The Randomator

On Saturday I took CTB west, no, not in a Pet Shop Boys type way, this was into the Western Marches to reveal to him some of the delights of new paths and territory that I have discovered of late. We noodled about and had a great ride.

I suspect that there will be a Summer Solstice ride in that area soon, and that there will be new cuss words and descriptive phrases coined on that particular day. I'd love to illuminate you all more with my first failure of the weekend, but that would give the game away, so will save it until after some others have experienced the monster that lurks out there.

My second failure of the weekend, now that was a true nightmare, and I have revisited the moment several times, and each time it has the same result.

On Sunday a couple of us headed out to chase Kingfish. It was a glorious day, and there was an abundance of fauna to observe. The kingies were about, but frustrating in their lack of appetite. We were serving up live Jack Mackerel, which were generally ignored. One did receive the rasp treatment from a king, several others were stolen with no hooking of the yellow tailed thieves.

A session with soft baits did bring in the only fish of the day, a glorious 70 cm snapper, caught by the skipper, Mr Ulmer. An utter monster of a fish, he was beautiful.

Then, while drifting some more live baits, my live bait was struck and the reel screamed. I leapt up and grabbed the rod from the holder. What happened next, entirely my own fault, was the stuff of noviceville and deserving of full mockery. I, in my haste, turned the clicker off and struck the fish hard. What I failed to do was engage the reel in gear. The reel spun rapidly, and in the blink of an eye was a mess of bird's nested monofilament.

Two of us struggled for what seemed to be an eternity, but was probably all of ten seconds, with the bird's nest, trying to get the reel working. Then the fish felt the hook and started accelerating. All I could do then was hang on, as the rod bent over, the line tightened and then snapped. What followed was silence from the skipper and a torrent of foul language from me.

While I ranted for a bit, then sulked with the rod and reel, the skipper looked at me with a mixture of disdain, amusement and pity, all well deserved. After a long time, I calmed, readied the gear for action again, and returned to the fray, but the quarry was long gone.

It was the one that got away. Next time...