There is no greater meditation than a day spent casting the rod

-Excerpt from ‘Fishing and More’ by Ronald Westwind

There was a tug on her pole, startling Rose from her daydream and spurring her into action.

After the initial struggle for dominance was won, she yanked the rod from the choppy waves and jumped from her stool to catch her prize as it fell from the air, grimacing as a speck of salty water splashed on her tongue.

A silver scaled fish with specks of blue struggled in her vice-like grip. Years of experience at her father’s side and the imparted technique of generations of fishermen meant that the fish had no hope of escape.

After a brief yet futile battle, it ceased its resistance. A dull glaze washed over its eyes as the last vestiges of life faded, and she tossed it into the frayed wicker basket at her feet.

It landed with a slap against a few other unfortunate fish, the result of an idle afternoon which had consisted of looking out across the vast and unfathomable ocean, broken only by the occasional tug of war with a new fishy friend.

One day, Rose would leave this island behind and become the captain of her own ship, sailing across the high seas, plundering hoards of treasure, making narrow escapes from the navies of the world and exploring the unknown.

Just like Castell Saltbeard.

Skill up!

Fishing 11 > 12

Increasing the level of one of her skills would usually be cause for celebration. Today however, it felt hollow.

With a sigh she picked up the basket and her stool, then turned her back on the ocean to make her way home.

She spared a final glance at the merchant brig in the distance. It had crossed from one side of the horizon to the other over the course of the afternoon, during which time Rose had fantasised about raiding it with a pirate crew of her own.

How would it feel to spot a juicy ship, ripe for the taking, after days at sea? A ravenous gang of buccaneers itching for a fight at her back; Rose leading the boarding charge.

After slashing her way through the chaff, a brave warrior would emerge from the merchants and challenge her to a duel.

Sparks would fly as their blades clashed, but after a thrilling battle she would emerge victorious, claiming the vessel and its treasure as her prize.

Perhaps as they revelled in their success, a local navy might arrive on the scene. Following the untimely intervention a daring chase would ensue, with cannons blazing.

In the end however, the weather would favour the brave rogues and a tailwind would carry them into the distance, where they would celebrate with rum and song.

Rose wanted to let the dream continue on, if only to delay the uncomfortable conversation that was waiting for her behind the door of her house.

Alas, the stories of the infamous pirate legends tended to end after the adventure did, which meant she had little idea of what came after. As such, there was no fuel left for the daydream.

So, after placing the three legged wooden stool down beside the door, right beside a larger, more weather worn stool that belonged to her father, Rose entered the house.

“What time do you call this, young lady?” chided her mother as soon as she entered.

“I think the common consensus is sunset, or dusk,” she quipped.

Her mother shot her a withering sideways glare from the stove, but chose not to comment. Perhaps on any other day there would have been a remark about her poor manners or lack of grace, but today her parents had a vested interest in keeping her cheerful.

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Tomorrow was her fifteenth birthday, after all.

“Is father still not back?” she asked.

“There were some problems with the catch and he had to stay in the village for a while to sort it out. He should be back in time for dinner, though. Pass me the fish, dear.”

Rose obliged, passing the basket into her mother’s outstretched hand. Tonight, like every other night, dinner was boiled potatoes and grilled fish.

On the rare occasion, when one of the doori from the village herd grew too old to make milk, there would be red meat for a few nights.

It wasn’t much of a treat. The meat tended to be tough and chewy, and while the taste was rich and lingered in the mouth for a while like a savoury kiss, Rose preferred the usual fare.

While waiting for her father to return, she sat at the table and took out her most prized possession– a small leather bound tome filled with drawings of ships, the ocean, naval battles and legendary pirates.

There was a scene stuck in her mind that needed to escape, to be immortalised on the yellowing paper of her sketchbook.

Every so often, her mother would glance over with a constipated expression on her face. She had something she wanted to say, but each time would just stare at Rose for a few seconds before returning her attention to the stove.

A stroke of her charcoal pencil put the final flourish onto her work. It was a recreation of the earlier scene. Rose had felt that just drawing a lone brigantine on the ocean was lacking in inspiration however, and added in a pirate clipper approaching it with a few grappling hooks trailing between the two and a cannon in the midst of firing.

Moments after she completed the piece, the door opened and her father stepped inside. He took off his wide brimmed hat, hanging it on a wooden post along with his coat.

The heat of the stove caused lazy tendrils of steam to rise from it, leaving white flecks of salt amidst the greenish straw. He had to replace his hat every few weeks, when it succumbed to rot.

Like the wicker basket which Rose had carried her fish in, her father’s hats were woven by her mother. It was a hobby, though one she excelled at after decades honing her craft.

Her father was tall– a little over six feet with a permanent tan and wrinkles that gave him the countenance of a man ten years his senior. Evidence of a life spent at sea.

He took a heavy step, his boots banging against the cobbles.

“Shoes,” said her mother, not even looking up from the pan.

“Sorry, my love. Tough day.”

The leather boots went underneath the wooden post, alongside two smaller pairs that belonged to Rose and her mother.

“Another masterpiece, my little fish?” he said, glancing at the sketchbook laid out on the table.

Earlier that day, Rose had decided not to let her parents sway her, no matter how kind they were that evening. However, her art was a weakness that her father ruthlessly exploited. A warm smile crept onto her face as she held it up for him to see.

“How unfortunate for that ship that they happened to encounter pirates so close to shore,” he mused, a knowing glint in his eye. “Your shading has improved. A skill up?”

She shook her head and closed the sketchbook. Her last skill up had been a few weeks ago, and despite finishing over ten more drawings since, the tide had remained silent. Until her fishing had increased earlier, that is.

After planting a kiss on her forehead and leaving the scent of fish guts lingering in the air, he embraced her mother from behind and gave her a much more passionate kiss.

Rose didn’t mind the smell. Fairwater Bay was a fishing village, and her whole life had been spent around fishermen. In a strange way, it was comforting. The day the house smelled too clean was the day her father was no longer there.

Sometimes, one of the boats that went out in the morning never came back. All the men would have dour expressions, and there would be a funeral the day after. The community always supported the widow, and her children, but Rose often wondered how it would feel if the boat that didn’t return was her father’s.

“You better wash up before we eat, Samuel. Tonight is a special occasion. I don’t want you ruining our daughter’s last night of childhood.”

“Never, my love.”

Her father washed himself in the basin, and her mother finished cooking. They all sat at the table and she laid out the grand feast. She had outdone herself that evening.

Mashed potatoes, made creamy with doori milk accompanied salted grilled fish, caught fresh that day by Rose herself. To top it all off, there was a soft and sweet red vegetable, which had been grilled with the fish, letting the flavours mingle to create a vibrant mouthful.

“Where did you get this? It’s incredible,” said Rose as she took a bite of the vegetable.

“A wandering merchant stopped by the village today. Imported from Zoria, or so he said. Called it a blood pepper. Charged me a silver coin for five of them, so I’m glad they’re delicious,” her mother replied.

The meal took longer than usual to finish. It was a deliberate effort on her part. Rose made sure to take slow, small bites of her food and chew each one fifty times. There was no avoiding the conversation, but she would be damned if she made it easy for them to get it started.

However, some things in life are inevitable. Her fifteenth birthday loomed, and with it, adulthood. In the end, it was her father who broke the silence.

“Have you decided yet, my little fish?”