Catch and Release

The first time I saw him he couldn’t have been more than twelve, a little ferret of a kid, sharp and quick. Caleb Johnson haloed in the eager light of a hunter-gatherer, and quick to talk to me on the wharf that afternoon.

‘What kind of rod is that Mister?’

‘Old one sonny, automatic caster.’

‘And that float, never seen one like that before.’

‘It’s a bubble, used for trout fishing. Watch. Get a bite, it goes under and I just put the pressure on, not too sharp. Here we go.’

Onto the grass came a under sized Bream, not my first hooked today. Boy reached out with those skinny scabby arms to grab the thing.

I put out my arm to block him, didn’t want Caleb to get hurt so I said, ‘wait a minute, lad, let flipping die down a bit. See. Now, it’s not wriggling, I run my hand down the line and firmly hold the thing around its belly that way it can’t spike me. Not everything out of the ocean is trying to hurt us.’

He watched eagerly while I disengaged the hook, but then frowned as I go to toss the fish back into the channel. ‘What’s wrong? It’s undersize and has to go back.’

‘Yep, I know it’s small, but can you put it back gently. Fish must get a shock when they’re dropped or tossed back.’

‘Sure. I can do that.’

We squatted and watched silver, so evident against grass dull into mercury like grey once the fish was immersed in water; creature gasped a few times, and orientated itself again into liquid surrounds without so much as a tiny splash. Then disappeared into depths maybe to grow and present a meal sized catch after holiday crowds are packed up and gone. Caleb turns to me with the widest smile I’ve ever seen, like he’s just seen me reduce pain in the world, at least by one tiny fish worth.

‘Want a try?’

That kid’s smile just went into overload, while he quivers on edges of delight to say, ‘Can I?’

Caleb had a bike with a bashed about seat that wasn’t at the correct angle, dirty semi-rusted chain but with swanky wheels. I wondered did he nick them from somewhere. Then I remind myself to stop being judgemental, all kids aren’t rotten to the core. Just like all old men fishing near caravan parks aren’t paedophiles.

‘How long you down here for?’ I asked, while he watched the bubble and rod like I might grab the whole rig back at any moment.

‘Couple of weeks, my dad tries to bring us to the ocean every year, says it’s cleansing.’

‘He’s right, great place to spend school holidays.’

‘Do you live here?’ He asked.

‘Yes, got a shack up the hill, used to be more fun when my wife was alive, but she’s been gone for a few years now.’

‘My mum’s dead too, car accident, or so dad says.’

Before he can give any more details the bubble vanished, leaving a rippled water divot, and we repeated the same catch and release. Except this time Caleb doesn’t try to get himself spiked by a Bream fresh out of water.

‘Better to be getting bites, even if they’re undersized, eh?’ I reassured.

‘Yep, this is fun.’

‘You never been fishing before?’

‘Dad has heaps of times.’

A small crowd gathered and I’m reminded that fishing, particularly someone with different gear, or having caught something can quickly become the centre of attention. People were milling about near us like ancient tribes-people coming together to celebrate a hunt. I’m being asked about the rod, the bubble, my catch. Whole time Caleb beamed and lapped up attention.

Pelicans, as usual form part of spectating crowds. Much bigger birds than those resident in the northern hemisphere. Oversee each boat ramp with nearby fishing table. Fly up and swim about watching as a boat pulls in. If someone backs a trailer down, hooks on, and gets into a vehicle to drive away, pelicans take no notice, but if someone lifts a box out of a boat, pelicans beat it to the table to wait for cleanings, so often including heads. A dominant male, shown by his size and longer beak, takes more than a fair share. I’ve often watched these birds as they hop onto tables and snatch fish, even out of hands. Children feeding dismayed when their arms are nearly gulped. Scrawny kid like Caleb bound to suffer bitten fingers and bruises. Once a pushy one took a large flathead, appeared to smirk at getting free food. Swallowing such a wide triangle requires a great deal of strutting about while stretching the neck and lowering it. Couldn’t help thinking a bird verses hand-out battle in larger dimensions.

I noticed a beer gutted, large man looming, stubby holder cloaked beer bottle in hand, even though it’s barely past hotel opening hours. This bloke looked across with a leer of ownership evident as his gaze rested on the boy. As soon as Caleb saw him he was on his bike and vanished.

Skinny arms sticking out of an oversized t shirt. His hair dishevelled with that beach holiday look from too much salt water. Kid was there every day that whole fortnight, and I have to tell you I looked forward to his arrival the next long holiday season. Dead keen and great company. Sort of like the grandson I always wished.

One year Caleb tapped me on the shoulder while I was reading newspapers, outside the post office shop. I noticed he was in the grips of a growth spurt, seeming to possess spider arms and legs since last time I saw him.

‘You still got that rod and bubble, Dennis?’

We enjoyed pleasure of each other’s fishing company right up until after Easter.

I wandered back up to the shack through crowded Lakeside Caravan Park, population swollen with holiday makers again, must have been four years later, when I spied the exchange.

Caleb is dragged off his bike, lots of shouting, and a king sized wack across the ear. Kid goes down, but his father doesn’t let up, puts the boots in for a few kicks. I’m thinking this is more than discipline. Not that Caleb ever did anything marginally close to warranting any sort of admonishment while he’s been with me.

Then the monster turns his scrutiny onto me and through gritted teeth says, ‘what are you looking at, you old perve, I seen ya, think it’s OK to touch up little boys? That’s right bugger off, ya old weakling.’

My hand was over the phone, not too difficult to find a number. Right in first pages of the telephone directory, under abuse and assault, but then I thought about conversations I might have. Things like - So you are?

And how do you know the boy?

You spend time fishing with him, you talk to the kid, and sure, that’s all you do? Johnson...Stays in Lakeside Caravan Park, you say. I need more details, like where they normally live and where is his mum?

‘What happened to your face?’ I asked a wounded looking Caleb who won’t seem to make eye contact.

‘Slipped and fell off me bike.’

‘No you didn’t. Was that your dad?

Caleb clamed up, just stared out into the tiny swell tossed up by the nor-easterly, the breeze was early today, bringing with it promises of a thunderstorm. Then he turned tear brimming eyes to me, ‘I think it is great how when we catch the small fish they get thrown back, don’t you?’

‘You’re 16 now aren’t you?’

‘Yer, why?’

‘I think you can leave home if it’s not safe to remain.’

He’s still stares at the water, as if somehow it’s sending out messages to which only Caleb is privy.                    

‘Then where would I go?’

‘Come down here, I have plenty of room.’

‘Get real, how would I afford the bus fare on my own?’

‘Couldn’t you get a paper run; deliver catalogues to letter boxes, use your bike, some odd jobs and save up the cash?’

‘Nice ideas Dennis, but there just aren’t those kinds of chances for a kid like me. Everyone always thinks I’m going to nick something, or only want money to buy smokes.’

I’m the one hopelessly staring at my hands now. Thinking how I’d like to tell the lad that Caleb, his namesake, was one of the Israelites who fled Egypt with Moses – and managed to survive to see the Promised Land.

Then he draws a big sighed breath and says, ‘Look I know Dad’s like he is, but if I’m not there he might lash out at something that will get him into real trouble. I’m sort of like a small fish taking the bait, getting pulled in and then released compared to the shit we’d be in if some giant Marlin or Shark took our hook.’