Call That a Fish?

The lowly pollock. A simple sort of fish. Quite stupid in fact. To catch one pollock can be regarded as unfortunate. To catch two may have been carelessness. However hungry sea paddlers may simply regard the pollock as food, amusement and reason for a campfire and excuse for arty sculpture. Leading to the capture of the foolish fish was a week of strong wind and strong language.

A week after the search for fa-mam-me-naa saw your heroic correspondent sallying forth in search of black water canoeing. Black water canoeing can only take place in the home of the black water. Real black water kayaking is the preserve of the foolishly rich as the black water in question is simply far too expensive to float a kayak upon. The next best option is to therefore to surround some. This is more heroic than it sounds due to the black water beast being a strange cell like fauna that forms itself into a creature of at least one gallon over the course of the evening. It then attacks the wallet.

The Black Water epic began with a fast moving silver object being eaten by a large fast moving white object. By the time the silver object was regurgitated once more the need for black water was more pressing due to the wind increasing. A strategic boat holding session was held. A picturesque route was taken that ensured the traditional missing of the tide. This is akin to the changing of the guard.

A decision was taken to kayak on the black water that first night due to the wind whipped wild white churning foam.

Cromatry, Forth, Tyne, Sausage, Dogger, Beans,... Shannon, Soda Bread, Rockall, Bacon, Malin, Toast thank you Mrs. Kenny. We packed smugly with an air of nonchalance born of weeks of previous frustration. Abandoning the car we set off in search of an opening cliche.

Our first camp was in the aptly named `gonad na pog bay two.' A very exclusive little bay sadly now off limits. For entertainment we were able to channel surf, with dolphins on channel one and two. Some days later we set off for Clare Island taking advantage of a lull. As we crossed to Clare we were entertained by the huge rolling fairground swells that only the mighty Atlantic can provide. Avoiding the area of hugely breaking surf to the south of the island. Wise council prevailed against a circumnavigation. We could be relatively sure the island would still be there for the next few years despite the efforts of the raging sea. The added corrosive effect of our tin's fibreglass and a supcon of Goretex would probably not have made much of a dent in the western end but maybe a very large dent in ours.

A night in the campsite at Clare, a walk round the island and some more black water canoeing followed. Fellow paddlers on the campsite were creeping about in the belief that your correspondent was asleep and thus settling down to a chorus of the ferry repair sonata, played on a large boat by large Irish men with equally large Shaklee's.

Delightfully, the forecast spelled Go Away Lest Everyone is drowned. Therefore, we did. On making landfall on the other side, it was decided to have a breather due to the thundering surf. Well, it would have been so noisy on the beach... A fishing line was produced with much merriment and rib taking. No sooner had the line been put down than a record breaking fish was brought from the depths. The biggest fish we have ever seen caught. The record lasted for twenty seconds. We had to stop fishing for there was no more space left in the boat. Woody (as in Toy story) paddled bravely with two passengers and a strange smile that turned briefly to panic as the largest one kicked. Those fish provided much amusement and full bellies. So! Now you can truly say I write a load of Pollocks.

By Hardy Sloebote