A Bad Day in the Office
Sea fishing, as any sensible angler knows, is meant to be a peaceful affair. A quiet escape. Just you, the sea, and the comforting knowledge that at least the fish aren’t asking you to fix anything or take the bins out.
This particular trip had actually been planned for the week before, but life, weather, and the mysterious disappearance of my left glove conspired against us. So this time, we were determined to do it properly.
Early Bird Gets the… Parking Space
I like to arrive early. Not because I’m especially keen, but because I enjoy standing there pretending I know what I’m looking for while staring intensely at the water.
I picked up my mate, and we did what all anglers do on the drive—solved all the world’s problems, analysed previous fishing trips in forensic detail, and agreed that every fish we’ve ever lost was “massive.” Easily double figures. Minimum.
We arrived at the venue, unloaded the mountain of gear (none of which we’d actually need), and made the short walk to the spot.
A couple of anglers were already there. No drama. Our planned spot was taken, but it’s the sea—not a cinema. Plenty of room.
We set up, tackled up, and cast in. All very civilised. All very calm.
This, as it turned out, was the calm before the circus.
Attack of the Anglers
Within an hour, the place was heaving.
Not just busy. Proper busy.
Everyone. Their mates. Their uncles. Their dogs. Probably their grannies too, wielding beachcasters and flasks of tea.
I turned to my mate.
“What’s going on here? It’s never this busy.”
We suspected a match.
So we asked.
“Nope.”
Just… people.
People everywhere.
Still, no problem. We had about ten yards either side of us. Plenty of space for competent anglers.
Unfortunately, competence is not mandatory.
The Human Catapult Next Door
The bloke next to me seemed nice enough.
Friendly.
Chatty.
Completely incapable of casting in a straight line.
Every cast was like watching someone try to throw a sausage into a moving bus.
Left. Right. Sideways. Possibly backwards at one point.
To make matters worse, he was using light leads. No grippers. Which meant his rig was drifting around like it had its own social calendar.
Soon enough…
Tangle.
Another tangle.
And another.
I spent more time untangling his gear from mine than actually fishing. At one point, I’m fairly certain we were technically fishing the same rod.
He’d apologise.
I’d say “No worries.”
Inside, I was redesigning his tackle box in my mind.
The National Question: “Caught Owt Yet, Mate?”
As if that wasn’t enough, there was the steady stream of passers-by.
Every single one asked the same question.
“Caught owt yet, mate?”
It doesn’t matter if you’ve been there five minutes or five hours. This question is mandatory. It’s in the Anglers’ Constitution.
You could be actively wrestling a shark and someone would still ask.
After the fifteenth time, I was tempted to reply:
“No, but I’ve caught three tangled rigs, a mild headache, and a growing sense of regret.”
Tactical Retreat
We’d caught a few fish between us. Nothing huge, but more than most of the others we could see, which gave us just enough smugness to leave with dignity.
But the tangles were relentless.
We made the executive decision to pack in early.
This is known in fishing circles as a “strategic withdrawal to preserve sanity.”
We packed up, said our goodbyes to Captain Sideways and his drifting rigs, and headed back.
The Traditional Debrief
The drive home was excellent.
A good moan. A few laughs. A detailed post-mortem of events, including:
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How busy it was
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How bad the casting was
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How we’d still outfished most of them (important)
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And how next time would definitely be better
I dropped my mate off and headed home.
The Sacred Ritual
Once home, the ancient rituals began.
Kettle on.
Cup of tea.
Several biscuits. Strictly for recovery purposes.
Gear cleaned.
Shower.
Then finally, relaxation.
I sat down, opened Facebook…
…and there it was.
The answer.
The day before, someone had fished the exact same spot and posted photos of several very decent fish.
Big smiles. Big fish. Big mistake.
We hadn’t been fishing.
We’d been fishing in the middle of a full-scale Facebook-induced invasion.
We had been plagued by…
Report chasers.
Moral of the Story
Let this be a lesson to all anglers.
Fish are hard enough to catch without announcing their exact location to the entire internet.
Because the moment you post those photos, that peaceful, quiet mark will transform overnight into:
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A festival
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A social gathering
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A casting lottery
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And a tangle convention
So remember:
Don’t post your fishing reports on Facebook… unless you enjoy fishing with everyone else and their grannies.