There are moments in your life that are truly momentous, moments when the decision you make can change your life forever, sending it on a new and unexpected track. For the most part these moments of decision can at the time seem mundane and unimportant, so much so that you’ll probably forget when and where you made them.

However one such life changing moment happened to me on a Sunday dinnertime back when I was eight. At the time I was trying to walk along the vertically placed flagstones that separated my drive from next doors; it was always something of an achievement if I could manage to walk the whole length without putting a foot down. I was two thirds of the way along the drive, and doing rather well when my dad broke my concentration by asking if I’d come in so he could have a word with me. I was baffled, I hadn’t done anything wrong, well not that I knew, but maybe I had by the serious look on my parents faces as they stood in the kitchen among the steaming dinner pans.

“You know we’re going to Aunt Lizzie’s in Staithes next week?” My dad opened.

“And we know you’ve always liked the idea of fishing.” This was getting more confusing.

“Well how would you like to take it up properly?” My mother finished.

It was as simple as that, and of course my answer was more than positive, but tempered by the thought that this was all too good to be true.

A HANDLINE

The sombre faces I know now as a parent myself were due to the fear they were going to lash out a large amount of money just to see their little cherub jack his new hobby in less than a fortnight. There must have been a serious debate before they popped the question, and I wonder what changed their minds – perhaps they thought I was now old enough, or more likely my dad fancied a go himself!

It even had two hooks, and a bigger than average polo-shaped watch lead; the modern day barbel angler would kill for this to keep his boilie on the riverbed in fifteen foot of raging floodwater
As an act of good faith they’d asked Dave, the bloke who lived next door and worked in a gun and tackle shop in town to get me a hand line until they could sort something better out. When the hand line turned up I was well chuffed, it was much better than the average crab line you see outside seaside rock shops. It had more than usual bright orange line, on a bigger than normal wooden frame. It even had two hooks, and a bigger than average polo-shaped watch lead; the modern day barbel angler would kill for this to keep his boilie on the riverbed in fifteen foot of raging floodwater.

THE THRESHER SHARK LOOKED LIKE A BIT OF A HANDFUL

My next port of call was the local library, where I withdrew the only book I could find about fishing in the junior section. It was a great duffed up old red thing, its dust cover long since lost, but it became my bible for that week, constantly being thumbed through. It even had a section about hand lines.

By far my most favourite pages were those devoted to fish identification: the hunter had seen his prey – or had he? The drawings in all those old kiddies’ books had the fish looking like nothing on earth, they looked more like the images for sea monsters you find on 16th century maps. Not that I would have known, I’d never seen a cuckoo wrasse, or a bull huss, but what I did know was they were all fair game for me and my hand line, even if the thrasher shark looked a bit of a handful. Still, hope springs eternal, and as I lay awake on the night before our trip to Aunt Lizzie’s I acted out the adventures to come.

Staithes is a fishing village on the Yorkshire coast, ten miles or so north of Whitby, and only about twenty five miles away from our home in Middlesbrough. But at that age distance is irrelevant, and it might as well have been on the other side of the world. The fact that while my mother, sister and I stayed there, my dad was still travelling to and from work, didn’t shatter the illusion. It’s also a very quiet place, the only inroads of commerciality was a single candyfloss machine, but what Staithes does have are a couple of breakwaters, and it was from them that a procession a green dog crabs came to my hand line.

Out of the back seat he brought a long object in a cloth bag, folded over at the top, and tied with a cord bow
However, crustaceans were never my intended quarry, I had bigger plans, so with Wild West style lasso casts (as per the battered old book) my lead was hurled into the salt and briny to catch proper fish, none of which obliged.

AN 8FT SOLID GLASS PIER ROD

Then one day, halfway through the week, when I ran to meet dad on his return from work, he didn’t get out of the old grey Morris Oxford alone. Out of the back seat he brought a long object in a cloth bag, folded over at the top, and tied with a cord bow. It was an eight-foot solid glass pier rod; it was also the point of no return, although I must admit I had been so engrossed with my hand line I’d forgotten about the Sunday dinnertime promise.

Along with the rod was a square box containing a Penn Sea Boy multiplier reel, possibly not the best thing for a pair of total newcomers, but there you go. There was also a bag of assorted goodies; line, beads, weights, and those enormous old swivels you could tether a battleship to, which were the only options in those days. There was a string of brightly coloured mackerel feathers, a traditional triangular-shaped mackerel spinner and, perhaps the best of all, a huge cork sea float.

These were the things dreams were made of. I spent ages just touching and fondling wonderful objects. I defy any angler of any age or ability that doesn’t do the same when they get a new item of tackle; nowadays it’s plugs with me and it’s almost a shame to throw them in the water.

Now tooled up as we were nothing could stop us, unfortunately no one told the fish, and our catch rate didn’t improve from the hand line, and it would be some time before it did.

More soon

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