Fresh Fish
March 31, 2010 by admin
Filed under Linger Longer
Linger Longer: Driving the Trans-Siberian
Chapter 8: Fresh Fish
I feel fresh. My clothes smell clean, my hair has been
washed with the finest Polish shampoo and my armpits are
dancing the Salsa. With a skip in my step, I make a tasty
salt and vinegar flavoured crisp sandwich while Si merrily
sucks the vitamin C out of a big juicy orange. With breakfast
out of the way, we hesitate no longer than necessary
and waving farewell to the trucker’s café outside Oswiëcim,
we head north for the Great Masurian Lakes.
By-passing Warsaw, we race across the flat open countryside
and begin to see where the wealth of Poland hides.
Large houses with acres of land and expensive 4×4’s litter
the roadside. Even the girls working in the petrol stations
look cuter and less repressed somehow, which is great!
‘Right, that’s it!’ Si smiles. ‘I’m gonna do it!’
‘Do what?’
‘I’m gonna catch my dinner.’
I turn to him and laugh. ‘Catch your dinner? You’re joking,
aren’t ya?’
‘Nope.’
‘You mean by using traditional hunting methods such as
trapping a wild pig or spearing a deer?’
‘Uh … no, I’m talking about grabbing a rod and going
fishing!’
‘Si, the last time you tried to catch a fish you fell in the
canal.’
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‘I slipped.’
‘You tripped more like, you dumb ass. My God, if you
think about it, we wouldn’t last five-minutes in the wilderness
without food, would we?’
Si shakes his head. ‘Probably not. In fact, I’d give us two
days max before we’d be heading off in search of the nearest
McDonald’s. It’s mad really, you’d think it would be a
necessary part of a child’s education to learn how to survive
in the wild.’
‘Yeah, but then I suppose in our society it’s not really
seen as relevant anymore. I mean, why waste valuable
time learning to fish or hunt, when you can just pop down
the local fish ‘n’ chip shop and buy yourself a nice piece
of battered cod.’
‘Chris, fishing today isn’t just about obtaining food for
survival, it’s a sport and a hobby as well, you know. It’s
about keeping the skills alive. Remember that kid at school,
who used to jump lessons so he could fish pike down the
reservoir. His fishing knowledge was passed down to him
by his old man, just as his father had taught him.’
‘So, fishing isn’t just an excuse to get away from your
nagging wife, then?’
Si nods vigorously. ‘Oh yeah, of course it is, but some
people just love to fish all the same.’
Grabbing the pocket SAS Survival Guide from his bag,
Si flicks to the first page. ‘Listen to what John Wiseman
says here, “survival is the art of staying alive. Combine the
instinct for survival with knowledge, training and kit and
you will be ready for anything.”’
I peer down at the book. ‘Who’s John Wiseman?’
‘The author of this book,’ Si replies. ‘He served in the
SAS for twenty-six years.’
‘Hardcore. I bet he’s seen a bit of action in his time.’
‘Damn right, you don’t make it into the SAS unless your
balls are made of steel.’
‘Heavy.’
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‘Chris, do you think you could make it into the SAS?’
‘No problem! Might have to quit the fags first, though.’
‘Oh yeah, you’d have too. I’m telling ya, those boys can
trek for weeks with a pack the weight of a baby elephant.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘It’s true! It’s all about training. If you put your mind to
it you can accomplish anything.’
‘What, even if you’re a natural born pussy like yourself?’
‘If it’s a matter of life and death, then, yes,’ Si grins.
‘Shit, maybe we should study this book a bit more before
we get to Russia. I’ve got an awful feeling we’re going to
need it.’
‘Study all you like, but don’t worry too much.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, some things are just out of your control.’
I frown. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, take death for example.’
‘Jesus Christ, Si! Enough about death, I’m still traumatized
by our little visit to Auschwitz.’
‘Death affects us all, my friend. There’s no point ignoring
it.’
‘“Ooh, hello everyone, my name’s Simon and I’m here to
liven up the party!” You prick.’
‘Hey, cut the piss-take. This is serious shit.’
‘You could’ve fooled me, hippie boy.’
‘Don’t get me wrong; I’m not purposefully trying to
sound morbid here. Its just death is a reality we have to face
everyday. There’s so many ways it can happen there’s no
way you can ever totally prevent it. Sure, you can limit
your chances of it happening by living a safe, healthy life
and by teaching yourself a few basic survival skills. But at
the end of the day, when that large piece of masonry from
the roof of a church comes crashing down on your head
and squashes you into the pavement, there ain’t a hell of
a lot you can do about it.’
‘I guess you’re right.’
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‘Chris, don’t let that put you off, though, it’s still good
stuff to know. All I’m saying is there’s no point living in
fear of what might happen, because ultimately it’s not in
your control.’
As I drive cautiously over an old disused railway track, I
can see the sparkling blue water of Lake Wigry flashing
past through the trees. Pulling off the road, we crawl down
a bumpy path leading to the water’s edge and ditch the car
close to a wooden jetty that reaches out across the flat surface
of the lake. Walking cautiously over the wooden slats,
I squat down at the end of the platform and glance out
across the tranquil view. I hear Si clomping clumsily behind
me, and brace myself as he pretends to push me off the
edge. Disturbed by the commotion, a large Canada goose
hiding in the dry reeds beats its wings and lifts itself a few
feet into the air, before crashing clumsily back into the
water. It disappears with a honk.
‘This place is perfect,’ Si smiles.
‘It’s beautiful!’ I sing, dipping my fingers in the water.
Ripples suddenly appear all around the platform. ‘Hoooha,
ride the ripples!’
‘Shush!’ Si hisses. ‘You’ll scare the fish away?’
Pausing in thought, I furrow my brow. ‘Do fish have ears?’
Si shrugs. ‘Fuck knows, but I’m sure you’re supposed to
be quiet. Maybe they feel the vibrations.’
Climbing slowly to my feet, I tiptoe back along the platform
and sprint across the grass to the car. Popping the
boot with the ariel, I rummage through the junk and grab
hold of the fishing rod that we’d thrown in at the last
minute – along with a load of other crap we thought might
come in useful. I untie the faded plastic bag wrapped
around the reel and extend the telescopic rod, a revolution
in fishing equipment introduced sometime in the
1980’s, and untangle the line. Inside the faded carrier bag,
which has probably been tied around the rod since we last
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went fishing about ten years ago, I find some spare hooks
and more line. Placing them on the ground next to the rod,
I scratch my head in the heat and try to think what else a
man needs in order to catch a fish.
‘Bait!’ I grin.
Reaching deep inside the boot, I manage to grab hold of
a small shovel wedged underneath our bags. Pulling it
free, I stumble backwards and accidentally step on the rod
lying on the ground. I hear it snap.
‘Fuck!’ I cry, glancing down at the broken pieces.
Removing the broken end from the line, I real in the
hook and hold what’s left of my rod in the air. It looks
ridiculous, a mere stump compared to the length it should
be, but tossing the broken end back into the boot I’m keen
to get my hook in the water while the fish are still visible.
Slamming the boot shut, I walk back down the path and
notice Si waving vigorously from the bank.
‘There’s shit loads of fish!’ he cries. ‘You can see the
bubbles! Here’s three worms, I’ll dig up some more. Go on,
get fishing!’
With the tangled ball of worms in my hand, I smile at
Si’s enthusiasm as he eagerly digs a hole by the water’s
edge. I find a suitable spot at the end of the platform and
crouching down on my hands and knees, I thread a nice
juicy worm on the end of the hook and make a float from
a discarded lollypop stick. Weighing the bait down by
tying a stone to the line a few inches above it, I remove the
spare reel from the plastic bag and attach a hook to the
end. Following the same process, I make another float, but
this time from a piece of bark that I manage to peel from
one of the wooden planks used to make the jetty.
‘Good lad,’ Si smiles, admiring my handy work.
Opening his hand he reveals another seething mass of
worms.
Keen to try his luck, I offer him the rod and he makes his
way excitedly to the far side of the jetty.
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* * *
Squatting down, I extend the fishing line and carefully
lower my worm into the water. Happy with the length, I
toss the stumpy rod over my head and catapult the bait a
good four metres away. Watching the stick bob up and
down on the surface of the water, I feel instantly relaxed.
Glancing over at Chris, I watch as he swings his hook
backwards and forwards like a pendulum, and gathering
enough momentum he lets go of the line and casts it rather
unsuccessfully into the lake. I lean back against a wooden
post and smile. Like Huckleberry Fin and Tom Sawyer,
minus the straw hats and dungarees, we bask in the sunshine
at opposite ends of the jetty. Persuading myself that
it’s unlikely we’ll catch anything, particularly as neither
of us had managed to in our lives before, I close my eyes
and enjoy the peace and quiet.
Around the same time I had said my final farewells to
Emily in Hampstead, I returned to London a few times
during my time in Daventry. On one such occasion, I drove
to Queen’s Park for the weekend to visit my good friend
Dermot. Dermot lived in north London with his girlfriend
in a flat overlooking the Salisbury Road. We would drink
in his local pub, The Salisbury Arms, and then stumble
back to his place after closing for a good old fashion
smoke and a singsong with his guitar called Gareth.
Waking up on his sofa one morning with a killer hangover,
I decided to head out and grab something to eat from the
Organic Café around the corner. Walking into a blustery
winter’s day, I wrapped my scarf tightly around my neck
and half-ran, half-jogged down the quiet main road.
Making myself comfortable inside the busy restaurant, I
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ordered the eggs benedicts from the menu and a large cappuccino.
I grabbed a newspaper and waited patiently for
my food. Just as I was about to read an interesting article
about Colombia, I suddenly noticed a guy enter the café
with a very familiar face. I peered over my newspaper and
watched as he stormed across the restaurant – it was none
other than my ex-boss, Lawrence Cox! This was a man
who had made the early years of my career a misery, and
was an individual who can only be described as a complete
and utter tosser. Ducking behind the newspaper, I
closed my eyes and prayed for him to pass by. He didn’t.
I lowered the newspaper and we made eye contact.
‘Simon!’ he grinned, looking surprised.
‘Lawrence!’ I beamed, trying to look even more surprised.
‘How are you?’
‘Great!’
I stood up and we shook hands.
Lawrence grabbed a chair and swung it over to my table.
‘Mind if I join you?’
I rolled my eyes, and sighed. ‘Of course not.’
A waitress walked over and took his order.
‘So you’re back from your travels I see?’
‘Yeah, I got back a couple of months ago.’
‘That’s fantastic. How was it?’
‘Incredible. A real adventure.’
‘You went to the States, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right, and to Mexico.’
‘What was Mexico like? I’ve always wanted to see the
cliff diving in Acapulco.’
‘I didn’t go that way, but the Yucatan is beautiful.’
‘Sounds fabulous,’ Lawrence smiled.
‘Yes, it was. How’s Global?’
‘Wonderful! We’ve just finished a complete redesign. It
looks fantastic! A lot has changed since you left. I’ve been
promoted, actually. I’m now the Production Manager,
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overseeing the development of all new content. Big step,
but I’m enjoying the challenge.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks. So, now you’re back what are your plans?’
‘Well, I was thinking –’
‘We’d love to have you back at Global, Simon, but I’m
afraid there isn’t the head count right now,’ Lawrence
interrupted.
Stunned by his assumption, I tried to remain calm.
‘Oh, really?’ I replied pretending to sound disappointed.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, it’s a fucking good job I wasn’t planning on coming
back, then, isn’t it?’
Lawrence’s face dropped. ‘Oh, I just assumed you wanted
… so, where are you working now?’
I hesitated before answering. ‘I’m working in the
Midlands at the moment.’
He frowned. ‘What are you doing in the Midlands?’
‘I’m working in distribution.’
‘Distributing internet software?’
‘No, frozen food.’
Lawrence smiled. He wasn’t sure if I was being serious
or not. ‘Frozen food?’
‘Yep, I help distribute frozen oven chips and pizza to the
nation. I’m working temporarily in a freezer-packing
warehouse for Tesco’s.’
‘Golly. Quite a change from Global.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Why on earth would you choose to do that? Didn’t you
want to move back to London?’
‘I’m happy in the Midlands at the moment, thanks.’
‘Where are you based?’
‘Daventry.’
‘Don’t know it. Got a flat?’
‘No, I’m living with my mum at the moment.’
This is almost too much for Lawrence. He busts out
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laughing and slaps his hand on the table.
‘With your mum?’ he coughed.
The waitress arrived with his order and placed the plate
of food in front of him. I began to feel a little stupid. Why
did I tell him I lived with my mum?
‘Oh, dear,’ he beamed, wiping a tear from the corner of
his eye. ‘I haven’t laughed like that for ages. Sorry, I don’t
mean to be rude – it must be hard sliding down the career
ladder like that. You’re certainly putting on a brave face.
I’m just sorry I can’t do anything to help you out.’
I suddenly felt my blood reach boiling point. He had
pushed me too far this time, and without warning I
exploded in a torrent of rage.
‘Listen here, you cock sucker,’ I hissed, grabbing his
shirt and pulling him close to my face. ‘I wouldn’t waste
another minute of my life working with you, even if you
paid me a million pounds a year and lent me your ugly
whore wife to fuck over my desk all day. You may think
behaving like a cunt is an acceptable existence, but
believe me, buddy boy, there’s a whole world out there
that’s passing you by.’
Jumping to my feet, I snatched a sausage off his plate and
took a large bite. He looked up at me in stunned silence.
‘So long, Cox.’
Storming out of the café, I could feel the adrenaline
pumping through my veins. The next chapter of my life had
definitely started and there would be no turning back now.
Disturbed by a splashing sound, I open one eye and see
bubbles on the surface of the water. Following the line
from the end of my rod, I notice that it has gone taught and
jumping into action my instincts take over. Chris leaps to
his feet.
‘You’ve bloody got one!’ he cries.
‘Have I?’
‘Yes! Quick, reel the damn thing in!’
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Leaning over the side, I grab hold of the line and give it
a firm tug. I can feel the weight of the fish as I begin to
slowly reel it in. Standing up, I’m able to lift the hook out
of the water and seeing the white belly of the fish thrashing
against the surface, we release yelps of excitement.
‘Don’t lose it, Si!’
Tugging at the line, I heave the fish out of the water and
swing it through the air into Chris’s hands.
‘Fuck! It’s a fish, Si! It’s a fish!’
Crouching down, Chris brings it close to his chest and
wrestling to get a grip on its slippery body, he removes the
hook from its mouth and drops it into the faded plastic
carrier bag. Deep green in colour, the fish lies motionless
on its side and gasps for air. Prodding it with my finger, I
jump back in surprise as it appears to find a final burst of
energy and flipping into the air it leaps out of the bag and
lands on the wooden jetty. We both pounce on the fish,
head butting each other on the way down. Rubbing our
temples, we suddenly notice the fish is making its escape
over the edge.
‘NO!’ Chris screams.
I dive on top of the fish, but it slips through my fingers
and flips off the side. It disappears into the lake with a satisfying
plop.
Chris peers over the edge and drops his head. ‘Bollocks!
We finally catch a fish after all these years … and then you
let it get away!’
‘Me? It was slippery, you little shit, there was nothing I
could do!’
Chris turns away and walks sulkily over to his line.
Frustrated, I squash a fresh worm onto the end of my
hook. I lower it into the water and just as I’m about to reel
in the line a little, I watch in amazement as another fish
leaps out of the water and takes hold of the bait.
‘I’ve got another one!’ I yell, swinging the silver
fish through the air.
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‘No way!’ Chris hollers, and looking over at his line he
realises he has one too.
For the next hour, we hook fish out of the lake with as
much ease as Fat Larry serving up cod in Buster’s Chip
Shop on the High Street. The excitement of catching a fish
is overwhelming, and despite struggling at first with the
guilt of killing a living creature, we quickly get used to the
idea – particularly the hungrier we become.
Returning to the car with our catch, we feel like proud
hunters returning to the village with a feast. The bag slung
over Chris’s shoulder contains twelve little fish, and excited
by the idea of tasting fresh fish caught with our very
own hands, we immediately find the small camping stove
and heat up the frying pan on the boot of the car.
Chris pours a drop of oil into the pan. ‘What does it say
in the SAS Survival Guide about cooking them?’
Thumbing through the pages I find the ‘Fish and
Fishing’ section. ‘Now, let me see. It says here that all
freshwater fish are edible. Those fewer than five centimeters
long need no preparation and larger fish must be gutted.
Perfect! All of ours are tiddlers so we don’t need to
gut them.’
‘Yours might be tiddlers, pal. This last one I caught is
massive.’
He turns the fish over and opens its mouth. ‘Look at its
teeth. It was a fierce battle catching this giant.’
‘Chris, it’s tiny! My dick’s bigger than that.’
‘Yeah, right! In that case you must be hung like Dirk
Diggler.’
‘Hey, nobodies that big.’
Following the guidelines in the book, we scrape off the
scales and place a couple of the fish in the hot pan. We
watch excitedly as they sizzle and curl up in the heat. I
pick out some flesh and pop it into my mouth. It tastes of
blood … truly disgusting. We try adding some salt and a
shit load of ketchup, but the taste doesn’t improve.
Tossing the fish into a bush, we climb into the car and
munch on the last remaining crackers, which have gone
stale. Turning off the torch, Chris falls immediately into a
deep sleep and smiling to myself, I feel satisfied that
although our cooking skills might need some improvement,
tonight at least we had proved to ourselves that we
could survive in the wild.
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