Carol’s Column

Fish are pretty foxy

"I'VE booked for the Moby Dick," said my husband. Joyfully, I thought.

My mind boggled. So did my liver, spleen and kidneys too. For the only Moby Dick I've ever heard of was a vicious whale by the same name.

"We're boarding at 5am," announced my husband.

Could he really be serious?

Yes he could.

If we've ridden and fallen off horses in the Eastern Transvaal, donkeys in Lesotho and ostriches in Oudtshoorn, why shouldn't we ride whales in St Francis Bay?

I mean, why should we have a peaceful holiday, sunbathing and relaxing, when indeed we could be riding whales?

I shuddered inwardly. Then outwardly.

I should have listened to my mother. "He's mad," she'd said at the time. "Any man who goes to a wedding in a wetsuit is mad. Any man who collects crocodile teeth, beercan openers and Van der Merwe jokes is crazy."

"But he's exciting," I'd answered ecstatically.

Eighteen years later, I wasn't so sure.

It wasn't that I didn't really want to go whale riding, it was just that my slipped disc ached, my hip joint with the calcification clicked whenever I moved, I kept stubbing my bunion and ever since I'd swallowed my right-eyed contact lens while drinking chicken soup, I was having difficulty seeing further than two metres.

No, I wasn't ready to ride a whale.

"It sounds fun," I said to my husband. "But I think I'll sit this one out. I think whale riding's for you and the kids."

"What are you talking about?" he snapped.

"Aren't you going on a whale?"

"A whale? The Moby Dick's not a whale — it's a boat — a huge fishing vessel. We're going deep-sea fishing. We're going for the big one — a marlin, a yellow-tailed tunny, a sword fish!"

My mother was right. Why couldn't I have married a man who enjoyed catching his fish in the deep-freeze section of our local supermarket.

Why, even the variety was better there. Have you ever heard of a crumbed and spiced marlin?

The kids were overjoyed at the prospect of a deep-sea fishing trip.

"Yuk," said my eldest son. "All those smelly fish."

"What'll we do all day?" said the second, "catch dumb fish?"

"I'll be sea sick," said the third. "I want to go windsurfing."

"It's cruel," said my daughter. "I think fishing's a blood sport."

At 5am we stood on the deck of the Moby Dick — a sturdy sea-going vessel if ever there was one.

The hull, a faded naartjie orange, the newly-swabbed decks, gnarled and worn.

I adjusted my silk sailor suit with the baby blue and navy vertical stripes. Perhaps I was a little overdressed for the occasion.

"Right, cast off," yelled the skipper, an old salt if ever there was one.

Three hours later, the sun rose, a splendid orange-pink in the sky.

The contents of my stomach rose too.

I glanced surreptitiously at my family — all busy casting to the depths of the sea.

And, slipped away to a quiet side of the boat.

"Feeling a little sick are you?" asked my husband as my early morning breakfast went flying over the side.

"No, no, I'm just gargling," I answered between gasps and heaves.

Everyone was catching fish — cod, elf, stock fish, red Roman, Kapenaars, Hottentots. The deck of the Moby Dick was a seething mass.

I sympathised with the gasping, open-mouthed, wriggling fish.

"Fishing's fun isn't it?" said my husband.

Then: "Have a go," said my spouse and handed me a massive rod.

"Just let the line run until it hits the bottom then reel in a little. If you feel a nibble, strike, then reel up fast."

I dropped the line overboard. Then suddenly it was almost pulled out of my hands. It jerked around like a wild thing.

"Hold it, steady, steady," yelled my supporters.

Backwards and forwards the fish threshed. It was massive. A giant, at least 100kg.

In the excitement, the other contact lens dropped out of my eye.

Around me, everyone was shouting and screaming.

Slowly, I pulled the line up. My line was stretched almost to its limit.

As it reached the surface, it leapt out of the water.

I hauled it aboard.

It looked a little smaller than 100kg. "What a magnificent creature," I shouted excitedly. "How much do you think he weighs?"

My husband looked at the fish and paused: "Two kilograms . . . maybe three."

Ah well you can't win them all.

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