Travelling broadens the mind
Go explore, the world’s at your feet
Take a look around every corner
You’ll never know who you’ll meet. . . .
The visitor from Britain enjoyed taking a daily walk when on holiday. He was particularly fond of visiting new places and the coast of Tuscany in northern Italy had already become a favourite, albeit after a few days. He would reluctantly put up with the commercial, busy promenade area at the height of the summer season but was far happier seeking out less noisy haunts, reading in a park perhaps or exploring a marina or harbour.
On his third consecutive daily visit to the marina, walking the length of the breakwater, he noticed the same local, elderly fisherman had been there each day, perched on the rocks, gently casting his light line and float into the waters of the Mediterranean. He was the colour of bronze and had clearly seen many a Christmas. His ramshackle bicycle was propped against the wall behind him. It had also seen many seasons come and go.
The visitor was always drawn toward any aspect of fishing when travelling, being an avid angler himself.
The following day he noticed a younger man sitting with the fisherman and enquired as to the degree of ‘luck’ being experienced.
It’s not great fishing the young man said, but my father enjoys it anyway. He smiled and said his father does not need to catch fish to have a good time. The words struck an immediate chord with the visitor, who asked how often they fish, having noticed his father in the same spot on the last three days.
He comes every day said his son. To the same place. He rides the four km journey with his rod and net tied to his bike. He fishes the afternoon and rides home, always happy for having spent time fishing. They chatted for a while, the visitor occasionally nodding and smiling in acknowledge-ment of the son’s comments.
Only extreme storms will prevent him from fishing, when my mother hides the key to his bicycle lock. Sometimes he catches small sea bream and occasionally, a bass that is just big enough to take home. Whilst they spoke, the elderly fisherman said nothing, looking only at his float, concentrating on the task in hand.
The visitor judged it far too impolite to take photographs or even to ask the fisherman’s name. There was a certain reverence in his company. Observing his contentment was enough.
The son’s name was Luca. He lived in Milan and was home for a short holiday. His English was excellent. The conversation turned to bait. His father only ever used two types, bread mixed with olive oil and flour to make a paste, or small worms from his garden.
The visitor smiled with respect. He had seen many others fishing along the breakwater who appeared to have numerous rucksacks, rod holdalls, multiple tackle boxes, far more modern tackle and bags of alternative baits. Shellfish, squid and small sand eels seemed popular choices. Some even caught the small lizards that lived among the rocks of the breakwater and used them as bait. (With little success advised Luca).
My father will never change said Luca. His fishing has always been simple. Aside from his rod and net, he brings only what he can carry in his pockets. The words could not have been a closer reflection of the visitor’s approach to fishing.
The elderly man’s reel had suffered from years of saltwater spray. The resulting corrosion had aged it significantly but it was evident that in his eyes, it still did the job. It was a little noisy, almost comically cranky, when line was retrieved. It will never be replaced said Luca.
The visitor sat and watched a little longer, fascinated to have found such an unexpected ‘soul-mate’. Waves periodically played havoc with the visibility of the small float. The bronzed angler fished approximately 200m from a busy beach of holidaymakers. Does this affect his enjoyment the visitor asked.
They are not always here said Luca. In October most of them will be gone. My father is always here. From May to September the town is very busy with visitors but it does not stop my father fishing. Every day he has the same routine, cycling home as the sun sets behind him.
The visitor commended his dad for maintaining his much-loved fishing habit and told Luca to wish him a long and happy life. “Una vita lunga e felice”, said Luca to his father.
His father responded without hesitation. Luca translated saying his father was confident his daily ritual would ensure he would enjoy many more years fishing. The visitor nodded in agreement, applauded with his hands and said Bravo!
As he left, the visitor asked Luca if he wouldn’t mind sharing his father’s age. 86 years old replied Luca. He certainly did not look his age.
The visitor has returned home now and is facing his own daily routines and rituals. On his drive home from the office he often remembers his encounter with Luca and his father. He smiles knowingly as he looks at his watch. The bronzed fisherman will surely be perched once again on the same rocks, concentrating on that float.
Good luck my fellow piscator, he whispers to himself. He vows that should he ever return to that place, he will be sure to go to the breakwater and look again for Luca’s dad.
Writing & Images Carl Hier – Winter 2023
You must be logged in to post a comment.