Being an Islander (from the Isle of Wight that is) has its occupational hazards. One of them is developing an all encompassing, life consuming obsession with fish. What they eat. Where they swim. How big they might be growing. Catching the slippery little buggers.
I have not fallen as deeply under the allure of fishing as the men of the family have, mostly because I now live in a city, not near the beautiful brine. My cousin however, having remained on the Island, is an avid fisherman. He even bought a kayak for chrissakes.
Anyway, he offered to take us fishing down the pier this afternoon and I jumped at the chance – I haven’t been for ages and I think 4.5 is a fine age to be introduced to the lifelong torment that is dangling worms in endless gallons of seemingly empty water. Welcome son, to the despondency and heart ache of never getting a single bite, of feeling wet and cold, of sticking hooks in your fingers, catching massive blobs of slimy seaweed and slipping on your arse down the last 10 foot of cliff mud steps (disclaimer: this might just be me)
We managed to bypass the arcade and rides successfully and got set up.
First worm plops over the side, and rod is handed to an extremely excited boy.
I *may* have then taken over his spot and had a go myself.
And I caught three! Including the biggest by far! IN YOUR FACE CHILD!
Please excuse my crazy fisherwoman hair and face. It’s entirely involuntary. I would have worn make up if I thought we were actually going to catch anything!
I wanted to carry on but RJ got bored and wanted to hit the arcade, which was fair enough. There’s only so much luck of the deep you should use up in your first go.
In all seriousness though, I think this was the first thing that I love (apart from stories) that I could share with him that he seemed to really enjoy as well. A really happy memory made.