This is the personal blog of alisonraymond

Codfishing was a family enterprise during the winter months, but one night in the early 1970s even the fish decided to lend a hand.
What follows is not fiction. It all happened! It happened to me!

“You get the tackle bag, I’ll bring the rods.”
Dad gathered the fishing rods from between our seats and soon the old Austin was lost in the winter night as we crunched across the shingle desert, west of Dungeness.
Not a word passed between us, and yet we were in communion, our quarry that chilly October, the cod that passed through the English Channel.

Arriving as the last of the holiday makers departed, cod would be drawn from the sea all winter and the word in the tackle shops was that this season was looking very promising.

Dad spoke, but not to me “Hey Jacko!”
The figure approaching was a sight indeed, clad head to foot in black oil skin, his head topped with an oilskin ‘sou’wester, trailing pipe smoke and vaporous breath.
Rods borne like lances and a fluorescent green tackle bag slung across his body as a shield, the knight raised his head.
“That you Fred? And the youngster too?….Gonna try your luck?”
Dad shrugged.
“We’ll give it a couple of hours, see how we get on…did you catch anything?”
This St George not only slew the beast, he took it home for supper too, and from his bag he raised two glistening whiting, each a meal for one.
Jacko smiled knowing that in the hands of his wife the little fish would be transformed into a fragrant and delicate feast of white flesh flecked with parsley and served with mashed potatoes.
“A couple of tiddlers, but tasty all the same…Did you hear about Ted Sooter?”
Dad frowned.
“What Ted from the garage?”
“That’s him…he had a twenty eight pounder the other night, and another forty pound in smaller fish!”
I let out a whistle to register my approval.
Jacko returned his whiting to the bag and set off following the footprints which my Dad and I had left. We followed Jacko’s trail towards the sea strand.

As we walked, my flashlight found a fox emerging from a gorse thicket. At first just two glowing eyes in the beam, this handsome beast was quite untroubled by our passing. The corpse of a bunny hung from his jaws, and as we passed no more than ten yards apart I fancied that here was a mutual acknowledgement of hunters, one for another. A recognition that the thrill is in the chase. I knew that a moment like this would move my father to comment
“You know what?”
he asked.
“That wily old fox, he’s probably been waiting in that bush for an hour or more, quiet as a mouse and as patient as a saint, just waiting for a bunny to poke his head up for a breath of fresh air. Well, he’s got his supper and I reckon there’s a message for us too, what do you say?”
I grunted in affirmation. Stealth and patience surely the most potent weapons in the angler’s arsenal.

There was a wind blowing that night. A firm and steady airflow. Enough to disrupt conversation at any distance, enough to raise a crashing surf. As we crested the rise of shingle which marked the highest tide, the surf line shone one hundred yards ahead at the edge of the gently sloping beach. Dad looked left then right inhaling noisily as he turned.
“Tide’s on the way in, half an hour to light the tilley lamp and get set up properly, then we’ll see what’s going on”.
A wave broke. A ribbon of white water releasing the power of an express train, shaking the ground, filling the air with salty spume.

The wind and the cold joined in adversarial alliance as we threaded our lines and fumbled to tie and bait our hooks. Soon my father was swinging the heavy lead on the end of his line. The twelve foot, cane rod arced over his shoulder hurling bait, hook and lead a hundred and more yards from shore. Dad secured his fishing rod in its stand and set to preparing another rig as I launched mine into the darkness. My father cast his second line and the waiting began. We sat on tarpaulin close beside our hissing tilley lamp drawing some primal comfort from its tiny oasis of apple green light, defiant in the velvet night.

If Dungeness is a desert it is by no means deserted, for anglers will travel far in the hope of catching cod, and this stretch of coast is prime real estate from autumn through to springtime, each claim now marked by its own pool of paraffin light… And there we all sat, waiting, a tribe maybe two hundred strong, spread along miles of chilly beach.

A little ‘tinker bell’ hung from my rod tip and in the darkness my ears strained to hear the rattle that means a fish is biting. Thirty minutes passed. I retrieved my tackle and removed the accumulation of weed drawn from the sea bed. I threaded a new lugworm as bait and cast again. Another half an hour.
Retrieving my line I found a fish hooked on the end. Too small to rattle the bell. Anglers dismiss the pouting as good for neither sport nor table, but by the light of my torch this tiddler was a glorious sight. Copper along the flanks, fading to silver then cream on the belly. Wriggling in my hands, dripping through my numb fingers and fragranced with the wild sea. I carried the creature to the waters edge and released it into the surf. For a moment the pouting seemed mesmerised and lay still as the sea flowed. Then, with a flick it was gone.
Bait up with lugworm and cast again!

Soon Dad jumped to attention. He studied the quivering tip then took the rod from its stand. A few more seconds, and my father ‘struck’ hard, and twenty fathoms deep his sharp hook found flesh.
“Get my other line in, I don’t want to get in a tangle”.
I took up my Dad’s second fishing rod and began to wind the big reel. There were phosphorescent bacteria at work in the sea that night and as I wound that endless line, droplets of seawater fell to the stones, exploding like tiny turquoise fireworks. At last the end. I removed the weed from the empty hook and lay the rod down. Dad was cautiously retrieving his fish, still far from the shore.
“Well” he said “It’s not a cod”.
How did he know?
“Infact” he continued “I reckon it’s a flatfish, and a good one too!”
He continued working the beast towards the beach in silence until, finally, he drew it onto the shore rippling over the wet stones like the waves from which it had come. It was a Dover sole and Dad was right, this was a good fish. I stepped forward to unhook the sole and deliver it to my Father. It would make a wonderful meal. Dad despatched the creature swiftly and buried it in the wet shingle to collect later.

We fished on. A pouting each, a channel whiting for me, delicious to eat, but this fellow was too small so I returned him to the sea. Dad got a mighty bite and for a moment we both dreamed of cod, but the beast had other ambitions and the hook was retrieved with neither fish nor worm.

My father reached into the bait bag and withdrew the newspaper roll which held the lugworm. Opening the package by the light of our lantern my dad found only the wizened tail of the last of the lug. He threaded the black fleshy morsel onto his line. “Last cast for tonight, there’s no more bait”.
Down by the waters edge Dad’s second rod bent sharply towards the waves and in a moment he was on it. He struck hard and I watched with fingers crossed for the nod that would indicate that he was fighting a fish. There it was, just a flick of the head then he returned to the task, heaving, laughing, winding and panting in equal measure while at the other end of his line ten, fifteen maybe twenty pounds of muscle and sinew fought for its very life. A big cod is a powerful beast, but its mouth is soft and the angler must be crafty. Rush to retrieve the prey and you will surely lose it, relax the tension between yourself and your adversary and the cod will free itself, and so my father worked patiently, allowing the creature to run when it demanded, but always forcing it to earn every yard of line drawn from the reel. As the cod tired he began to recover line and soon the beast was within twenty yards. Dad paused to await a suitable wave upon which he could surf his fish ashore.
“Here we go, here we……”
The wave rolled in, but Dad’s line was slack and the fish was gone. Dad was sanguine about his loss.
“Oh well at least he’ll be there for someone else to catch……might even grow bigger in the meantime eh!” but the night could not end on such a moment of frustration. “I’ll tell you what, you see that tilley lamp along the beach? Well, here’s five bob, go and ask the bloke fishing there if he can sell you a few lug.”

I set off along the shingle strand.
Walking on stones is laborious and the twinkling light in the distance seemed so far off. Soon the trudge was automatic, my head down for fear of seeing the tilley lamp no closer. As I approached I could discern the angler. A man, tall and muscular, aged about thirty years. He stood beside his lantern preparing a hand rolled cigarette. He lit the cigarette and threw down the match as I entered the pale extremities of his patch of green light.
“Hey mister!” I called, he squinted through a cloud of tobacco smoke into my half darkness. “My Dad and me have run out of lug, can you give us some?”
The cigarette still clamped between his lips the man laughed, jets of smoke bursting from the corners of his mouth. The angler removed his cigarette and fixed me in the gloom.
“Listen kid, there’s cod coming ashore all along here tonight and with a bit of luck I might even get one myself. So why don’t you and your dad do us all a favour and call it a night!”
I tried again “Oh go on mister, I’ve got five bob!”
The man picked a pebble from the beach which he tossed so that it fell with a thud about a yard in front of where I stood “I told you to clear off, now get out of it!”
I turned and stepped down towards the waters edge for the long return and it was in that moment that providence cracked one of her precious, and on this occasion slightly wicked, smiles.

For the codfish is a voracious feeder and in those times vast shoals of little ‘bait fish’ would accumulate just off shore avoiding their fate, but anticipating it all the same. The cod, reluctant to enter the shallows would patrol the edge of the bait shoals picking off the unwary and occasionally plunging in when a rolling wave increased the draught.

The wave was bigger than those that preceded it. Enhanced by some random consequence of nature it rolled towards me. I could see its swell, its curl, and a little quiff of foam along the leading edge, but more than this, I could see into it, through it. Emerald near the crest and deepest lapis in the trough. It broke in a cascade of silvery sprats and rushed forward over my boots. As the wave drained back towards the sea I saw the cod maybe three yards away and illuminated softly by the residual edges of the tilley lamp pool. Seven pounds in weight, flecked with spots of ochre, canary and tan upon a base of battle ship grey, it was flapping furiously seeking the receding water. I rushed forwards scattering stones and wriggling sprats. The next wave was about to break as I placed my fingers under its gills and lifted the cod high. Icy seawater rushed around my knees and filled my wellingtons. I staggered to keep my balance as the wave retreated and soon I was clear of the foam with my prize in my hands. The angler’s cigarette fell from his hand, his mouth agape as I raised the flapping cod with a triumphal smile before setting off along the strand and back to my father.
Back at his rod my father was focussed still upon his final cast with the shrivelled worm tail “Well young ‘un, how did you get on?” I stepped into the light with my hands behind my back. Dad looked across to me
“No luck eh? Miserable buggers, fishermen! Still we’ve got the sole, and we’ve had some tiddlers so I suppose that old fox was a good omen eh?”
“Yes Dad” I replied revealing my cod
“He got his rabbit supper and we can have cod and chips”.