Who’d have thought it? Eleven girls – sorry, ladies – one leisure vessel, optimistically named the “Random Harvest” and one very happy skipper, Andy.
A choppy sea, bolshy skies, a bucket full of Pimms. Bouncing pink balloons, jostling along the bow. Random it may have been, but as for harvest? All signs pointed to a guaranteed drought.
Mackerel hunting rods launched and spinners flickered weakly with the prospect of a dunking in the English channel – autumnal on an August day.
Fishing, they say, is a waiting game. A sport of patience, calculated idleness, concordance with mother nature and the grace to know when a day is a day and that an empty net means an empty plate.
Ah, so you thought.
No sooner had the hen whipped up her shirt and flashed her sunkissed baps at the passing fishermen did the harvest come tumbling in. Oh how we feasted that evening.
Nature is, indeed, a bountiful giver.