On Plans, Fish, and Other Divine Entertainment

They say, “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plans.” I, being no stranger to celestial comedy, decided to offer Him a full stand-up routine.

The Great Preparation

I approached the opening of the fishing season with the kind of solemnity normally reserved for royal weddings or assembling IKEA furniture without swearing. Domestic duties had kept me from starting early, which gave me — oh, blessed illusion — time to prepare. And prepare I did! Every evening that week, I smuggled item after item into the car with the stealth of a man planning either a holiday or a small coup d’état: two landing nets, one tackle box, one fishing platform, a brand-new keepnet, and a noble battalion of rods.

At home, I tied up fresh rigs like a Victorian aunt knitting winter socks for an entire regiment. Leaders of 0.13 and 0.16 — just right for crucian carp, of course. I mixed two types of bait the night before with the seriousness of a medieval apothecary. I was, in short, locked, loaded, and ludicrously optimistic.

The Tragic Forgetting

Naturally, five minutes before arrival, as I gazed proudly at the tranquil water, it struck me like an overdue electricity bill — I’d left all my carefully crafted rigs at home. The air in the car turned so blue the lake itself blushed. The local security guard popped out of his hut, likely thinking I’d sat on a hornet.

No matter! I had a backup kit — the fishing equivalent of emergency chocolate — and managed to throw together something acceptable. A 2.7m rod, 0.20 main line, and a float so large it could double as a buoy in shipping lanes.

In Which Things Go South, Then East

First cast. Nothing. Second cast — also nothing. Third cast… a gentle nibble. I strike, miss. Repeat. Then finally, a confident tug! I strike again and — snap — the 0.13 leader breaks like a diet on a Sunday. Curious.

On goes another. This time — success! A beautiful 300g crucian. Joy! Then silence. The water, a mere 1.1m deep, seemed to echo every disturbance like a Victorian drawing room. Another bite, another broken line. I upgraded to 0.16. Same story. Were these fish made of stainless steel?

I examined the line like Sherlock Holmes with a suspicious monocle. It seemed fine. Tried again. Another break! I switched to braided line. New rig. Korean style. Boom — a nearly 2kg carp storms in like a pub bouncer with a grudge. Mystery solved.

Enter the Cavalry

One carp led to another, and then the crucians followed. My dainty little crucian hook bent like a coat hanger in the landing net. I stopped to sip my tea with the air of a man who has survived something noble and absurd.

Then the owner arrived, took pity, and handed me a setup fit for war: 0.28 line, a leader of braid, and a hook that could probably hold a moped. And then — oh joy, oh providence — the real fishing began.

The Grand Finale

In the end, I caught 41 fish in 4 hours: six tench, three more carp, and a fine selection of crucians with an average weight of 500g. The largest nearly a kilo. My hands ached, my gear looked like it had been through a minor riot, and I was as content as an Englishman in a pub with the rain politely tapping the windows.

Moral of the Story

So yes, I spent all winter preparing for a grand opening… and caught the lot on borrowed gear. Which just goes to show: in fishing, as in life, it’s not how you plan — it’s how much tea you have when it all goes gloriously sideways.