How I used to catch a catfish.
During one exhibition, Madame Mari, a fishing expert from the Himeji Piies area, whispered in my ear that in the spring, when the rice is planted and the irrigation hatches are opened you can catch some serious catfish. I know that Mari’s word is worth believing. With her, if a fish is less than elbow size it is considered a little one. Since then I have had a fetish for catfish.
I bought a catfishing magazine, watched a ton of Youtube videos, read various fishermen’s forums and decided that catfish is my spring fishing target. The only thing missing from the outfit to full happiness were catfish wobblers and lures, and some equipment with propellers. The most fascinating were the white worm-like wobblers. In my youth, when I was digging potatoes, I used to crush them between two stones with great pleasure. It was fun fishing.
In fact, my wife tried to reason with me. She would say, ‘Andrew, this is Tamagawa catfish, I’m not going to eat this nonsense. Ah, those women. What do they know about delicatessen.
Yes, the forums say that Japanese catfish should smell of grease, sludge or something else.
The Japanese, who are used to sea fish, write such nonsense, I think, admiring the wobbler. Nobody has died of catfish yet, I tell my wife the second truth of life.
I’ve had the experience that you can’t go anywhere near a body of water, even though Google says it’s full of water. In reality, when you go you see barbed wire fences, concrete banks, or signs saying private property.
I google it and set off to storm the Tamagawa, one of Tokyo’s larger rivers . Google tells me that in some parts of that river this year eighty centimetre moustached monsters have been caught. Ok, I think the river is familiar and I have to go.
But as always I was faced with a harsh reality. As soon as I reached the first site I saw before my eyes pillars such as are now commonplace to stop terrorist bags loaded with TNT.
It did not occur to me then that I would see the famous pylons elsewhere.
I get in my little car and go down the river. I drive along the coast for maybe twenty kilometres looking for an access to the river or a parking lot. I pull out my smartphone and open the maps to find the perfect spot.
My gut feeling is that it’s going to be a long journey along the Tamagawa coast so I put on a black orchid and trundle along the waterfront with the high beams on.
On the way I have the brilliant thought that I need to go to the bridge on the other side of the river. I know that there must be a bridge and an exit some twenty kilometres away. I was once there to present gifts to the participants in a carp fishing tournament. I turn the barrow to the right and, dreaming of a future encounter with a moustachioed monster.
The kilometres slowly waltz by and I’m heading towards my super spot. Along the way I snap up a few more shop parking lots which with Plan B could become the lifeline of my fishing excursion. Finally, in the distance, a large bridge comes into view with golf courses on the left. Yes, there is an eight-hole golf course next to the river in the middle of town. After thunderstorms, the entrance to the golf course is also blocked by bollards. I have a bad feeling that I won’t get down to the bridge.
I make it the last five hundred metres and see my fishing dreams receding. The entrance is blocked. After seven o’clock in the evening, or maybe even before, it is mission impossible to get down to the water.
I quickly run through the list of shop parking lots in my head. Ok, I think, I’ll turn into the parking lot of the children’s clothing store. There’s also a “convenience store” (small shops open all day) nearby. Actually there is no other choice. Thirty kilometres down the coast this is the only decent site. I turn the steering wheel back.There are no bloody pylons there.
I pull into the parking lot. What do we do? Fishing will still take a couple of hours. Today I got my wife’s indulgence for fishing so I can afford the luxury of a couple of hours of fishing. However leaving the car in the car park for a couple of hours is not something. Yes, I say out loud, I need to buy onigiri (rice snacks rolled in seaweed). If anything, I’m a customer who has decided to take a couple of hours in the car park.
Time to see what kind of crowd is gathered around. Nearby is a small Suzuki with curtains drawn and windows slightly rolled down. Someone must live there. Three taxi drivers are blowing smoke in the square. These are harmless, they will smoke and go back on the road. All of them have a GPS, so the centre sees that you’re smoking, when you’re pissing, the centre is omnipotent. The situation is under control – I summarise and go to the back of the car to get my fishing gear.
First the vest. Aaah, I bought this one on purpose. Now I look like Rembo, but covered in all sorts of wobblers, lures, scissors, knives and so on. I grab my fishing rod and go to battle.
After deftly crossing the road I pull out the super lamp I recently got from the deeper. So how do those two hundred metres work? It’s fine working like a bee. I light my paloche just to the left, and there two eyes are staring straight at me. Ooh my god, my lord. Another couple of seconds and the wicked raccoon is padding his soles in the fields. I step forward albeit with a less firm step.
Finally I land by the water. I see the trail is cleared which means someone is fishing. Good. If someone is fishing, then I might get lucky too. And yet today after the storm the water level has risen somewhat. I read somewhere that catfish should like it. So what my friends, I think, seventy catfish guaranteed.
I’ll swing the wobbler. It’s fun. Meanwhile, plumpt plumpt two metres to the left. My heart almost sank at my heels. Somehow, in the dark, three hundred metres away from civilisation, eyesight and hearing are working hard. I reassure myself. Probably a catfish is playing around. I’m pointing the wobbler back towards the source of the sound. Of course I missed. I dropped it somewhere in the grass. Meanwhile, plumpt plumpt again, this time on the right. Aha, now you’ve gone to the right. While I was chasing my catfish. The sky is covered with cloud. I can’t see a fucking thing, but if I light a lamp I’ll scare my catfish away. I’m swinging the wobbler again. There. Ah, I hooked behind a branch in the middle of the river.
Meanwhile, along my legs, something is again just plopping plopping plopping. No no, it doesn’t help my nerves. But if that catfish with its moustache comes up behind me and sinks like an anaconda into the river I get images.
At that very moment, I remember the story of the carp fishermen on the Tamagawa river. I remember story of one angler who weas greedily taking a drag on his cigarette and telling a young carp angler.
He said, “I don’t fish that place at night, unlike the other carp anglers. You know, once I was lying in my tent at night waiting for the bite. Somehow today was a calm night. I was going to see how my systems are. I crawl over to the rods, squat down and try to assess my surroundings. Meanwhile, I hear a little girl’s voice at my right ear, “Daddy, let’s go and play”. Usain Bolt ran the 100 metres in 9.58 seconds. I, meanwhile, flew my 100 metres to the car in about 5 seconds,” says the carp fisherman in a serious tone.
Well, says the youngster, there are people who are sensitive to lost souls.
So what am I supposed to do now, I think, as I throw the lure and look under my feet for a catfish. Somehow packing up is not the best choice but continuing the night’s suffering is also becoming unpleasant.
Eventually, I pack my bags and head back to civilisation at a brisk pace.
