Another fishing story. Just another in an ages old list of
ways that fish become lost. It was the telling of the story that struck me most. The
teller possessed an incredible grasp of the most vile regions of the English language.
” The (expletive deleted) lures had just (e.d.) gone out (e.d.) behind
the (e.d.) boat, when a (e.d.) marlin (e.d.) popped (e.d.) up
and (e.d.) grabbed one of the (e.d.) lures. We (e.d.) were so (e.d.) shocked
that we (e.d.) rushed (e.d.) around like (e.d.) headless (e.d.) chooks.
The (e.d.) hooks were (e.d.) not (e.d.) set (e.d.) properly.
So of (e.d.) course the (e.d.) marlin (e.d.) jumped (e.d.) off.
It (e.d.) was a (e.d.) big (e.d.) fish too. Biggest (e.d.) we
have (e.d.) ever (e.d.) hooked. Boy were we (e.d.) slutted. You (e.d.) should
have (e.d.) heard the (e.d.) swearing.”
One of my pet peeves is the intrusion of swearing into all facets of life.
Movie makers these days seem to find it impossible to make films without an endless stream
of obscenities. Ordinary conversations are littered with curses. There was a time not
too long ago when swearing was the prerogative of blokes, most of whom refrained from
swearing in front of women. Now women, younger women more especially, cuss with the worst
of them. I am old enough to remember when Germaine Greer, the feminists champion, was
fined for saying ‘bullshit’ at a public meeting in Auckland.
I guess what gets to me, as someone who derives some pleasure from using
words, is that most swearing is hiding a lack of vocabulary. Far too often swear words
are used as adjectives, descriptive words, when their original intent was exclamation.
Explicit, conversation stopping exclamation.
Often the opportunity to use a well chosen, telling explicative is debased
by the general noise level of the swearing that surrounds it. A heartfelt anguished oath
is lost in the cacophony of curses. The biggest problem with the glut of swearing in
too common use is the downgrading of the power of a good oath used when really needed.
And sometimes a good cuss is exactly what is needed.
But the list of provocation that could lead to the acceptable outburst
of an oath should be short. Short enough to ensure the potency of that oath. It is clear
that fishing should be included in any list of provocation which may excuse language
that would normally be inexcusable. Usually non-profane people, who would stoically face
the pain of thumb screws without a murmur will shout out an oath at the loss of a fish.
Fishing is an activity that has the potential, to bring about many opportunities
to expel a well chosen obscenity. A suddenly shouted, well rounded, truly redolent expletive,
can help heal the pain of a lost fish. Help to communicate to all around the catastrophe.
The rattle of a ratchet, the splosh of a jumping fish in the quiet evening,
followed by a sharp loud curse, can tell a story of clear meaning to listeners. A story
known and experienced by all fishermen. Every one of the listeners’ stories summed up
in one pointed profanity. Sympathy, not censure, rolls like a comfort blanket across
the water. In one word, all anglers are as one with the profaner. A whole book of words
could do no more.
A line, caught tight to the bottom, pulled and tugged to the inevitable
crack as the line parts, is just cause for a loud ‘bother’, ‘golly’ or ‘gosh’. Few anglers
would take violent offence.
Then there is that slithery fluffy muffled rattle as a cast is interrupted
by a backlash under construction. A half hours line picking is cause enough for a staccato
‘for goodness sake’. Most anglers would ignore the cursing, too busy thanking their god
that it was not them.
Not that an oath always needs shouting. Sometimes a low hissed swear word
can cut through the air to reveal the hurt.
Once fishing with a friend, and his friend, a vicar, we were plagued by
fish who resisted hooking up with truly remarkable tenacity. Bite after bite was followed
by nothing. Finally the preacher hooked up and the fish raced off. He reared up on the
rod, and the line snapped. The under breath, low muffled “damn” slashed through the air,
cutting the banter like a scalpel. A mild explicative, made powerful by the swearer,
more powerful still by his embarrassment.
An explicative almost breathed out, stealthily whispered, has the conversation
cutting power of the preacher’s “damn”. There is great power in the ‘did I hear you say
what I think you just said’ oath. Uttered by those who do not, or are seen to not utter
such crude oaths, then the curse has profound effect. There is evidence to back my assertion.
The lady was in her mid sixties. She looked every bit the retired school
maam, which I discovered she was; only recently retired as Headmistress of a well known
girls grammar school. Very straight backed-prim, blue-rinsed proper, well spoken and
old English accented.
We fished nearly side by side at the top of a Tongariro pool. She had fished
for two days without success, without a touch actually. She had endured with polite congratulation
as I landed a couple of fish, but now it was past time for her to leave for dinner with
a friend before her journey home early next morning.
I was watching my downstream swinging line intently, when out of the corner
of my eye I thought I saw her line tighten with that little rooster tail that confirmed
something was attached to the line. But my attention was diverted by her barely audible
but beautifully enunciated murmur of “duck”. Instantly I hunched down to avoid what I
thought must be her hard pulled fly slashing back through the air.
On raising my head, her limp line on the water still in front of her, and
beetroot red face, confirmed that her pronunciation was not quite as good as I thought.
The two anglers on the other side of the pool were bent over, laughing
themselves sick. Her low profane bleat of agony at missing her only chance of a fish
had wafted to the other side, over the chuckling of the river. Her embarrassment knew
no bounds.
That evening, by coincidence, we met at the same bar over after dinner
drinks. Several drafts of Sir Jonathan Walker-Black’s fine Scottish wine were passed
to me, as I think an unasked for blackmail of silence.
There may be a time and place for a ripe rude retort, but these days these
seems to be too many times and places. Our English language is rich enough to provide
the words to more than adequately replace profanity with wry wit and colourful description.
Mark Twain made a wise observation: “When angry, count four; when very
angry, swear.”
Wise enough; but for me another short story may make a more pertinent point.
I was out to a post-fishing dinner with a group of hard men from the trucking
industry. As the alcohol seeped into to darker recesses of the collective brains, and
the stories of the day’s mud, blood and beer, grew more raucous, decorum subsided. Subsided
to the point where some other patrons complained about the language emanating from our
table.
The Maitre De quietly but forcefully made the other guests feelings known
to the host of our table. Our host’s communication of these complaints to the rest of
us at the table was a remarkable illustration of the power of a few well chosen words, “if
you don’t stop swearing you can all @&%$# off”!