The peerless pier

[rememory]

There was only one place to be if you were serious about fishing. Fishing-with-a-fishing-rod type of fishing, I mean, not Grown-up fishing with a boat and nets.<br><br>Strung out in clusters along the pier jutting onto the lake, we dangled our nylon lines down into the water, watched the slippery, silvery shadows swim past untempted and uncaught into the black shade of the jetty. Patiently we attached the wriggling worms to our silvery hooks, endlessly we cast our lines.<br><br>It didn't really matter whether we were there with a bamboo stick and makeshift nylon line or snazzy rod with spinning handle. The fish generally ignored both with serene unprejudice and democratic impartiality. We in turn ignored their ignorance, and saved up our pocket monies to invest in bigger, better, snazzier rods. The sort which whooshed impressively when you cast the line into the water, and set the float bobbing far away.<br><br>Our eyes were on our floats, and on those of our friends. Any tell-tale dip, and we would be there, yodelling encouragement, craning our necks to be the first to see the catch as it shimmered, writhing, into the air.<br><br>Envious oohs and ahhs would greet the fortunate fisherman, and we would crowd round the pail of water to watch the new catch swimming in its prison, before returning to our own lines and awaiting a Tug.<br><br>Our catches, of course, were always bigger in the water than they were on our hooks, but that was unimportant. Nor were we bothered by the fact that these were the sort of small, bony, not-terribly-tasty fish which we would have turned our noses up had our mothers served them up for dinner. <br>For we were fishermen, leaning over the pier railings, companionably calling, reeling in our prizes. <br>Taking them home to be cooked and eaten was a matter of honour and pride.<br><br>And then at home, over our home-caught dinner, we would regale our parents with our heroic deeds.<br>I would describe my special corner of the pier, the one with a broken tile at the edge, and tell of that last, special, cast, which combined so magically with the waves and the wind and the shadows and the worm to trick the fish into biting. I would recount that breath-stopping moment as the float dipped, reappeared, and sank again, the tug of the line as I pulled it in, the moment of truth as the fish came clear of the water and was revealed.<br><br>I did not mention the tang of the breeze as it ruffled my hair, or the slap-slap of the waves patting the green-coated stilts on which the jetty rested. But those were there in the taste, colouring my memories, and breathing life into my triumph. <br><br>And Mummy, who had been treated to similar tales every time I returned victorious, would make appropriate sounds of being impressed, and would understandingly and appreciatively.<br><br>And perhaps her was also for the remembered sight of a dozen children, absorbed in their tasks, silhouetted pillars on that peerless pier, bristling rods out over the lake in the afternoon sun.<br><br> <br><br>Submit your Fishing Adventure Stories to win great prizes at ReMemory.Com