Nicola Barker - Five Miles from Outer Hope

The sun has already risen in the east like an undercooked ivory-coloured muffin. The gulls swoon above me, full of early morning zeal, bleating like spring lambs and experimenting on a riotous helter-skelter of wind currents. Hovvering, swooping, diving.

Because it’s fairly breezy, I yank my lilac-coloured crochet cardigan a little tighter around me, shove up my shoulders, curse a few times and readjust my unwieldy fishing equipment (all ancient stuff, but exceptionally hardy, passed down by Mo’s great uncle who game-kept in the Scottish Highlands before volunteering for that worthy but — in his own case — rather tragic Spanish Civil War business).

I have an emergency banana stuffed into my woolly pocket, for energy. And frankly, I am most miserably in need of it — feeling as I do, at that precise moment, about as well-worn and washed-out as a busy whore’s best knickers — but I hold off peeling and devouring it (time is of the essence) and plod bravely onwards, my stomach growling, all the while, like a territorial Alsatian.

On approaching the jetty — the swollen tide is already quietly contemplating the possibility of rushing out again — something wholly unexpected makes me stop, start violently and widen my heavy, sleep-encrusted eyes to fuller than their full capacity.

For there, large as Lucifer, a mere thirty yards or so ahead of me, stands that horrid, blackguard, hell-hound La Roux , lounging against the huge wheel of the sea tractor (fully balaclavaed), looking lively as a sharp south-westerly (the bastard ) and deep in cheery conversation with Jack the Skipper.

He is holding something. As I draw closer I see it is a ball of dough, but bright yellow, which he is gently massaging in the palm of his hand to (as he expresses it) ‘maintain its texture’. Jack is staring at this ball with great attention, all previous difficulties between the two of them now plainly forgotten. (How the hell does he do it? This man is more rank and slippery than a bed of oysters. He could give the Reverend Jim Jones a run for his money. They should seriously consider funding research into his human-management techniques for the United Nations.)

As I draw closer I am able to decipher certain choice segments of his shameless patter. It turns out that this unappetizing yellow muck is an all-but legendary South African fishbait (Yeah. Believe that and you’ll believe anything ). Phenomenal stuff, La Roux’s telling him, both for fresh and for saltwater fishing. Nothing too fancy either, just a rough-and-ready mixture of dough and cheese and curry powder. In all the right proportions, obviously.

After perusing this wonderbait at some length, sniffing it, squeezing it and touching it with the tip of his tongue, Black Jack finally gets around to apprehending my arrival, and affords me the kind of minutely surprised look you might give a traditionally attired Elizabethan princess who appears unannounced and noisily demanding to join a clutch of horny-handed men of toil in the pursuit of something manly.

I point to La Roux. ‘What the hell is he doing here?’

Jack shows me the bait, almost sniggering. ‘Have you seen this stuff? La Roux says fish’ll bite off the hook for it.’

I take a closer look at this wondrous concoction. It seems vaguely familiar. It reminds me of something.

‘Nice tackle, Medve,’ La Roux observes benevolently, staring at my breasts, his eyes twinkling.

‘Up your arse,’ I mutter, clumping gracelessly across the wooden landing bay, climbing carefully on board the boat and hoping against hope — perhaps rather naïvely under the circumstances — that we’ll be leaving the quisling South African behind us.

The boat is nothing fancy. A small rower with a smoky out-board motor. Seats two comfortably. It’s a squeeze for three. La Roux — suddenly bedecked in a stinky life-jacket which reeks of perished rubber — springs on board (from whence does this man derive his crazy energy?) and rocks me green-gilled with a frenzied bout of horribly inexpert clambering.

I observe that he has his beloved twig with him, on the tip of which he has affixed a length of wool threaded with a small, bent, darning needle. And he absolutely insists on sitting at my end, right in the nose of the boat, like a preposterously over-sized figurehead, with his devilishly bony spine knocking repeatedly into mine every time the boat jerks or a random wave rocks us unexpectedly.

The sea is slightly choppy to start off with, but thankfully it calms down after twenty minutes. Jack drops anchor approximately half a mile out into the bay. It’s getting warmer. The wind is dropping. It’s pretty much perfect fishing weather.

I bait my hook, check my reel, cast off — nothing too spectacular to begin with — and contentedly watch my fly bobbing among the gentle waves. Jack does likewise.

La Roux, having spent the duration hawking into the water, and trying (but failing) to encourage Jack to do the same on a competitive basis, eventually abandons this game when I spit something green and grievous at least five metres into the deep blue distance. He suddenly gazes up dreamily into the high clouds above him and casually pretends he hasn’t noticed.

Eventually he affixes a huge chunk of wonderbait to his ridiculous needle and dips it in over the side. From the rear he resembles a lacklustre rubber gnome with disturbing paramilitary tendencies.

At long last, for the first (and unfortunately the final) time during our short voyage, he voluntarily observes the habitual meditative silence of the serious fisherperson.

I use this brief and blissful hiatus to pull out my banana and peel it. La Roux’s head suddenly whips around like a hungry gull’s (I’m talking 180 degrees, minimum ). ‘What is that?’he asks.

I frown. ‘What does it look like? It’s a fucking banana.’

‘May I have some?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, come on .’

‘ ‘No! ’

‘But I’m starving .’

‘La Roux, you’re killing me.’ I bite off half the fruit in a single mouthful and then viciously swallow it.

‘My God, I can’t believe you just did that.’

‘ Believe .’

I consume the second half just as spiritedly — ‘Yum!’ — and toss the skin overboard.

La Roux peers down into the water to watch it sinking. Then he turns to stare at Jack. ‘Do you have anything worth eating at your end, Jack?’ he enquires ingratiatingly. Jack is manhandling a lugworm. He glances up, hardly listening. ‘Uh… no. Nothing.’

‘He only has lugworms,’ I interject helpfully.

‘ Lug worms?’ La Roux repeats the name with interest. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘pass one over.’

Jack appears not to hear him. But I won’t miss this opportunity.

‘Jack,’ I say firmly. ‘Lugworm.’

A deeply preoccupied Jack distractedly hands me his tupperware tub. Inside it, fifteen lugworms squirm delightfully, each of them that delicious trademark blood-mud-red colour. I pop in my fingers and pull one out.

‘Here you go.’ I proffer it to La Roux.

He inspects the gyrating worm for a few brief moments, rolls up his balaclava, takes it from me (this particular prime specimen is a good four inches) and tosses it into his mouth. Two quick chews and a big swallow follow.

I emit a little scream (yes, I know it’s beneath me to behave so girlishly , even if I am a girl of the giant variety). Jack glances over. ‘Have you hooked something?’

‘Uh. No. La Roux just ate a lugworm,’ I explain sheepishly.