by
Lauren Lees
He’s so fit, he looks just like a pirate I mused when I first laid eyes on my now boyfriend Will at the Flour and Flagon pub in Manchester. A mass of dark curls, Gallagher-rivalling brows and ardent eyes against olive skin. He sported two hoop earrings and said he was from Somerset, the county with an accent famed for its buccaneer-like charm. He gave me bags of golden coins in the form of fish facts, like a mantis shrimp can punch at speeds of 50 mph and catfish have over 100,000 tastebuds.
On dates that followed, he smelt of vetiver and tobacco, and told me how he used to play with a real Mackerel corpse in the washing up bowl as a kid. Granted, I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to go fishing with him.
I imagine us on a desolate pier at sunset, contently slumped in camping chairs, drinking beer and not really catching anything. However, when we arrive at Exmouth beach and head towards a cerulean boat, this dream dissipates.
“I didn’t realise it was on a boat?” I, deathly afraid of boats, murmur to Will.
“Oh, I wondered why you were so chill with it.” Too late to back out now, I turn to one of the fishermen boarding the boat and ask,
“How far out does it go?”
“Oh, pretty far! You can’t even see the shoreline or anything, it’s so peaceful.”
“Aw, cool!” I grit my teeth and board the deathtrap. As it groans away from the shore, bile starts to rise in my throat. We’re a metre away from the dock when I announce, “Ahh I need to get off, can I get off?”
“Nope” the Skipper, a gruff, ginger man, replies tonelessly, and steers the boat further into the water. I gulp and sit. A dozen grizzly fishermen in khaki shorts and sports caps relish my panic.
“Look at her, so pathetic,” they all chant telepathically, glaring at me. I feel like the spoiled rotten evacuee who’s come to the country from the city, unable to adapt to their salt-of-the earth, rural ways.
Thirty minutes later, we creak to a stop. Skipper Lady, a muscular woman of few words, gelid blue eyes and an impressively tight ponytail, hands us all a lump of fish guts. Smelling the inadequacy on me, she kindly attaches the bait to my rod and demonstrates how to fish.
“Wind here, put y’finger here.” I am very thankful for her explanation, not so thankful for the blood she spilled all over my water bottle in the process.
The boat cosies into a steady, rhythmic lull, and I am able to relax with it. The isolation from land actually does begin to feel peaceful, although I am frequently checking on the whisper of shore in the distance to make sure it’s still there. After an hour of stillness, abruptly, my rod snaps to the left.
“I think I’ve got something!” I begin to reel it in and the rod bends backwards like a possessed child in a demon film. I anchor my leg onto the bench of the boat, lean backwards and pull with all of my might. What IS this thing?! It’s as strong as I am.
Fishermen gather as I heave, exasperated. A couple of “G’won, love!” ‘s and the fish is brought above water.
Will bends over the boat. “Woah, it’s massive!”
“What is it, what is it?” I ask, eager to meet my opponent. Skipper Man grabs a net to retrieve it, then pulls the creature out to present “A conger eel! Well done!” Wait, did he just call me the conqueror of eel?
The writhing grey worm is half the bloody size of me. I can fish! With immaculate skill! This must be what Spiderman felt like when he first shot a web. My boyfriend may be a pirate but I am Poisedon herself! Women want me and fish fear me. I can hear them in the water beneath us, “Quick! Flee! None can escape the wrath of her hook!”
The fishermen congratulate me and take pictures of the eel before I, gracious conqueror that I am, toss him back into the sea.
On the ride back, we are soothed. Bar a seven year old boy in a Nemo tshirt, who is traumatised. He gawps at Skipper Lady as she grabs a fish by the tail, whacks it against the side, decapitates it, and feeds its guts to the seagulls trailing the boat.
“Are they still alive?” he asks as their headless corpses twitch. I think I’m gonna go veggie again. Eyes closed, as the wind cools my skin, I listen to the tales of fishermen and feel Will squeeze my hand. “Wanna look for an eye patch in the gift shop?”
