FISHING TRIP

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22356, 29 February 1936, Page 1 (Supplement)

FISHING TRIP

EXPERIMENTS IN BOATING

BY K. M. KNIGHT

Neither of us could really row a boat. 1 always got along, but to those looking from tho shore I went sideways like a crab. This was because by the timo I had made up with the left oar what I had overdone with the right one 1 had achieved two semi-circles.

Wo set out at dusk with a child's billy full of sprats for bait, a rusty knife so blunt that it wouldn't cut the tail off a really dead fish, and a tin to bail the boat. I rowed, Mabel bailed, and between us we baited the hooks. It was also arranged that I was to take tho fish off tho hooks, while Mabel was to clean them. Then I was to cook them. It would all have worked out well if tho fish had not decided to appoint ono of their own kind to take the fish off the hooks. But this arrangement made all others superfluous. Wo decided that we wouldn't go to tho fishing grounds the men always went to. We both knew why, but neither of us. thought it wise to voice the thoughts—that the boat was too frmall, it was leaking too fast, and we couldn't row. Mabel said that it was all nonsense always going to the same spot, as if there wouldn't be any fish anywhere else. I said that there was nothing m this world like branching out into new activities, trying new ground. All the prizes came to those who were pioneers. We would try for a fishing ground of our own.What wo both meant was that there was too much current running down the channel for us to cope with, what with the tiny boat, the tide running out, the wind blowing in and a swell which was the remains of yesterday's storm. Wo pulled out into the middle of the bay, and we fished. Good Maxims The wind was very cold. It blew round our bare legs, ankle-deep in icy water, and our fingers were so frozen that if we had been told it was midwinter we would have believed it. It got dark and the dreadful loneliness of tho sea in the dusk descended upon us. "Isn't this beautiful?" Mabel said, waving a stiff arm round to include the lumpy sea and the line of hills outlined against the still faintly green skv.

" Lovely," I said, thinking all the while that it was really like tho kind of exile wicked kings of long ago thrust upon their erring subjects. The fish were not even biting. The water sucked round the bottom of the boat, lapping rhythmically. Across the bay we could hear voices, made other-worldly by the distance, and tho faint noise of tho water.

" I think I got a bite then," Mabel said, just, I'm sure, to break the monotonv.

"So did I," I lied in sympathy. " They are coming round all right. We should have plenty by morning." Mabel could not stand the thought.

" Morning?'* she - whispered. " You are not one of those fishermen, are you?" " Of course. Whatever I undertake I always do. I came to catch some fish and nothing is putting me off." "A good copy-book maxim," she said. " They have always fascinated me —as writing exercises." " 111 the big, bold hands. Remember how we used to write over and over again, ' Discretion is the better part of valour ' ?" " Yes, I remember. I thought you might have forgotten it." " Oh, no. And alongside it, 'Nothing venture, nothing win'?" Mid-Ocean We sat on in silence. Mabel, I could see, was wondering if I had really 1 meant it. There was not even a nibble at the lines. I gave mine a mighty jerk. " That was a big one," I said brightly. " I thought I had him, but he got off."

Mabel smiled wanly. 1 could see she was wishing she had thought of it first. " Perhaps it took your bait," she suggested. I pulled up the line, praying that the sprat would have fallen off. But it was just as it was. Mabel watched it grimly, but she was too kind to smile. " I think I'd better have another bit," 1 said. " They like it fresh. In fact, kingfish like theirs alive and wriggling on the hook."

" Some of these are like that." She handed me some of the catch of a few days ago. " Have some. You might catch a kingfish." " Not on these lines, my dear. Do you know," I said as impressively as I could, " that you have to have lines like rope, and hooks about this big for kingfish? If I tried to land a kingfish on these lines we would both be tipped in the sea." " You are thinking of sharks." But in her eves there was a wistfuhiess. Her legs were blue and her nose was a dark blur on her white face. Salmon Fritters The stars came out very brightly. The boat swung round on her anchor as the tide changed, and instead of looking into fche lights of the shore we were staring at the Southern Cross. I imagined I was a long way out at sea, leaving New Zealand for ever, and saying good-bye to the South for ever. Rupert Brooke watched the Southern Stars disappearing with sorrow when ho left tlio Islands. Just so I was looking into their brightness, wondering what I would feel like if I were never again to take a small boat out fishing; never again to light picnic fires, never again to camp and bach, cooking fresh fish on an open fire, gathering wood, drink smoky tea, swim in tlio sea and lie in the sun, but instead were suddenly expected to become civilised and go sedately to Monte Carlo for recreation. If instead of being a Soutliern gipsy, I wore expected to wear stockings at all the right times and places, say all the fashionable things to fashionable people, and live like a good, model English woman. The general prospect was so terrifying that 1 turned to Mabel with real enthusiasm. " This is wonderful, isn't it? This wonderful freedom." She nodded. " Wonderful. Free to catch fish, to row boats, to die of cold winds," she said.

" Mabel, are you not enjoying it?" Sho held up her hand. " Listen," she said. The water still lapped round tlio boat. Tho wind sang faintly in our hair. Something seemed to be splashing round us like a fish dancing a ring-o'-roses round our boat. We peered through the darkness, it was a small bird, hopping from wave to wave, flapping its wings in the water. I shivered. Mabel shivered. " When we are dead tho human beings running about on the earth will seem like that," she said. " Like moths fluttering." I pulled up my lino. I pulled up tlio enormous anchor and won the tug-o'-war we had on the final stage. " What shall we have for breakfast, love?" I said, as we grated on the sand or.ee more. " Salmon fritters." And we did.