…. go fishing, preferably with a bunch of caustic, piss taking old bastards. The kind of mates who will spot an open festering wound, stick their fingers in it, wiggle them around a bit and ask you if it hurts. Nothing like a bit of non-sympathy to get you back on the plane.
So early yesterday morning we pulled out of the Barro de Kwanza at about twenty knots and headed west. The sea was rough and as leaden as the sky. A few squalls saw us all wet through and wondering what sort of day it would be.
Well, it turned out bloody fantastic.
It wasn’t just the company, it wasn’t just the fishing; see below, I was not the only one to haul in a few prize specimens (it is a big video file so if you are bored with seeing fish jumping on the end of a line, don’t bother). It was everything else.
We saw Dolphins running along side the boat. We saw flying fish. We saw turtles. And then for the first time ever in my life, I saw whales. A mother and her calf. Whales are big. If you are in a twenty eight foot plastic tub in the
It was just the sort of break I needed.