THE MEMORY OF WATER
Three generations’ splashing in the same river stirs up old stories and life wisdom for Bobby Jordan
EVERY time I lay eyes on the Breede River, I am reminded of a fishing story involving my Uncle Andrew, who was better known in the Overberg by his nickname, The Steenbras King.
Uncle Andrew and his wife Joyce retired to a small house overlooking the river mouth, where they lived happily for many years. Every morning, Uncle Andrew would row his boat into the channel in front of the house and fish there until Joyce summoned him for lunch — by sticking her arm out of the kitchen window and ringing a large bell. That was the signal for Uncle Andrew to pack up and row back to shore.
It so happened that, one day, Uncle Andrew felt strangely compelled to ignore Joyce’s bell and have one final cast before heading home. His hunch proved correct — moments later, something big snatched his bait and the Steenbras King was in business.
Now an old pro such as Uncle Andrew knew better than to try to reel in his prey without first exhausting it; the best way to tame a colossus from the deep was to let the fish battle the force of the drifting boat moving with the tide. But even with all his years of experience, Uncle Andrew was a little surprised when, after he’d weighed anchor and steadied himself for battle, his boat began to move against the current in the direction of the government jetty. Past the jetty they sailed and up towards the prawn beds at Moddergat, the mighty fish with Uncle Andrew in tow. Then an aboutturn next to Pyott’s cottage and back downstream. Joyce was on the stoep, hands on hips, when Uncle Andrew came cruising past, his rod bent like the strandveld in the South Easter.
Opposite the Oysterbeds Hotel, the fish turned again, by which time a sizeable crowd had gathered in front of the bar.
Once more he came cruising past Joyce, who had fetched a pair of binoculars and was yelling something from the front lawn.
Whatever it was on the end of Uncle Andrew’s fishing line towed him all the way into the mouth of the Breede River, where incoming waves rattle with the bones of missing fishermen. And then, for no apparent reason, as if finally realising it had something dragging on its back, the fish took off, snapping the line easier than a soggy cigarette. He didn’t catch even a glimpse of it. Until his dying day, my Uncle Andrew the Steenbras King loved to fantasise about the one that got away, although the truth is the only one that got away was him.
Everybody agreed it was probably just as well that he had already left to go fishing in heaven when those stories surfaced about an unidentified floating object in the river mouth, which looked a lot like a Russian submarine.
Fast forward 50 years to yours truly standing in the shallows of the Breede, my child’s fishing net in one hand. The river is in flood — chocolate brown and surging past with tree-stump floaties —
The old house is still there, doors locked and curtains drawn
and empty rain clouds are tumbling down from the Postberg on their way eastward along the coast.
Memories jump and disappear like bait fish. No sign of Joyce on the stoep but the old house is still there, doors locked and curtains drawn, a deserted speck in a mushroom field of holiday homes called Witsand. We are staying on the opposite bank of the river, in a smaller smattering of holiday homes collectively known as Kontiki. If I look out of the front door of our self-catering cottage I see the old Witsand Botel, once a place of summertime sin and teenage discos but arguably more famous for the unusual framed photographs in its lounge — of people holding fish much bigger than themselves.
To the right of the Botel, now called the Breede River Resort and Fishing Lodge due to a corporate facelift, is a lopsided mooring post sunk into a small inlet: Uncle Andrew’s mooring post, his boat and boathouse long-gone. It is here he taught me to fish from a rocky pinnacle jutting into a stretch of current he called the Dardanelles.
All this is clear to me now that I’m looking from afar, separated by a 1km stretch of water that nevertheless feels two generations wide. In a boat it would take a few minutes to get across; by car it’s a 60km round trip via the pontoon at Malagas, or 170km via Swellendam on days like today when the river is too full and strong.
Uncle Andrew’s Witsand might as well be a million miles away.
And yet, later, when the moon comes out and dances on the water and the frogs chime in with their endless melancholy, I see that it is still exactly the same river, despite the muddy deluge of in-between time.
From Kontiki, it is just a short walk along the beach to the river mouth and to the village of Cape Infanta, which nestles in the lee of St Sebastian Bay.
From here there are fine views of the sand bar, where many ski boats and even an old steamer have come unstuck, and where Uncle Andrew once swam out to rescue a drowning fisherman who could not swim, an act of bravery that earned him a King’s Medal for Civic Bravery.
Ironically, the fisherman later turned up at Uncle Andrew’s door, demanding his share of the medal. He didn’t get it.
All of which translates into a good life lesson for my newborn child, still splashing in the shallows of her life journey: expect the unexpected, and always lift your anchor if you hook a Russian submarine.
And don’t ever worry about the one that got away because it was probably just as well.