365 days of fishing

Day 17 Fishing in my head with my Dad.

just day 17, no place, and no fish. No bait and no line, few sinkers, no money for petrol to drive and catch no fish. It has become abundantly clear as I do this thing that my levels of organistion have to improve dramatically.

It is Friday today, and Fridays is "daddies day", josh comes over to stay with me for Friday night until Saturday afternoon or sometimes Sunday. It is every week so that is good and not every second weekend like some divorced families. Shame the poor little boy suffering because of something his parents did or couldn't do. Thinking about fathers and sons, at least if I can't give my fishing story of the evening I can talk about my dad because after all he is the reason I fish in the first place.

It seems to be a truism that if your father fished there is a good chance you will grow up to be a fisherman. I'm sure some people discover fishing for themselves but then I don't know any, maybe you do and would like to include your story in the comments. Please feel free, or you could Email me your fishing story and I can post them in the blog. My email is mighk1969@gmail.com

David Frederick Thiem was 74 when he died of complications from a bypass operation that never worked in the first place. He died before my son was born and that is something that always makes me sad as he would of loved the little ruffian fisherboy.

I know that he loved me it is just he was from a generation and a culture that were none too demonstrative about sharing their feelings or hugs, but we bonded in fishing.

Some early fishing memories are of fishing in Rhodesia as it was then, Zimbabwe now, going to lake Mckellwaine catching small Tilapia while he fished for Bream. We used to use reeds with lines attached to the end , just a hook baited with earthworm. We had to be surreptitious about it because my mother was worried about bilharzia and wouldn't let us fish at all. My dad paid lip service to the ban and allowed us to fish whenever we could.

I remember the huge anthills that were like little mountains to the 6 year old me, and boney m's " by the rivers of Babylon" on some radio. My first rod was one of these plastic kids rods that you can still buy in toy shops and the like. I remember catching a tiny little barbel with it and the tip of the rod bending nearly double, I suppose then I was hooked just as well as the barbel.

One fishing expedition we had caught some small tilapia and wanted to frame them just like the trophy fish we had seen on the wall of the troutbeck inn in Nyanga where my dad used to go and catch trout. We sewed the fish on to cardboard, as is, not gutting or cleaning them, I don't need to say that after a day or two in the hot Zimbabwe sun, they started to smell really bad and we were forced to dispose of our trophy fish.

I remember one hot day him fishing next to the dam wall and just using a hook and jigging the fish as they tumbled through the sluice gates, not very legal then I am sure but he also just liked to catch fish.

One occasion we went to some big dam and using earthworm that we would buy from some little boys selling them next to the entrance, tried to catch bream. There were other fishermen next to us and they were pulling out these huge very green bream, bigger now in my memory I am sure, whilst we were catching nothing. Enquiring what bait they were using and finding out they were firstly chumming with something called masses which to this day I still don't know what it was, I have afeeling it was what was left over after brewing sorghum beer. They had old cardboard magewu containers filled with a bright green thick hair like algae that they would wind onto the hooks, and they were catching plenty. It was I suppose my first exposure to importance of local knowledge of conditions and fish. We did try some algae but I don't think we caught any.

Another trip to Kariba just before we left to come to South Africa, and my dad took us out on a boat for the day to catch our first Tigerfish, I remember even now the silve shine of the jumping tigers and the tremendous runs and shaking of the head. Also the fearsome teeth, and we warned on pain of death not to put our hand anywhere near the bucket in which we kept the fish. It was brilliant on the lake, the old drowned forest rees still sticking darkly out of the water, hippos in the distance and always the sound of the fish eagle welcoming you to real Africa.

My dad was a kindly man but given to scalding flashes of rage, an affliction that I have seemed to inherit. Fishing and flashes of rage, well well. Maybe that is why we needed to fish to ground ourselves and to realise that maybe we the world is okay and we don't need to be so angry with it. Before we used to go on fishing trips and holidays I remember spending the evenings tidying up the messy tack boxes, something els I seem to have inherited, talking about catches of the past and imagining the fish we were going to catch with all the lures and flys, The walker killer was big in Inyanga, allowing us on occasion grilled trout for breakfast.

I don't think my dad fished enough though and maybe in his quiet moments he was fishing in his head