Post by edwin on Jul 8, 2013 14:16:13 GMT
"Must be twenty years since the disaster" thought Brad as he pushed hit sit on top kayak into the water, "And though she's battered, she floats. Have an idea of breaking out a new one from that shop on what was the High Street but it seems like a lot of bother. Same really about getting a change of neoprene shorts that keep my bum dry, these fit and I like 'em".
Brad edged out into the current in the River Fal as the tide just began to turn and pushed against the flow of the river trying to make it to the sea. "Mullet now for tea, might getten enough to swapsies with Jones's smallholding for butter to fry some in".
Quietly paddling the long blue kayak whose name could just about be read along the side, "Ocean Prowler", once promoted worldwide as fifteen foot of fishing and water recreational fun it was now one of the machines Brad used to live. He prepared another machine inherited from that former world, a pistol crossbow adapted to spear fish. "Getting a bit worrited about that bowstring again, only have five more spares and four still boxed crossbows, might not last another hundred years," he laughed to himself. Bolts though were a real concern and they inevitably got lost over time although if found again were as clean and bright as when a blister pack had been broken to get them out.
First of the mullet shoal came in site and the pistol bow was loaded, always with care and the barbed bolt pointed away from anything soft in Brad's body. Lower the tip so it was point at the fish, aim back because the water bent the light rays and ease back on the trigger. The bow spat and faster than you could see the bolt was down through the water and into the side of the fish. It jerked and spasmed but the bolt and the line held. Winding it and scooping the large mullet into the boats well was done and as always there was a moment of regret at the death of a beautiful fish. Then appetite took over and the image held was of fillets sizzling in a pan with, perhaps some bartered bread if he could only catch some more.
Brad edged out into the current in the River Fal as the tide just began to turn and pushed against the flow of the river trying to make it to the sea. "Mullet now for tea, might getten enough to swapsies with Jones's smallholding for butter to fry some in".
Quietly paddling the long blue kayak whose name could just about be read along the side, "Ocean Prowler", once promoted worldwide as fifteen foot of fishing and water recreational fun it was now one of the machines Brad used to live. He prepared another machine inherited from that former world, a pistol crossbow adapted to spear fish. "Getting a bit worrited about that bowstring again, only have five more spares and four still boxed crossbows, might not last another hundred years," he laughed to himself. Bolts though were a real concern and they inevitably got lost over time although if found again were as clean and bright as when a blister pack had been broken to get them out.
First of the mullet shoal came in site and the pistol bow was loaded, always with care and the barbed bolt pointed away from anything soft in Brad's body. Lower the tip so it was point at the fish, aim back because the water bent the light rays and ease back on the trigger. The bow spat and faster than you could see the bolt was down through the water and into the side of the fish. It jerked and spasmed but the bolt and the line held. Winding it and scooping the large mullet into the boats well was done and as always there was a moment of regret at the death of a beautiful fish. Then appetite took over and the image held was of fillets sizzling in a pan with, perhaps some bartered bread if he could only catch some more.