It’s always the big one that gets away. Never the daft little roach or the suicidal perch that hooks itself before you’ve even settled into your chair. No. It’s the one you felt. Proper weight. Head shakes like a washing machine on full spin. The one that pulls line and your soul out in the same breath.
Mine was in Embalse de Cijara, three summers ago. 6am. Mist hanging low. I was half-hungover, half-lost in a sausage bap. Rod bends, no warning. I strike, line screams, I’m up like a pensioner who’s just realised bingo started early.
Fifteen minutes. Sweat. Swearing. Knees in the mud. Mate filming, useless.
Then — ping.
Silence.
Nothing but a lonely ripple and the sound of my pride evaporating into the morning fog.
We don’t talk about it. Except we do. All the time. Every time. Different versions. Bigger each year. That fish now has tattoos and a LinkedIn profile. Probably writes books.
But I swear on my tackle box, it was real. Pike. Big. Scarred jaw. Smart eyes. Like it knew it was going to break me.
Thing is, once you’ve had one like that, you start collecting excuses. Not just your own. Everyone’s. Blokes you meet by reservoirs, lads in tackle shops, weirdos in rivers with flasks full of god-knows-what.
Here are my favourites:
- “I slipped on an olive and missed the strike.”
- “A cow looked at me funny and I lost focus.”
- “The hook straightened — must’ve been a freak fish.”
- “Was retying my shoelace. Didn’t expect a take then.”
- “A duck flew into my line. Swear down.”
- “Too windy. Couldn’t hear the bite alarm.” (we were in a cave)
Then there’s Mick, my old mate from Rotherham. Swears blind he once lost a carp because he sneezed. Says it was hay fever. I say it was the fifth Estrella.
My personal worst? I dropped my sandwich. Tried to grab it before it hit the ground. Fish took that moment to bolt. Priorities were made. Regrets were had. Sandwich was ham and mustard, if that helps explain anything.
But behind all the stories — the bravado, the excuses, the exaggerated arm movements down the pub — there’s always this quiet thing we don’t say out loud.
Sometimes the ones that get away are the ones we need to remember.
Because if we caught every fish, where’s the chase? The myth? The reason to come back?
Nah. Let ‘em win sometimes. Let them haunt us. Let them show up in dreams, fat and smug and taunting.
It means we’re still in it.
Still hooked.
I’ll never forget that fish at Cijara. And yeah, maybe it was smaller than I tell people. Maybe I messed up. Maybe it never existed and it was just a sunken log wrapped in old netting. Who cares.
It felt real. That’s enough.
Besides, there’ll always be another. There has to be. Otherwise we’re just sitting in silence, waiting for nothing, and calling it a hobby.
Next time I’m blaming the wind. Or the goat. Or the position of the moon.
Whatever keeps the story alive.
