The Estuary - Part 1

[otter]

The Estuary

The old saying that variety is the spice of life certainly held true in young Otters education.  The river was a mere few hundred yards away, the lake three miles, the estuary two miles and the sea eight. 

The big nine, every birthday was a milestone in young Otters life for it dictated where he would be allowed to fish. Otter had found his sea legs at a much younger age than his brothers, probably because his father wanted company on his trips to the bay and all the older sons had either flown the nest or were unreliable as they battled with teenage hormones. Whatever the reason, Otter was in seventh heaven and no matter what was a foot, if it related to fishing Otter would follow his father around like an obedient pup.

Thursday was the most important day of the week as it was his father's day of work and come Wednesday evening, Otter would watch out for the signs. The engine plugs being sanded and cleaned, the filling of the petrol tin,  rods being readied, sandwiches being made, each and every one of these were good omens and Otter would be on his best behaviour to ensure his participation would not be thwarted. 
This particular Wednesday evening his father carried a box to the kitchen table, laid some newspaper on it and alongside a tin that Otter knew his mother used for polishing cutlery.

Otter's eyes lit up when the contents of the box were tipped over onto the newspaper. Spinners and spoons, there must have been at least twenty of them in various shapes and sizes, treble hooks attached to each. 

First, each was rubbed with the polish from the tin, the hooks sharpened and laid to one side. Eager to help Otter was given the task of applying the polish then passed each to his father to hone the hooks who then laid the completed ones in neat line.  Whilst the polish did its work, his father left and returned with two old cloths. Using one, Otter rubbed of the polish, his father buffed each with the second one until each spinner and spoon gleamed and sparkled, Otter was mesmerised. He carefully examined every single one before they were placed back in their box.

Compared to the mackerel feathers these were things of immense beauty and some had names, Toby's, Foxford Spoons, Copper and Silver,  Otter locked away this new found knowledge, adding it all to his growing fishing vocabulary, vocabulary regularly used to impress his friends.

"We are going to the estuary to-morrow, now off to bed with you"; announced his father.

Otter scurried up the stairs, hopped into bed and lay there dreaming in anticipation of the great adventure the morrow would bring.  The estuary, sea trout, yippee!!!!

Otter stood well back on the slipway as his father reversed towards the river, stopping when the wheels of the boat trailer reached the water.  Whilst his father loosened the ropes, Otter, feeling so mature, walking much taller than usual, gathered any remaining equipment from the car and placed it in the boat. When it came to safety his father must have written the manual for every single item had its place on board.  Of prime importance was one bag that would be stashed under the first seat and tied to it. It contained the get out of jail items, 2 sets of spare rowlocks, several spare engine plugs, spare starting cords, pliers, vice grips, small emergency baling tin, knife and all kinds of tools.  There was no such thing as lifejackets and none of us could swim, not even the doggie paddle. I think there was possibly a chapter missing from that manual, but attention to detail and respect for water ensured that we always returned home.

When all was ready, the car was once again reversed back a further few yards until the trailer wheels disappeared subsurface. Loosening the final rope that held the bow to the roller on the trailer, a quick push seen that the keel would leave its guides on the base of the trailer.  Seeing the boat float out into the river, doing what it is designed to do is a pleasurable and memorable sight.  When Otter was handed the rope to hold whilst the car and trailer were moved off the slipway he revelled in the importance of such a task.

He quickly discovered that a boat afloat has a mind of its own and could drag young Otter into the river if he was less than alert.  Otter thought it best to pull the bow in to the shore, the keel biting onto solid ground and this seemed to bring everything under control and left Otter mightily impressed with his handling of the boat.  However Otter's self-belief in his boat handling abilities was not to last long for when the current swung the stern ashore, the bow angled back out into the flow and the force of the river threatened to drag the boat away. Help came when firm hands grabbed the gunnels mid ship and steadied the swinging boat, his father grinning at his hapless youngest son. "My mistake, I should have shown you how to do it."

Settling into his seat at the bow Otter inhaled deeply, touching the scents that belong to every well  used boat.  You can wash it, you can paint it, you can apply numerous coats of varnish to the gunnels but deep within the larch timbers are stored reminders of other days afloat. The scent of fish, of petrol, of salty water, all mingling, combining, giving each vessel  its unique scent and to its inhabitants a sense of familiarity.

Sitting on the centre seat his father placed the oars in the rowlocks and with strong steady pulls they slipped away from the shore, manoeuvring between the many moored boats and buoys.  Everything looked very different from the boat as they slipped past the quay walls. Seeing the rings on the oily water surface from swirls from trout and salmon Otter was eager to start fishing but had to stifle his enthusiasm as they rowed downstream aided by the ebbing tide. Looming ahead midstream, the hull of a ferro-concrete ship, the SS Cretboom, long since marooned on a sandbank and a source of much amazement to those seeing it for the first time. How could such a thing have ever floated? Otter studied the lines of its ancient hull, shivering at the stories that he had heard of how a great army of rats that lived in rancid hull, swarming out the portholes at night and patrolling the shore.



The SS Creteboom was a tugboat, originally one of a fleet of twelve that were used to tow barges of iron ore from Spain to Britain during World War I. After it war it was used to tow Coal from Britain to the continent and eventually in 1935 it came to Ballina, purchased by Ballina Harbour Commissioners. The Commissioner's plan was to use her as a sand-stop, but the Moy Fishery Co. threatened legal action, fearing the plan would interfere with the run of salmon into the river. This complication, and the eventual outbreak of W.W.2, caused the work to be abandoned.

A short distance downstream, The Florrete, a sailing ship also purchased for the same purpose, its skeletal timbers reaching up from the sand. Both a testament to the industry of former times when ships carrying coal and other goods would make their way up the estuary.

Passing the Florrete the oars were put away and Otters father readied the rods. Otter's was a brown fiberglass rod of about nine foot, handmade by his father many years earlier, the bottle green visible through the scratches. The reel was of the centerpin type, loaded with braid and attached to it some twenty yards of nylon. It did not have drag like modern reels, push the lever up and the spool would revolve freely, push it the other way and a braking mechanism engaged and as the spool revolved, click, click, click. A Copper and Silver spoon was attached using a small length of nylon to a swivel and this tied to the nylon from the reel. Otter held up this new piece of tackle, feeling its flexibility, so light compared to the sea rods, he listened intently as instruction was quickly given.
When both rods were ready and the dreaded Seagull engine started they commenced trolling, the spinners about thirty yards behind. This was easy fishing, no jigging like in the mackerel fishing, one rod each side of the boat. His father knew the estuary like one knows their own back garden and followed hidden contours, criss crossing the river in a seemingly arbitrary manner.

They continued trolling for a mile or so, his father taking one small sea trout that Otter quickly grabbed and examined. It was not as silver as he had expected, more of a brown tinge to its back, flecked with dark spots above the lateral line. A strong wide tail and sleek body, it was designed to be a hunter. More knowledge gained and more than a strong itch to catch one on his own rod.

Ahead, Otter could see some poles with square tops rising out of the river beside the ruins of an ancient castle and quizzed his father as to what they were. Known as the walls, they were built to keep the river channel open for the ships. L shaped they came out from the shore and then ran upstream for thirty or forty yards. Thousands if not millions of stones, brought to the river by horse and cart and each man handled and dropped into the river until the walls were formed. The poles marked the position of the walls when covered by the full tides. The poles were known as perches for their square tops were a favorite resting place for Cormorants and Herons. At that time there was a bounty on the Cormorants and as a species they had learned to keep their distance from approaching boats and Otter when spotting one in the distance would raise an imaginary rifle and fire off a shot, as any good bounty hunter would do.

High on its perch, a Cormorant waits
preening feathers, eyes alert.
Upon its head a bounty placed,
beware of man, man who built these walls.

Humming engine, approaching boat, wings unfold
neck arches forward with thrusting thighs.
low to the water, gaining height
to distant shore, maligned bird takes flight.

The empty perches, their blackened timbers,
to guide the ships, on the coming tide,
their laden hulls to port were bound.

No more, no more, their presence felt,
ghostly perches for ghost ships wait.



The first set of walls are known as the Castle walls, named after ruins of Castle Conner on a hill overlooking the walls. As the boat reached them Otters father wound in his line and ordered Otter to do likewise. Reaching the end of the walls his father turned the boat inshore, following the inshore leg of the walls and cutting the engine he directed Otter to drop the anchor overboard. This was something new and a puzzled Otter reached under the bow seat lifted the anchor and its rope and tossed them overboard. The blue nylon rope floated momentarily, and then it went taut as the anchor reached the bottom. A sudden shudder as the anchor found purchase nearly threw Otter overboard.  Another lesson had been learned, a wise sailor sits down after throwing out the anchor.

Otter looked up at the ruins of the old castle to his right, followed down to the walls which were covered in sea weed and up again to the perch. To his right on the far side of the estuary the majestic ruins of Rosserk Friary, a Franciscan monastery built around 1440. He had visited these ruins some years earlier but the view from the river made them look even more splendid. Otter had heard the tales, that the monks of Rosserk Abbey had built a tunnel under the estuary. His uncle whose land came quite close to the castle had done extensive searching, or at least maintained he had, but no tunnel was ever found. Other's also had being enthralled and many had sought the existence of this tunnel but it was never found and probably never existed but such a tale was fascinating for any young boy.

His father reached into a bag and taking out a package he lay it on the seat, maybe its chocolate thought Otter. He then removed the spinners from the lines and replaced them with single silver hooks. Opening the package, to Otter's surprise, he lifted a Mackerel fillet and used the scissors to cut small strips of about one and a half inches from the white part of the belly.  Each strip was carefully tapered to a point on one end, the other about one quarter inch wide. He grinned, knowing that Otter was staring intently, wondering what he was doing. It was almost a game, teasing young Otter, never revealing anything until the last moment, making it all the more exciting. "These strips are the best bait for this part of the River, wait and see".

Taking Otters hook, he carefully pierced the wide end, bringing it back through a quarter inch further down. Lifting the rod, he dropped it overboard, keeping it near the surface for Otter to see. The tapered tail moved, side to side, as the current played with it and in that instance young Otter could see that it was a very enticing bait. Seeing young Otters eyes light up he cast it out about ten yards to the side and handed Otter the rod. The current was quite soft, protected by the walls from the main flow of the river and the bait swung slowly around and downstream. His father instructed him to keep a yard of free line loose at the reel and to hold the rod out sideways, if he felt a take, release the line and when he felt a strong pull point the rod as far downstream as possible and then strike by quickly drawing the rod back upstream. Leave it downstream for a few minutes and then recast, the final instruction.

It did not take long for the first take, tap tap felt through the rod. Otter did as instructed, still feeling the tap tap as he pointed the rod downriver, his adrenalin pumping in anticipation. Every muscle was tense as he prepared to strike but the solid pull never came and he quizzed his father; "Wind in and cast again". A very disappointed Otter wound in, he could see that the tail of the mackerel strip was damaged, damaged in such a way that it resembled the serrated edge of a kitchen knife. His father laughed out loud, "Son that was a crab walking backwards, the bait firmly in its claws". Otter grinned back, "Do you think it was a big crab Dad"; he was sure it must have been such was the damage inflicted on the mackerel strip. Otter cast out the line hoping that big crab took hold again.
Nothing happened for a few casts, then a take, knock knock, pause, knock knock knock and Otter rod pointing downstream struck hard as he felt a solid pull. The rod tip bent as the Sea Trout reacted furiously against the strain, some line pulled of the reel, click, click click. Otter followed every movement with the rod and soon a fat little sea trout came to the surface and was drawn over the landing net.

This was a great start and Otter reveled in the excitement of it and it seemed so easy. But the real fun was to come when takes that seemed so solid came to nought, rod pointing downriver. Reaching with the rod, knock knock knock, waiting for the run,  strike, grrrrrrr. His father had experienced such takes and disappointments thousands of times and grinned at every groan.

After a half hour they had three fine sea trout and lifting anchor they crossed over and downstream to the next set of walls, Hix's, named after the landowners. The fishing here was furious stuff, a take nearly every cast but very few landed. "Small trout, his father explained,"
Otter was enjoying every moment and beginning to find his own way, experimenting with striking early, feeling the subtle difference in each take, learning, learning very quickly and by the time they lifted anchor at Hix's he felt he was an expert.

Drifting mackerel strip, cast to shore,
flickering tail through current swims.
Its movement watched by many eyes,
claws open wide, a crab seeks hold.

Drifting mackerel strip, flickering tail,
a darting sea trout, follows round.
Flaring gills, mouth open wide,
seizes bait and turns away.

Knocking rod tip, knocking knees,
a keen young Otter offers line.
Reaching rod, a tentative wait,
solid pull and striking rod, a sea trout's fate.

Drifting mackerel strip, cast to shore,
flickering tail through current swims.
A fathers pride and a fathers thrill,
a smiling Otter, sitting still.

Drifting mackerel strip, cast to shore,
flickering tail through current swims.
I see it now, I see it still,
a smiling father, old Otters thrill.