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As we Sea lure anglers know our most prized sea fish has got be the Sea Bass !

It would be interesting to read where and when ones memorable experience of catching their first Bass was regardless whether it was with bait or lure.


Gary
 

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First bass. remember it well actually.

GSCE study leave, beach down the road from Mum & Dad's house on white rag dug the day before (while on study leave), no idea what I was fishing for, just fishing I guess, rod in rest, then rod not in rest and halfway down the beach heading for the sea!! It was only about 3lb but he spiked me real good seeing as I didn't know what to do with a bass. Remember the pain as well!!
 

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Here's an accout of my first bass from an article published several years back now............



“The Bass Man”


It was mid-morning and already my catch numbered 20, yet after two days of pulling shore crabs out of the water, even a fishing obsessed eight year old was open to distractions. The sight of a grown man digging up the shoreline, posed questions in need of answers. To date, the only adults I had seen piling up sand on beaches were fulfilling their paternal roles. This man was alone, and although prolific in his efforts his castles were atrocious.

I wound the knotted nylon through the oversized eyes my solid glass “spinning” rod, ordered my parents to guard my crabs (from what danger I am not sure), and sprinted down the muddy beach. A day of peaceful escape on the Hampshire beach of Lepe for one unfortunate soul was about to undergo a change of direction. Yet it was more than the day of the young man before me that was about to alter. With pace that increased in proportion to the proliferation of questions waiting to be asked, I ran towards an encounter that influenced my angling future.

Rag worm was the answer to my first query. Fishing bait for bass the answer to my second. These were followed over the next hour by hundreds of further enquiries where answers merely generated new questions. To help him with his digging, I periodically plunged into the freshly turned muddy sand to retrieve worms, whilst he did his best to avoid impaling me – although with hindsight, given my endless interrogation, he may have been tempted.

After 30 minutes and with the tide beginning to flow, he headed for his car to swap his fork for a rod. Determined to continue this enjoyable quest, I ran back for my bucket and spade and tried to emulate his digging. Hunting worms with a spade now seemed a far more worthwhile challenge than shore crabs on a chunk of mackerel. I was even unconcerned to discover my father had failed in his duty to guard my bucket of “greenies” (shore crabs), having in an act of compassion, liberated them from their overcrowded prison, back to their undersea homes.

I soon discovered however that small metal sandcastle spades, even when wielded with rampantly enthusiasm, are useless tools for digging rag worm from their deep lairs. The worm cast rich area was soon swamped by the incoming tide and my bucket remained empty. Disappointed but not beaten, I planned to return tomorrow, tooled up with a fork from my grandfather’s shed.

Looking down the long gently sloping beach, I observed my worm digging friend near the point where my little crabbing river joined the sea. He sat at the edge of the water looking up intently at the outline of a fishing rod against the bright sky. Now worm digging had lost its appeal I regained my interest in his activities.

I skipped over the beach, waded the river, flooding my Wellies in the process and recommenced quizzing him about every detail of his actions. Had he caught anything? Why hadn’t he caught anything? When would he catch something? – Questions experience has taught me he would be asking himself were it not for my incessant interruptions.

Yet his interrogation was relatively brief, as inspired by his answers I ran back to gather my fishing gear. Next to my parents sat a picnic waiting to be eaten but I managed to beg 10 more minutes, before sprinting back, ready to mimic my new role model in a quest for these unseen creatures.

Lacking suitable bait, the angler offered one of his hard earned worms. He demonstrated how to slide them onto the hook pincer end first, as I looked on in fascination.

Oblivious to my limits as an angler, I excitedly cast, expecting to see the bait land 50 yards away as his earlier cast had done. Without a weight and more importantly the basic ability to cast, the worm tore off the hook and flew 10 yards into the water, while the hook wound repeatedly around the end of the rod. My tutor eyed up my fishing gear suspiciously as he helped undo the mess. He sent me off in a quest for a lump of shingle with a hole in for a weight – probably to buy him a few minutes peace.

On my return, the addition of a stone weight improved my range – if not my sense of accuracy. My cast fizzed off in a low unplanned trajectory towards the distant Isle of Wight before springing to an abrupt halt and falling over his line. Before an explanation for my lack of casting distance was established (it was due to the reel only holding 15 yards of knotted line) I hauled my bait in ready for my next attempt. This brought his line with it, setting the bell clipped to the end of the rod into a fast jingle, and me into a vigorous dance as I excitedly informed him he had caught a fish.

As I recall these events after the passing of more than 30 years, I realise how patient this poor man must have been. I have no recollection of him telling me to clear off, or even becoming the slightest bit irritated. He seemed to understand the simplistic nature of the emotions of an eight-year-old male (emotions that in truth remain little changed to this day). Blinkered by the excitement, I may however have missed a few obvious signs. My father however was better versed in both body language and diplomacy. It was probably not by chance that he arrived at that moment, insisting it was time to eat. Despite my protests I was dragged away.

Routine days pass in a muddled blur, with little recollection of general events let alone specific detail: extraordinary events remain fixed for a lifetime. I recall so much of that day. Even seemingly insignificant details of the lunch picnic remain: the tartan blanket, the crunch of sand in my sandwiches and the troublesome August wasps. Yet it was my unrelenting focus on the dark outline of the angler against bright water that I remember most. Every time he wound in his line or moved his rod up the beach ahead of the advancing tide, I was on my feet and headed towards him, desperate to see what was happening. Only the growing irritation of my father, at my inability to participate in a family mealtime, brought me back.

Suddenly, any thoughts of lunch or fear of the consequences of deserting it evaporated as I ran away to sea. With still squelching gum boots at full stride, I raced over sand, shingle, then mud, towards what I knew this time to be a fight between man and fish.

As I arrived a fish battled 20 yards from the angler inside a shallow lagoon next to the river mouth. The opponent bolted towards the deeper water, leaving an unwinding swirl of water as the angler hurriedly back-wound his Mitchell reel. An explosion of questions occurred as I danced with excitement on the edge of the water, but the one who held the answers was too engrossed to answer. My recollection is that the man played the fish with skill, yet the excitement and apprehension he displayed, indicated the angler valued his success highly, as if this was not a regular occurrence.

Patiently the fish was played out. As the creature tired and wallowed before us, I headed into the water to “help,” only succeeding in scarring the fish into making a final attempt to escape. Firm words (the only ones I remember him uttering) brought me back to land. He walked the fish up the beach, timing his retreat to gain assistance from the little 6-inch waves. With the fish beached, he dropped his rod and grabbed his prize.

With expertise acquired from my “Anglers encyclopaedia” and several oft-read old angling papers, I confidently informed him he had caught a bass. Looking up as he unhooked his prize, he looked somewhat surprised, and possibly impressed at my accurate prognosis.

To my eyes this fish was enormous. My experience of catching amounted to tiddlers in my shrimping net and two 12-ounce trout and I was convinced the bass must be a record. The man told me it was nowhere near a record. Yet this only filled me with awe as he said they can grow five times as big – which I took to mean five times as long, which would have made it about 9 foot!

Lacking a priest, he improvised using the handle of a large sheaf knife to dispatch the fish with 3 blows. I looked on wide-eyed, struck by new questions regarding life and death.

“Is it dead?”
“Yes,” was his brief authoritative declaration.

Carefully I studied the bass for a number of seconds before questioning his declaration. I knew in Westerns, cowboys who were seen to be breathing weren’t really dead, just bad actors. This supposedly deceased bass was moving its gill covers and periodically twitching its pectoral fins.

“If it’s dead how come it’s still moving?” I asked accusingly.
“…Err… just its nerves,” was the angler’s somewhat uncertain reply.

This was not a smart answer if he wanted to discourage further questions – something he seemed to realise as he turned away and began delving into his ex-army haversack for something he never found. Fortunately for the man, my dad returned, made brief apologetic eye contact with the fisherman, then dragged me back to lunch, fielding my questions on life and death, philosophers have pondered since the days of Socrates.

“It’s a bass dad, you can tell by the spines…. Dad what are nerves?…What is it like to be dead?

The day so far had flown past, but now my enforced detention lasted an eternity as I was forced to complete lunch. Before I speeded back to see my new hero, my parents, keen to encourage enthusiasm in an area where I had demonstrated an attention span running into hours rather than the normal 30 seconds, agreed to my pleas to return the next day. Delighted at the decision, I skipped back over the sand to the angler I now thought of as “The Bass Man.”

During the next hour I followed my angling mentor up the beach during his staged retreat from the incoming tide. Despite my best efforts with my few yards of line, a hopelessly small reel and a rotting mackerel (his worm supply was too low to spare any more for me to immediately cast off!), I did not make contact with the bass.

Despite boundless optimism, the knowledge gleaned from my new mentor led me to quickly understand I was unlikely to succeed if I could only cast into water three inches deep. When it came to the time to leave, I barely protested. With hindsight, it was the first of numerous of occasions, where of one of the vital ingredients in the recipe for angling success, was perceived to be absent. True to the traditions of “modern angling” I was convinced the solution lay within my moneybox. I was sure tomorrow armed with the right equipment success would be mine.

In bed that night my head was filled with dreams of implausible bass – and not only when I was sleeping. Yet hopes that imaginings like these might just become tangible have stayed with me to this day and as long as I continue to dream, I will continue to run away to sea.

As I attempt to put into words this long past event, it is unavoidable that I make comparison between myself as the angler then and now. The bottom line of such analysis is while my competence has changed: emotions and dreams remain constant. Even aged eight I was aware no matter who you are or what your abilities, fishing remains something of a lottery - to enter all you have to do is cast your line. Knowledge that it could just be you, endorses all but the wildest angler’s fantasies no matter what your age.

On my arrival the next day I was the possessor of a new spool of 15 pound Bayer Perlon, two new 2oz lead weights, a packet of size 1/0 hooks (all recommended and used by The Bass Man). I also had bought a mackerel spinner (chosen as it was cheap and shiny). I considered my purchases the equivalent of extra entries in fishing’s lottery. I additionally carried an old shovel, negotiated from my granddad – my request for a fork having been deemed excessively dangerous a weapon in my hands.

Unlike the previous day, it was after lunch before we arrived. The worm banks were already flooded by the incoming tide and I managed to gather just two halves of one worm, despite some frantic digging.

Despite an inference from The Bass Man that he would be fishing again today, he was nowhere to be seen. Without his help, the 50 yards of somewhat springy line I wound onto my small reel bedded in, resulting in me barely adding another rod length to my casting distance. The weights I knotted on to the line lasted longer than my “two” worms, but were soon lost on a submerged groyne.

The optimism of the angling child reaches far higher peaks than that of the adult, yet such hopes are much more fragile. After less than an hour I was deflated and defeated. The world of an eight year old however is filled with new challenges. Soon fishing for a blenny, spotted at the concreted edge of the river drove away thoughts of bass.

The chances of hooking a three-inch fish on a big sea hook were minimal. Yet the prospect of catching the fish - although delectable, was not my only motivation. The electricity running from my fingertips to my adrenal gland, each time the fish tugged at the limpet bait, was novel enough to be a reward in itself.

I spent the next hour lying on my belly with my head poking over the edge of the vertical bank staring down into the water. I was engrossed by the (ultimately fishless) contest and it was only when the river began to flow inland, as the sluices opened under the pressure of the incoming tide, that I looked up to see most of beach had disappeared. More significantly a gaggle of anglers had formed 100 yards away on the far side of the river.

Needing to know more I picked up my rod, supply of limpets, and the paper bag containing the mackerel spinner and made for the activity. Heading towards the road bridge - now the only way to cross the tide flooded river - I noticed a lonesome figure on my side of the flow: The Bass Man. The draw of 25 unknown anglers was stronger than one friend, and before long I was part of a crowd of male fishermen ranging from older boys of around 10, to men who to my young eyes seemed as old as the sea itself (yet were probably not of a pensionable age).

I established spinning for mackerel and maybe even bass had brought them here at high water. It became apparent however, that few had actually caught fish here previously. They were holidaymakers who had heard it rumoured to be THE place.

I opted for fishing limpet with my short line, reasoning that the bait had already been successful in getting bites from the blenny, whilst none of the others had caught using feathers and spinners - with hindsight a somewhat questionable line of reasoning, yet one of the rare occasions in my young (and old!) angling days where I chose to innovate before I had imitated.

I placed myself near the middle of the mêlée and quickly demonstrated my proficiency, tangling the lines of 3 surrounding anglers. Two of them were fortunate and unpicked their tackle from the mess quickly, leaving the most intimidating of the anglers eying a knotted ball of nylon spaghetti in front of his unshaven face. Shaking his head he sucked on his rollup, then his breath between his teeth. Exhaled smoke accompanied the words of his verdict. The only way out of this mess apparently involved cutting my line to free his. I did not argue.

As he set to work I noticed the younger anglers amongst the pack were staring at the ground behind the fisherman I judged the most capable in the crowd…if capability is measured in casting distance – which it was in my mind at this time, given I was clearly anchored at the bottom of the league in this area. Leaving the scary man to sort out the mess, I scurried off to view the focus of their attention.

Partially wrapped in newspaper, a freshly dispatched mackerel lay twitching. The iridescence of its living colours, compared to my long dead, crab-bait mackerel seemed remarkable.

“Oy sun it's saw'ed aut!” came a gruff shout from the now un-ensnared fisherman.

On my return, I picked my rod up from his feet and sheepishly thanked him. Passing me the birds nest cocooning my terminal tackle, he gestured with the cigarette in his free hand to an empty area of beach, and offered a parting suggestion.

“Naw go an' bleedin’ fish dan there where yer won’t do any more flamin’ damage,”
Being a generally obedient child - as well as easily intimidated, I went along with his suggestion. I was not keen for our lines to cross again.

Once standing on the edge of the crowd, it was time to play my final card: the mackerel spinner. A decision not driven by intuition or experience, as the angling stories invariably inferred. It was purely as I had no more weights and hooks, and no knife to liberate the terminal tackle from the wiry tangle. Besides, the sight of my mum in the distance, heading towards the car laden with deckchairs surely meant home time was approaching. The spinner was the quickest way to resume my fishing.

Soon a mackerel spinner was connected to the line by a quickly tied granny knot that was poor even by my standards. Who ever concluded, the only certainty in angling is the knots at the end of the day are superior to those at the beginning, failed to consider the impatience of a child who knows the clock is ticking, when formulating their sound bite. After 3 casts the light spinner had barely made it into the water. The blades span gently in the building breeze before my face, as I contemplated a solution.

Scrambling frantically for the answer amongst the pebbles separating the sea from the road, I soon found a remedy. Reconnecting the spinner with a holed lump of flint tied 9 inches above it, I could cast 30 feet. This seemed utterly hopeless compared to the distances the other anglers achieved. Especially as it barely cleared the raft of weed floating near to the shore on the rising tide. Two casts brought only seaweed. The next (my furthest to date) landed just beyond the raft of floating vegetation, but after a few turns of the reel I was again weeded up. The flotsam imparted a satisfying bend into the stiff fibreglass rod as I leant back into the weight. Fantasising I looked much like one of fishermen pictured in my Angling Times, showing “an angler patiently playing out a stubborn opponent”, I expertly beached my catch by walking backwards up the shingle - just as The Bass Man had done the day before.

Over the last two days, I had grown used to my angling consisting of brief moments of activity and hope, succeeded by (longer) periods of laboriously untangling weed or knots (or both). As I unwrapped this latest parcel I glimpsed a flash of silver within. Ripping back the brown covering, to my utter amazement, I revealed a fish barely 3 times the length of the spinner. All my Christmases had come at once. With its erect spiky dorsal fin, it was clearly a bass. Little did I know I was looking at the shape of my future.

The six-inch fish was placed into a sandcastle bucket filled with seawater and I proudly paraded it to the other fishing folk. All but the younger boys seemed disappointingly unimpressed. The scary man I had tangled with earlier however lit up as he was presented with the opportunity to make a wisecrack to his mates.

“ Cawt some bait ave yer” was his loud, disparaging remark.

I took this to be merely a sign of jealousy (once I worked out what he was implying.)

Head held high, I strode off to find my dad, but he was already coming to find me to call a halt to the proceedings. He seemed pleased at my obvious joy, yet also seemed to take pity on the bass. To my surprise he didn’t think cooking the fish was a good idea and insisted I should put it back. I tried to convince him I would cook it myself in grandma’s kitchen, yet my offer seemed only to make him more resolute about what I should do with the bass. Reluctantly I agreed to release it, but only once I had shown it to The Bass Man.

Despite the juvenile nature and the somewhat oxygen deprived status of the bass in the bucket, The Bass Man eyed it appreciatively. He reported, like me today he had caught one small bass so far, which he had returned. He felt the imminent approach of September and building tides would bring greater rewards. At that moment in time, I found the concept of greater rewards barely conceivable. He suggested I better free the fish quickly if it was to survive to fight another day.

Letting my catch go was no easy task. I was jubilant at my success and like a trophy the bass represented more than just a reward: it was also my tangible proof. Pouring the contents of my bucket into the sea-swamped river at that moment was akin to throwing my favourite toy to the sea. It was the first time I practiced catch and release, yet even today I still need more practice, as when parting with a significant fish, I can still feel a brief sense of loss.

In angling tales, the author invariably reports the released fish swam away powerfully with a flick of the tale. Following its ordeal of being repeatedly extracted from a meagre amount of poorly oxygenated water, my bass did manage the occasional twitch of its tail as it wallowed on the surface. I am unable to report as to its future, as at that point my father approached to growl my name. His tone and body language indicated I had finally pushed him over the edge. It was time for damage limitation. I ran towards him leaving the sea behind me. I sensed there would be other days to chase bass – though I am not sure I guessed how paradoxically they would number quite so many, yet still not be enough. I may no longer have my dad around to drag me home, but turning away from the water remains difficult.

As I write this it surprises me how many details from a day way back in my childhood remain clear in my mind. Memories tend to be selective so as to alter reality, yet the emotions were real, as were the lessons learnt (Although at the time I did not recognise many of the lessons).
My main realisation at the time was spending my time fishing was what life should be about. I could see no reason why like The Bass Man, I should not be free to come and go with the tides – deep down I still wish this to be true. Yet those that knew better, deemed “doing my duty” by visiting relations, prior to return to my land locked existence, was how the remainder of the stay should be spent. The passing of time and parenthood has led me to empathise with the complexities of balancing pleasure and duty: although I refuse to completely let go of this fantasy.

Over the next 10 years of attempting to catch bass on holiday, I failed to see, let alone catch another one. Yet due to improbable luck and the lessons learnt at Lepe with The Bass Man I considered myself a bass angler.


~~~~~~~~


The Bass Man - © Matthew Spence 2005
 

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WELL THATS A EASY ONE AS I HAVE ONLY CAUGHT ONE !!!!!!!!! IT WAS AT ANGLE BAY PEMBROKESHIRE ON A SHAD ON SIMON LEWIS'S ROD WHIST HE WAS RESETTING MY GEAR !
 

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First Bass

I caught my first bass 2weeks ago in killiney a 5 pounder. I was fishing alone and had only been introduced to plugging 3weeks earlier although iv been fishing for the past 20yrs. Id been told by a friend about the basics but really hadnt a clue wot to expect. Anyway after an hour or so line started ripping of the reel and i froze very funny wen i think back about it, id been warned about me clutch settings but id left it to light, line just kept going and wit that the fish lept out of the water as if to say wot are you going to do you clown im gettin away so wit that i tightened up the clutch and tried to bury the hooks but i only managed to pull the plug out i couldnt believe it me first bass had got away. it took a lot of courage for me to ring me mate and tell him wot had happened he laughed as im sure who ever reads this will to.He told me to just keep pluggin away that made me laugh more.That was it i wasnt givin up and 3 casts later it happened again the line started running id the clutch set right and i buried the hooks this couldnt come of i thought.A guy who was fishing a 100yrds away from me saw all the commotion and came up wit his fish grabbers and helped me land it.Dave took a few photos for me id landed me first of many bass i hope......... i released him after a few minutes, and fished for a couple more hours wit me new friend who put me on to this forum and thats how im telling you all about me experience.:-D
 

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1st bass

Caught first bass float fishing a live prawn on local river about six years ago, after getting back into fishing again after a few years break (work commitments, kids, blah blah blah). Managed to get a few prawns early in season with old broken net, got to the river bank just in time (only about one and half hours window for catching). Had a couple of good bites and missed (guess I was a bit green), well you can properly guess down to my last couple of prawns and bang a clonking bite, a good scrap and a four pounder on the bank, returned alive, well chuffed, got me hooked again. Later that summer caught my first bass on a lure, think it was a husky jerk.
 

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It was about 20 years ago, spinning with a 15g Yann at the power station out flow, it was undersized but I was just taken in by how beautiful it was, I put it back and was hooked myself!! First time I used a plug was 1995, it was a J11 and I hooked a nice 3lb fish right at my feet, and that was me hooked on lure fishing, my bait fishing days slowly decreased and by 2002 I was lure only. My name is **** and I have been clean of bait now for about 5 years :)
 

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I had my 1st Bass on my dads boat about 4 years ago. After making him take me out finally!! He passed me a Gunish (Lucky Craft) surface lure clipped it on and I flicked it out (without casting into anyones head) And I had a 2-1/2 pounder!! Class!!!! By the end of my 1st ever trip out I had 3 Bass all on the surface xx
 

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Class. 3 off the top, first time out is awesome.

My first bass was last November. Bait fishing. I went to a beach mark, big fat worm bait and running ledger. Rest my rod on a tripod and went 20 yards down the beach and started chucking plugs out, turned around to see my rod bent over. 3&1/2lb and cast back out and had another just a little smaller within minutes. To say I was chuffed would be an under statement!!
 

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My first ever was on the boat drifting over heads freelining live sandeel. I think I was 12 and was visiting Jersey on holiday. Then on the day after I arrived having relocated to Jersey, I went down to the ferry terminal and took my first lure caught Bass, on a Flying C I believe!

I have just realised I have not even fished for Bass outside of Jersey before.
 

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Aged about 12 I was fishing for crabs off a pier in Kent with my Uncle who was fishing (properly). I was using a bit of old fish on an orange hand line with a round weight on the end and 2 bits of mono with a large hook on the end. I was pulling up the line when it was pulled out of my hand. I pulled it up hand over hand and there flapping on the pier was a silver fish with spikes on its back. Seemed huge at the time but I guess it was about 3lbs and it did not go back!

I can only presume a very stupid Bass saw a crab hanging on the the bit of fish and decided to eat it, hooking itself by mistake. My uncle is still p***** off because he had not caught a Bass at this time and had all the gear.

Next Bass was 23 years later on a Dexter Wedge at the entrance to Poole Harbour. I now seen the light and have expensive lures, braid and rod but not sure my catch rate has improved!!!
 

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Discussion Starter #17
I caught my first Bass 29 years ago when I was ten years of age while fishing for flatfish on a old 15ft Clinker built boat using a hand line baited with blow lug fished on a very crude two hook coat hanger paternoster rig, I can remember it well when a lovely bar of silver came over the side of the gunwale, the fish must have only weighed 2ib or so but it gave a good fight compared to the Dabs and Plaice we were catching, after that it was the beginning of a long learning curve.
 

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My first Bass, I caught that 45yrs ago ( yeah im that old ) Being taught to fish by my dad , we had been and dug fresh ragworm from west park beach , and an evening session was promised to me as i was 7yrs old so most fishing was day trips. So down to the mark The pine walks at St Catherines set up the tackle ready !!!
Can we fish said i , No said the old man we got to wait for the tide and darkness !!! but before that i just cant sit still we get on to the weed strew ground , The old man said look for some crabs and small cabots for extra baits ok !! so this has been done .
Back to the gear and tide just starts flooding over the mark light fading fast as i said i could not sit still , walking the sea wall making a noise as any 7yr old would!!
Wollop straight round the earhole slap from the old man , bloody well sit still and be qiute he said , you'll scare off the fish yeah right i thought .
So anyways after an hour or so i put on the cabot bait and some ragworm cast out again , just put the rod down on the wall , when it almost shot off into the sea !!! Wtf
5 mins later i have got my first bass on the pebbles further up the beach after a mad scrap the old man jumped down grabs the fish ,
Im called all the names under the sun !!! Im made up with a silver bar 4 1/2 lbs .
Never looked back the old man was my mentor when it came to fishing , he aint here any more !! how i miss him not being here to see what i can do now with the lures .
 

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Nice one Bob. My grandad ( I think you met him) was one of a kind and used to love his fishing. He took me out most Saturday evenings when I was a kid, then back home to watch Match of the Day (I usually fell asleep).

I'd like to think he's watching and still shouting at me how to do it. My Dad is still with very much us and still shouting at me how to do it!! Including how to run a boat.

I caught my first bass of the Victoria Pier many moons ago. That was before the days of La Collette Reclamation. Crikey I feel old.
 

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I was around the same age as Bob, local rag(redcat to the locals), a fish of around 1Lb from first tower beach.The one i remember most was when i was first allowed down the beach on my own. We lived in the First Tower area so by the time i was 11 my family let me go to the beach by myself, but i had to be back by 5pm.The very first time i did this i had a 3Lber,but i lost all track of time trying to get my second,the next thing i know is i'm getting dragged home by the ear them having a belt put across my backside!Hence its one Bass i could never forget.
First lure caught were in the mid seventies on Jensons & Tobies off the old hot water outlet.1978 First on a plug,green mackerel magnum rapala.
 
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