So you hooked a big fish and it dashed into a rocky crevice, through a twist of timber or around a thicket of lily pads. You’re locked in a stalemate, with your line taut to the bottom. Angler instinct—or desperation—reassures you it’s a fish. “It swam under a rock. I can get it out.”
Your mates, especially Thomas, aren’t helping: “Give it up, you’ve hooked the bottom.”
“It just moved!” you plead, sweat beading.
“That’s the boat, you clown. Bust it off already.”
You obviously look like a broken man when you get the pat on the shoulder accompanied by the softly spoken, “Let it go, man... Let it go.”
It’s decision time. Who are you going to be?
The Humane Optimist: You immediately cut the line, not willing to risk hurting the fish— besides, you’re that damn good you’ll hook a bigger one on the next cast.
The Guitarist: You keep the line taut and twang away at it with rhythm and soul—because someone once told you this annoys the fish into swimming into the clear. Admittedly that messenger was not a man of science but it seems to be annoying everyone on board, so there is a chance the fish won’t like it either.
The Stamp Collector: You’re extremely patient and hard to bore, preferring the timid option of lowering the anchor, letting out some slack line and waiting the minutes, hours, days until the fish decides to move of its own accord—despite violent threats from mates contemplating having to swim home.
The Psycho: There’s no #@!ing way the fish is going to dictate terms, so you repeatedly whip, jag, pull, jolt, stretch and bang the rod in every direction until something breaks, whether that be the snag, the fish’s jaw, the lure, your line, or rod… Whoops.
The Steve Irwin: You’re too tight to lose a lure and you’ll take your chances in croc- or shark-infested water, diving in to retrieve it by hand—hopefully with the fish attached.
The Usual Suspect: You travel the emotional rollercoaster incorporating of all of the above behaviour in stages, inevitably ending up as The Psycho, or The Steve Irwin.
The Blissfully Ignorant: You didn’t even notice you were snagged and then the massive fish swims into the clear and you remark, “Wow, there’s a fish on here.” Your mates shake their heads lamenting another of your tin-arse captures.
Regardless of which personality profile you begin with, a port-battle metamorphosis takes place, leaving you in a different state of mind:
The Statistician: Your line breaks. There was always a chance that would happen.
The Tackle Store Favourite: You lose interest and put your rod—with reel left in-gear—in the rod holder and it breaks as the boat drifts on. Your mates don’t seem as surprised as you.
Even Stephen: The hook gives way, you get your lure back, but no fish.
The Surprised: You manoeuvre the fish out of the obstacle with a combination of patience, rhythmic guitar picking and eventual anger—and you land it! Well done.
The Wet Diver: You climb back in the boat, soaking, with no fish, but you got your lure back. Never mind the forgotten mobile phone in your pocket.
The Ultimate Hunter: You climb back in the boat with the lure between your teeth, a big fish under one arm, plus a nice cray you spotted while you were down there. High fives all ’round!
The Very Unlucky: You wedge the fish into an immovable position between two rocks, break your rod in accordance with the tactics of The Psycho, then swim for the lure—just to salvage something and to avoid being 0-2—only to be eaten by a shark.
Having witnessed and lived joyous and heartbreaking stalemates—those nameless songs stuck repeating in my head, twanging with but one string—I sadly report that no one-size-fits-allvictorious tactic exists. Apart from trying a mix of all the above, there’s only one lesson remaining: being squeezed into rocks can’t be fun, so if the fish gains the advantage take the loss on the chin, break the line and cast again.
