Dan Patrick - Printable Version

Dan Patrick - Printable Version

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Dan Patrick - rememory - 06-18-2001

1993 - oh what a year. I was 12 years old, eyes blooming to a whole way of life; high school bullies and even more homework than I could imagine. If hell had an address, it was my school; or so I thought. Weekends were spent exploring, dreaming and discovering. Lamenting the 'what if' of happening's and the drowning your fmaily bent tantrums with a an entire day posed by the smelly, slimy skanks of the local sewer. Now, I suppose your happily thinking that this story has nothing to do with fishing. But behold the secret of a 12 year old's adventure. Magic does happen. Monsters do exist. We - Billy, Steve, Mike and Chris had heard the stories of the massive sewer rat's, supposably bigger than butter plates. You couldn't actually see them. But upon nearing the hallowing gutter of the dipping concrete pillars, you could hear them. Worse, you could feel them as they circuled you in hunger: something savage. Fear rattled through the whooshing leaves. Yet, there was more to these pipes that gave us boys the type of thrills that only a 12 year could expect. We came with instict. We arrived with cunning strategy. We pillaged our dad's fishing tackle baskets and knew our duty well. Before long, our moment had arrived. In the remoteness of the beating bush and in unity of song with the tune chewing cecada orchestras that frequented our summer heatwaves, we felt connected with this place. It was our santuracy of sanity. It freed us from the responsibilities that we had run away from to experience. Armed with a bundle of nylon line, and hooks, so big you thought we were after sharks, it became obvious the height of our task. We were after the legendary 'sewer eel'. And as we had no money and no way of getting to a proper fishing hole, this was the closet we were gonna get. But the best gamefishing a 12 year could imagine was upon us. And the day moved with that stillness only a child knows. That stillness where the clock before school holidays stands still on the edge of a school term. That same stillness made our ham and bread baits float effortsly on a few feet of brown and black sludge. But as time would teach, our baits hit their targets in minutes. As if the skies had opened and a spotlight shone down upon God's true outcast's, a halo of light wrapped itself around the ugliest looking creature I had ever seen. It had teeth like small daggers, sharper than knives. Its face like a bull terrier dog and its body as slipperly and as long as an African Boa. Upon setting calmly to the surface, it pounced with heart wrenching speed. "We're on" I cried. "He's a killer", i Laughed Hysterically. The hook was deep within the monsters mouth, each time spinning to induce a crocodile death role. Even a croc would be scarded of this guy. The four of us each took hold of the line. It was strong stuff. Dad used it many times before to catch game fish out in the local harbour. But even Dad would have his work cut for him, had he too droped a line into this realm of mutants and freaks. The sewer was as much their home as it was out hideout and getaway. Tugging frantically, this was the first eel we had ever properly hooked. These guys were like dinasaur Raptors. They grew smarter with each of our visits. They tested our lines and our baits systematically - or so we believed. They eels worked hard to find the weaknesses in our boy hero tactics. This time, the champion of youth would prevail. Pouncing and swirling, biting and trying to swim away, the eel had tangled its long body in the many metres of line and to this - 'he' was foaming with disgist and his mouth spitting with bloodlust. If you had given it a hand, it would have eaten it. We had heard of the birds that fed too close to the sewer. And the eel's, like the giant orca's that would be the pride of any sea world exibit, marked 'cute and friendly'. The four of us continued pulling, straining our couragous hands and fingers to the last straw. We tied the line to a near by tree. This one was 'the one' we felt, the leader of the pack, the mighty rogue of the sewer system. Then without warning, it jumped out of the muddy waters towards us, AT us! It was a long as a car. Maybe longer and had a head as big as mine. And even bigger than my boyhood ego, that had suddenly shrunk as we, the terrified, and once couragious, fled 100 metres backwards, in a panic spin. It sled after us for a few moments and we didn't look back again for some distance. Running as fast as we could and looking for the easiest tree to climb, we stopped. Our lungs were just about to explode. Shrugging guilt, we looked back over the bush and the grasses to the big grey pipe; our concrete garden of dreams. There, the eel buckled his head and spat the line. The hook was free and we had been done by the granddaddy of all eels. The master had once again out smarted the student. Yet, in the haze of attack, I could of sworn he turned his head to grin at me, his eyes meeting mine candily, timelessly with that unique stillness that hanuted me on occasions. Nobdoy else noticed this, except me. And to this day nobody else except us four have ever believed this story. Now you know. Looking back now, I can fondly say they were the last days of our innocence, of a childhood freedom. The last days of youth, before we were hit hard with the confusing nature of girls, puberty and the reluctant invitation to join dreaded teenage - something club. We had no choice of course in that matter. But at 12, these adventures were not just about fishing. It was really about living. That was life at its best we thought and to this day I believe it. Heck, does it get any better? Submit your Fishing Adventure Stories to win great prizes at ReMemory.Com