Terminal Boredom

19 October, 1999 04:00:00 Rosie-Barham

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"I'm enjoying this fishing.....no, honest, I am!"Sometimes the fishing aboard charter boats is so slow that terminal boredom can set in with startling rapidity. Captive anglers become restless after a surprisingly short time, partly because they know there's no turning back and by the time they find out that the day is going to be unproductive, the tide has gone out and they're stuck with it, for at least eight hours.

I asked one charter boat party, after one particularly blank session, what they did all day, adrift in an open boat with no outside stimulation. I could imagine tham all staring at the horizon waiting for the relief of a passing ship, a rocky outcrop, a tornado even – anything to break up the monotony. They wouldn't admit to anything directly, but you can find out a vast amount of information just by listening to conversations during the after trip booze up - the best time to extract any information is after their fourth pint.

When they get really fed up, apparently, they indulge in a form of spectator athletics - whelk races or hermit crab hurdling are popular. The unfortunate, and probably unwilling, participants in these events are given names, usually connected to a distinguishing feature of their respective anatomies before being lined up, pointed in the direction of the winning post and urged on, raucously, by their trainers. I wouldn't be at all surprised to discover that the winner is paraded round the deck in a lap of honour.

After a quick team talk, the lobster was ready to race!The crabs are caught accidentally, being the only sea creatures on these occasions to be tempted by carefully prepared strips of herring intended for greater species – on very rare occasions, and accompanied by squeals of delight, a lobster may be hauled in. The whelks are dredged up deliberately by the skipper because the poor bloke has to entertain his party somehow and most skippers can't sing. An angler in the throes of terminal ennui is a pretty awesome sight and should be avoided at all costs but, at least, they don't play with the bait supply. Ragworm or soft-backs are protected from potential marauding practical jokers - you never know if the fish may yet choose to have lunch and if a ragworm is knackered from being forced to hurtle down the straight, it's not going to do it's job properly.

One of the many excuses for a day out sea fishing is that the anglers only go for your sake, so that you can eat fresh fish for no outlay or effort on your part. They forget the cost of a mountain of food which has to be provided, prepared and transported to the boat and the exorbitant price of paracetomol and/or brandy which becomes a vital part of any fishing widow's existence.

They say that they expend large amounts of energy in concentrating on bringing home the bacon, or more likely a bedraggled codling, but we know that they sit there, instead, wasting their time in childish and time consuming activities. And they bet on the results. You can always spot the winner. He's the one with so much loose change in his left hand pocket that he lists to port as he makes his way to the nearest pub after the trip.

Who said fishing wasn't hard work?The gambling continues, even when the lure of crabs and whelks has lost it's charm. They have been known to play Pooh Sticks, all crowded on one side of the boat, when they yell at pieces of flotsam floating in the current, in much the same way as they screamed encouragement at crabs and whelks. When all other forms of entertainment have been exhausted, card schools are set up and if they've run out of money, they'll bet with small items of tackle.

They play with the ship's radio. Winding up other skippers in the near vicinity has been known to provoke small, good natured scuffles wharf-side when the boats moor up in the late evening.

In the summer months, when all else fails to grab their attention, they drink the day's allotment of beer within a couple of hours and then fall asleep, either half naked, flat on the deck where they achieve that toasted look by the end of the day or sitting semi-prone on bed chairs when the effect of too much sun on a rippled beer gut makes their stomachs take on a venetian blind effect.

Winter, they sleep in the same positions but, for obvious reasons, encase themselves in flotation suits, thermal underwear, balaclavas and gauntlets. They can still achieve a kind of tan, even in the direst conditions. It's called wind-burn.

So, when they come home empty-handed, considerably out of pocket and with tales of a hard and unsuccessful day at sea, don't you believe it.

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