How to Think Like a Fish

by Jeremy Wade

  Having first looked at kite cord and paracord, I ended up getting hold of some climbing cord in 4mm diameter, with a breaking strain in excess of 500 pounds. Because it wouldn’t be possible to get any useful amount of this on a reel, it would have to be used as a handline. Purist anglers might want to look away now, but I actually like handlining. It’s the most direct contact you can have with a fish, so in some ways it’s the purest form of angling. (It’s illegal in British waters, though, because it’s a very short step from this to an unattended fixed line, or night-line.) And having once brought in a 200-pound arapaima using just hands and thick mono, without the cushioning effect of a rod or a reel’s drag, I had some idea of what I might be up against. But that was in a shallow pool in the Amazon, not a raging mountain river. So we decided to rig a handline, complete with heavy-duty swivel and 350lb multi-strand wire, and give it, and me, a test.

  Cue buffalo wrestling. More correctly it was a buffalo tug-o’-war. We would attach the wire leader to the buffalo’s collar and see if I, with the help of seven young Kumaoni men, and the cord, could hold it. And we’d film it for posterity. In terms of simplified TV logic, if a fish could pull a buffalo, then my fishing gear needed to be in the buffalo-pulling league. To psych up the human team we did an elaborate Kumaoni take on a Maori haka. This all happened while I was making what would become Jungle Hooks India, a project that got off to an inauspicious start when our filming application got horrendously held up and we arrived in India several weeks too late. The snow melt on the Kali had already started, turning the water cold and grey, and since catching an eight-pound mahseer on day one I’d caught nothing further. With no fish showing on my line, we were desperate for any vaguely fish-related stories, and this was how we came upon this far-fetched tale of an alleged freshwater man-eater, and decided to investigate it further.

  People, I suddenly realized, were yelling. Somebody had undone the tether holding the 1,000-pound animal to its post, and the coils of line on the ground were moving. I had to get to the other side of the line, but without getting my feet inside any of the coils. So I jumped across then grabbed the line at the precise moment it snapped tight. The next thing I knew, I was jerked through the air in a trajectory that dumped me down on my shoulder on the stony soil. As the pain shot through me, the others seized the line and for a moment everything seemed to hold. Then there was a loud crack, followed by the buzz of a heavy-duty swivel and half the wire trace blurring towards us like shrapnel.

  Director and cameraman Gavin Searle, whose idea this had been, bounded up to me with a huge grin and the verdict: ‘Short but intense!’ Our second cameraman, meanwhile, was still waiting for his camera to switch on. We also had a belated briefing. The buffalo, we were told, was jointly owned by four families. His favorite family lived in a stone-built house that was just visible on a distant ridge. Everybody had predicted, but failed to tell us, that as soon as he was released he would immediately make a run for that house. They finally managed to coax him back that evening.

  Although it’s not something I’d recommend, the buffalo test is why I now use double-barrel crimps on multi-strand wire with complete confidence. They have become items that I rarely travel without: tiny, almost weightless things that have been key components for many big fish captures, starting with the goonch. But these crimps didn’t arrive in isolation. My goonch campaign coincided with a big injection of fishing tackle know-how, which came at just the right time. Through my friend Tim Marks I met David Bird, now sadly no longer with us, the former match angler and angling advocate, who had latterly turned his attention, inventiveness and enthusiasm to big-game angling. David took my search for outlandish freshwater tackle utterly seriously, and delighted in being part of the plot to televise a monstrous goonch. He introduced me to wind-on leaders (which enabled me to fish a decent length of tough 300lb mono using a rod and reel), and provided me with all manner of large hooks and other bits and bobs that just weren’t available in the UK back then, and still aren’t. I ended up in the odd position of being a big-game gear aficionado who had never used any of this stuff in the sea.

  Since then, though, I’ve had a few opportunities to fish for exotic saltwater species. I’ve caught sailfish off Western Australia and striped marlin from Mexico’s Sea of Cortez, and a big male tiger shark off Ascension Island, which tore the leader from the wire-man’s hands an incredible nine times before we finally restrained it alongside the boat. But until I went to the Indonesian island of Sulawesi I’d never fished for those two iconic species, both capable of growing to over 1,000 pounds: black and blue marlin.

  Having long ago read Ernest Hemingway’s fictional account of this, in The Old Man and the Sea, I thought it would be interesting to try for one using a handline. Somehow we found a Chinese man who knew how to do that, and I duly found myself on the long journey out to the fishing grounds in his small boat. Once there we put out two large trolling lures: shiny metal heads trailing colorful plastic skirts, which popped and gurgled at the surface. The line, which looked to be about 200lb, was held on large wooden spools, and several yards of slack were carefully flaked out on the deck, well clear of our feet.

  For a long time we criss-crossed the deep blue, scanning our wake for the tell-tale sign of a bill slashing the surface, but all was quiet. Then without any warning one of the lines was torn from the clip on the outrigger. My gloved hands tightened on the line as the boat accelerated, and I felt something like an aquatic buffalo before there was a sickening slackness. The line had broken.

  A couple of hours later there was another hit. This time some loud yelling and hand gestures got me to let the line go, as the fish repeatedly flung itself into the air; and when I finally tightened down there was a solid weight on the end. After an hour of strategic boat maneuvers, during which I laboriously retrieved line, arm over arm, only to lose it again, I finally had the fish underneath the boat, with the line going vertically down. Slowly the fish came up… and suddenly it wasn’t there anymore. The hook had fallen out.

  And that was it. That amazing opportunity, to catch a marlin on a handline, won’t ever come again. We did get some dramatic footage, though, of leaping fish and onboard chaos, so film-wise it wasn’t too disastrous; but I was gutted–literally a feeling in my gut, which only got worse as I became wise after the event. Basically, on the first fish, the knot had failed, the one attaching the main line to the leader-swivel. I remembered looking at the knot before we started and seeing that it appeared to be just a load of half hitches. But thick nylon can be more forgiving than thinner diameters, and, besides, this was tried and trusted gear, so I let it go. When the broken line came in, however, the curly end left no doubt about where it had broken. Not only that: with a good knot, I’d have gone over the side before 200lb line failed.

  For the second fish it’s likely that the thick-wire hook never properly went in, because we never properly set it–out of fear of another break-off.

  Looking back I realize that, now as then, part of me is trying to pass the buck, and find excuses. With no translator there was a language barrier, so the drill wasn’t as clear as it should have been. Sometimes, too, there’s no alternative to using somebody else’s equipment, and on occasion this leaves something to be desired. Also, we were pushed for time, so I deferred to the local expert, because I’d never fished for big marlin before. But fishing a place regularly is very different from fishing there for one day. In the first case a win-some-lose-some approach can be acceptable; in the other case it isn’t. But to work things through diplomatically, and develop a collaboration based on mutual respect, can take more time than is available. In the end, the specifics of this story are academic, and I need to own the mistake.

  And that mistake is the biggest one there is. It’s the mistake that makes a complete mockery of the fact that you did everything else right. Against the odds, you got 99 percent of the process right–bait, place, time, presentation–but that rogue one percent was not some random act-of-God gl
itch; it was something entirely avoidable. That one percent, which can make the crucial difference between fish and no fish, is the failure to pay attention to detail.

  Number one detail is knots. Fishing tackle, like anything else, is only as strong as its weakest point, and that point is invariably a knot. However expensive and high-tech your rod, reel and other gizmos, a knot is something that you (normally) make yourself. So all anglers should be adept at tying knots. This is more than just a matter of knowing how to tie a particular knot. Sometimes a knot doesn’t form perfectly. The nylon above the knot might look slightly constricted, or the wraps haven’t settled evenly. At this point, assuming you have actually taken the time to inspect it closely, you either decide that it will do, or you decide that it won’t. My normal approach is to retie if I have any doubt at all. Lubricate, pull evenly, then check again. Sometimes I’ll do this four or five times, irrespective of whether anyone’s tapping their foot or pointedly looking at a watch. When my line goes in the water, it could be there for several hours, and I might only get one opportunity. So I need to have full confidence in every component of my tackle, and no niggling worries that anything might let me down. It’s a classic case of more haste less speed. If a big fish decides to run for a snag, I need to believe in my tackle’s ability to stop it. Big fish are unforgiving, and will find and exploit any weakness. So if you’re fishing without total confidence in your gear, you’re asking for trouble.

  The second big detail is hook sharpness. Many anglers assume that a new hook straight out of the packet must be sharp. In many cases this is true, but not always. Always check, and if necessary sharpen with a file. Sharpening technique takes practice, but basically it’s a gentle stroking towards the point at a very flat angle: first on one side, then the other, then on the outside of the point. The difference this makes can be dramatic. But for many anglers hook sharpness, beyond a basic minimum, is never considered. Most fish are landed and some come off, and this is considered to be a normal, acceptable ratio. But the difference between catching difficult fish and not catching them is often about making small improvements in key areas. The mentality should be one of making every opportunity count, and taking every possible step towards that end. I remember an experiment I did years ago with a twelve-foot carp rod, 12lb monofilament and a spring balance. With the balance hooked into a loop on the end of the line I got my accomplice, standing fifty yards away, to strike as hard as he could. The balance barely read three pounds. That’s why a sharp hook is important. Often on the strike, because of line stretch and/or a belly in the line, all that happens is the tiniest penetration of the very point. But that’s enough; it will embed further if tension is kept up. But a hook that’s not sharp enough will slide and fail to penetrate.

  The hook should also be checked if there’s any chance the point has bumped something on the retrieve and become blunted. If so, a touch-up with the file may restore the point. But if too much metal has to be removed, leaving the point significantly shortened, it’s time to discard that hook and attach a new one. When selecting a hook, particularly one made from heavy-gauge metal, it’s worth repeating that you should check that the eye is fully closed. If it isn’t, look in the packet for a better one. If there’s any chance of the line slipping through this gap, do something about it. Sometimes it’s possible to reduce the gap using pliers. Or, as I’ve done in the past, tie a knot with a second piece of line to block this gap. Or fill the gap with quick-setting epoxy adhesive. If you’re likely to re-use a hook (or a swivel) don’t cut the line next to the metal. If the eye is scratched, this could possibly damage the line at the knot.

  I also keep a close eye on the condition of my line. Suppose after catching a fish the last few yards are abraded. Sometimes this is just superficial; other times I’m not happy with it, so I take it off and retie the end tackle. I’ll also check back several yards to make sure there’s no other damage I haven’t seen. When fly-fishing I’ve been drilled to regularly check for wind knots, those overhand knots that miraculously tie themselves, which can weaken the leader or tippet strength by as much as 50 percent.

  I realize, as I write this, that some of these things may sound a bit obsessive, and unnecessary, but these details can and do make a difference. Whenever I’m fishing I want my confidence in my gear to be 100 percent. If it’s not, I want to pinpoint where my doubt lies, and do something about it. Losing a fish through failure to check a knot, or the hook, or the line should never happen. Once is one time too many, simple as that.

  Get everything right though, and it’s amazing what fishing tackle will withstand. For a lot of the fishing I do, the weakest link isn’t going to be the rod, or a knot. It’s going to be me. While attached to a 153-pound wels catfish in the Río Segre in Spain, for example, using 150lb braid on a locked spool, I slipped onto my backside and was in the process of being pulled into the river–until my feet gained purchase on a slab of rock just inches from the water. If I’d gone in I could in theory have let go of the rod, but other similar instances suggest that I am genetically incapable of doing so. Other times I’m attached to the rod by a harness, and letting go isn’t even an option. If the line were to dig in and jam, nothing is going to break: I’m going to join the fish in the water. In risk-assessment terms it’s one of those low-likelihood/high-seriousness events. And because such an outcome wouldn’t be good news, I carry a knife or line-cutter just in case–another small but important detail.

  Meanwhile, every time I go fishing, I will continue to check those other vital details. Whatever the other uncertainties, I always want to fish in full confidence that there will be no equipment failure caused by human error. With this unexciting but vital component of my approach in place, I believe I have a fighting chance against anything that swims. Just don’t talk to me about buffaloes.

  SEA

  21

  A Sense of Scale

  Catch-and-release fishing is such a bizarre idea to some people that it once got me arrested, and facing the very real possibility of rotting in a south-east Asian jail. I could sort of see their point. I had traveled halfway around the world to be on the Mekong River, in north-east Thailand, which I quickly found was full of gill nets and long-lines and consequently not many fish, and here I was telling locals that if I caught anything I’d put it back in the water, after taking a quick photograph.

  I could see my story didn’t compute. It had to be an elaborate cover for something else. After questioning me for a whole evening and most of the next day, the district police chief confiscated all my film and announced to his subordinates that they had just caught a spy.

  The worst-case scenario didn’t happen. I ended up being released and put on a bus to Bangkok with a police escort. On the way I gave him the slip and got on a different bus. This was stopped in the mountains by armed, uniformed men, who walked up and down the corridor looking at passengers before letting us continue. Once in the capital I went to the British embassy, to see if there was any way I could convince the authorities that I was just a tourist. I desperately wanted to salvage this trip, which I had financed by working for a year as a supply teacher in London, while lodging in a house that had many rent-reducing features, such as the absence of banisters in the three-story stairwell and plastic trash bags standing in for window glass in my attic room. After telling me to come back the next day, the embassy staff advised me to leave the country as soon as possible. It was a lesson in the unpredictability of the human environment, and one of my more bizarre blank trips.

  It only made sense nearly ten years later, when I stumbled across some archived press stories. At the time of my trip the British government, it turns out, was secretly sending special forces to train guerrillas led by the infamous Khmer Rouge–who, after being ejected from Cambodia by the Vietnamese, were operating out of bases in north-east Thailand. If that’s a hard one to take in, consider that the Vietnamese had recently humiliated the US in the Vietnam war (which ended in 1975), so in the eyes of some Weste
rn politicians that made the genocidal Khmer Rouge their friends–as long as nobody ever found out. So somebody wandering around north-east Thailand with a notebook and camera in 1984 would not have been welcome. In the end some real journalists unearthed the story in the late 1980s. Finally in 1991, after denying it for two years, the British government admitted to this less than glorious escapade–although by then few people in the outside world cared, or even noticed the story.

  In the Amazon it was something different. Here people thought I must be an undercover gold prospector. But this didn’t come with any kind of threat to me, just persistent requests to see what kind of firepower I was packing inside my suspiciously heavy rucksack.

  But things are changing: the once inconceivable concept of catching fish and putting them back is gaining ground. For millennia, rivers and lakes all over the world provided enough fish not just for subsistence but also, very often, for some people to make a living as full-time fishermen, selling their catch to others. But the expansion of this industry, driven by human population growth and improved fishing methods, has now gone into sharp reverse–thanks to those very same factors. In just a handful of generations a wild freshwater fish for your dinner plate, if you want it, has gone from being a birthright to a luxury, and is fast going beyond that to something non-existent. This situation in our rivers shouldn’t come as any surprise when you consider the more publicized state of the oceans–where at the current rate of exploitation there will be nothing worth fishing for commercially by 2050. If this can happen in the vastness of the oceans, then just reflect on the vulnerability of the fish in our lakes and rivers, which hold a mere 0.01 percent of the world’s water.