other words for the feeling of loss, frustration and despair. It was 200–300-pound sturgeon – it had to be as it’s
just broken off a 90-pound trace.
Ever the professional, I turn to camera and say, ‘But the thing is, the fish win sometimes and it’s going take a better fisherman than me to bring that fish out the water. Oh,
bollocks!’ In reality I’m thinking,
It’s all flipping Randy’s fault. He put too much bloody tension on the line. I knew it and I did nothing about it. I know, Uncle
Kenobi, I know I should have trusted my instincts, but it’s a bit bloody hard to when I’m the novice and haven’t caught one before.
Director Jason tries to dampen the blow by offering me Champagne and caviar for dinner that evening. Pound for pound, caviar is the most expensive food in the world and
it’s strange to think that I’m about to put something in my mouth that is from the bottom end of a fish – but then I do like eggs from the bottom end of a chicken so why not?
‘Sturgeons’ eggs might be black gold, but are they worth it?’ I say to camera.
I taste a small amount on a blini. The answer is, quite simply, ‘no’. To my mind, caviar is a bit like some WAGs I could mention: zero calories, little taste and a total waste of
money. I wash the salty eggs down with the Champagne and pour another glass. Now that stuff is worth every penny.
Kayaking, baby!
We are heading for Gabriola Island and it’s blowing a hooley. I do my Kate Winslet impression at the front of the ferry but I am really not looking forward to going
canoeing in this weather. I tried kayaking last year in South Africa and Costa Rica – it’s always a bloody disaster and the footage is never used. Kayaking and me go together like the
press and Hugh Grant, democracy and China, Scargill and Thatcher. But at least it was warm in South Africa; today it’s gonna be as frosty as a miner’s wife on washing day.
I meet Kim Crosby, a camp kayaking evangelist who will have to perform a miracle to convert me today. Unfortunately it appears he wants to perform something else. He peers into my canoe, his
face dangerously close to my crotch. I point and bite my nails at the camera. I’m going to have to keep a weathered eye on this old sea otter. We paddle out into the Straits of Georgia, where
there are sea lions, killer whales and . . . sharks. It is effing freezing and I really don’t want to fall in. ‘Chin-up, chest out, Robson, and stroke, stroke – no, Kim, not me,
the water!’
We are heading for a reef where lingcod live – not a relative of Pacific cod but in fact a long, slender greenling. The lingcod are fierce predators with massive mouths and sharp teeth,
and they can grow up to eighty pounds. Kim says the biggest fish can take the kayak with them, dragging you for hundreds of metres. I say to him, ‘Stay close.’ Worryingly he replies,
‘Don’t worry, I’m with you, baby.’ I have been on some dates in my time, but this one is unique.
We arrive at the spot near some rocks where Kim suggests we throw out a line but this isn’t easy and the strong wind keeps blowing us off the reef. He gets me by the paddle, trying to
steady me in the waves. It’s an impossible task and we are both blown and tossed further off course. I hold on tightly to his kayak, our canoes gently rubbing against each other in the bumpy
waters.
I ask Kim that if by some a miracle I should catch a lingcod today and get it to the boat, how the hell do I dispatch it?
‘We just grab into the gills, pull it in here, punch the shit out of the fish and down it goes.’
Right. That sounds lovely. I have a feeling that Kim might be sniffing glue or that he’s two lingcods short of a picnic – and right at this moment a picnic or any kind of food seems
very doubtful indeed. In two hours I have only managed ten minutes of fishing. The wind is taking the canoe in one direction and the current is taking the lure in another, meaning it’s
just broken off a 90-pound trace.
Ever the professional, I turn to camera and say, ‘But the thing is, the fish win sometimes and it’s going take a better fisherman than me to bring that fish out the water. Oh,
bollocks!’ In reality I’m thinking,
It’s all flipping Randy’s fault. He put too much bloody tension on the line. I knew it and I did nothing about it. I know, Uncle
Kenobi, I know I should have trusted my instincts, but it’s a bit bloody hard to when I’m the novice and haven’t caught one before.
Director Jason tries to dampen the blow by offering me Champagne and caviar for dinner that evening. Pound for pound, caviar is the most expensive food in the world and
it’s strange to think that I’m about to put something in my mouth that is from the bottom end of a fish – but then I do like eggs from the bottom end of a chicken so why not?
‘Sturgeons’ eggs might be black gold, but are they worth it?’ I say to camera.
I taste a small amount on a blini. The answer is, quite simply, ‘no’. To my mind, caviar is a bit like some WAGs I could mention: zero calories, little taste and a total waste of
money. I wash the salty eggs down with the Champagne and pour another glass. Now that stuff is worth every penny.
Kayaking, baby!
We are heading for Gabriola Island and it’s blowing a hooley. I do my Kate Winslet impression at the front of the ferry but I am really not looking forward to going
canoeing in this weather. I tried kayaking last year in South Africa and Costa Rica – it’s always a bloody disaster and the footage is never used. Kayaking and me go together like the
press and Hugh Grant, democracy and China, Scargill and Thatcher. But at least it was warm in South Africa; today it’s gonna be as frosty as a miner’s wife on washing day.
I meet Kim Crosby, a camp kayaking evangelist who will have to perform a miracle to convert me today. Unfortunately it appears he wants to perform something else. He peers into my canoe, his
face dangerously close to my crotch. I point and bite my nails at the camera. I’m going to have to keep a weathered eye on this old sea otter. We paddle out into the Straits of Georgia, where
there are sea lions, killer whales and . . . sharks. It is effing freezing and I really don’t want to fall in. ‘Chin-up, chest out, Robson, and stroke, stroke – no, Kim, not me,
the water!’
We are heading for a reef where lingcod live – not a relative of Pacific cod but in fact a long, slender greenling. The lingcod are fierce predators with massive mouths and sharp teeth,
and they can grow up to eighty pounds. Kim says the biggest fish can take the kayak with them, dragging you for hundreds of metres. I say to him, ‘Stay close.’ Worryingly he replies,
‘Don’t worry, I’m with you, baby.’ I have been on some dates in my time, but this one is unique.
We arrive at the spot near some rocks where Kim suggests we throw out a line but this isn’t easy and the strong wind keeps blowing us off the reef. He gets me by the paddle, trying to
steady me in the waves. It’s an impossible task and we are both blown and tossed further off course. I hold on tightly to his kayak, our canoes gently rubbing against each other in the bumpy
waters.
I ask Kim that if by some a miracle I should catch a lingcod today and get it to the boat, how the hell do I dispatch it?
‘We just grab into the gills, pull it in here, punch the shit out of the fish and down it goes.’
Right. That sounds lovely. I have a feeling that Kim might be sniffing glue or that he’s two lingcods short of a picnic – and right at this moment a picnic or any kind of food seems
very doubtful indeed. In two hours I have only managed ten minutes of fishing. The wind is taking the canoe in one direction and the current is taking the lure in another, meaning it’s
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