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The Forever Carp
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Terry-Doe on 16 May, 2000 02:00:00
 
"Do you think well do it, Dad?"
"Well do it, Son. The lakes turned right on.     Cant you feel it?"
"Dunno, really. Im nervous, though. I hope I dont mess     it up. If I get a
run, I mean."
"Youll be all right, mate. You know what to do and     youre miles better
than I was at your age, thats for sure."
"Yeah, but you didnt have bite alarms and Baitrunners and     stuff, did you
Dad?"
"Didnt have a rod, most days, but I had something way better     than any
amount of fishing gear."
Whats that then?"
"I had a Dad who always made time to take me fishing. It was the     best thing
he could have given me, and thats why I always try to do the same for     you."
"Dad?"
"Yes, Son."
"If I let you off taking me fishing, will you buy me a set of     Delkims?"
"You little git!"
"Ill take that as a no, then Dad."
Stephen is the youngest of my three sons and it was his 11th. birthday.     Id
nudged him awake half an hour before first light, having rashly promised him a  
  double-figure carp for his birthday. Parents do stupid stuff like this all the
time,     usually in moments of weakness, or to impress others with our
parenting skills.     Nonetheless, that promise had to be delivered and I was
just the parent to deliver     it.
Carp fishing is what I do. Its the loop-tape that autoplays in my     head as
soon as the real world backs off for more than a minute or two. I think serious
    bait thoughts when Im in traffic jams, I ponder improvements to my
long-chuck     technique when Im sorting out my expenses sheet, and I save all
subjects from     Active-8 to zig-rigs, for when Im walking the dog and have
the time to discuss such     important matters - mostly with myself, as it
happens. Never mind, Im a happy     carper, and thats why I carry on carping.
Taking     Stephen fishing had been absolutely, totally, irreversibly forbidden
a mere two days     before his birthday and by no less an authority than a pukka
orthopedic surgeon. He was     squinting at X-rays of Stephens left hand at the
time, tracing the break in my     boys little finger with his biro. My wife was
squinting at the X-ray, too, although     her squint kept giving way to a sneer
every time she thought about me. Earlier that day,     Stephen had tripped on
his laces during a productive little hit-and-run session at our     local lake
and kept telling me that his hand well-hurt. Id caught a     twenty, so I
ignored him for hours, as you would.
Anyway, the result of Stephens tumble was a fractured pinkie and     a fishing
ban. I represented him at his appeal, but his mother had the right hump with    
both of us, especially me, and rejected my plea for leniency. We were definitely
not going     fishing on Stephens birthday. No way. Not a chance. Dont even
think about it,     or therell be an almighty bloody row.
So, as we sat behind the buzzers on his birthday, with a red sky in the    
morning as Terrys warning, I knew that I was in for some unrelenting grief
when we     got back home. Well, that would be a first, then. Imagine, my
obsession with carp causing     a ruck with the missus. Whatever next?
Consequences dont frighten me much while Im on the water,     because carp
fishing has a reality-displacement quality about it. No matter whats     going
on outside it, my world of carp is immune from payback. When Im carping, I    
dont have a mortgage, there are no deadlines to meet and even the leak in the
shed     roof becomes magically plugged for the duration. Tragically, the
passage of time seems to     accelerate three-fold. No sooner am I lobbing out
the first rod on Friday evening, than     Im tying it into its quiver on
Sunday afternoon. Each glance at the watch seems to     eat half a day when Im
fishing. It really is the living proof that time flies     when youre having
fun. It is also said that, God doesnt deduct     from a mans allotted span,
the time he spends fishing. We know thats     cobblers, yeah? I believe it
when Im fishing, though.
A single bleep from the red Delkim snapped us from our silence. Stephen,    
his broken finger forgotten, flashed an anxious look at me, seeking direction.
I shook my     head, "Liner. Shows theyre on it, mate. Itll go, dont    
worry."
Stephen sat back in slow motion, glaring at the buzzer, willing the     middle
rod to scream off, as every carp angler has done so many, many times. Its a   
 sign of the times that my 11 year-old son is resentful that his personal best
fish is a     mere 10 pounds. At his age Id have been shouldered around the
village on     a chair if Id bagged a double.
Our preparations for this session had been spot-on, I thought. Three     rods
out, all to the far margins where the carp liked to retreat during daylight.
Three     rods, with three Nashbaits Whisky & Squid snowmen sitting perky and
promising,     surrounded by 10mm freebies and a pouchful of pellets. All lines
backleaded, alarms set on     sensitive and the coots out of harms way on the
far side of the lake, beating the     crap out of a new moorhen on the block.
Perfect.
Chris Yates, for my money the finest fishing writer that ever jotted a    
musing, reckons its possible to feel when something is about to happen at the 
   lakeside. Hes right. The water was talking to me that morning, which was a
bloody     sight more than my wife would be doing, and truth to tell, the
waters words were all     I needed. Id promised my boy that Id find him a
carp, bigger than his best,     and now I knew that between us, the lake and I
were not about to let him down.
Still we waited, Stephen gnawing on his bottom lip as he watched     the coots
continue to bully that wretched moorhen. The coots on this lake seem hell-bent 
   on putting the foul in waterfowl. Once, after watching a gang of coots kill
a     shy little water rail with a non-stop assault, I turned one of them into a
white-beaked     marker float, when my four-ounce Korda Distance lead landed
smack on top of it at 130     yards. Ok, it was a fluke, and yes, I was aiming
at some willows 25 yards to the left, but     it still counts.
In contrast to the thuggish coot posse, the resident kingfishers are    
decidedly friendly types. I always imagine that theyre humming to themselves
as they     skim across the surface of the lake between their vantage points.
On this morning, a     particularly handsome kingfisher did what Ive always
wanted one to do, and landed on     my rod. There he sat, a true natural gem,
glistening confidently among the Gearbox Butts     and SiCs of my AK47s. I love
those rods, but even Yately Angling Centres finest look     ordinary when
compared so directly to natures own fishing machine.
"Must be off. Gotta fish to catch. Hmmmmmmmmm..." said     the kingfisher
(probably) before arrowing away and providing Stephen and I with a few bars    
from the Delkim symphony orchestra, as the rods jiggled farewell. I shook my
head in     silent admiration of the kingfisher. Stephen scratched his head in
frustration that the     buzzers hadnt sounded for real. Hell learn.
I know. Ill tidy the tackle box. Thats bound to force a     take. With a ton
of hooks, leads, boilie-stops and baiting needles on my lap, perhaps the    
carp gods could be tempted into mischief. Nope. I even tied a Terry Hearn stiff
rig     afterwards, and still the alarms refused to sing.
I was just scowling at a distant coot, who was loitering with     intent, just
waiting to have a dig at a juvenile grebe (you get to know what coots are    
thinking after a while) when the left-hand rod lashed sideways and set all
three Delkims     shrieking like the Bee-Gees on Helium. "Huuuuruuuumph!",
grunted Stephen,     as he panicked slightly and lifted into his birthday carp.
Only it was a long way from     being his, yet, especially as it was steaming
full-ahead for the tungsten     stems of a distant reedbed. My little boy cast
his broken finger to the breeze, as he     clamped his plastered hand around
the 8010s handle, cranking hard to force the carp     from its intended path.
"Dont...think...I...can...stop...it...Dad."     Stephens teeth were gritted
now, and I hoped that it was effort rather than pain     from his broken finger
that was the cause.
"Keep the pressure on, mate. Steady as you can, until you get     it past the
reeds. You can do it."
He did it, too, and an impressive swirl in open water confirmed     that the
carp had been denied sanctuary among the snags. Silent prayer time, now.    
Please, Lord, dont let it fall off now. Let him land it, Lord, and Ill    
be your best friend for ever. Go on, Lord, be a pal., and similar pathetic
pleas     tripped from my brain as Stephen had the sense to do something far
more practical and     loosened the Baitrunners drag to defend any late
lunges.
I was net man and by the time Stephen had the carp ready for landing, I     was
far more jumpy than he was. Brilliant, the carp, a bar of scaled bullion was
wallowing     a treat, now. "Hes yours, Dad.", said Stephen, reversing the
roles     of master and pupil. "Dont screw up now."
"Oi!", I hissed, as the carps top lip nuzzled the     spreader block, "Dont
get leary, Sonny."
"I did it, though, didnt I, Dad?"
"You did it all right, Boy. You were pretty to watch. Reminded me     of me,
when I was your age, as a matter of fact."
"Only better, ay, Dad?"
"Dont push it, Son."
Stephens birthday carp was a perfectly conditioned common     which elevated
his personal best to 14 pounds four ounces. After the weighing, photos and    
release ceremony, we spent an hour reliving every turn of the reel handle.
Stephen basked     in his triumph, smiling his victorious smile and glowing
visibly with the thrill of it     all.
"Hows the finger?"
"Aches a bit. No big deal, Dad."
"Glad we came fishing?"
" Course. Im well-happy. This is my best birthday     ever. Apart from one
thing."
"Whats that, then?"
"Mums gonna seriously kill you when we get back home."
"Erm...there is that, I suppose."
And she did. She went     raving mad at me and so did my own mum. We took
Stephen for a birthday visit to his     grandparents, and I was mauled by a
couple of she-bears in defence of their cub. My dad     didnt say much,
possibly because hes wise enough to keep his head down when     the women are
at full snarl, but he knew why catching that carp and keeping my promise to    
my son mattered more than normal folks could ever understand. He knew because
hed     done the same thing for me when I was a boy. Like father like son, and
I hope, like     grandson.
Fingers heal, bones mend and rows are forgotten in no time at all, but     when
Stephen caught his carp, he hooked a memory that will live with him forever.
What     better birthday present could anyone have, or give?
"What - apart from a new set of Delkims, you mean?"
"Shut up, Stephen, or Ill break the other finger."
"Cheers, Dad, youre the best."
"Never forget it, Son."
He wont, either, and even if he goes on to catch a shoal of     40-pounders,
Stephen wont ever forget his birthday carp.