Fish and Chips

dockyard

Every Sunday he would disappear with his fishing gear, coaxing his motorbike to rattle its bumpy way to one of the elusive spots that have perfected the art of camouflage.

A few had posted themselves already: silent sentinels at their chosen spots, dotting the riverside.The water dared to barely ripple under their watchful eyes.

The line dangled in the water and he settled down to a morning of calm, that stretched ahead of him. Oh, the bliss of not having a conversation. The hours of silence. The birds. The silent unspoken code of companionable silence between brothers who meant business.

Fishing was serious business indeed.

He unstatued himself after a few hours. Late in the Β afternoon he sauntered into the shack by the pier and ordered fish and chips with draught beer.

He would return late in the evening sporting sunburn, like a warrior, ready to face the week ahead.

He never caught a fish, however. Ever.

Never complained about it though.

You see, he never had a hook at the end of his line.

[175 words]

Thank you Barb C T, of the blog Gallimaufry, for the beautiful photograph! A million thanks for hosting this challengeΒ PJ! Wish I could do this every single day!

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