Mackerel Fishing in the Solent

OK, so I’m paraphrasing from a popular movie title, and in much the same way that the current film isn’t only about the salmon, this post isn’t just about mackerel fishing.

The journey itself was over a year in the making, owing to busy schedules all around, particularly with Coh Karek’s sailing schedule that makes for few free weekends to have a girls-only event during nice weather for fishing. In fact, this weekend almost got postponed when the fishing boat was no longer available and we needed to sort another. Fortunately with a good recommendation and a phone call later the Becky May was booked for a short afternoon of mackerel fishing off Yarmouth. I’d always planned to stay behind, having no real desire to fish (love to eat it, hate . . .) and being a bit unsure of how I’d feel physically on this particularly windy day which made for a slightly lumpy Solent. I was happy to wander Yarmouth’s harbour and take in the Old Gaffer’s Festival, an annual event that brings hundreds of people into the town to see the old wooden boats, listen to music, stroll through stalls selling food and crafts, and wander the narrow streets near the marina to look in the shops, this year filled with lots of Britannia wares for the Diamond Jubilee.

It was a glorious day weather-wise; warm sun with a gusty breeze to keep the day from getting unbearably hot. Over 100 gaffers were moored in Yarmouth Harbour, brightly-coloured flags up and down the mast—a real treat to see.  I spent some part of the time in the tent listening to music, an array of blues, bagpipes, and Latin jazz while waiting for the girls to return.

I was all ears to the stories upon their return: how Hannah caught the first fish only to have it slip off the hook and back into the sea; how Sarah caught the first that managed to stay on board, and it also turned out to be the largest. Kelly didn’t catch any, but enjoyed the ride. They were accompanied on the Becky May by a stag do trio, whose soon-to-be husband was dressed in a silly yellow get up. The gents shared their fish, having outnumbered by several what the girls managed to pull in, and there was a plastic bag of eight lovely mackerel to grill for dinner. Well done them!

Having grilled many a fish among us but not mackerel, the first order of business on returning to Cowes was to Google for preparation and cooking time. We went with the simple approach—lemon, rosemary, and black olives under a grill for about ten minutes. I prepared a quick shopping list, and we headed off to the grocery store after a brief stop at the Island Sailing Club to enjoy a quaff on the balcony—it has one of the best views in town.

Duties were quickly divided: Kelly would prepare the fish after Sarah washed them down, Hannah would boil the new potatoes and make the salad. Sarah also was in charge of drinks, and I set the table, organised the necessary bowls and serving utensils, and would grill the fish with Sarah’s timings. I introduced her to the phrase x minutes to the mark, used by sailors, and we were off.  

Despite four girls in a small kitchen, we managed well—Kelly found her space to chop olives and prep the fish with olive oil, rosemary, salt, and pepper; Hannah staked the space closest to the hob to keep an eye on her potatoes and chop her cucumber, beetroot, and spring onions. Sarah found herself at the table after washing the fish and pouring us all a glass of something, and I positioned myself near the oven, pre-heating the grill and trying to clear the dishes used for preparation to give us more space. I grilled the first five mackerel of the same size at once, and while we feasted on those put the second lot under the grill.

And what a wonderful meal it was—the fish was perfectly delicious, the salad a fresh, colourful, flavourful side, and the potatoes finished with a healthy dollop of butter, salt, and pepper Hannah style. It was simple, good food that we truly enjoyed. And, having caught the main course and prepared it together, it was quite special.

 We toasted the success of the fishing trip, and we chatted around the small table crammed with our dinner plates and glasses, easily going from one topic to another. There was the inevitable conversation about work; all of us are in the same company, not all on the same team but within throwing distance of each other’s workstations.

Certainly one of the highlights was sitting on the roof terrace after dinner, watching the stars come out. Hannah whipped out her smartphone and told us what we were looking at, using a brilliant app called Starmap where you simply point your phone to the sky and the app will tell you what you’re looking at. It’s an amazing little piece of technology that reminded me how I must upgrade my four-year-old Nokia for something that can do things like speak me directions or confirm it is Ursa Major I’m looking at. It was a beautiful, cool night with plenty of stars and planets on view. I’ll never tire of the view, day or night, here in Cowes.

After boasting about them early in the weekend, we were anticipating Sarah’s special scrambled eggs and bacon breakfast, and she didn’t disappoint us—fluffy, creamy eggs, bacon, granary bread and coffee and tea made for a delightful morning start.

The stroll to Gurnard on a beautifully warm Sunday morning was a nice way to end the girls’ weekend. We paused a few times to take some photos, talked about the lovely properties along the Solent, and bought ice cream at the café just outside the Gurnard Sailing Club. The breeze was less gusty than the day before but a bit cool, which was refreshing given that the sun was so warm. I have to admit, I like showing off Cowes; it is such a relaxing, pretty place. Sarah even braved dipping her toes in the Solent, but it was brief!

So why is this post more than just fishing for mackerel in the Solent? For me it was a quiet celebration of friendship. No one will want to make a movie of it, though playing some of the weekend over in my head it would be better than some films I have seen, with more than a few laugh out loud moments and with a very good soundtrack, thanks to Kelly’s iPod. I was so happy for the ease of it all, how comfortable we were with each other, and how life’s simple pleasures, like cooking a meal together and watching the stars come out and joking about who takes the longest to get ready (Sarah!) were all effortless joys. How fortunate I am to have the friends I do—here, there, and everywhere. 

Hooroo, Simon!

It went something like this: Simon led me into the usual room, the table ready. I walked past it and sat in the metal chair near the window. I smiled broadly and proclaimed "I'm not taking my clothes off!"

Simon, you may recall from an earlier post, is (or shall I say was) my Australian physiotherapist. I'd been having sharp pain in my left leg, and after a half dozen chiropractic treatments with no sustained relief, decided to go to a physiotherapist, anxious to do something to help myself rather than being pulled, cracked, and massaged every few weeks. Simon understood, diagnosed the issue, and after the first session I left with some stretching exercises. I returned every two weeks to learn more advanced techniques, and then Simon went home to Oz for a month.

The first couple of times I advanced the stretch, I was not happy--rather than having the sharp pain diminish, it seemed to happen more often. I was slightly panicked; Simon was away, and I wondered if my technique was perhaps flawed. I half thought to call the centre and see if someone else would be willing to see me. Instead, I reverted to the easier, less advanced stretches. And, I observed more keenly to see if I could determine what was triggering the pain. 

I had a revelation--or perhaps more of a DOH! moment--as I was carrying a sackful of groceries back from Sainsburys, just down the high street from Harbour House. I had noticed that the pain would occur more on the IoW than in London, and half though it was because I wore flats--usually my faded blue sailing shoes--more often than not whenever Tim and I took our long walks to Gurnard. Now that the weather's a bit warmer, though, I've also been wearing my patent-leather black flats almost daily to work . . . so that wasn't it.

In London, and to the IoW, I do often tramp around with my laptop and papers, but it's in a rucksack and I rarely carry it on just one shoulder. Not it either.

In Cowes, I dutifully bring my recycle shopping bag so I don't take any of the store's plastic shopping bags (still for free, unless you shop at Marks and Sparks). One bag, always with a few pounds of stuff in it owing to bottles of wine, water, and food, and my shoulders are quite visibly out of line--and no doubt with the rest of me. I am clearly throwing my skeleton off kilter every time I carry my shopping one-handed.

I discuss this with Simon--my "aha" moment--and he agrees. He suggests I weigh between 50 and 55 kilos (he's dead on) and that carrying 10 per cent of body weight awkwardly is enough to do harm. I am at once proud and embarrassed at my observation, and have promised Simon and myself to keep the load balanced in the future. 

We talk about when to stretch. Not before, as I often see people do. Better to start the programme slowly, which my tennis partner and I always do, beginning close to the net before finally winding up at the service line for our hour's play. Stretching is best done post-exercise, when the muscles will tend to tighten a bit from the work out. 

I find the time to ask Simon about his month home; he points to two large sacks near his desk in the office, where he slept last night because he'd come in from the airport quite late and needed to be in early for his first appointment. He is ebullient; he always has been, but he is even more bouncy and friendly than usual. I suppose a month off, and being home, would do that to anyone.

I tell Simon I had thought to simply cancel my appointment, not feeling the need for treatment, but as he had helped me focus on my "injury" and helped me get through it, I felt he deserved to hear my story and to be thanked for his work. He is grateful; he likes closure with his patients. He is incredibly smart about physiology, and while I don't know why that surprised me, I realise I am grateful for that knowledge and competence. In fact, I was telling my tennis partner, who pulled something while we were 40 minutes into our last session, about how I see Nuffield as the John Lewis of their field--JL has a reputation for hiring good people and training them well to understand the products and provide excellent service. I would recommend them in a heartbeat--both of them.

Simon walks me to the door, shakes my hand, and wishes me well. (Hooroo, by the way, is slang for goodbye for Aussies.) I remark to him that this is the point that I am supposed to say "I never want to see you again," and  I add the phrase "for this problem, which I hope is now behind me." He agrees and smiles. I don my sunglasses and head right onto Endell Street, wishing I didn't have to head back to the office. Strolling through Covent Garden in what has turned out to be a rare few hours of spring sunshine would be a far better way to spend the rest of the day.