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The Water Under the Bridge

Geoff Maynard

The sun had set and a slight chill was in the air. The full moon was rising over the Spanish mountains, it's eerie light reflecting across the lake. Half a mile behind us and over to our right, the lights of Mequinenza lit the twilight. The gentle lap of the water against the side of the boat was the only sound to be heard. The slow current eased us closer to the dark bulk of the bridge which straddled the lake ahead of us. I put down the rod I was holding and glanced at my watch. Five to eight. Angling being prohibited from midnight until 6 am meant that we had just another three hours of fishing time left.

My fishing partner on this trip to the Spanish Ebro was the freshwater ecologist, Dr Paul Garner - almost half my age and with twice my angling ability, according to my 'friends'! Paul and I had met once or twice but knew each other quite well from our e-mail correspondence on the Internet. During the past 18 months, whilst I had been setting up the UK Fishing World web-site, Paul Garner had won both the Angling Masters Championship and a regular weekly page in the Anglers Mail. He was good. Very good. He certainly knew how to catch baitfish - I had struggled for two bites while Paul had landed eight 2lb carp. None of these were what I considered to be of a good baitfish size but we had to make do as the only alternative baits that we could catch were bleak. But secretly I wondered how he would cope if we hooked a real biggun. I was soon to find out.

We had worked very hard at our fishing all week, but with one more day to go, we had only two catfish to our credit. At 34lb and 36lb, these were small fish by Ebro standards. As the week progressed so the catch rate on the entire venue had dropped. Everyone fishing both the lake and the river that fed it was getting fewer and fewer fish as the full moon grew nearer. My theory was that fishing for catfish on a full moon would not be a very profitable exercise, and that the only real chance we had was in the black shadowed water under the bridge. Paul humoured me. With no scientific proof to back up my theories they would, in his mind, remain just that. Unproven theories.

I struggled into the warm jacket which I was now glad that I had brought along, watching Paul retrieve his bait. He swung it aboard and checked that all was in order. As usual it was - unlike mine, which seemed to come back tangled after every other cast. He stood as the boat edged ever nearer to the bridge's shadow and steadied himself against the slight rocking. Silhouetted against the night sky, he cast with a gentle smooth action. The end tackle flew out and into the darkness of the shadow. Paul grunted in dissatisfaction, the cast had not quite landed exactly where he wanted it so he began to reel in. Near enough is not good enough for the likes of Paul Garner.

The boat swung around in the current as we entered the blackness of the bridge's shadow and the water became as ink. A car thundered over the bridge above us, it's headlights glaring. As the roar of it's engine died away, the inky blackness of the water suddenly came to life, reflecting moonlight in ripples where there should be none. Paul swung around, his back now facing me and I heard a grunt. "Hello, we're in", came his short deep nasal words. In an instant the atmosphere changed from peaceful solitude to electric tension. His back was still facing me. "Zander?", I asked cautiously, for we had had several zander takes that day. "Er..?.. Oooh! No. Cat!" came the terse reply, then "Blimey!". The boat was whisked around on its axis as the fish powered away up-current, and I saw for the first time the bent rod performing a dramatic arc against the night sky.

The tension exploded into a maelstrom of activity as I attempted to reel in the other rods. Then, "Geoff, quick! Start the motor. It's going around the bridge!". In the moonlight the white braided line was clearly visible cutting through the surface of the water. The fish was indeed heading for one of the bridge supports and was almost there. If it reached it, it could cut the line against the sharp concrete. Dropping the rods in a tangled heap I leapt to the other end of the boat and powered up the engine. I slammed the outboard into gear, the sudden acceleration knocking Paul off balance in the process. I grimaced. "Sorry", I said as he regained his footing. He didn't acknowledge me - he hadn't even noticed! The bow lifted and we surged around and under the bridge support at maximum thrust. The fish was ready for us, and before the boat had got halfway under, it had doubled back around the pillar heading downstream again. "Sh*t! It did it again" came Paul's anguished cry from the prow. I had overshot the bridge in my hurry to follow the fish and was not ready for this quick about turn. The thought instantly entered my mind that this fish had performed this manoeuvre before, perhaps many times. I took being outsmarted by a fish as a personal insult. "No you don't" I muttered, "not this time". I narrowed my eyes, cursing, and swung the boat again to follow the point where the line was cutting through the water. I whacked on the power again but this time for just a short three second burst, heaving the bucking craft around the bridge pillar into a sharp left hand turn. I could not see where the fish had gone, but all my instincts told me to get around that pillar, and quickly. I was right. The catfish on the end of Paul's line was no fool. Three times it circumnavigated the twenty foot pillar, and each time we followed it, half a pillar behind. The line was rasping around two of the four corners of the pillar the whole time. Christ, this fish was smart! Then, without warning, we were clear. The boat being pulled steadily downstream. Paul standing in the prow, silhouetted against the stars, the 5lb TC rod at maximum curve. I cut the engine. The line was hissing through the surface, the reel's clutch clicking steadily. The power of this fish was incredible. All at once it seemed that the combination of that ridiculously powerful rod and the 50lb braided line was as nothing. We were attached to a train by a piece of cotton, being towed steadily down the lake into unknown territory. We had not explored this part of the lake before and we knew nothing about it. Not the depth, positions of the snags - half the lake is a sunken forest for Chrissake - nothing. This was the world of the catfish. A dark, watery void where it was king and ruler. And we were trespassing.

A fast whine interrupted my thoughts. The reel on one of the discarded rods was losing line rapidly, having tangled itself around the bridge pillar, now fifty feet behind us. We were tied to the bridge behind and to the catfish ahead. I searched rapidly for my lighter to try and burn through the line - my knife was in my tackle bag at the other end of the boat. No need to worry. The baitrunner had stopped turning, the line had already cut through itself on the bridge pillar. I turned my attention back to the fight. Paul was standing up in the prow, the rod doubled over, the line now going straight down into the depths below the boat. The reel still clicked steadily away, stopping only when Paul attempted to pump some line back. He looked back at me and we spoke coherently to each other for the first time in fifteen minutes. "This is got to be a biggie" said he, his eyes gleaming as he made the quiet understatement of the century.

The next thirty minutes were all Paul's. I could do nothing to assist him as the huge catfish towed us slowly but deliberately down the lake. After tidying the ruins in the boat, I could only lean back against the silent outboard and chain-smoke, watching the man in the prow battle against the unseen monster that was only 30 feet away, and 10 feet down. The town and bridge lights had long since vanished behind us, leaving us illuminated by only the full moon and the stars. On either side of the boat, black skeletal shapes of half submerged trees appeared frighteningly out of the water. Snags. We held our breath as the catfish towed us straight past them and continued into the open water. Lucky or what! The fight went on. And on. It was a time of magic that neither of us will ever forget. Every ten minutes I called the time to Paul, until after what seemed an eternity but was in fact only fifty minutes, the fish had tired. Not a lot, but enough for us to start wondering what to do now. This fish was bigger and more powerful than either of us had ever before seen. Our huge catfish landing net, which could fit a five foot long fish with room to spare was obviously pitifully inadequate.

Gloving the fish was the normal alternative to the landing net. This would mean bringing it to the side of the boat, lifting its head out of the water and grabbing it by it's bottom jaw. Hmm. Normally not a big problem. But I was loath to try it on this particular fish. I was wary of befalling the same fate as another angling friend, who only a few days earlier had managed to get a hook transferred to his hand as he attempted to glove a fish. My main worry was that a repeat of that performance could cause us to lose the monster on the end of Paul's line. Getting a hole in my hand from a 4/0 hook didn't even occur to me.

Or there was the gaff. I had brought along the gaff as a kind of half-joke to show to Paul. We never thought for a moment that we would need it - indeed we were both of the opinion that such implements were cruel and unnecessary. I held the gaff aloft and provided some logic. "This is a 3/16 inch diameter hook. The hole that it would make in the mouth of the catfish on the end of your line would be about the same as a size 14 in the mouth of a 4oz roach". Dr Paul Garner is probably the most highly qualified fish ecology expert in angling today. He has a scientific mind which is easily swayed by logic and rarely confused by bullshit. He saw my point instantly. He nodded quickly. "Okay. But just don't stuff it up".

The fish just wouldn't tire. A quarter of a mile downstream of the bridge, it came to the surface at last and Paul leaned back to lift it's head. I knelt holding the gaff at the ready. The moonlight played down on the black water where the line cut vertically into it. I was now wearing a headlight torch and switched it on as the disturbance in the surface became more apparent. The vision in the torch beam left us speechless. Five foot away was the alien's head. It was tremendous, exhilarating, powerful and totally mesmerising! It hung there for a few seconds before submerging again into the black inky depths. I looked around at Paul and we caught each others gaze. We swore, in unison, those same words that every child gets a slap for repeating. That breathtaking moment will stay with us both forever.

Back in the water, once again the giant's head had materialised with it's mouth partially open, this time only a foot from the boat. I saw my chance. Deftly I brought the gaff to bear. In one fell swoop I thrust the hook into the giant maw, twisted the point 90 degrees downwards and heaved backwards. The giant catfish just shook it's head in denial. The water erupted violently and I fell back soaked, still holding the gaff. But it was a gaff no longer. Incredibly, the tempered steel, chrome plated head of the gaff had straightened! Fortunately the fish was still attached to the buckling rod. Paul and I looked at each other aghast, in total shock. One of us, I'm not sure which, voiced our disbelief. "It straightened the bloody gaff! I don't believe it!".

Our options were cut down to one. We would glove it. I donned the neoprene divers gloves and looked determined. The next time that the huge cat lifted its head I was waiting for it. Without any delay I thrust both rubber clad hands into its smiling face and gripped tightly onto its bottom jaw. I had it! I looked down at the fish. The fish looked up at me. I gritted my teeth and heaved with all my strength. I couldn't budge it. Paul saw what was happening and dropped the rod. His ungloved hands joined mine, just in time, as my back gave out. Together we heaved and I gave a yell of pain. That was it. My back had gone right out! Damn that old car accident! I crawled to the back of the boat in agony and turned my head in time to see Paul make a final stupendous effort of lifting the dead weight of the fish up and into the boat. We had her!

All that night I lay awake in the tiny hotel room listening to Paul snoring away in the next bed. The combination of my injured back and the excitement of catching that huge fish was almost too much to bear. We had left the great catfish tied to the boat. A rope passed through it's mouth, out of it's gill and tied to the boat at it's mooring. When I tied up that boat, I have never tied a more secure knot. As the night wore on I relived the fight time and time again, until at long last oblivion overtook me.

The next morning we weighed the fish on a set of 200lb scales, supplied by our German friends in the village, before photographing it and setting it free. The fish was enormous. So big, in fact, that even the two of us combined were unable to lift it completely clear of the water for the clicking cameras. Over seven foot in length and weighing in at 143lb. The third largest catfish ever caught by a British angler. The biggest catfish that I have ever seen and Paul's personal best by a margin of over 100lb. And as for my full moon theory? - well, as the doctor says, "There is still no real proof, it's just a theory". There's no pleasing some people is there?