Growing up fast

Richard Negus learns Charlie is definitely no longer 'The Boy' while fishing for chub on the Broads

- Richard Negus

A knot spotlighted the precise moment I realised my son had morphed from boy to embryonic man. For the past seven years, our angling adventures have always been conducted on a pupil and teacher basis. During that period he’s learned to cast, to be patient, to handle fish and return them with care or bash them accurately on the head. For those unfortunates in the latter category, Charlie had mastered the art of gutting, filleting and smoking. He knew how to flick a dry fly and sink a spider, he could ledger and he could trot. Yet for all of that acquired proficiency, the seemingly straightforward act of tying a blood knot had evaded him.

Last week, we stood on the reed-ridden banks of the Waveney, with demoiselles dancing overhead, and I looked on as he put his knotty demons behind him. His fingers weaved, his eyes squinted. Every fibre of my being screamed to take control of his hook and nylon, as I had always done. Dads do the knots after all; it’s the rule in father-and-son fishing, isn’t it?

I fidgeted as he spat a glob of drool onto the 6lb line and formed a ‘D’ through which he made five turns with the spare end. I jigged on tiptoes as he gently pulled, bringing line and hook together. He gave a final test pull and passed me his effort for appraisal. A perfect hangman’s knot in miniature securing a size 12 barbless hook lay in my palm. I too gave a tug and satisfied myself that if a chub broke him, his knot-tying wouldn’t be the thing to blame.

Playing the long game