You will either snare something or you will fold up your rod, pack away the last of the smelly bait pilchards, pick up your bucket and make your way back to your car or wander home on foot ... past a fish shop where you can buy a slice or two of gurnard for supper.
That, of course, could be seen as the only firm guarantee of a fishing expedition. You will catch something, even if it is over a counter with a ferociously inflated price tag attached.
This angler's kit was minimal. He had a small box, the rod and a bucket. The bucket, as a stool, made very good sense.
It has a handle for easy carriage, and if you do happen to snare a rock snapper or a kahawai or anything else that can be baked or fried into a snack, you have the perfect place to store it.
And if you do get something worth storing then you can up sticks and go home, otherwise you'll have to sit on the edge of the jetty or stand.
We are lucky living by the sea, because for many kids a fishing expedition, in pursuit of the humble herring or spotty down off the jetties, is the first adventurous hunting expedition they will undertake.
When we were kids, my mates and I would spend the summer weekends either swimming off the beach or cycling down to the port, through the main entrance (they never closed) and out on to one of the big wharves, dodging the rail wagons and trucks and wandering wharfies, who always wandered down to see how we were getting on after a time. Some would offer tips, like dropping aniseed into the water to attract the prey. Or lower your sinker to the bottom and the reel it in about a yard.
"They're just off the bottom mate," they would advise, as another freighter's cargo sat idle on the dockside nearby, waiting for attention.
The odd thing was, I don't think we talked a lot as we fished.
In a classroom or a cinema you couldn't shut us up, but for a reason I still can't fathom, while we were fishing we said very little. Just sat there, lines in the water, silently awaiting the nibbles from below.
"Got one" was about as conversational as it got.
I suppose it's the same for many of today's youngsters, as they sit in silence watching a flat screen where fast cars or aliens are there for the taking.
However, it is always buoying to spot kids on the jetties around the Iron Pot of a weekend, as unlike electronic trends or technology, the appearance and performance of a humble herring does not alter. Under that surface, it is still 1964.
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.
