Death of a Mackerel

All of the following is true. Just so you know.

Not once in my life have I ever gone fishing. I just don’t see the point in it; fishing means as much to me as rugby or golf or gardening. My son’s future father-in-law is a devoted fisherman and a very nice man. We have lots in common and have always got on like a house on fire. At get-togethers we’re as close as clams. Umpteen times he has asked me if I would like to angle with him. After giving him the old Harvey Smith gesture and behaving like a stubborn show jumping horse by pulling up before the fence- refusal, refusal, I relented and agreed to go fishing for the one time with the proviso that I might go back for more if it were my cup of coffee.

The journey up to Oban was uneventful but conditions seemed to be in our favour, fish-wise. It was dull and overcast; perfect weather for fishing, said my son’s future father-in-law. Apparently, fish can’t blink therefore in sunny climes they dive deeper into the water to avoid the sunlight. Wintry weather augured well for fishermen. I explained to my son’s future father-in-law that this was also the correct climate for swing bowling in a cricket match. He looked at me as if I were Kraken and here was me with only two arms and legs, a torso and a head. Cricket should be taught more in Scottish schools. Education, education …

We got to our rendezvous and after he set the rod up for me and gave me basic guidance I cast off my hook into the loch. I cast and cast and cast. I was casting for Hollywood and still there was no bite. Jaws, my untalented left foot! Then, as if by magic, I felt a tug in the line. Probably an old boot I presumed. But no, as I turned my line I could feel a living thing fighting for its life. Soon, the fish broke the surface and I reeled for all I was worth. It came into the shallows and I saw my foe. With a tug and a pull I hoisted it out of the waters. My first catch, my first mackerel. I had smoked it. Well done, said my son’s future father-in-law who then stoned my catch with a stone. Say what! The exhilaration of becoming a hunter was tempered by the kill of the quarry.

Subsequent casts and catches of rapturous thrill on my part were rendered inert when the big game fisherman future father-in-law of my son slaughtered the mackerel with a slap to the head. Eight mackerel I caught that day and eight souls (not soles) paid with their lives. My son’s future father-in-law said that the dead mackerel could be used as bait to snare more rarer marine life as he had deeper water fishing apparatus in his locker. He put the mackerel on ice. At the end of our trip, while enjoying the new experience I said to myself that fishing is not my cup of tea.

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In the middle of the adventure while having a moment to myself I caught another fish, fish number nine, though more mathematically, numerically caught it was fish number four or five. My son’s future father-in-law was unaware that I spared this mackerel and released it back into the water to fight another day.