“We’re switching it up. I still have a few other boilies here. The question is, what do you call it? You know, when you put the tubing over the hook and then steam it a bit over the wood burner, the tubing won’t come off, it’s that tight.
”
“Yeah, but the problem isn’t that the tubing came loose. The crayfish chewed it right off the hook. ”
“Ah. Let’s put a sharp one on.
Robin Red. Fresh bait is always good. Keep it on for a whole year, and you can’t go wrong. ”
“The problem right now isn’t even about catching anything.
It’s that the crayfish are eating everything off our lines before anything can bite. ”
“Yeah. We’re about to throw out some burgers. ” I sighed.
“What a pain. These things are really annoying. ”
The conversation drifted into the usual rhythm of a long day by the water. We checked rods, discussed bait, and joked about the invasive crabs that had taken over the canal bed.
Someone mentioned putting out a crayfish trap just to see how full it would get overnight. “At a lake near me, they actually do that,” I said. “It looks like a box from hell because there are crab legs poking out through the basket everywhere. ”
“But the question is the moral side of it.
Do you just want to kill them all, or what? ”
“I wouldn’t do it. I still don’t think it’s right. Nature regulates itself eventually.
It’s the same as the fishing clubs complaining about catfish—saying the catfish eats everything and they have no whitefish left. But where catfish are native, you’re telling me there’s no whitefish? The water balances itself out. Any attempt to fix it from outside is just a drop in the ocean anyway.
”
“True. To really get rid of them, you’d need a trap every two meters, and you’d have to destroy their breeding grounds. How would you even do that? It’s a losing battle from the start.
”
The conversation bounced from fishing techniques to filleting pike. I admitted I’d never done it myself, though I wanted to learn. “I’m a bit of a coward when it comes to that kind of thing. I’m afraid I’ll make a major mistake and mess up the fish, and then kill it and not do it right.
That would just annoy me. I’ve even looked for some kind of course where someone could teach me how to do it properly. Just because you do something doesn’t mean you’re doing it right. ”
“Well, you need to practice a few times to get it right.
”
“I don’t have a problem with basic filleting, I can do that. But I want to do it properly. And with fish, you don’t have much room for error, otherwise you might as well throw it away. I don’t want that.
I mean, at the end you could always make fish soup out of it, but still. ”
“Zander is the easiest to fillet. ”
“Yeah, zander is nothing special, you can fillet it like salmon. But pike, with all those bones, that’s the cool thing when you manage to get them all out cleanly.
That would be great. ”
The talk shifted back to the crayfish invasion that seemed to be taking over the canal. We watched our lines, waiting for the telltale sign of a bite, but it was mostly the crabs nibbling at the bait. The eerie chime of a notification broke the rhythm.
“Why is it beeping like that now? ”
“The battery must be dead. ”
“Ugh, that annoys me. ”
Then, a more serious turn.
One of us sat a little quieter. The other noticed. “You don’t need to look so grumpy. ”
“I’m not grumpy.
I’m just thinking about whether I should bring something up… But I think I’ll leave it. ”
The silence stretched past awkward toward heavy. I knew this moment. I’d seen it play out before, in my own life, at a table or across a fire where too many things were left unsaid.
He saw the hesitation again. “Another clip made. ”
“The clip names, you mean? ”
“Yeah, like Sauerkraut, Sarkastisch, Jaguar Aliens.
”
“You mean what’s in the link? ”
“Yeah. ”
“Are we opening that tonight? ”
“Yeah, sure.
Tonight we can. ”
We both went quiet. The air grew thicker with unspoken words, things about relationships, homes, plans that felt fragile. On one side of the water and on the other, we knew the feeling: a wife or partner at home drawing lines we didn’t want to see.
“So, are we going out again tomorrow? Just us two? ”
“Yeah, my wife is already messaging about ‘shopping against streaming’ again. ”
“What?
”
“She said I buy too much fishing gear and equipment. And now even decoration. That’s why we need a shed now. On a separate piece of land, first of all.
”
“All right. ”
“And now she’s asking for planning permission. ”
“What did you suddenly want with a shed? ”
“I don’t know.
Maybe she saw my browser history. Probably. Maybe she thinks I want to buy a shock gun. ”
We burst into laughter, the tension cracking.
“At most for the glory hole. ”
“The shed is back. ”
“Tobi, man, when are you going through with it? ”
Laughter gave way to a brief plan for the next day.
We’d fish the night again. “I’ll bring the feed boat,” I said. “Did you get approval? ”
“Yes, she said it’s fine.
”
“Great. ”
Out of nowhere, a kingfisher flashed past the far bank. “Look, a kingfisher over there. That’s awesome.
”
“I think there are more of them again. ”
“Once, I had one land right on the tip of my rod. I couldn’t get my phone out fast enough. I was so annoyed.
There might be a clip of it somewhere. ”
We watched the rods. The sun moved. Stories of Norwegian trips, cold winds, and bad weights melted into small talk.
Then, the topic shifted to him again. “It’s quiet tonight. What’s wrong? ”
“Nothing.
I’m just wondering… you know, when she draws the line so clear, you can’t ignore it. ”
We both knew. We weren’t just talking about tackle anymore. We weren’t just taking about a boat, or a shed, or a piece of ground.
Somewhere along the way, the water, the tackle, the men, and the women on the sidelines had become a mirror for something we both felt. The moments at home when love turned into negotiation. The hobbies that become weapons. The sound of her voice in an argument that leaves you feeling like a stranger in your own house.
“Okay, fresh bait,” he said, distracting himself. I wound in my line, switched the hook. The crabs had stripped it again. So I hurled the rig out with the catapult.
“Watch your face with that thing. ”
“Yeah, I’m used to it. But I once cracked a window. Almost hit the church tower once,” I admitted with a dry laugh.
Must have been quite a scene, the mayor coming out just as I sent a spoon whistling over his little town. “The birds are fed? ”
“Perfect. ”
We sat there for a moment, the weight of the evening settling between the rods and the ripples.
“You know,” I said quietly, “I’ve been thinking. You get to a point where you have to decide what you’ll accept and what you won’t. You can’t just keep drifting along, hoping things will fix themselves. ”
The other man paused, his tackle box half open, the gentle lapping of the water serving as his answer.
He finally nodded. Just once. “Tomorrow. We talk tomorrow.
”
“Tomorrow,” I repeated. The sun dipped low, painting the water in shades of orange and gray, and I cast my line one more time, thinking about the whole story ahead—whatever it was going to be. The night closed in around our silhouette, two men on the bank of a canal, waiting for something to bite.
