Few words in the Afrikaans language scare me more than the mombakkie. It is probably the only equivalent to my mother using my full name when she addresses me (spine-chilling). It tests your very being as a fisherman and is only defeated by the possibility of around the next bend, on the next cast or remembering what has been. For as long as I can remember it has been a word that has plagued me.
Adding insult to injury after walking 6 km up and down the river or fishing in the surf, attempting to locate the perfect spot, those snarky “waars die vis” comments on the main beach or little jabs from the folks at home “wat eet ons vanaand” when you’ve had no success. How many times have I had to say a calming word to my brother after such a comment when he readies himself to flick his 1 ounce mad mullet jighead at the heckler. (And trust me if you’ve seen HP cast, a jighead flick to the head can do some serious damage)
Saturday morning 04:15 am, the alarm goes off. I fall out of bed, drag myself across the floor and roll into the shower. As I slowly start to wake up and realise why I’m up I start thinking about the past week and the planning, preparation and thought that has gone into the reason for my current zombie like state. I have checked Windguru over and over, confirmed my tide times 3 or 4 times, temperature, wind speed, cloud cover, barometer, even planned the order in which I will use my leadheads, the whole 9 yards.
The back-pack and rod go in the bakkie as Harry walks out his apartment @ 04:45 am, our pre-determined time of departure. He has that annoying child-like smile on his face, buzzing with excitement as I strongly contemplate hitting him with my bakkie and going back to bed instead of sitting next to him in the car for the next 15 minutes listening to the good feeling he has (I am not a morning person). I am met with his usual “well you’re a bundle of joy” sarcastic comment as I grunt a good morning in his direction.
05:00 am: I park the bakkie and as I get out the crisp cold air along Swartkops river greets my face and all I can hear is the crashing of the waves in the background. Harry and I set up our rigs, 9 ft Loomis and Franklin Platinum edition Rod, Shimano Sedona 4000 reel, 8pd braid and at the end a little silver piece of lead that has been so successful in the Breede river and I hope can once again mimic the appearance of a wounded bait fish and entice any and all predators in the river today.
We start our all too familiar hike along the bank, across the bridge and make our way up the river casting here and there for a possible snatch, but not wasting too much time as we know where we need to be and it is important to beat the sun. We reach our destination as one or 2 beads of sweet run down our face.
Casting starts in silence one after the other, bounce, jerk, dart, slow, fast. The bucktails come off and paddle tails and strike pros follow. 10 casts 50 casts 500 casts and silence. Every so often there is a smash somewhere nearby or your minnow snags the bottom and that jolt of excitement once again sparks the heartbeat and the next cast is met with a bit more concentration on the retrieve.
11:00 am: 6 Hours of fishing has passed, the sun is now directly above you, the cloud cover is gone and high tide has arrived. You are unable to reach the drop off and any longer and you can’t make your way back to the Vehicle without swimming through the river. A big sigh emerges from each fisherman, as the realisation sinks in that once again today it was not meant to be.
The walk back is hot, uncomfortable and sad. In my head I hear my father’s voice threatening, “As ek vandag niks vang nie verkoop ek sommer my visgoed” and I think If I took that literally mine would be long gone.
As Harry and I drive back we discuss what went wrong, I am angry at the thought that for the past 10 times I have visited this stupid river I have received nothing other than a mombakkie. I have spent hours researching the areas, watching videos, speaking to other anglers and yet nothing or in the proper Afrikaans word F$#%L.
The mombakkie has haunted me over the years. Days out on the river, weekends away, sometimes even weeks in certain areas. Very few things drain your confidence faster than an empty hook. The mombakkie is my greatest adversary and as a fisherman my only goal is to ensure I experience it as little as possible.
And yes sometimes it will get me down and get me under. But that moment when the line stops, your heart starts pumping, the hair in your neck stands up and the drag screams like a blond girl in a horror movie, then my dear friends the mombakkie is gone.
Until next time…
It is time that HP and I come and show you and Harry how it is done!