The Rock Narrative

A boy stands on a rock and drops a line.

As his years and stories progress, he becomes fussier; a bigger catch, a certain type, volume … the sea is deep and vast.

We do what we can, with what we have. Either way, to survive, we must be creative. Wasted time, surely… staying fixed to the same spot, casting out the same bait EVERYDAY? We move from rock to rock, stealth-like as we begin to think like the fish.

Passing boats. They are armed. Full of the proper gear. Rods, boxes full of rapalas, diesel engines, fish-finders, POWER. How to compare? Surely the battle is lost.

With infinite knowledge of the rocks around him, revealed by the change of tide, he finds his spot amongst the broken bottles and shards of glass which prove the perfect instruments to cut away the core from a washed up cuttlefish. A God send; He is on my side.

The voracious feeders tear shrimp away far too easily. Squid bait goes on and on leaving no trace, no scent, no fragment.

The water shimmers, rocks are lost then appear again. Careful never to turn your back to the breaks. The elements and you roll as one…

The line is cast yet struggles to sink as the chop of each wave rejects this humble offering.

Suddenly a frenzy

Like pieces of flint smashing against each other; a shoal of silver sparkles set the water alight. The weightless line jerking this way and that, yet you hold fast… a rhythm tocks along with every beat, every roll of the tide…the line tightens, there is no visual … just strain.

With a quick sharp flick of the wrist, silver breaks the surface and the palm rod bends. Out they come, four at a time, no bigger than a little finger.

With no bucket, but a rock pool a few steps away, the sparks are dropped in. They blend in the familiar surroundings, becoming calm then tarnished. Continuing late into the high sun, the remaining market fish, of no elegance, simply dissipate.

All the while, amongst the hubbub of wild activity, a few monsters prowl. They are patient, taking their time… circling, waiting, watching.…

We cast our hearts and souls into our work; wild ideas, flashes of colour, freshness, all in abundance, floating on the walls and halls for the world to see. The noise, the bubbles.