A short story by Bobbi: A tale from Erehwon

20 October 2023

Guest

Living well after stroke

In a stroke of creativity, a quirky tale came to life in my mind. I'm Bobbi, sharing laughter and whimsy from my imagination.

The Fishing Trip

A short but very tall story

When I was ninety-four my father would often take me fishing. I was already quite old enough, so he told me.

In the middle of the night when the tide was running high, we could be seen striding toward the sea together.

Waves crashing on the shore. A soaking spray rushing through the air. The wind screeching, tugging and howling. Seagulls wheeling about us in the sky calling to whoever would listen.

We walked side by side along the wooden boards of the pier, right to the very centre of that storm-tossed sea. Once there we stopped and stood, a grey cloudy sky above, squalling waves all around.

My father carefully and calmly pulls out and unravels a length of fishing line from a pocket in his mackintosh. He attaches one end firmly to the railing and the other end to one of my ankles before throwing me over the rail and into the black heaving water.

It is an exhilarating experience but no matter what I see or how hard I try, I never quite manage to grab hold of any wriggling fish. An hour or so later he hauls me back up over the railings, carefully untying the knots, putting away the fishing line and returning with me into town.

Back through the dark streets, towards a lit doorway, where I must stand outside, shivering and drip, drip, dripping cold sea water.

In the warm

My father goes inside and chats while the proprietor shuffles yesterday's newspapers into a heap.
“The usual,” he says, nodding as vinegar and salt are shaken vigorously into the pile, which is then rapidly folded into a neat parcel. He tucks this warm bounty under his arm, shouting over his shoulder, as we walk away, “He’s a brave lad, but he caught nothing this time."

Drip dry

When we get home my mother stands me in front of a roaring fire, where I slowly turn, steaming and dripping, like a sort of human doner kebab. When I am no longer soaking, just a bit damp, we sit down together at the rough wooden kitchen table and tuck into our evening meal.

“I’m proud of you, lads,” my mother says, “You always manage to bring home our tasty fish supper.”