FISHING

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

THERE’S AN OLD SAYING ABOUT CALLING THE PURSUIT OF SCALY, FINNED CRITTERS THAT SWIM IN WATER “FISHING” RATHER THAN “CATCHING”... AS GARETH GEORGE CAN ATTEST.

Every fishing trip deserves a happy ending. It’s never guaranteed, but the prospect of success is what motivates the hunt to begin with.

When those of us who love this sport can’t fish, we resort to scratching the itch vicariously through reliable reports, condensed nowadays into a single photo that has more thumbprints than an old girlie magazine.

Technology can be a real curse when it comes to having your nose rubbed in someone else’s fishing accolades, but a boon when wanting to share the latest conquest. A vicious circle indeed.

Selecting fishing destinations revolves around this digital footprint, with online footage cementing the deal. (And if it’s your own album – you need to get out more!)

After my first adventure, returning to Angola was never in question. Memories and images of rolling Tarpon on the tide drowned any other consideration. Since my mate Jeremy hadn’t yet seen the regal display of a Silver King in full flight, he feigned apologies and bolted from the office.

Joining Tommo (Craig Thomassen) on this tour was Brad Cartwright, harboring a festering grudge. I’d hoped it was over the last Tarpon refusing his fly, but he was still stewing at being left marooned on the jetty during our inaugural trip. My fault since I selfishly decreed that his morning ablutions were eating into valuable fishing time. I might never be forgiven! He had a score to settle – and fortunately all that emotion was directed mainly at the fish.

The fresh water influx from the Angolan highlands had not completed it’s nearly 1 000km journey to the Kwanza river mouth, being the catalyst that brings the Atlantic Tarpon rolling in every summer. From a flyfishing perspective, it meant we were stuffed!

To my mind, sight fishing has no equal: to place a fly on the spot and witness the take is a close second to the magnificence of the birth of your first child.

But in the absence of heads or tails to throw at, the knowledge that anything could be moving along this Atlantic slipway is sufficient to keep you casting into likely looking current lines … for the first day.

By day two, you’re scouring the ocean for birds, shoaling fish of any description, until eventually you settle for simply ripping and stripping around structure. For the uninitiated – and I choose my words carefully – it is without question the worst form of fly-fishing that exists! The tedium of throwing a 12-weight rod and slapping what could pass for a sparkplug into what seems like a bottomless pit is mind numbing. Don’t be fooled by the tranquil clear blue water. It soothes you into somnolence and creates a false sense of expectation. The sun beating down as you watch your line sink into oblivion for the

... to place a fly on the spot and witness the take is a close second to the magnificence of the birth of your first child.

Fishing on fly is an art, requiring patience, skill, observation of swimming and feeding patterns – and endless optimism.

umpteenth time soon dulls any enthusiasm. Factor in the realisation that what you’re doing requires zero skill and oodles of dumb luck and it’s enough to extinguish what little hope might remain.

Times like these even lead lighthearted banter to develop a barb or two. (Boredom is a nasty bedfellow on board.) Poking fun at your mate’s fortune on fly is crossing the line. Never resent another’s catch is an unspoken law, which you find yourself breaking.

After the fourth fruitless session, back at camp decorum dictates that one must mask the burning frustration and congratulate those who landed fish. Single malt helps to lubricate the words which would otherwise stick in the throat …

More misery might seem improbable – but a huge pull on the first drift of the final session is swiftly followed by the horror of realizing I’d picked up my 9-weight rod! Karma truly is what they say … I could only go through the motions, knowing I’d been whipped!

They say there’s a defining moment in an angler’s life; a standard by which all outings are measured – and that’s “the time before catching a Silver King and each fishing trip thereafter”.

Well Brad can bear testament to this, with two majestic Megalops under his belt and a noticeable air of self satisfaction.

I’d like to say I’ve learned a lesson from the humbling experience of catching diddly squat, but I haven’t – or, more accurately, refuse to. I want to always expect to catch fish and enjoy the heady days leading up to any expedition.

Anticipation is half the fun, so, let great expectations reign.