Night Fishing

 This weekend we have escaped to my in-law’s beach cottage at Bazley. It’s the kind of beach cottage that makes no sense. Rooms lead onto rooms and the toilet has the best view of the beach. It is old and has no tv. The frangipani flowers annually block up the gutters and most of the furniture would probably earn a fortune on Antiques Roadshow. The path down to the beach crosses the ubiquitous railway line and has a smell I will never be able to describe other than the fact that it is one of nostalgia. I love this place. 

We have been joined by my cousin and his family. Their daughters are my goddaughters and could very easily pass as children of my own. Their eyes are framed with meters of black eye lashes and their hair curls in the sea air. Flesh and blood, mine. 

Yesterday we ambled onto the beach at twilight. One must always amble onto the beach at twilight after a cup of tea. The children must all wet their clothes despite being told not to and, if you’re a Stockil, you must swim. Non negotiable. Even in a suicidal spring tide.

Which is what my cousin and I then did while our non-Stockil spouses watched in resignation. They know there are certain genetic urges that can’t be quelled. Did I mention that is was spring tide? 

After what I would term a baptism of sand and froth that lasted all of three minutes because we realised that we were not going to get past the shore break we called it a day. At least we had fulfilled our family motto of - ‘one does not go to the beach simply to sit on the sand.’

As we were trudging up the path with wet, sandy, whining children a group of fishermen were making their way along the shoreline to set up for a night of fishing. Their weatherbeaten windbreakers, old trousers, ‘lucky’ fishing beanies (circa 1976), treasured fishing gear and plaid thermos flasks told us everything we needed to know about how they were going to spend the next twelve hours.

We then wrangled children into baths, fed them whatever came off the braai first, washed it down with Niknaks and Oros and got them into bed, trickles of hidden sea sand spilling across their pillows. 

I then sat for a moment on the verandah looking out across the bay. Little firefly head torches of the fishermen we had seen earlier danced in and out of the shore break. Wrapped up in anything remotely warm I commented to Stephen that there is no way I would ever spend a cold night fishing on a beach. And he then replied, ‘They’ve probably been waiting all week for this moment to leave their cramped, normal lives to do the thing they love. And they’re used to it, they’ve grown up doing it’.

The next morning as we ate our huge fry up of a breakfast, fulfilling yet another Stockil motto - ‘one does not start ones Sunday with corn flakes’ - I watched the fishermen packing up their gear to go home. It was hard to tell whether their cooler boxes were full of fish but I got the impression that these men take more home with them than mere fish. 

As they walked along the beach in small batches I had a sense of their brotherhood - these are men who choose to spend this sacred ritual together. As they meandered humbly along in their ancient old gear I couldn’t help but add a stranger to their midst. I imagined this stranger inviting them to follow him and I imagined these humble fishermen doing exactly that. It made me realise how much those 12 men gave up. And how much they gained.

My cousin and I were yet again the only ones to swim in the morning and again it was very short lived. But at least now I can say that I ‘went to the beach’ and not ‘I sat on the sand’. As I was defrosting under my very ineffective towel a group of night fishermen walked past. In their midst was a young boy, bleary eyed but stoic, carrying his share of the gear. I was reminded of what Stephen had said - ‘they have grown up doing this’. 

There are so many things we cannot explain about ourselves because it is how it has always been for us. I will never not swim in the sea and these fishermen will always relish a cold night of angling along the South Coast shoreline. Maybe once we realise that we’ll never truly understand each other because we’ll never truly live in each other’s histories we’ll slacken the line a bit. I will never understand the escape the sea can be for a humble fisherman and he might not understand my trying to describe the smell of a beach path. Someone might walk into our beach cottage and think it bizarre old hodgepodge but for me it’s the place where I met Stephen’s family for the first time. 

As I write this I’m watching another fisherman set up along the beach, his son in assistance. My daughter lies asleep in her bed, her hair matted again with sand. What a privilege it is for all of us to hand down mottos, and rituals and fry ups and nights of fishing. We all stand to inherit much from our lives, all it took for me was the light from a night fisherman’s torch to realise it.