Summer Rain

By Brent Baker

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I parked the car in the dull green shade of the summer clad trees and stepped outside. As the boot swung open a drop of water burst thickly on my arm followed rapidly by another fusillade from the sky above. I checked my watch. Bang on time. Rain they had said, heavy at first and then moderate, passing by late evening and leaving clear skies.

 

Never mind, I’d brought protection. A vast, matt green army surplus poncho to wrap myself up in like a tent, and Goretex over trousers. I’d be snug and dry under the leaking sky. All I had to do was get myself down the track to the river, get set up and enjoy the feeling of watching the weather from the comfort of my portable tent.

 

The river looked low and thirsty, stripped naked, undressed by summer drought, pared almost to its parched, bleached bones. Here and there a whitened pebble bar or a cluster of broken boughs jutted through the surface. Straining to receive every drop, it seemed to open itself up to the rain like a flower raising its face to the sun, unfolding, desperate to drink in everything it was offered.

 

I trudged along through wet grass and cloying soil suddenly remembering that in my haste to get moving I’d left my new wonder-boilies locked up in the car.  Should I return to collect them or fall back on the pellets in my bag? In thickening rain and more than half way to my chosen swim I knew there was no contest. If I needed them I’d fetch them later, maybe when the rain had eased off.

 

Settling down I wondered if fish liked the rain. Of course not, I heard myself say in my grandfather’s voice. If they swim in the rain they’d get all wet wouldn’t they? One of his favourite jokes. I’d laughed the first time I heard it, not knowing then just how many times it would be repeated. Never mind, the old ones are the good ones, he would have said. I sat musing, lost in another time when without warning, my question had another answer as my rod tip juddered and swung round, transporting me back instantly to the present. The clutch screamed and the line zig-zagged a haphazard course through the raindrops pinging off the river’s surface, first towards the bushes, then towards a half submerged tree, and then slowly, gradually, towards the waiting net. Moments later a beautiful fish, just under seven pounds, kicked its way back into the depths, sliding away indignantly, dignity impaired perhaps but otherwise none the worse I hoped, for its visit to dry land.

 

I sat back and fell to thinking again. Is a fish first cast a good thing or a bad thing? You can’t beat it for encouragement, that’s for sure. But if I’m only going to catch one, and this stretch is hard they say, then how much better would it be to catch it on the last cast? To sit here all through this rain, having used up my luck so early…well, let’s just see. Perhaps there will be another fish, and at any rate, I’m not missing those boilies yet.

 

The rain fell. I snuggled down. Puddles formed in the folds of the poncho, droplets clinging to its waxy surface, rivulets dripping to the ground and a growing sensation of dampness spreading across my skin. I began to understand why the poncho was surplus to army requirements and why anglers spend good money on bivvies and umbrellas. I began also to wonder at my own good sense for coming to sit by the edge of an open field beside a river in the full knowledge that several hours’ rain were forecast, without so much as a spare set of dry clothes.

 

Across the river, though the field on the far bank, plodding through the murk of a falling sky, went three shadowy shapes, bowed against the rain and burdened by enough gear to start a campsite. Not a poncho in sight I thought, by now feeling sorry for soldiers everywhere. Hooded like green monks the three went out of sight, no doubt to set up their dry, warm bivvies.

 

A family of swans, mum and dad pristine white, the three youngsters a downy brown, drifted up river, negotiating the rising water effortlessly, like ships of the line with frigates attendant.

 

My fingers were by now cold and corrugated, my shoulders damp under wet clothes, my cuffs sodden. But ever since I was a boy I’ve always enjoyed being out in the rain. In the rain you can have the world to yourself. Water drips from the leaves and branches, grass looks bejewelled, studded with pearls, flowers droop, clothed in a new transparent beauty.

 

There was another fish. Smaller, though just as pristine in it’s picture book prettiness. Gold scales shimmered briefly as it dived back to the depths. An ugly red crayfish made a brief visit to dry land too, backing away from me, claws raised aggressively before meeting with a nasty accident, falling prostrate beneath a heavy Wellington boot. Splashing back inert into the water, it had troubled a fisherman’s bait for the last time. And then, the rain began to ease and slowly, wonder of wonders, stopped entirely. The world was suddenly quiet. A pin bright silence shone all around me, broken only by the new gurgling of the river, now vested with a renewed vigour, fresh life breathed into its languid body, rising from its sick bed as if shaking off a torpor, denying reports of a premature demise.

 

Summer’s evening light, exhausted by its time spent hiding behind dark afternoon clouds, faded at the very time it was being revealed in the rain-washed sky. A strange mixture of evening gloom and shiny washed light synthesised around me briefly, a last rallying call for an August day before night got the upper hand and sent the dying day packing. Bright, bright evening stars pricked through the pale blue dome across my head, a few at first and then a myriad. Scattered like diamonds, sharp edged and distinct in the distant heavens.

 

I sat beneath the slowly turning plough. At my feet the river ran, tipping down a hidden slope, drawn out seawards as if slowly sucked into the darkness. A half-full red moon rose, and hung over my shoulder like a lopsided smile. Uneven tufts of vapour in kaleidoscope shades of grey floated across it, the last straggling remnants of the rain clouds now well on the run and scattered across the country like a fleeing army. In distant trees an owl’s hooting exclamations ushered out the day and welcomed in the night.  

 

I sat for a further hour, my fingers still wrinkled but my wet clothes felt no more, the air clean and fresh, drinkably pure. Meteors flared across the sky, fizzing unannounced in a brief sudden glory that died almost as it began. If I had been sensible and stayed dry at home, think of the evening I would have missed, I thought, congratulating my luck at seeing such a night.

 

And then it happened. In the still, still, silence of the night, with fishing almost forgotten, it happened. Almost lazily, the rod pulled round in a perfect parabola, a definite, hard pull but without violence, almost as gentle as the night itself.

 

And with it, all tranquility was shattered and all hell let lose. The reel exploded into life, line fizzing off into the blackness, the rod turned into a diving, yanking, churning wand, the living tail of an angry devil. The river bed itself erupted, coming alive, moving and juddering, sweeping into the darkness in an arm jarring, nagging battle to pull me into its embrace. First one bank then the other, first downstream and then up. And then what seemed like a surrender deep under the rod tip in midstream. We both waited, fish and I, to be acquainted, before she changed her mind again and sped off, bullying the rod, jagging, twisting, heaving and pulling, head down into the deep water.

 

Four times I got her to approach the net, four times she turned her back and pulled away. How much can this tackle take, I wondered, mentally going through my knots, the line, the hook, the rod itself. How much more of this punishment before something gives? And then, finally, at my fifth weary, shaking attempt, she slipped exhausted between the spread arms of the waiting net and we both fell back to rest, her in defeat, me in wonder.

 

How many times had I scoffed at talk of “doubles” and the thirst for weights and numbers? How many times had I derided the obsessive hunt for bigger and bigger fish?

 

And how bloody good did I feel looking down at the monster recovering in my net?

 

The scales clunked round, the needle swinging between 13 and a half and fourteen pounds. Finally, with four ounces taken off for the wet sling, we settled on thirteen pounds and eight ounces. I repeated it to myself over and over. Thirteen pounds and eight ounces. Thirteen pounds and eight ounces. The biggest fish I’d ever caught and almost certainly the biggest that I ever would catch.

 

For twenty minutes I nursed her. Having trapped her and dragged her forcibly from her habitat, now I was desperate to see her recover and swim back strongly, shrugging it all off as a momentary loss of pride. My elation turned to concern and then finally swung to happy relief as with a firm and muscular swish of her massive tail she set off for home.

 

I trekked back to the car under a million shining stars, each of them winking down upon me in the glory of that perfect night. Rain drops dazzled in the tall grass and as I approached, the owl broke its silence, giving one last hoot as if in congratulation.

 

And the river flowed past, placid now, closed upon itself once more, winding its way into the darkness, holding again its secrets of a satisfaction spent and offering still the promise of days and nights yet to come.

 

 

 Brent Baker August 2005

 

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