…but dumber than a cod.
Probably for the best though as I wouldn’t know what to do if I caught one.
According to recent reports mackerel stocks in the North East Atlantic are on the wane. This, for me, is a bit of a shame since the humble mackerel is about the only fish dumb enough for me to catch.
Which in itself is a shame.
I hate mackerel!
Maybe this helps explain why their numbers are falling? Darwinism at work.
Man vs. Cod…
With fair winds and a clear blue sky, taking an hour or two out of a day’s cruising to dangle the lines over the side on the off-chance of catching supper is rewarding in itself. This is fortunate because more often than not, save for the odd mackerel or three, we are rewarded with little else. My sub-par angling skills seem little worse than those of the other amateur fishermen I’ve sailed with.
Only once so far have our efforts been bountifully rewarded. A couple of summers back I was sailing with a group returning from a trip up to the Lofoten Islands in Norway. The maze of islands and fjords offered by Norway’s Atlantic coast always makes for pleasant summer sailing and with the sea being the traditional highway for the communities that call this coast their home you’re never far from a pontoon to tie up against for the night; usually with shore-power, showers and sometimes even Wi-Fi thrown in. Deep water makes for generally easy navigation while wind shifts around those islands and channels keeps the sailing interesting.
As we day-sailed our way down the coast, our port-to-port hops often gave us the opportunity for a little midday post-parandial fishing. And finding a shallow spot of sea in the vicinity of Alesund we struck piscine gold. Our two buckets of assorted fish were topped off with two very generously proportioned cod.
Brimming with fresh fish and rare smugness we set sail for the nearest harbour and prepared ourselves to fire up the barbecue.
…cod wins…
I forget which little island we stopped at that night. Laudable though log keeping is, fine weather, fine company and more than a little fine alcohol can get in the way of fine intentions. Like most harbours in this part of the world we had pontoons to tie up against, the usual amenities and most importantly a barbecue to fire up.
I do not forget, however, the awkward throng of tired mariners who gathered round our jumbo cod by the barbecue. Six of us in total, all well travelled, one a professional sailor and one a doctor, all of whom had to admit to not really having a clue about how to, er, peel them. Gutting a mackerel is one thing but slicing and dicing a big fish isn’t something any of us had done before and volunteers were not forthcoming.
… but not for long
As we shuffled awkwardly and hoped someone would sack-up and grab the knife a local wandered by. One of those hale and hearty old men you’d peg in his sixties but who could easily have been a few decades more. He sported a pair of shabby shorts and a white t-shirt emblazoned with the traditional Norwegian Star Spangled Banner. Fortunately for us he also spoke rather good English.
As someone well used to the dismissive and disinterested pleasantries of the average passer by, the evening that followed was more than a small surprise.
First of all this kindly gentleman treat us to a masterclass in cod filleting while his wife kept us nicely lubricated with a speedily produced bottle of wine and glasses.
Then, discovering a lack of ready fuel for the barbecue they invited us all back to their home to eat with them.
While his charming wife rustled up a four-course dinner of fish soup (or Fiskesuppe I should perhaps say), whale-meat salad, a main course and a dessert for the eight of us, our duty frees mingled with their home brewed wines and we exchanged stories well into the night before we ambled back to our boat to enjoy the incomparable sleep of the squiffy sailor.
