The Beginning

Here’s the thing, I like fish. Especially pan fried with garlic and lemon. But the process of fishing itself has never inspired me. Deep set scarred images of my Dad lobbing foot and a half long catfish at me in a small “tinny” yelling ‘Watch out for the spikes!’ didn’t help. The idea of dunking a line off a boat or from a jetty, waiting, and waiting, and waiting and then maybe pulling in a dead weight cod or flathead was hardly appealing. Topped off with hand dexterity on par with a heavily intoxicated bovine. Fishing wasn’t for me. Give me a ball and I’ll chase and kick it. I’ll be satisfied getting my fish from the shop.

Then I met Mike.

This bloke loved his fishing. I mean REALLY loved his fishing. On the cool still Tassie mornings when others breath turned to fog….his exuded piscatorial escapades and a zeal I only had known anyone have for sporting endeavours involving a ball. And then I saw him cast a fly line.

The majestic curves of the loops as they passed over and around his head were completely engaging. The sheer maniacal giggle as he explained how he had “cast into backing”, whatever that meant, addictively spread through the few that had gathered to see. Seemingly without a second thought, he placed the graphite wand into my hand. He spoke the golden rules into my ear. Stop the rod at 10 o‘clock and 2 o‘clock. Aim for the second storey. Don’t let your back cast drop too low. Mesmerised I tried to follow without much idea of what I was trying to achieve. I knew though that there was no turning back.

It wasn’t to be a process of fishing to eat. It became a near obsession of fishing to live. I needed to catch something with that combination of graphite, nylon, metal, fur and feathers. There was something about it that just seemed right.