Two Bits

Back when my birthdays were still in single figures, the family used to holiday in a lovely but basic little opgeboggerede cottage at Pennington on the South Coast. It had paraffin lamps, a paraffin fridge, wood stove and the beds were those steel types you find in boarding schools, with hard coil matresses. Drinking water came out of a rainwater tank with more than a few mosquito larvae wriggling away, and the loo was a longdrop way behind the house. It was heaven.
The journey there from ‘Maritzburg was part of the adventure, all piled into my father’s Chev with a canvas water bag hanging off the grill. The radiator would boil going up Inchanga and other big hills, which was when the water bag with its contents cooled by the wind came into play.
We’d stop at Scottburgh to buy the holiday treat for us kids, a case of Hubbly Bubbly cooldrink with its dimpled bottles (one a day each), and again at Kelso to load up with litchis, mangoes, pineapples and bananas from the large stall under a cluster of litchi trees on the side of the road. The South Coast road may have been tarred, but the roads in Pennington were all sand.
The cottage was about 500 metres from the sea and getting to the beach was also part of the adventure. First you walked down a very narrow sand path, winding through the wild bananas, keeping a wary eye out for snakes – there were plenty – to reach the railway line. Your bare feet found amatungulu thorns with unerring accuracy.
At that point it was obligatory to press your ear to the rail and listen for the thrumming vibration that signalled an oncoming train, still a long way off. As all little boys will, we’d sometimes place a metal washer on the line for the thrill of finding the flattened washer, now paper-thin. I once saw a penny coin that had been flattened by a train, and recall being shocked that anyone could waste so much money. It was the equivalent of one cent, but back then could buy you two big Wicks or four Chappies bubblegums. Sacrilege!
Then through more bush, still looking out for snakes, and onto the beach. There we would gather some red bait or mussels off the rocks, bait up and spend the rest of the day happily fishing while our mother sunbathed on the beach, picnic basket by her side.
A rod each, some fresh bait and we were in business. The equipment has changed little, except for the reels. Mine was a straightforward drum, like a surf reel but smaller, made of Bakelite, the forerunner to plastic. They were light years away from the today’s reels with clutches and drag controls, so about half the time on the beach was spent picking through overwinds, but at that age who cared!
Fishing was pretty good down there in the 50s. I caught tobies and blacktail in the gullies and each fish caught was so exciting you could jump out of your skin. Imagine the thrill when my father or big brothers landed a shad or even the occasional barracuda!
Many happy hours have been spent fishing, particularly when Rose and I as newly-marrieds lived in the Transkei for a couple of years. My late father-in-law used to say, “Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits”. Well, that summed up how I felt about fishing in later years. The difference between active fishing and passive fishing is how much you care if you catch a fish, and the thing is, the fish doesn’t know the difference. You either catch fish or you don’t and no need to stress about it.
But my rods were put away when we moved to Jo’burg and London, and when we moved back to the coast I was more interested in road running, so fishing took a back seat.
The thrill of fishing was plain to see on Sunday, from the expressions of the boys and girls taking part in the annual North Coast Courier Orphan Fund bass fishing competition at Dudley Pringle dam. I was particularly struck by one little boy who won a brand new fishing reel in a lucky draw. In his Spiderman shirt, a mop of brown hair and a grin from ear to ear, he could have been me.
The day provided a great family outing and raised a record R45 000 for the Fund. A very big thanks to Tongaat Hulett, Derek Olds and the many sponsors (mentioned elsewhere in this issue) for making it all possible. It was great to give so many pleasure and for a good cause.

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The Irish are always the first ones to come to the aid of their fellow man.
Shortly after take-off on an outbound, evening Aer Lingus flight from Dublin to Boston, the lead flight attendant nervously made the following painful announcement in her lovely Irish brogue:
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so very sorry, but it appears that there has been a terrible mix-up by our catering service. I don’t know how this has happened, but we have 103 passengers on board, and unfortunately, we received only 40 dinner meals. I truly apologise for this mistake and inconvenience.”
When the muttering of the passengers had died down, she continued, “Anyone who is kind enough to give up their meal so that someone else can eat, will receive free and unlimited drinks for the duration of our 10 hour flight.
Her next announcement came about two hours later:
“If anyone is hungry, we still have 40 dinners available.”