Everyone in Nantucket was catching fish – so I bought a rod and reel. How hard could it be?
Nantucket features in Moby Dick; they used to go whaling from there. It’s in America. It’s an island. And it is just a big sand dune. It will probably disappear with global warming and all the New York TV executives will lose their second homes and we’ll have a jolly good laugh.
But it’s not really “interesting” for an early-season holiday, because there’s not a lot to do. And the sea was freezing. I don’t know why I thought “America in June, yes!” because the water in June near New York is basically made of melted icebergs. So there was a lot of sitting on the beach, sheltering the kids from the wind. And Daddy saying: “I’m just off to look at that old, grey, weather-boarded house to see if it’s the same as all the others on the island.” And the kids sitting on the sand, going: “C-c-can we go in and play on our computers now?”
But I had noticed people standing in the surf doing a bit of fishing. It was a pastime I had never mastered so I walked up to the counter of a tackle-and-bait shop. “Is it good fishing around here?” I asked.
“Sure is. Plenty of bluefish in the surf.”
“OK. Great. Can I buy a rod then?”
“You wanna buy a rod?”
“Yes.”
He looked suspicious. “OK…” And he put a rod on the table.
“And I’ll need a reel, won’t I?”
“You wanna buy a reel?”
“I guess so.”
“Hmm.” And he offered me an object apparently constructed by Nasa. With a bent bit of wire that flicked up and a shiny handle. It cost a bomb.
“And I will need some thread…”
“The line.”
“The line and hooks.”
“So, you wanna buy this rod and reel and hook, line and sinker? Really?”
“Yes!”
“OK, mister.”
I paid over a large sum of money and stepped back from the counter. It was only then that I noticed I had been standing directly under a huge sign saying: “RENT FISHING TACKLE HERE.”
But I caught nothing. Every now and then I’d grab my expensive tackle and try casting into the waves – but no bites.
And then, one frosty morning, I noticed a crowd at the other end of the beach. About half a mile away. Loads of people in the surf. I thought “This is it”. And it was. It was like the Faroe Islands. A moment to harvest the sea and make bluefish paté. The entire island population was there, dragging fish ashore.
A bloke drove along the beach. He braked, jumped out, reached in the back of his pick-up and cast, all in one motion. He pulled in a fish. Kids. Grannies. Babies. The man who sold me my rod. They were all standing up to their knees surrounded by fish. This was it. I was going to catch a fish. But still, nothing.
Maybe this is why I don’t like fishing. Every single human being on that beach was dragging bluefish out of the sea. But not me; nothing! There was a four-year-old boy next to me with a rod made from a plastic broom handle. He caught a fish bigger than himself. But not me. There was even a dog with a stick that had a fish on the end of it. But not me.
Then Mrs Jones arrived and looked at the successful anglers for a bit. She said: “You are pulling it in too quickly. You ought to let it settle and then strike.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “I throw it out like a scarecrow, do I? And then I just do nothing. Do I? Like this? And then I pull it in… Ahhh, I’ve got a fish!”
I had a monster. I reeled in, whooping; I was so excited. But as my catch thrashed about on the sand, there was a little “ping”. A tiny bolt came off my Nasa-designed reel and a spring inside it flew upwards. All the intricate washers and cogs gracefully followed, in line, like a technical drawing, and dropped in the surf. That marked the end of my fishing.
Still, we carried the booty home in triumph and we cooked it. And I have to report that fresh fish, caught that morning, tastes exactly the same as the stuff from the freezer in the shop.