Boarding school offered me few pleasures, and what there were I usually had to create on my own; except maybe fishing, especially at Portora.
I enjoyed fishing, and Lough Erne was said to offer some of the best in the world. Not as good as Alaska, of course – different bait and fish but also no bears or mosquitos.
I could have done something more manly, like soccer, but that would have involved a lot of useless running about with people who had a look to them that said I’d better not.
Being an outsider was bad enough, but being an American made it all the worse. “Just what we need – another fucking Yank,” was my greeting at Portora’s junior school, and the sentiment followed me, leading to shunning, teasing, and bullying. I soon sought refuge on the shores of Lough Erne fishing, out of trouble and away from anyone to bother me.
Then winter came. My Michelin Man down jacket, rated to minus forty below, couldn’t protect against the Irish chill that permeated everything. Of course a normal person would stay indoors on miserable days, near a radiator for heat or at least out of the biting rain, but this was boarding school, and as such we had character to build. By mandate from the headmaster, we had to get out and enjoy the fresh air. “It’ll do you good.” Hell could literally have been freezing over and it wouldn’t have mattered.
So I’d be down fishing, often in the drizzle, and I’d put a maggot on my hook, cast out, and carefully tension my line so I’d know the difference between the maggot and a fish. And then I’d watch the end of my rod, looking for the tell-tale twitch that would signal me to jerk. The first time I did that, a couple of onlookers jumped nearly as much as I did. “What’r ya doing that for?” One of them had asked.
“Setting the hook, of course,” I’d replied.
They shook their heads and walked on.
One day while shivering and with my hair dripping wet, I felt genius strike. Build a bloody fire! No more would I have to duck into the relative safety and comfort of the woods to get out of the rain and have a smoke. A fire was the answer to everything!
A month of campfire bliss went by without incident before a certain master happened along the path. “Morning, sir,” I said.
“Put out that fire right now,” he barked. “And give me the matches.”
Fortunately I always kept a pack of matches just for situations like this and decided to hand them over without making a show of it. The last thing I needed was a shakedown, not with a fresh pack of John Player Specials and my prized black electronic lighter in my pocket.
Under the master’s piercing gaze I smothered the fire with dirt. When he seemed satisfied with the destruction of both my source of heat and spirit, he left with a grunt and a wisp of a smile on his face.
I waited until he disappeared from sight before I lit a cigarette and rebuilt the fire. Master had no idea who he was dealing with. Fire was my specialty. My parents said so, as did the Silver Spring Fire Department years earlier when I lit our front yard ablaze. Within moments the few bits of smoldering debris were once again burning with purpose, and I smiled.
A couple of weeks later I was back in what had become my usual spot, fishing rod propped up and me ready for action, waiting for a fish – any fish, to come along and bite the hook, my fire crackling away. I was mid-way through another cigarette when I heard something suddenly behind me. My heart jumped and my stomach knotted up. Oh God, I thought, I’m caught again.
I barely managed to toss the cigarette before an icy nose poked my hand and a sloppy tongue licked my face.
“Here boy,” someone called out from behind me.
I turned to Mr. Neill staring at me from the path. “Nice dog,” I said. “English Setter?”
“English Springer Spaniel,” he replied. “Any luck?”
“Yes, sir.”
He hunkered down to warm his hands. “You know fires are strictly against the rules?”
“Yes, sir, but it was awfully cold, and I was hoping to maybe cook some fish,” I said.
“Really? Let’s see what you’ve got then.”
I pulled my stringer from the river and showed him the three fish I’d caught earlier.
“Not bad. If you’re going to put any of these on the fire, I’d recommend that one,” he said, pointing. “How are you thinking of cooking it?”
Actually I had not thought quite that far ahead. “I figured I’d just use a stick.”
Mr. Neill furrowed his brow. “‘Fraid that’s not going to work. The fish will fall apart and be lost. Have you any newspaper?”
Actually, I had.
He told me to take the cleaned fish, wrap it in several layers of newspaper, and soak it in water. “Then you just stick it in the coals, and when you see the newspaper start to burn, you know the fish is done,” he said.
It worked far better than I had expected. The fish turned out to be flaky, tender, and delicious. Mr. Neill was gone by the time I thought to thank him.
I spent the rest of the afternoon snapping my rod, reeling in fish, and smoking cigarettes by my campfire, feeling warmer than the fire alone could make me, and ever thankful for the kindness.
