TALES FROM THE TIDELINE
Lined up as though on parade, the reel spools gleamed where the summer sunlight bounced back from their polished rims.
From beneath their neoprene spool bands, small glimpses of line rainbowed out – different colours signifying the different breaking strains available for each reel. I’ve always bought the best gear I can afford, looking out for key features such as ball bearings, line lay and oscillation – in short, the engineering of the reel. Then, having bought it, I make damned sure that I look after it: servicing, oiling, greasing. After all, a reel is just like a car, or so I’ve been told; maintain it and it will serve you well.
All seemed to be in order here. The last of the surf reels was oiled and running sweetly, leaving only one of the spinning reels to respool before my session dabbling about on the rocks of the local breakwater later. “Now, where did I put that bloody spool of 12-pound line?” I tutted to myself as I rummaged through the cupboards in my shed. “Nope”, as every conceivable colour and breaking strain of line tumbled to the floor at my feet. Then, from nowhere, CLACK!
What the hell’s this? I reached back into the depths of the cupboard and pulled out an old carrier bag, taking it out into the sunlight for a better look.
Nestled at the bottom of the bag was a tumbledown collection of bits of wood, some with holes in the side, most of them Simon Smith reconnects with more than just a few fish when he puts a long forgotten antique centre pin reel back to work round: reel parts, inherited from my grandfather years before, jumbled in amongst other various bits and pieces, some being five inches across, others almost the size of diner plates where big Scarborough reels had been stripped down or cannibalised in the past. I was about to consign the bag of seemingly unusable bits to the bin when, right at the bottom of the bag, something alone, something complete, caught my eye.
Reaching in, delving right to the bottom of the bag, I pulled out a little wooden centre pin reel, three inches in diameter.
Manufactured from a hard wood of some description, it nevertheless had soft, rounded outer edges where time and hands had rubbed it smooth with long and affectionate use, a fact reiterated by the obvious application and re-application of various coats of varnish over its working life.
There are many things I have inherited in my life, not all of them useful or particularly wanted: an overdeveloped sentimentality from my mother, the easily ruffled panic-flap my father adopts when stressed and a hairline and waistline from my grandfather to name just a few. But there are also others which are a little more desirable, and this reel was certainly one of them.
The stubbed handles sat comfortably within the nook between finger and thumb, just as they had f
