Scroby **** - The Great White Cod

[Lieva]

Some while ago, seeking adventure. I took a trip on a fishing boat out of Caister. The master of the Peapod, Captian Rehab, was a man of cod. He was a ganrled, weather-beaten. dry-rotted-oak of a man, who had only one topic of conversation. One, or two, should you choose to include what he said he would like to do to the barmaid at the Fisherman's Vest. One topic then, and that was cod. Not any cod, at that, but a singular cod. Scroby Dick he called it. And he spoke at great length, and with considerable feeling about what he would like to do to that fish - some of it surprisingly alike with that which he said he would like to do to the barmaid at the fisherman's vest. Some not, for she would surely not have counternanced the use of rope and tackle. Or so, at least, i thought so then.
One day Rehab erupted on the poop deck, and called out "I can smell him. I can smell that fish. Cast the mate over the yard arm and lets go after him"
The crew seemed quite unfazed by this, and stood to their various stations - Piccadilly, Kings Cross, and other such nautical oddities which I had learned to understand, if not wholly approve of.
Soon we had piled on canvas, and the Peapod flew through the wave, seeming on some crazy course, south of north, east of west, and a little to the left of Hemsby.
The crew cursed and swore vehemently, which was the sole indication of normality.
And then, just as I became convinced that this was all some preposterous fancy - not unlike the barmaid at the fisherman's vest - I saw a sight which caused me to wish devoutly that I had put money into the collection plate that Sunday, rather than taking it out. For there, making the Peapod seem like some child's toy, was the biggest fish a man ever saw. A cod it was, but no ordinary cod. This was the cod that passeth all understanding. The cod that moves in mysterious ways.
Only its back broke the serface. It was an old, gnarled back, with many a scar and weal. Fragments of net hung from it, and in the very middle stood a set of cricket stumps, their bails long dislodged. Rehab became ever more animated, challenging the fish. "I'll scale yer scales and finish yer fins", he cried. And all the while he grasped in his hands the handle of a gigantic shrimp net.
And then the chase began. Rehab, I feel sure, in reflection, would have preferred that it was we that chased the fish. But Scroby Dick had other ideas. For cod is not mocked. And so we ran ahead of him, with rehab in the stern frantically flailing his net. What happened next is a matter of some dispute among those of us who returned.
Some claim that he slipped. Others insist he jumped. I believe it was an act of cod. I saw that great fish charge against the Peapod, throwing Rehab high into the air. For a while he hung there, a look of surprise upon his face, and then he began to fall.
And as he fell, singing, it seemed to me, Nearer My Cod To Thee, that great fish rose to meet him, hauling its vast bulk out of the ocean until it opened its gigantic maw, and swallowed him whole.
And then, unless I dreamed it, the fish smiled. It smiled a coddy smile, belched quietly, then slid back beneath the waves. Slowly the sea calmed, until it was as if nothing at all had happened.
Perhaps nothing did. For with cod, all things are possible. But if that were the case, then what became of Captain Rehab? And why did it transpire that bfore embarkation he had ordered enormous quantities of potatoes and fat, with instructions that the fat be heated and the tubers peeled and cut into strips, declaring he would provide the fish to complete the feast?
I never put to sea again. I found adventure enough with the barmaid at the Fisherman's Vest, who taught me things about the use of rope and tackle that have served me well ever since.
Together now we heave and haul to our heart's content, while Rehab travels on, cod knows where.


From the literary gleanings of Sid Kipper