Small fish dart away from my boots as I cross the flooded lawn to the river. I am early for a cancelled day and so with rod in hand I approach the granite wall of the canal. My footwear is starting to soak and my socks dampen to an uncomfortable cotton mush but the caffeine is coursing and I have time on my hands so casting is going to be how I spend the next bit of my life.
The tip of the rod flicks out, sending the little lure sailing in an arc out over the river to plunk into the water a short distance away. My mind marvels at the tug of the water on the fake, shiny, blue and silver fish as I begin reeling it back.
I watch the line slicing the water as it crosses over to my side. It vibrates as the lure dives and “swims”. Up and out of the depths of the torrent a silvery ghost snatches the lure and disappears again. The rod jerks around and the line makes the angry “z” as it flies back off the spool. Oh crap, I have caught something.
What if it is a bluefish? I tighten the drag and begin cranking the handle. The line stops for a second as the fish dives straight down but then vigorously stirs the water as the fish unwillingly approaches the surface. We make eye contact. Neither of us is happy on this rainy day.
Minutes later I have managed to free the foot long Striper from the hooks and send it back into the raging river. Adrenaline has joined the coffee. I pull out my phone and call the residence. “Sam bring your rod, the schoolies are up and biting”. We now have a pastime for a cancelled day.
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