Concerning Fishing

(By Amel)

1 OFTEN wonder why “still” fishing in tropic isles is usually such a miserable failure. Is it because of an excess of moonlight, or sunlight, or rain, or abun dance of natural food, or is it just pure cussedness on the part of the fish?

We have sat on our river bank for hours interminable until our bait —week-old meat covered with worms—was all nibbled away by nasty little fish called “suckers,” and our patience vanished under the combined onslaught of mosquitoes and sand flies.

One night we “threw” a party, and, as an extra special treat, we went fishing.

The bait was contained in several smelly parcels, and consisted of prawns, crabs, and the inevitable ancient meat —our favourite fish-lure.

Optimistic thoughts, concerning fish, drifted through our minds, as we rowed the punt out to the reef. Two members of the party were actually arguing as to who should carry the biggest fish ashore!

Alas! the general demeanour of intense expectation waned noticeably after the first hundred (or so) fruitless casts had been made. A good deal of abuse began to be directed at (1) the lines; (2) the bait; (3) the boat; and (4) the occupants of (3) for being too noisy.

The atmosphere was soon distinctly un friendly, and all because we couldn’t hook a fish!

When our bait had reached the level of two prawns and a crab, Brother had a brainwave. He declared that we must locate the reef’s edge. Someone had told him that that was where fish preferred to live. We did not know any different; so blithely we up-anchored and set out in search of this wonderful place, which, however, proved to be as elusive as El Dorado.

The rowers mutinied, flatly refusing to row another stroke, though we bribed them basely with chunks of coconut ice.

So we had, perforce, to turn homewards, empty-handed, and desperately concocting convincing stories about the “one that got away!”