In the north, Kevin Pilley finds that cod is great
The harbourside "Cod Bar" bucked and tipped like the North Atlantic. And smelled similar. It teemed with cod fisherman swaying from port to starboard. I was drowning my sorrows, up to my gunwales in beer and speaking bilge.
I had just made my debut in "skreifiske", the traditional Nordic he-man sport of cod fishing in the ancient cod-rich Vestfjorden waters off the northernmost tip of Norway. Conditions were perfect. The plankton were about, the sea temperature ideal, the salt content spot on and the Trollfjorder was equipped with the very latest fish-detection devices.
Thirty thousand tonnes of cod are caught between January and April at the tip of Norway's 1770km of coastline. One female cod produces three million eggs a year. So when we dropped anchor five miles offshore from Svolvaer, in the middle of a shoal of Gadus Morhua nearly a mile long, expectations were high.
But, for six hours, all I caught was spume. Then my rod bent double and the line smoked out from the brass reel between my legs. My Hemingway-esque features twisted into a grimace of excruciating pain as I reeled in the monster from the deep. My forearms bulged and my groin muscles palpitated to the point of a hernia. With one last heave, I swung the brute over the side of the boat and it fell with a plop at my feet. I had caught my first pollock.