tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30402349047817679572024-03-05T06:28:18.243-08:00Tails from the Fishmurphyfishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03382223977388631947noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040234904781767957.post-51659771941692068102010-12-12T06:31:00.000-08:002010-12-12T06:56:51.744-08:00Maili’s Story – The River (part III)<div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Maili lifted his head, a feral fire burning in his eyes. All he had ever known in his short life was the metallic smell of the cages, the incessant glare of the false suns, and the iron scent of blood. His only relief and hope through his living nightmare had been the stories his mother crooned to him as he shivered at her side, stories of hunting along the shores of prey filled lakes, of sleeping beneath stars, stories of sun kissed summers and ice covered winters, stories of hope, love and of freedom. His fitful sleeps had been filled with visions that his mothers songs had brought to life, visions of a life far away from the cages, a life of danger but also of joy. Then in a twist of fate Maili and his mother, along with several of the others, had been snatched from the cages. Not by the chemical smelling white skinned devils that daily took his brethren from their steel prisons leaving the others shivering in fear together, paralysed by the screams of the dying and the stench of blood and offal. No, these were different; clumsier, silent and nervous and their skins were a patchwork of greens and browns, their scent spoke of stale sweat, smoke, fear, excitement and of anger. Fear and terror had pushed the memory of the following events from Maili’s mind; his next recollection had been of waking in the cold, autumn frost kissed ditch, of hunger and the unsuccessful hunt which had led to the terrifying encounter with the monstrous form from the rivers depths.</span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now dragged from his sparse retreat, he lay in front of these two loathsome creatures, whose first words had dismissed him as bait. Emotion that he’d never before experienced coursed through his frail, undernourished body. He’d felt fear and love before, even hopelessness in his short life, but this emotion burnt inside like molten rocks; rage. Rage at being torn from his mother, rage that he’d gained his freedom only for freedom to be much worse than the cages, rage that his mother’s songs had been lies; there was nothing good about the outside, rage that the first words since beginning upon this terrifying journey addressed him as bait. “Bait?” he screamed at the two before him, “bait?” he spat out with all the rage and frustration that had built up inside of him. “I am Maili, son of Ciqala, from the Clan beside the lake, and I am no bait no I am a hunter and I will die here defying you both before you hurl my soul to that monster within the river”.</span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Faced with the creature's wrath in front of him Bree edged backwards, what had been a limp, almost lifeless, creature had transformed before him into a flame eyed beast and doubt filled Bree’s young mind. He glanced up at Finna for reassurance, her features took him back almost as much as the creatures rage, for the first time since his sister had been taken there was a twinkle of something nearing amusement in her eyes. “Can you walk, Maili son of Ciqala? If so then follow us, if you wish to eat that is”. With this Finna turned and fluently disappeared into the tall rushes that edged the river bank, Bree, after glancing once more at Maili scurried after her, swiftly disappearing into the rushes. Maili stood rooted to the spot, confusion and surprise now smothering the rage. As the rage left him so did what little strength it had given him and his body began to tremble. Had these two just been a vision whilst he slept?, if real how could they have disappeared so quietly without a trace to show? or if real what new dangers did they offer to him? As his doubt held him back Bree’s head once more appeared in front of him, “come on, it’s not far”. This time Bree waited until Maili took faltering steps towards him, he could see that the creature was all but finished and wondered where it had got the inner strength from to defy them moments before. Bree eased alongside the creature gently supporting its frail, bony frame. Together they followed the old water vole track through the rushes. Sometimes pushing, sometimes gently dragging, Bree gradually eased his new found charge along the narrow, semi tunneled pathway. Maili took scant notice of his surroundings or companion, too tired to care or resist anymore, he could no more than drag one foot at a time in front of each other, without the solid form of the one beside him he’d have sunk to the floor, an open invitation for any passing beast to render and feast upon, although his burnt out body would have offered no more than the scantest morsel for anything larger than a rat. </span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Half stumbling, half dragged the forlorn creature was coerced into a rough, high water formed, bowl under the roots of a bank side tree. His vision now swimming as consciousness drifts away he collapses to the floor, his last recollection before blackness takes over were the softly spoken words “ah food…..”</span></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZPVFjM6zctvuPcYPDWQqDsN9o0Hq4oDGkQxemO1Sg-cvbG66ASVccmduu-7dT7qw_DGM-agcNMTR0m7UIfESWKju8qVdvszmfB2wpkPNeGX9lN8N02MOoXrUVVaRiC1b74z4XScVgEQ/s1600/2010_1020FujiPics0024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvZPVFjM6zctvuPcYPDWQqDsN9o0Hq4oDGkQxemO1Sg-cvbG66ASVccmduu-7dT7qw_DGM-agcNMTR0m7UIfESWKju8qVdvszmfB2wpkPNeGX9lN8N02MOoXrUVVaRiC1b74z4XScVgEQ/s640/2010_1020FujiPics0024.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>murphyfishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03382223977388631947noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040234904781767957.post-51126318582465478402010-08-05T09:01:00.001-07:002010-08-06T04:22:12.653-07:00Maili’s Story – The River (part II)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></span> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Darkness descended upon the river, here far from the lights of human dwellings and with no moon a million stars could be seen brightly twinkling in the sky on this cloudless night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There was little sign of the surface disturbance that the pike had caused whilst seizing its prey from the depths. The ripples had dispersed and had been smoothed away by the rivers flow, the tench had bolted to the thickest parts of the far reed bed only to emerge cautiously their greed overcoming caution, the roach had careered madly downstream using the waters speed to aid their panicked escape and now clustered tightly together ignoring the last fall of cold smitten insects upon the river’s surface and of the perch there was no sign at all. Only a solitary feather, held by surface tension against the fallen willows trunk showed that there had been a moorhen there moments before. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">From the tangled roots of the willow two fearful eyes peered out at the surface of the water. Maili could not comprehend what had happened when, with smooth, silent, strokes he was closing in upon the bird a feeling of dread enveloped him causing him to float paralysed with fear on the water’s surface, before his eyes the river exploded from below and all he glimpsed was the mottled flank of something huge. The initial wave had thrown him against the roots of the willow where instinct had one again kicked in making him scramble and push his small body as far into the root ball as it would go. Here he stayed as darkness settled its cloak upon the river, fearful almost to breath lest the leviathan from the depths should come tearing through the roots to rend his flesh. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The pale rays of the autumnal sun slowly drove away the darkness and chill of the night air. Jack Frost’s carpet of white powder was slowly melting away in all but the deeper holes where the sun had yet to kiss warmly. The last of the night’s predators had finally slinked away to their dark abodes, cursing the loss of the night’s mantle and the advantage that it gave to them. The rooks, after much noisy ceremony, took raucous flight and headed away from their parliament in the hope of finding easy pickings left by the night hunters.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Along the river bank it would yet be some hours before the sun warmed the sufficiently for the many grounded insects to take lazy flight. Under the surface the solid tench slowly made their way back to cover of the reed beds to wait for the sun to be high enough to bask in, the perch returned to hover in their look out station prepared to rush upon unwary victims that were small enough to fit in their over sized mouths.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Finna the otter bitch climbed onto the old willow trunk noiselessly from the water followed by her one remaining cub, Bree. Now eight months old Bree could sense and share in his mother’s shame, rage and deep calling for the fire of revenge as they gazed down upon the pikes retreat. It had been four turns of the moon since the family of three had entered the river at this very point to chase the glittering shoals of sleek roach that looked so enticing upon the river’s surface. But terror had struck lightening fast and would be hunters were now nothing more than prey. Now just the two of them remained, Bree’s sister lost to the sudden rush and gaping maw of the colossal monster from beneath the willow’s trunk, her name not uttered as was their tradition. It was the first time that Finna had returned here not trusting in Bree’s youthful playfulness to overcome the need for stealth until now. Last evening they had watched the drama unfurl from the far bank the unknown Cailean entering the water just a length from their hiding spot, unaware of the watchers. They took in all of the action, the bird’s doomed move to the river, the Cailean’s clumsy approach and the erupting pike’s strike. Now Bree moved swiftly to Maili’s spot of refuge dragging the half comatose and wretched creature before the burning eyes of his mother. Maili looked up fearfully as Finna uttered the first words that another creature spoke to him since being parted so ruthlessly from his mother; “ah we have the bait for the trap”…..</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>murphyfishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03382223977388631947noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040234904781767957.post-52679651843266440952010-06-02T08:46:00.000-07:002010-06-03T08:40:15.439-07:00Maili’s Story – The River (part I)<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As Maili lowered his head and drifted into semi conciseness once more, the smell of the autumnal air brought forth more memories from his past, not the pain and terror of the cages but of a brush with death that proved ,at the time, no less terrifying for the then young cub;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The late evening’s autumnal sun, dappled by the browning leaves of bank side willow trees, tipped the ripples of the river’s surface with its watery bronze light. The mild autumn air had not yet succumbed to the icy fingers of Jack Frost, although if anyone had been there to taste twilight’s breath they would have been sure that old Jack would soon be dusting the ground and what few lingering leaves remained with his softly shimmering carpet of white, translucent powder. With daylight rapidly retreating many of the riverside creatures were making hasty retreats to safe havens away from the night eyed vision and keen noses of the nocturnal predators presently to be stirring. Soon, even the raucous calls of the rooks would be subdued by the encroaching dusk as they welcomed the last of the parliament to their sanctuary, high in the distant chestnut trees.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The smooth surface of the river belied its depth and strength as at this point in its journey it now began to widen and meander seeking the sea to which it was forever drawn. As it left the forested hills and spread onto the flat pastureland below, the river, fed by countless mountain streams and tributaries, had acquired immense and unrelenting volume and power. Only the inner banks of the meanders provided enough footholds to allow aquatic vegetation to grow dense enough to provide a place of shelter, or of ambush, for the river’s many inhabitants. Felled by high winds when its root system became exposed during the massive rain storms of some ten years ago, the great trunk of an ancient willow cut across the apex of one of the meanders. The trunk’s anchor to the abrupt bank side was now decayed and it would not be many more seasons before the river, heavy during flood, would take what remained of it to the sea. But for now the dead willow providing asylum for all manner of the river’s inhabitants, from startled shoals of fry to innumerable invertebrates, from resting water fowl to stealthy assassins, all sheltering from the river and from each other. The barren river bed and its outer curves, where the racing water made it naught but impossible for even the most tenacious of plant life to grasp a hold, were inhospitable areas ignored by all but the strongest and most determined of creatures. These underwater deserts offered little relief to the small, unwary or feeble, with only the occasional smoothed rock outcrop, bank side eddy or discarded piece of man made debris providing the smallest of oasis’s for those creatures ill-fated enough to be swept from stronger cover. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Shoals of sleek roach kissed at the surface, taking unfortunate insects which had succumbed to the faltering evening temperature, their silver flanks, touched with a hint of gold, flashing like mirrors catching the waning sun from afar as they rolled over with their catch. Several dark olive green tench, just a little more visible than specters in the more gloomy light near the river bed, shouldered aside the thinning reads as they cruised unhurriedly out of cover to scour over the mud and detritus of the river bed. Powerful enough to ignore the rivers current they slowly made their way back and forth disturbing clouds of silt as they rummaged, nose down and powerful tail up, searching for the wealth of food just below the mud’s surface from small crustaceans and invertebrates to decaying seeds and berries dropped from trees overhanging the river’s edge. A shoal of small perch crashed through the few lifeless remaining branches of the fallen willow intent on nothing but the swarm of fry they’d surprised moments earlier. Their sergeant major’s stripes giving them the perfect camouflage whilst they hovered in the reeds in the failing light awaiting their prey to show themselves a little to far from cover. In a few seconds the rout was over and the perch headed back to take station in the reeds near the surface, hidden once more from untrained or unwary eyes. But not all the eyes that watched this tableau of underwater events were untrained, or unwary for that matter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">From within a dark hollow, formed by the arch of the fallen willow tree’s vast trunk, a pair of forward facing eyes pierced the deepening gloom. With no light entering the cave the twenty pound plus fish remained invisible and undetected to the river’s residents. Able to hold her station with only the smallest of rotating fin movements, her eyes followed the tench cruising the silt towards the far bank. To far away for the lunge, they’d be deep in the rushes before she was half the distance to them, no point on wasting energy there then. The dancing roach knew well enough to keep away from that gloomy hollow; in the past several unwary members of the shoal had already disappeared in a sudden, explosive mass of bubbles and blood with none of them truly aware of what had struck. She knew that it would be some time yet before the roach shoal became complacent enough to drift into striking range once more. Her gaze fell upon the shoal of perch hovering overhead, confident that their own stripped camouflage was making them invisible to all. She dismissed them, being too small yet to make the sudden rush of effort profitable. The river seemed devoid of any prey close enough to make her sudden, assassin like, burst of terror worthwhile. Still having not fully regained her weight after the spawning season, the river had not been over fruitful this summer, maybe she’d move on further upstream where abundant vegetation provided more opportunity for the ambush. She waited seemingly unmoving, with no sign of the growing hunger inside which was driving her on, maybe the perch shoal may well become less, she continued her vigil.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maili’s eyes followed the bird from across the wide river as it settled down to roost, thinking itself unobserved within the decayed roots of the willow. It had been several turns of the moon since the day that he’d been dragged from the cages along with others of his kind and thrown into this mad, unfamiliar world. The screams of his mother still reverberated within his ears as she fought to protect him, the unknown smells of beer, cigarettes and diesel, whilst the thundering of the metal monster and the excited chattering of the unwashed, dark clad humans, had assailed his senses and then he’d been falling. When he came to there was no sign of his mother, or of any of the others. It was just him, cold and afraid. He’d stayed motionless for an age, petrified by events that he could never understand. Finally, hunger drove him forth from the roadside ditch and instinct took over and led him to the river. He’d lived for days now on snails, insects and worms, too inexperienced and perhaps to small to be able to provide himself with enough food to survive the coming winter. He’d never known anything but the cage before this moment, but the hunting songs that his mother had crooned to him and an instinct from deep within pushed him on. He’d stopped in awe at his first sight of the river, so vast, foreboding and alive, but it brought forth from depths he never knew existed a feeling that this is where he needed to be if he was to survive at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Instinct gave Maili patience; instead of blindly floundering across the river in a mad rush to seize his prey, he weighed his options. The river was far to swift for him to swim directly to the fallen willow, instinct once again pushed him, this time further upstream to allow the river to work with, instead of against, him. He entered the water for the first time in his short life, at first the river pulled at him, dragging him under to take his breath from him. He burst back to the surface spluttering and cursing, and then struck out, it may have been his first time immersed in water but now he became part of the flow instead of at odds with the current, the river welcomed one of its own. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The shoal of roach sped for the rushes as Maili’s shadow passed overhead and as he angled nearer the willow the perch backed further into cover, this time not trusting to their camouflage to protect them from this new, strange, intruder on the surface. The moorhen felt disquieted and, leaving her roost in the willow, slid into perceived safety of the eddying water along side its trunk. Maili caught the movement of the bird and slid underneath the surface as he neared the tree, hunger giving him the focus and strength to close upon the unwary bird.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">From the hollow below she moved slowly but purposely forward and upwards, the faded light and mottled skin tones now making her invisible to anything from above. Her prey’s limbs slowly pushed the water aside sending her a beacon as clear as the brightest of lights for her to home in on. Slowly she rose from the depths, her muscles tensing for the final burst forward, all her senses locked onto the swimmer above. She plunged forward, backward facing teeth grasping her prey as she exploded through the river’s surface, and then she was gone, the ripples already spreading and thinning, an oily stain dispersing and pulled away by the river…..</span></div>murphyfishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03382223977388631947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040234904781767957.post-44403219533650295782010-03-01T18:16:00.000-08:002010-03-02T03:49:42.927-08:00Maili's story - Memories<span style="font-size: large;">From underneath the stunted gorse bushes which bordered the stony beach a pair of slightly clouded eyes peered out trying to focus upon the movement just on the waters edge. Alert for the moment, should he look to fight or edge back further under cover to avoid detection? Tense seconds passed, his breathing slowing to the barest minimum required to draw oxygen into his old, tired body. For all that he could remember his life had been thus, caught between the need to fight or flight, a constant battle in a land that he still could not bring himself to call home even though his whole waking life had been spent here. The flock of oystercatchers burst as one into the air wheeling away to feed upon the sandbanks in the distant estuary, satisfied that nothing else was encroaching on his resting place, Maili lowered his weary head to his paws and drifted back to his fitful sleep in the pale evenings sun, his mind drifting back to the horrors of his youth and the beginning of the journey which had finally brought him to this place of peace. His feet kicked involuntary as the memories of journey drifted across his mind, memories of great sadness, fear, pain but also of the joy of finally belonging and of knowing that he’d reached the journeys’ end. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He started again, but not because of any noise in the still surrounding air, but because he’d thought he could hear the lullabys that Ciqala, his mother, had crooned to him during the terror of the cages. This was his earliest memory, of blinding light from the overhead false Suns, the soothing warbling of Ciqala as she calmed him from the screams of the ones that had been taken from the cages, never to be seen again. There was never darkness, just the false Suns’ glare and the iron smell of blood seeping from a place out of their sight and comprehension. Once again Maili lowered his head allowing the visions that his mother’s song brought forth wash over him, for the time being chasing the memories of the cages away.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span>murphyfishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03382223977388631947noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3040234904781767957.post-30762391956650465462009-11-22T14:15:00.000-08:002010-06-03T01:23:16.722-07:00Something under the sea<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">So here’s a story from my younger years (much younger), the events happened when I was about eight years old so perhaps my memory has become distorted over the passing of many long years since but this is how I remember the events which took place at the time (Clare says I’m lucky the remember where I left my mug of tea these days!): -</span></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don’t come from a ' great outdoors ' background, more your typical working class family where my mother ran the home and my father worked all the hours god sent at the local cement factory to provide for my sister, brother and yours truly. His one pleasure, when not working in dust, was the training and racing of greyhounds and through these we travelled all over the North of England. The one family holiday was the annual fortnight in a caravan on the isle of Anglesey (Ynys Mon in welsh) in <place st="on">North Wales</place> in a site over looking Traeth Bychan (little beach). Whilst here my brother and I were usually left to our own devices, my brother being four years older usually taking the lead in our adventures. These usually consisted of fishing, rock pool exploration, piracy and general not letting our parents discover the various troubles that we seemed to amass (well they’d only have worried wouldn’t they?).</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was on one of the fishing adventures that this story takes place. We had in our possession a small, plywood built, dinghy I recall being of a type called a Goblin. The boat had been rescued by father on the previous year’s holiday during some unseasonal storms. Over the winter he carefully repaired the damaged side, manufactured a new mast and had my <place st="on">Nan</place> run up a set of sails. So now armed with the ability not just to fish from the rocks my brother and I set forth that summer to plumb the depths of the bay off Traeth Bychan. We'd had a couple of half successful outings that summer holiday with a fare number of flatties (plaice), a couple of codling and three unattended lobster pots (minus any lobster though) as well as the usual beach debris of various shells, skimming pebbles obviously made somewhere like Germany because they were the perfect shape and weight for our small hands, and a couple of shark or ray eggs, which I was told were mermaids purses which, to an impressionable eight year old was just pure magic. The holiday was drawing to its inevitable end when I overheard a couple of holiday anglers talking about conger eel. Well my eyes must have been as big as saucers as I stood rooted to the spot listening to tales of this underwater serpent with its evil dark purple color, the mighty muscles which made it such a fight to land and its jaws filled with row upon row of flesh shredding teeth. A fish to be respected they said, a fish that would test any fisherman’s metal. Mmmmm well now its funny how an idea takes hold of a young mind, now to catch a fish like that would let me, mmm let me, oh I didn't know what it would let me do but I did know that I had to catch this monster. I must have spoken out aloud or maybe it was just the feral gleam that was shining in my eyes but the two fishermen had stopped talking and were looking straight at me "you fish" I was asked, I don't think that I spoke, just nodded dumbly in answer, "well then try for this monster at dusk" the other said smiling, "if you do fish that is" the first man added then they turned back to stowing their boat with the little urchin clearly forgotten. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">But the seed had been sown, off I flew to find Peter, oh yes that's my brothers name, to fill his head with this wonderful notion of beaching a real sea monster. Problem was that Peter was quite a stubborn child in that if he had not thought of a plan then obviously the plan was not worth a pinch of salt because he was the eldest so he was the brightest (yeah right o). I’d learnt that a little gentle persuasion was sometimes needed for him to come around to one of my ideas, even one as brilliant and as adventurous as this. So after cleaning the sand off our clothes, wiping his bloody nose, telling on him for the bite marks in my leg (and arm, the jesse) and having to wash the dishes for fighting again oh and getting a clip off Pops for telling tales, bite marks or not! There was still an impasse, not his idea! I had one last ace to play him with "scared" I said with no little venom (well I’d washed most of the dishes) as I pushed him into some gorse. So the next day after doing dishes again, this time on my own (bless his patchwork legs) we coerced Pops into taking the Goblin to the beach. "It’s a little late" he said "tides’ in just as the lights failing, make sure you’re beached and stowed before then and I’ll be waiting for you on this side of the bay". The thing about Traeth Bychan is that at full tide the sea comes right into the base of the cliffs leaving just a small area of beach at each end of the bay, one with the launching slipway where our camp site adjoined and the other leading to a little more exclusive site (they had wooden holiday homes and proper toilets, not a communal block) not that this has any effect on the tale, just thought that I’d bulk the story up a bit by describing the area a little. We were off, Ahab and Starbuck in search of their monster (little did we know then what waited for us), our harpoons sharpened, ok just a rusty gaff that had obviously not been wanted by the bloke we'd past walking up the beach to get his boat trailer (told you before - piracy) our bait bucket full of fresh lug worm and a couple whole of mackerel, we even had a couple of new weights and wire traces with shiny new hooks for the bottom end, bought by Pops, probably because of the guilt off giving me that undeserved slap, well I did blub loads. But what on earth could have possibly been better than this? Two adventurers skimming across the world’s deepest ocean at a phenomenal rate of knots powered by their 1.5hp Seagull outboard.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">About ten minutes later the intrepid fishermen had reached their destination of the furthest reaches of the known oceans, the other side of the bay. We dropped anchor and started tackling up. Now I did say that this happened an eon ago and is based on a younger memory but I tell you now that I’ve never since seen a patch of water as flat as the bay at Traeth this night. The saying as calm as a mill pond comes to mind but once the small wake made by that little dinghy had died away the sea’s surface was like a sheet of deep turquoise glass with only the gentlest of sounds as the tiny waves slipped onto the beach. It was like the quiet in the film Moby Dick before that knurled, crooked jawed, white leviathan breached from the depths taking Ahab and his crew to Davy Jones’s locker (not that you get many sperm whales off Ynys Mon that is). The moment was not lost upon the two adventure’s as the noiseless air covered them like a blanket, “the mackerel are mine, you can have the lug" spat out Peter, obviously he hadn't got over his nose been bled the day before. Without Pops on hand to settle the possible argument, and the fact that I was yet to learn to swim (to my shame this wasn't to happen for a couple of decades ) I took the obvious course of action, "that’s fine, everybody knows lug's a killer bait for eel" I said greedily reaching for the bucket.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">We lowered our offerings to the sea gods, Peter's bait with one of the two shiny new weights that we had in our spartan selection, and a spark plug holding my flapping piece of mackerel to the sandy bottom (told you I was smart). we were prepared for the inevitable hours of waiting it was going to take to trap our monster and wrestle it from the depths, when after a couple of minutes Pete’s rod gave a tell tale twitch. Wide eyed and frozen we stared at the fiberglass beast tamer hardly daring to breath, again it twitched this time bouncing slightly in the rowlock where it rested, spurred by this latest movement Pete lunged at the rod striking so hard we both ended up on our back sides, "its on, its on" he yelled winding in like demon and sure enough a few minutes later our first monster lay flapping in the bottom of the goblin, "can you eat dogfish?" I asked innocently, "You will in a minute smarty bum" came back the retort. And that’s the way the afternoon drifted by, with each and every twitch of the rods, visions of bauble eyed monsters leapt to my thoughts, of bloody fanged creatures tearing at the side of the boat and wasn't it time that we had a butty and opened the flask of coffee yet? I reached over to nudge Pete on the back to pass the butty box, fare dues he jumped out of his skin; the tension obviously was eating at him as well. "Scared" I mumbled into my spam butty, "You were right about the lug" he quipped (2 dogfish and 3 flatties to my 1 doggy, sometimes being smart is a curse) at this we both started laughing and giggling our feud now forgotten. "Monsters" we yelled "sea dragons" we cried, we were nearly choking our selves with mirth (and relief). "Alright, flatties it is then, give us some strips of them mackerel here and we'll try the baits together", ok he may have had some good ideas after all I’ll admit grudgingly. The afternoon drifted to evening with several flatties in the bilges, no score keeping, and two content explorers stinking of bait and fish guts, full of spam butties and coffee and feeling like brothers again. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">And with the evening light slowly fading something else came into Traeth, it was not the cold that had started nipping at our faces nor the few gulls that watched with dark, greedy eyes from the flat surface surrounding us, hoping for some more fish entrails, it was not even the whisper of the slightest of breezes which had stirred around the bay ,or even the beginning of twilight shadows dancing on the steep cliff faces that evening for all these things were on the sea’s surface or in the air and what came into Traeth was not above the sea. "I’m cold" I whined "and the suns going down", it was time to go, we started to stow our tackle Pete putting it away whilst I pulled up the little anchor on its sodden, slimy rope (yep, second again) I glanced across the bay at Smart’s harbor hoping perhaps to spot Pops waiting on the walls for us to head in, Pete glanced over as well "one day that yacht will be mine" he said pointing at the only boat to big to berth within the harbor breakwater, it was about a twenty eight foot pleasure yacht but to us in our little Goblin it was the Queen Mary. "we could live on that forever and sail to Australia on that" he mused, he was right, with that yacht we'd be the lords of the seven seas, with our scurvy crew to do our bidding ha ha, we sat and stared each dreaming and coming up with new ways we would use our Queen Mary. I must have still been drifting with these dreams when a sharp nudge and a breathless whisper from my brother brought my mind swiftly back into focus; “what’s that in front of the harbor?” he hissed through gritted teeth. I followed the line of his shaking arm; my eyes must have been on stalks as I strained to understand what we were looking at.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Across the other side of the bay, what only could be described as a mound of water was moving at an angle towards the anchored yacht. From where we sat mesmerized it was impossible to tell how large this disturbance was or even how fast it was traveling? To our young eyes though it seem both huge and fast as it made it’s way deliberately towards the yacht. There was something wrong with the movement that held us spellbound like a brace of rabbits caught in the glare of headlights. It wasn’t that something disturbed the surface or that something moved in the bay, we’d both seen large grey seals moving through the water as well as huge shoals of mackerel chasing whitebait against the rocks in our adventures but nothing that we’d witnessed before bore any resemblance to this. Also the sound, there was none to be heard from our vantage point although maybe we were to far away for all but the loudest of splashes to be heard. The mound, for want of a better description carried on until we were sure that whatever it was below the surface must surely ram the sitting duck of the yacht, but no, as the mound came to the side of the vessel near its stern the whole boat just lifted over it as if riding a large wave and gently settled into a slowing rocking motion. From across the bay we could hear the gentle noise of what must have been a small bell on board sounding out and bearing witness that the yacht was indeed moving back and too. Then there was nothing, no wave, no sound apart from the wavelets on the beach now nearing the rocks as the tide carried on rising regardless of anything else even the watching gulls were subdued. We looked at each both unwilling to admit our fear. “Maybe it was a dolphin?” Pete ventured, “Yeah must have been a dolphin”, I agreed “er lets make for the sailing club”. Pete turned to the ever reliable Seagull motor, wrapped the starting chord around the drum and pulled heavily, nothing! “Bugger” he said under his breath then glanced up hoping that I hadn’t heard to hold him hostage to Pops. “Try again, and hurry up” I blustered hoping that he didn’t hear how nervous I was feeling. Again he wraps the chord, more deliberately this time and his pull is hard and sure, splutter, turn, choke then nothing, again and again he tries with no burst of the noisy 2 stroke ever showing signs of happening. “Come on stop messing around” I was nearly crying by now “it won’t bloody start, will it” he yelled turning towards me his eyes wild with frustration. It was then; just over his shoulder I saw it. The water between us and the beach was rising slowly up into a mound of blackness. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Its funny how certain things stick in your memory over the years, it wasn’t the height or size of that body of water (although now if I had to but a size on it, it wasn’t hardly as high as the stern of the dinghy and only a couple of yards round) but the fact there was no wake like that of a boat moving across the surface, no ripples across it and no turbulence behind it, just a mound of water moving towards us. I grabbed the oars and started flailing like a demented humming bird at the water not making much if any headway for my efforts. Pete jerked around to see what it was that I was now screaming at and promptly dropped the starter chord into the bottom of the dinghy. The panic was enhanced by the deepening dusk as well the cloud of seagulls now wheeling over our heads, perhaps they sensed something tastier than fish guts? Both of us now were screaming at each other, at the ever nearer mound, at the useless motor, at everything. But then for the briefest of moments everything stopped, both of us froze for the smallest fraction of a second looking at nothing else but the terror etched deep within each others eyes. And that’s all it took, that one moment when to those young lads everything was lost, no tomorrow, no fighting, no laughing, nothing left but the terror of the unknown, that’s all it took. “Row properly you ponce” Pete ordered his calm voice belying his youthful fear, grabbing both oars as one I heaved with every last ounce of strength I had, once, twice again and again the little Goblin started cutting through the glass surface with each measured stroke I could feel the sea slipping past us. There was no panic left, just the oars, looking past Pete the light now made the oncoming mound look inky black as it continued to surge towards us less than twenty yards away. “<span style="text-transform: uppercase;">one oar</span>” my brother yelled, easing off on the port oar I dug the other two handed into darkening water, swiftly the little Goblin spun around and I lost sight of the terror behind for a moment, “<span style="text-transform: uppercase;">both oars</span>” Pete was now screaming, the rusty gaff held aloft in his shaking hands, straining with all that I had I glance up the mound that was now angled towards us, whatever it was it wasn’t just some random wave cause by freak currents, it had changed direction to intercept us! It was upon us, eyes now tightly closed I dug the oars one last time, Pete’s screams (or were they mine) filling my senses. The little dinghy lifted up and over the dome of water, as I felt it tipping back downwards my oars tore at the water and then with a jolt that numbed my whole arm the starboard oar felt like it had smashed into rocks, and then it was gone from my grasp. </span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">I opened my eyes to see Pete belly down in the bottom of the dinghy covered in tangle of bread crusts, discarded bait, tackle and gutted fish, I chanced a glace to the water’s surface, on our right side the lost oar bobbed on the surface a few feet away, the gulls were alighting on the water again, of the mound there was not the slightest of signs to show that it had ever been there, only the slightest rippling caused by the now freshening offshore breeze. Pete had pulled himself from the dregs of the bottom of the dinghy, starter chord in his hand, a grin on his face but with tears flowing down his white cheeks. “Don’t cry little brother” he said turning to the outboard, reaching down he turned the fuel tap 90 degrees, “that’s why it would start” he mumbled to himself. He wrapped the chord slowly around and with one swift pull the ever reliable motor spluttered into life. I wasn’t even aware of my own tears as he turned our little pirate boat back towards the sanctuary of the yacht club on the further beach across the bay, the lost oar receding into the gloom as neither of us dared to reach out of the dinghy for it.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Making our way across the now black water seemed to be taking an endless eon of time compared to the fleeting outward voyage of discovery we had started off on a few hours ago. With both of us now too scared and tired to speak we watched the approaching beach with a growing sense of relief. Instead of easing off on the throttle as we came to the beach so that we could perform our practiced act of me jumping into waist deep water and holding the boat whilst Pete would retrieve the trailer to slide under it, Pete drove the boat out of the surf and onto the pebbled ground of safety not caring of the damage done to the carefully painted keel. We both leapt out over the bow not daring for one moment to allow any part of us touch the now demonized water. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, haven’t I shown you pair have to look after anything?” Father’s voiced boomed from the yacht club door, falling over ourselves in our haste to reach him, both yelling and sobbing at the same time trying to describe the events that had overtook us that evening, we must looked like two bedraggled waifs cast ashore by the vengeful sea.</span></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">Later, in the warmth and safety of the gas lit caravan mum and dad listened patently whilst we gathered our thoughts and tried to recount our adventure (minus my brothers Anglo Saxon language!), in-between mouthfuls of crusty bread and oxtail soup. The events that had surrounded us that evening seemed somehow unreal but the image of that mound of water was burnt into our memories even to this day. Even with hindsight and more years experience of being outdoors than I care to admit, I have still never come up with a completely satisfactory explanation for the events on the warm summer’s evening. There have been one or two suggestions;- a freak wave, a dolphin, even a basking shark or as someone suggested the ghosts of </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Thetis_(N25)"><span style="font-size: large;">HMS Thetis</span></a><span style="font-size: large;">, a submarine which had the distinction of sinking twice during its short service, the first time the recovered ship was beached at Traeth Bychan. But deep down I’d still like to know what kept me from venturing out on the sea for nearly a decade after, but I don’t think that I’ll ever truly know. Maybe some mysteries are better unsolved; they certainly leave life more interesting.</span></span></div><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial;"></span></div>murphyfishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03382223977388631947noreply@blogger.com9