Headlights beam through a dusky country
lane, speeding along west. Lure rods are rigged with clips and slid into the
space between us as we talk, it has been a year of Stuart’s absence and there
is much to discuss. Comparing tales of New Zealand trout and Truro urban
trouting, gilthead bream and bass marks to investigate over the coming year and the occasional non-piscatorial question.
Prowling along a shingle beach, the waves
crash against the steep gradient with a surge. We choose our mark and clip on
lures. Calf deep in the rushing sea water, a simple metal lure with a single
treble is clipped on. Blasting this horizonward, the line peals from the reel
just shy of the backing. An uncomplicated affair, this is allowed to sink till
a bump is felt and the lure then retrieved straight and simply. Doubt fills my
mind, used to fishing obvious features and elegant lures with less than
constant success, surely this is too simple to work in modern angling? But the
scene is too serene to care, crimson light fills the sky and company to my left
is a refreshing change from a year of solo trips.
Tug. I stop retrieving, leave the lure two
seconds. Retrieve resumed. Pull on the line, the rod raised in an affirmative strike.
Calling over, I hope to share this moment. There are no snags below to worry
about, the fish is played carefully in a relaxed manner despite rushing
adrenaline. A silver gleam behind the crashing wave, a bass on the line.
Lifting it towards me, it has other plans and makes a last rush back to the
open expanse of the open sea- with the American continent the next land mass in
a straight line. All at the wrong time, as the drag of the outgoing wave
multiplies this effort and causes the hook to pull free. That one was not to
be.
A few minutes later Stuart is beaming in
the dim evening light, as a schoolie has hit his surface lure. Though a small
fish, it is a most welcome catch and is swiftly returned to continue smashing
unsuspecting sandeels in the marine plain that belies the waves. There is
something wonderful in the feeling of seeing a friend succeeding in catching, a
buzz of knowing what that must mean to them and being able to share in the
post-catch discussion, what depth, speed, distance, lure, ect had been used to
bring such success. Another moment, a friendship again solidified.
My turn came next, as a series of nips was
followed by a slam- stripping a few yards of line from the reel before
beginning to work the offender back. The sun now dipped below the horizon at the time of
10pm, the splashes and swirls of this fight were illuminated by the mingled
glow of the long-wavelength afterglow of the horizon and the steadily rising
moon. This special light lasted long enough to be reflected in the perfect
silver gleaming scales of a small bass, held happily in the flowing waves at my
feet. Stuart had spoken of how bass caught from this mark take on a gilt
colouration compared with the black of those we more frequently caught from
rock marks, but in this pale light there seemed the blended coldness of night
and yet the reassuring warm glow like that of dying embers from the now almost
absent light of day.
As the sun receded, so too did the bass. In
the midnight hour, we turned back to call to return through the lanes to the
sleeping Falmouth. Through this journey we spoke again at lengths, each of us
having high hopes for the coming year of trips to make, species to target,
specimens to attain. Though I suspect that not all of these will be met, some
might never bite, some might be lost in the surf at our feet. Here’s to casting
in the dim light though, hoping to land a few of these opportunities,
emboldened by the reassurance of company.
