Ben Bassett recounts an unforgettable evening’s fishing where the humble and underappreciated scad was the star of the show
There are few greater sights in sea fishing: The water erupted in front of us. The still film shattering with thousands of panicked prey, followed by hundreds of pursuing predators. Summer had truly arrived and the blood thumped with vigour through our veins, as every cast was met with a huge hit on our lures. Little did we know what we were going to experience when we stepped out that evening, but it turned out to be one of my most exciting sessions in years.
The grubby dock of Millbay, in my hometown of Plymouth, was my intended mark for the evening. This would be a post work hunt with my Big Lerf partner in crime, Rich Salter. Millbay, despite continued gentrification, still struggles to be called a beauty spot. To highlight this juxtaposition, to our right, million-pound yachts sat to be tested and completed before they made their way to their owners in the Mediterranean, while behind us they were looked on enviously by those who had spent their last few quid on a couple of cans of Special Brew.
The ex-industrial land, still scarred by the leftover foundations of once busy coal stations and grain stores, is also home to a considerable population of rats. Our walk towards our mark for the evening was occasionally disturbed by the rustling of rodents in the bushes. The rodents thrive in the sea defence boulders, stacked precariously against the ageing promenade. Anglers of a bait fishing persuasion often find their packs of mackerel or worm disappearing underneath the nearest buddleia bush, stolen by the enterprising creatures as the sun sets. Thankfully, they had little interest in our lures.
Millbay may be a strange, bleak place, but it is also rather special. Years of industry, ocean liners and public boat use, have meant that the docks are deeply dredged, providing a channel that leads the diverse inhabitants of Plymouth Sound into them. If there are large shoals of baitfish such as sprat or immature herring further out, they are often funnelled into the docks. Whether they are pushed in by predators or go there aiming to hide, the results are almost always the same: absolute carnage.
Despite knowing the possibilities, and that recently Plymouth Sound had filled with vast shoals of baitfish and mackerel, we set up without great expectations. To our left, the spot with the best access to deeper water outside of the marina was held by a fisherman casting feathers. In order to avoid getting six sparkly hooks and a five-ounce lead wrapped around our heads, we kept our distance and targeted the entrance to the docks. This meant combating the awkward wind that blustered through the channel, but in the moments that it dropped
