of us
should go fishing, just as we did as laddies all those years ago. He couldn’t
have thought of anything better.'
'Aye’, Geordie
replied, ‘I suppose he does have the occasional good idea. Takes after us, of
course.' They both laughed. 'And to have Spike runnin' the whole trip is just
grand,' Geordie added.
He continued: 'That
nephew of oors is fairly lookin' efter us. Great digs at the Kames Hotel; our
food and drink on board –everything laid-on. Great stuff!'
Geordie stretched
out his hand for the pouch and filled his own briar.
Two days without the wife, he thought to himself. Fishing with my brother, Donald; it's a miracle. Who would have
believed it?
The 72 year old
shook his head in wonderment and mulled over the past.
When I saw him and Bess to the station just after
the war I thought that was it. I'd never see him again. And here he is, 75
years of age and hale and hearty. My, ye work in strange ways, God.
He cast a quick
glance sky-ward.
With the sun high
in the heavens and the sea relatively calm, Spike was gunning the engine,
driving the craft west towards open water. Once The Foam had passed beyond the rugged Ardlamont peninsula to the
starboard, followed on the port side by the island of Bute, with Ettrick Bay
sparkling in the sunlight, she rolled and dipped with the deep-water swell.
Round the next headland, on the starboard, lay the wide entrance to Loch
Fyne, and the prospect of an excellent day's fishing.
Spike was well
pleased. A two day trip, six people
aboard – and all found, not bad. I should make a fair bit out of this outing.
He chuckled softly to himself. As long as
I make sure auld Donald and Geordie catch something.
*
Three quarters of
an hour after leaving Kames pier The Foam
had reached the chosen spot. The tide was in full flood, the fish would be
biting. Spike swung her nose round to face the drift and dropped the
sea-anchor. He cut the engine to idling speed, enough to keep the boat above
the mark on the first trawl.
'Right ye are,
lads. Fire away. I'll put the kettle on and spread the rolls. First fish landed
gets a special prize. But remember, anything peculiar, or underweight, gets
thrown back.' By this time everyone on board had a rod over the side.
Geordie watched his
bait disappear into the depths. He had chosen the prawns from the mixture Spike
had put together, which included mussels, land-crab and small fish. Each man had
been given exactly the same. C'mon, c'mon,
he muttered to himself, as the line sang in his hand, the weight taking it
deeper and deeper. He had swivelled around on his fish box to face his side of
the boat. The lead hit bottom; he snapped the catch on the reel and wound the
line back several inches until he half-sensed, half-felt, the weight and three
trailing hooks that were allowed, slide over the rocky sea bed.
The base of the rod
was jammed under his left armpit. His right hand hovered over the reel, the
left hand held the rod steady. He cast a quick glance at Donald. It was like
seeing himself mirrored. Exactly the same pose: face intent, head inclined forward,
slightly, the whole body quivering like a cat's whisker, ready to respond
immediately to a bite from many fathoms below.
There was a shout
from near the front of the boat.
'Harry's got one
on', came the skipper’s voice. A little later, a very respectable cod was
flinging itself around the deck. Both Donald and Geordie took time to turn round
and see the action; but not for long, their old friendly, but at the same time cut-throat,
competition, held them in its grasp.
Spike had certainly
found an excellent position. Everyone started to catch fish. Geordie's rod
jerked up and he began to reel in. 'I'm into one, Donald,' he shouted.
'So am I,' answered
his brother, quickly winding in his line.
The majority of the
fish being landed were codling, averaging around seven to eight pounds in
weight, with some ling and dog-fish – the latter were shark-like creatures,
which were quickly thrown back. No sooner had a fish been taken off the hook,
than the re-baited line was singing its way down beneath the shining surface of
the water. They were having fun and catching fish. After the second trawl, it
was "tight lines" and the reeled-in rods were placed on the moving
deck.
Every fisherman was
now on his feet, finding his sea legs, discussing the catch, chatting happily
over fishing matters. Limbs were stretched, bodies swayed in rhythm with the
gentle swell. Mugs of hot tea were gratefully consumed, together with bacon
rolls brought straight from the galley.
The glow in
Donald's eye said it all. 'I'll always remember this, Geordie; it’s a dream
come true. How could I have forgotten how wonderful my own country is?'
His brother looked
at him with wistful eyes. 'It's been a long time, Donald.' Then Geordie's eyes
roamed beyond his older brother, taking in the sea-scape: the small ships
dotting the horizon; the majestic sails of ocean-going yachts and the hulk of
some great steamer. The Kyles of Bute were home to all sorts of craft; a place
of beauty and wonder, where men could appreciate their maker.
'I enjoyed our
journey to Tighnabruaich this morning, Geordie, especially that spot where you
over-look the Burnt Islands, between Bute and the mainland. Wait till they see
my snap of that in Melbourne. And I don't think ‘Our Bet’ has...’.
That was as far as
he got. Spike had revved up the engine. They were heading for his first marker
again. The spray from the bows, as The
Foam raced ahead, tickled their faces. Hooks were being baited. This time
Geordie chose crab, Donald opted for whitebait.
*
An amazing silence
enveloped the boat as she slowly drifted along, the engine puttering quietly.
The sea into which the anglers gazed was a gigantic mirror, a bright shield of
light that reflected the sunlit sky. As the launch rolled from side to side
with the swell, the water flopped lazily and rhythmically against the bulwarks.
The flanks of land on either side and behind gave a feeling of being cocooned
and cared for. It was a moment imprinted forever in Donald’s mind.
The big excitement
came during the second and third trawls, just as the tide began to turn.
Donald's line snapped taut in response to the bite. He had been trying
something new, raising the hooks a foot or two off the seabed, letting them
slip back, and then repeating the manoeuvre.
'It's not a cod
this time, Geordie.' Donald's voice was tinged with excitement. The tip of his
rod dipped and jerked as the fish fought him. 'Too lively.' He pulled the rod
up to make slack line, which was then wound in. He peered over the side,
looking for the fish as it neared the surface. Geordie was curious and edged
nearer to watch.
Spike approached
with a gaff. 'Got a big one, Donald?'
'Not so much big as
lively, son.' They watched the surface carefully, as Donald reeled in; he was
enjoying the struggle with the fish. Out of the depths, a silver and green
mirage, flickering and formless, began to appear.
'A sea trout, a
real beauty,' Spike called out. Donald's mouth was fixed in a wide smile as he
continued to fight with the fish.
When it reached the
surface, everyone could see that he had indeed caught a beautiful specimen.
'Are you ready with that gaff, Spike?' Donald pulled gently and wound the fish
nearer the boat. The sea trout seemed to have given its all and was motionless
in the water; but just as Spike leaned forward, it jerked its head and began to
thresh fiercely from side to side. And then it was off the hook. Away it
scuttled – down, down, down, until lost from sight.
'That was a bloody
shame, Donald.' Spike was looking at the water. Geordie was looking at the
water. Donald was looking too, but couldn't speak. There was nothing anyone
could say. Even a couple of codling, a bit later, couldn't console him.
'It was some fish,
Geordie,' Donald's voice sounded as if it was cracking. 'Probably the best I've
ever caught.'
'Nearly caught,'
his brother reminded him.
*
They were nearing
the end of the last trawl of the day, when the second event occurred. This time
Geordie was involved. 'I think I've hooked the bottom,' he called out.
Donald threw out
well-meaning advice: 'Give out some slack then; pull your rod from side to
side.' But the line wouldn't move. Geordie grunted something about breaking
free, and then went silent as he felt a great weight on the line.
'It's a monster,
Donald. I'll need the belt and harness.' For fifteen minutes, the sweat pouring
from him, Geordie pulled on the rod and reeled in, the butt set in his belt
recess. Up from the depths came a massive cod, and eventually its huge head
broke the surface. This time everyone crowded round.
Cries of 'Well
done, Geordie,' and 'What a beauty,' rang out. And then, before the fish could
be gaffed, the line broke. They found later that the swivel couldn't take the
strain. The boat's whole company watched in silence, as the biggest fish most
of them had ever seen, disappeared from view.
Geordie couldn't
speak at first, but a little later the air turned blue, and Donald could be
heard tut-tutting and growling: 'Hey, man, less of the profanity.'
The boat headed for
home; it had been a great day. Much later, after an evening in the bar of the
Kames hotel spent in search of solace, the two old warriors were in a happier
state of mind. By bedtime, Donald's sea trout had become, "the best
looking fish in the world;" while Geordie's was "the biggest cod
still swimming in the Western Isles." Tomorrow was another day.
*
The sun came up,
the morning was fresh and fair, and by 9 o’clock in the morning, The Foam was to be found scudding up the
Kyle, headed for Inchmarnock Island. Spike was going to his favourite spot.
'Ye ken, Geordie’,
said Donald, ‘I can hardly think that next week I'll be back in Melbourne and
this will be like a dream.'
They said nothing
for bit.
'We probably won’t
be fit or able enough to do this again, Donald. Heavens, we might never see
each other again. Whit an awfy thought.' Hunched down against the spray, they
puffed at their pipes, determined to gain the last ounce of satisfaction from
the moment and from each other’s company. Every minute was counted a blessing.
Spike shouted from
the wheel-house: 'Coffee’s up boys. Come and get it.' Despite a hearty breakfast at the Kames, all
made their way in dribs and drabs to collect a mug. Sweet and strong, it
somehow tasted better with the smell of the sea and with the deck undulating
beneath them. Miraculously, neither old fellow felt any of the arthritic
twinges that usually bothered them.
Again the sun shone
and all was well in God's universe. 'Remember,' Spike said, 'today there's a
prize for the biggest fish, and another for the heaviest catch – an “end of
holiday” competition.' Once more the old gleam appeared in elderly eyes.
Sibling competition was to be renewed.
The boat rocked
gently as it hugged the gentle swell in the channel between Inchmarnock and
Ardlamont Point. Rods were over the side. Again, an enveloping silence
descended. Determination and concentration explain this to some extent; but
there was an overwhelming desire among those on board just to listen, a sense
of having merged with the surroundings and of communing with nature that
consumed the little expedition. Only a "caw" from the occasional
seagull broke the stillness.
Then they struck
fish. Lines started singing, reels clattered. The others on the boat were
catching plenty. Not Donald and Geordie.
'At times I think I
might be snagged, Geordie, but at other times I canny feel any weight on my
line.'
'Same with me,’ his
brother replied. ‘Reel in, Donald.' This was tried, to no avail.
'Ach, it’s just as
I thought.’ The tone of Geordie’s voice expressed his exasperation. ‘We're
tangled. We'll hae a hens-nest. You keep winding in; I'll let mine go slack.'
Sure enough, their drifting lines had caught each other.
'What a mess,'
Spike volunteered unhelpfully, peering over their shoulders. 'I'll tell you
what, time's precious, so just give the rods and whole muddle to me and take a
couple of the spares from the wheel house.'
No sooner said than
done. In no time the newly-baited lines were on the bottom. But Donald and
Geordie were now far, far behind the others. Not a fish between them, while
everyone else had two or three fine cod, as well as ling and haddock in their
creels.
Donald didn't say
anything when the fish took the bait, but Geordie saw him react to the tug from
way below, by striking upwards, simultaneously clicking forward the gear on his
reel. The rod formed a beautiful bow.
'Are ye intae
something worthwhile, Donald?' His brother nodded, teeth clenched, crunching
the winding-mechanism round and round with his right hand, supporting the
strain on the rod with the other.
For five minutes
Donald slogged, reeling the creature up. It was a large, beautiful ling. This
time, Spike gaffed the fish and it was brought aboard.
'There ye are,
Donald; nae slip-ups this time.' It was a fine specimen, all of twelve pounds
and by far the biggest catch of the day.
Donald sat on his fish box, a contented smile on his face.
'I'll jist put my
rod up for a wee while, Geordie. Maybe ye'll gie me a fill frae yer pouch,
again?'
The day wore on.
Soup and sandwiches, chicken legs and sausage rolls appeared. Oh, Spike looked
after his charges well.
'A tot of rum in
your coffee, lads; or maybe a wee dram just to keep yer spirits up?' Geordie
was the one who needed most cheering up. He had caught nothing much, just a
couple of five pounders. Donald had added to his haul: he now had four other fish,
as well as his outstanding ling. Geordie wasn't too happy about that. The rest
of the boat had done well too.
Spike said: 'It
looks as if Jamie's got the heaviest catch; but so far, Donald, you've caught
the biggest fish.'
'Right everybody,
tight lines. I'm going to an auld wreck I know. It’s never let me down in the
past. We'll make three or four runs over her and then call it a day. It'll take
fifteen minutes tae get there. Okay.' He disappeared into the wheel-house, and
a minute later they were under way.
*
'Yer richt glum
lookin', said Donald, as they squatted down to enjoy a smoke after re-baiting
their lines.
'Nothin' much tae
be happy aboot, Donald. I've no caught much. Looks like you’re going to beat
me; and forbye, the trip's jist aboot ower.' It was Donald's turn to go quiet.
'I'll tell ye whit,
man', Donald grubbed in his pocket and brought out a shiny brooch with short
red feathers sticking from it. 'Why don't you fix this on to one of your hooks?
I pinched the brooch frae yin o' Bet's coats and cut the feathers from an auld
hat o' hers. I thought it would make a good lure.'
Geordie looked at
the thing with some distaste, and then back to his brother, eyes filled with
disbelief.
'Go on, try it man,
ye have nothin’ to lose,' and Donald thrust the object at him.
'Well’, said his
downhearted brother, ‘I suppose there’s nae herm in trying.' This was said in a
voice that registered his doubt.
Spike brought the
launch to rest, executing a small swirling turn in doing so. 'Fish away lads,
they're all yours. The tide turns in aboot three quarters of an hour and then
we're awa hame.' Six lines immediately sizzled their way down to the wreck, one
better dressed than the others.
It was a wonderful
spot and they were into fish right away; none more so than big Geordie. The
old, once mighty, arm-muscles flexed; the twinges from awakening arthritis in
his hands were forgotten. Fish after fish fell to the magical lure. Big cod,
medium cod, ling, the odd conger – all were hauled on deck. His creel filled at
three times the rate of the others.
'In the name of the
wee man, Donald, you've created something right special here. The fish love the
thing.’ While speaking he was pulling in yet another codling. ‘You could sell
this.' They were on the final trawl over the wreck. It would be touch and go
whether Geordie had made up for the initial disaster of the day. All would be
revealed at the weigh-in.
'Tight lines,'
shouted Spike. 'That's us.' There were groans all around; seldom had there been
such a good day's fishing. Soon, however, everyone was in fine mettle with a
few tots from the bottle being handed round. The skipper set a course for Kames
pier, and the fishermen began the weigh-in, a task that occupied their time on
the voyage home.
*
Donald, of course,
won the prize for the largest fish and received a bottle of single malt; and
before the boat had travelled very far along the Kyle, every drop had gone,
consumed by the brothers, and their thirsty companions, all eager to help them
out.
But who had made
the heaviest catch? Looking at the numbers of fish, it was a toss-up between
Jamie, who had fished away steadily all day, and Geordie and his magic lure.
And Geordie just
nicked it, but only by a few pounds. Jamie had the greatest number of fish, but
the bigger and heavier ones at the wreck, which had fallen to the brooch and
feathers, accounted for the difference.
The brothers shook
hands, smiling at each other. Photos were taken with the catches. Geordie's
bottle of malt also met its end, long before they reached Kames pier, and was gratefully
appreciated by every man on board.
The folk in
Tighnabruaich still talk about the two days the Kames Hotel and the seas around
the Kyles of Bute played host to an old retired miner and his big brother, once
a policeman – and for many years, an exile in Australia. Maybe they weren’t the
best fishermen in the world, but they were lucky, braw company, the best of a
dying breed – and they had a magical brooch!!
***
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