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The Jacks and Sprats Pantomime

Vermin (aka Gareth)

The last Sunday of the 1999-2000 season, was spent on the Ten Mile Bank in pursuit of Pike and Zander.  This was to be the last session of my first ever winter predator campaign.  To make it even better, my 12 year old son also wanted to come along on his first ever predator fishing outing.  However the kit available was limited to the one specimen rod and one spincasting rod that I owned.  A 2 3/4lb TC Daiwa vulcan X with a regal Z reel, and a 22 year old Daiwa 6 foot spincasting combo set which I had purchased mail order from the states in 1978.  Not to be daunted we decided to spend 1/2 an hour each on either set-up, and then swap over.  The Vulcan was set up with a dead bait, float ledger style and cast halfway across the river into a trench, possibly caused by the recent dredging.  Which was about 20 feet deep and is about 3-4 feet deeper than the rest over the river.  This trench had produced 8 pike from 4lbs to 17lbs and a solitary Zander of about 3lbs for me a couple of weeks earlier.  

Due to a run on dead baits, my local tackle shops had run out, and I was restricted to purchasing the last pound of Sprats from the market fishmongers the day before this session.  The spincaster was set up with its closed face reel loaded with 8lbs b.s. line, an 8 inch spinning trace and a 4 inch floating diver.  

The plan was to use this set up in the margins and along the nearside shelf.  It was one of those warm, bright spring mornings.  With just a slight hint of a breeze.  As we approached the swim to be fished, a cormorant popped up and swallowed a small silver fish.  Just where I wanted to cast my dead bait.  A good sign as far as this session was concerned.  I have caught several Pike by following Cormorants and casting to where they pop up.  Out went the dead bait, dropping right on the money.  Then I tackled up the spincaster.   Just before I had completed the task, a movement in the water caught my eye.  A couple of yards out a shoal of 8-10, 3oz Perch swam by,  working the margin for fry.  But best of all a Jack of about 3lbs was slowly but steadily shadowing the Perch.  A job for the spincaster thinks I.  Off comes the floating diver and on went a 4 inch Banjo minnow.  By now the Perch have moved on but the Jack has taken up station by some withered lilles, 2 feet deep in 6 feet of water.   

My son decided (wisely) to move about 25 yards up stream and have a few casts with the spincaster, to familiarise himself with the combos action.  10 minutes later and the Jack is still on station.  I am thinking great.   A manageable sized fish which he can see stationed 5 yards down stream of his casting position "Go for it " I told him.  Half a dozen casts later and the Jack has not moved.  Even when the minnow had been dropped less than a foot from its nose.  Result, one totally dejected 12 year old and I had still not had a take on the dead bait rig. 

"Dad! is there anyway I can get this fish to take?" 

asks the boy.  A quick foray into my tackle box turns up 1oz polystyrene sea float, a drilled bullet, and a very old 1/0 long liners hook.  5 minutes later and the spincaster is rigged with a dorsal hooked suspended Sprat, the 1/0 hook clipped to the spinning trace and set to about 3 feet deep. 

"Cast it just in front of you and allow the flow to take it to the Jack" 

I said, "Hold it just in front of him for about a minute and if nothing happens twitch it back to you."

In Goes the bait, it drifts down stream steadily and is held back. "twitch it" I shout.  The Jack gently drifts off station a short distance and with a small swirl is gone.  Next second there is a loud wet slap followed by a very large splash. 

"Bugger! he's fallen in!" 

I think as I turn my attention from my float.  Only to see the boy holding onto the rod with both hands with tip pointing directly at the water, line stripping from the reels star drag at an alarming rate and the float tearing about all over the place.  Upstream, down stream and across to the middle of the river.  So fast it is unreal, the taut line singing its way through the scales and climbing up the octaves.  I look again and notice that his elbow is wedged into his waist, one hand one the rods handle, the second half way up the 6 foot fibre glass blank.  His torso is being pulled down and he is loosing his footing. 

"Get that ####ing rod tip up, or you'll loose it" 

I shout.  Then I realise that this fish is the one who is really in charge here and my son is just not strong enough to cope with the situation.  I manage to get my left hand onto the rods blank and allow my son to recover enough to get his right hand onto the reels handle.  By now 60-70 yards of line have been stripped from a reel that only holds 90 yards.  Desperate thoughts of the line running out flash through my mind. Then fortunately the fish turns and starts to run towards us. Unceremoniously, I pull the rod from my sons hands and take over.  I get the opportunity to gain some line and to tighten up the reels star drag.  I make contact with fish again about 8 yards out.  It changes direction several times but neither the fish or I gain any ground.  This continues for about a minute, then I feel the fish slow up and pull into a dive.  There is a loud twang, a very loud twang as the line snaps at the reels pickup pin.  I watch in slow motion the broken end of the line flow through the rod rings and off the tip of the rod.  

Totally dejected I drag my feet back to my chair, under a stream of foul curses and oaths from my 12 year old son.  I sit down, roll a cigarette and smoke, whilst worrying about leaving a hook and a trace in a fish that is possibly the largest fish that either of us has encountered.  To rub salt into my wounded ego, the float is calmly bobbing next to the original set of lilies.  Just out of recovery range.  During the next half an hour, I re-rigged the floating diver and recast the dead bait.  I watch a couple of motor cruisers chug up the river and wave back to the attractive young woman in the stern of the second one. 

Then two canoeists gently glide past my float ledger rig.  "S'cuse me mate " I shout, 

"Could you bring my lost float in for me?" 

to which the eldest canoeist obliged.  Picking up the float, he informs me that there is still line attached.  

"Bring that in to" I shout  

"I'll take it home with me and bin it."  

There is a gently tug on the line as it is gathered up by the canoeist who very loudly, informs me that there is still a fish attached. 

"No problem" I say, 

"Just wrap it around your paddle, pass it over and I will play it off that."

The events that occurred during the next couple of minutes will stay with me until I die. The canoe took off, broadside on, up stream for 20-30 yards. The canoeist rocked violently from side to side.  Almost capsizing twice.  The canoe stops broadside on to the flow.  4 or 5 loud hollow thumps sound across the river, the canoeist's complexion turns white, and he remembers that adrenaline is brown in colour and smells of the sticky stuff occasionally found on the soles of your shoes.  

The fish had turned around and was attacking the canoe.  Our friend then drops his paddle and using his hands as oars, strikes out for the bank. Whist rather vocally exclaiming that if he had known that fish of that size swam in the river, he would not have taken up canoeing! 

Meanwhile his friend had collected the discarded paddle, complete with float and line, only to find that the fish had gone.  At the same time another angler was crossing the bank behind us and had witnessed the whole pantomime.  Unfortunately his fit of laughter overcame his sense of balance.  He came tumbling down the slope in an ever increasing scattering of curses, limbs and fishing tackle.  After regaining his composure and gathering his fishing tackle with a little help from my son and me.  He then walks 75 yards or so up stream and rigs up two dead baiting rods for the resident Pike populations benefit.  During the next hour or so I manage to land a Jack of around 4lbs.  While I am returning this fish back to the water, I notice that my neighbour's rod has a good bend in it and is bucking steadily in his hands.  2 minutes later and a 32lbs 12oz catfish is gracing his landing net.  When removing his snap tackle from the catfish, he also notices a short wire trace connected to a 1/0 long liners hook dangling from the corner of its mouth.  The hook and trace were returned to my son and I felt a great weight lift from my soul, due to snapped off tackle not being left in at least one fish. 

If any of you doubt the truth of this story, both my son and I will be participating at the Suffolk water park fish-in during May 2001.  Any doubters will be allowed to administer the premium lager truth serum to me afterwards. So that the story may be confirmed.