The following three events are completely true; if you are not sure by the end please bear in mind that true life is often stranger than fiction.
Dad was a very stubborn man. Once during the Second World War when our lot were advancing at a rate of knots towards Berlin, dad was in charge of all of the ammunition; his job was to OK it and sign it on to the front line. During one crucial battle he had an assignment of ammunition to sign which was desperately needed as the troops were running out. Dad wouldn’t sign it as he had judged it to be in a poor state and dangerous. To cut a long story short this ended up with a sergeant and three generals threatening to have him shot unless he signed the chit. At one point one of the generals even started to un-holster his pistol but, one of the others stopped him and said a better idea was to shoot dad at the front line; nobody would know if it was a German bullet or one of theirs. He still refused to sign and the troops had to dig in and wait a couple of days for a fresh batch of ammunition so they could continue advancing. Consequently, dad had to watch his back for the rest of the war which lasted for two days longer than it should have but, that’s how stubborn he was.
So, when he passed on and God wanted him to pass through the pearly gates he would have refused as I know that he could even out-stubborn God; no contest. All this would have been so that he could wait in some netherworld to put right a perceived injustice by me many years before. Of course you won’t believe a word of this but, I know different.
In my last article “Fishing with Dad” I mentioned a time when he lost a big bream and I would like to relate that to you. I was about fourteen and we went fishing at Sandwich and fished the River Stour. The river here is tidal and consists of basically mud with water to match. We never caught much except for the obligatory 3 inch roach, a 4 inch roach being cause for much celebration.
On this particular day we got to the river with a half pint of smelly maggots and his fabled bread paste and made our way to his favourite eddy. However, this day turned out to be very different from the rest as we spotted a large shoal of bream rolling in his eddy next to a concrete mooring. That was it, after I had helped him tackle up (he was basically blind as a bat) he went straight for the maggots and loaded the hook up as even he, after 50 years of using his fabled bread paste was beginning to realise it was basically rubbish. He plonked in straight amongst the bream and I started to prepare my rod when I heard him shout “Son, get the landing net ready, quick”.
I knew it was serious as his pipe had dropped from his mouth and there was a bend in his rod; I had never ever seen either of these things before. Now, landing nets back then were complicated things with wing nuts and bolts and ours hadn’t been opened in years, never been necessary! So I said to dad, I would lift the fish out of the water as the river was right up and was only a few inches below the concrete. He insisted I get the landing net but, for once, I disobeyed and got down on my hands and knees and there in front of me was the biggest fish we had ever seen. In truth it was probably about 3lb but, when you had only ever caught 3 inch roach for fifty years this was Methuselah from the deep. Of course, you will be in front of me by now and you know what happened next. I got the bream out of the water when it did a last big flick, slipped out of my hands and fell back into the water detached from dad’s hook.
To be fair dad didn’t say much, he didn’t have to but, you see the problem was that he believed to his dying day that I had done it on purpose. Of course this wasn’t true but, once he made his mind up about something that was it (stubborn) and the subject was taboo for ever after. Eventually Dad got the big C; inevitable really as he had smoked a pipe from dawn to dusk every day of his life and I did try to illicit some forgiveness on his death bed but, to no avail; just a cold look of contempt. Now don’t get me wrong, Dad loved me and he forgave me many misdemeanours throughout his life as dads should but, I guess there are some things that transcend the love between father and son, even life and death, and fishing was one of them. Even though he was wrong about the lost fish, this was my old pops last lesson to me and I was OK with it.
Sandwich on the River Stour – Scene of perceived crime.
Many years after this I had moved along the coast and I had found a good beach fishing spot. One day I got up at 4 a.m. and went down to this spot for a bit of sea fishing. It was a beautiful day in August and perfectly quiet. Not a soul anywhere and even the seagulls were silent, magic. After ten minutes I got THE BITE, just a tap on the rod and I started to reel in. You always know when a good fish is on and I started praying as you do. “Please God let me land this fish, keep the line tight”; thankfully HE was listening and the biggest dover-sole I had ever seen was on the beach. These dover-soles are usually about 9 or 10 inches long and about half an inch thick but, this was about the size of a meat dish and about 3 or 4 inches thick in the middle, could have been 3lb+; a fish of a lifetime.
At this point a mist started rolling in off the sea and suddenly out of this mist there appeared a young chap with a northern accent and a baseball cap on back to front. He plonked down.
“Have you caught anything mister, have you caught any thing mister, have you caught…” everything was said three times with this new best friend and I started to pray for the second time that day.“Please God make him go away”.
“What’s in the bag mister, what’s in…?” I told him and he started to pull out my prize possession which was covered in sand and small stones. “Can I wash it mister, can I wash…..” you get the drift. By now I just wanted him away for a few minutes; I mean, where on earth did he come from at 5o’clock in the morning and I agreed that he could do this.
It started off well, he picked the fish up and started to walk towards the sea and then he sort of broke into a trot and I started to pray for the third time that day but, this time to no avail. I guess I must have used up my entire brownie points with Him upstairs on the big fish. My new best friend jumped straight into the drink at full pelt; right up to his waist. To be fair, he still had the fish at this point but, then three freak waves appeared from nowhere, washed right over him and sucked the fish away out to sea. It bobbed up and did one last smile at me twenty yards from the shore and then disappeared forever.
Dad appeared next to me laughing and I was fourteen again. All I could see was dad’s bream slipping out of my fingers; I had been transported back in time somehow. I don’t remember much after this except matey coming up the beach and apologising several times (divisible by three) and then the mist rolled in again and he just sort of disappeared and so did Dad.
Two totally unrelated events separated by time. Overwrought imagination? Do I need help? Possibly but, not if you knew my old dad!
Postscript
I have never really recovered from this, not entirely.
I never saw Dad again after this event.
He must have shuffled off through the pearly gates a happy, content man.
A 3lb bream is not equal to a 3lb+ dover-sole so, it isn’t over yet and I will catch up with him.
A friend of mine called the Mullet Man (I will tell you about him one day) told me once that people who wear baseball caps with the peak to the side are semi bonkers and those who wear it with the peak at the back are totally bonkers.
That people who repeat everything three times do this because everything has to be explained to them three times so, they think it’s normal.
Of course I don’t subscribe to all of this but I have noticed since the above events, how often the passengers of coaches full of day trippers from up-north often leap out of the coach and run full pelt down to the sea and leap in fully clothed. The passengers of coaches from down-south don’t do this.
My advice to you is if you are fishing and you spot a person with a northern accent, a cap on back to front who repeats everything three times; be warned, and be very afraid!
Be careful how you go.
Mark Gaster
