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sliding forwards on the backwash then backwards on the incoming
wave, again and again. But at last I burst through the back of the surf
and out into the most exhilarating sea I have ever sat upon.
It was a magnificent mess. The south-westerly swell mounted and
tumbled against the west wind. No wave resembled its predecessor.
Sometimes the peaks and troughs cancelled each other, and I found
myself marooned on a raft of flat water. At other times they coalesced.
The sea would suddenly give way beneath me and suck me into a
square-sided hole, or two or three waves would join forces and lift me
high into the air until my kayak teetered on the edge of a chalcedony
cliff before free-falling into the gully behind it, landing with a great
jolt and an explosion of spray. White horses reared up from nowhere
and came down upon my shoulders with a clatter of hooves.
The forecast had told me that the wind would drop towards evening,
but now it was lively and thrilling. The sun capered across the waves,
its sport threatened by nothing but a faint smoke of high cirrus and a
few puffy cumulus low on the horizon. I paddled out far enough to
ensure that I would not be blown back into the breakers while I rigged
the tackle. As soon as I stopped moving, the boat swerved and tilted,
threatening, as it swung broadside, to tip me into the water with every
wave that passed beneath it. Gingerly, aware that if I let go for an
instant I would lose irretrievably whatever I was holding, wobbling as
I sought to keep my balance, I unpacked my stoutest fishing rod, and a
new reel, loaded with hundreds of yards of line, that I had bought for
this expedition. Trapping the paddle beneath my feet, I tied on a swivel
and a rubbery artificial squid, masking a large hook. It looked ridicu-
lous, like a toy children use to frighten each other. In my fishing bag,
lashed with braided cord to a rear cleat, was my spare tackle, a water
bottle, sandwiches and my waterproof camera: if the event I doubted,
dreamed of and dreaded in equal measure were to occur, no one would
otherwise believe me. I sunk the butt of the rod into the well behind my
seat and, relieved still to be attached to the boat, set off.
My plan was to travel away from land towards the north-west until
I was two miles from the shore, then to swing south, trolling the lure
first in an arc against the swell, then parallel to the coast for a few
miles, before I paddled back to the river's mouth. I had been told by
more than one old salt that the fish were migrating and probably not
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