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Fishing Stories

A Common Bond 

A story by Keith F D Oxby

It was the article about a visiting fly fisherman that caught my attention.  Sandwiched between the shipping news and wool prices was a piece about a young lady landing a 23-pound sea-run Brown trout.  She had taken it from the San Carlos River, and until that moment, I had thought my love of fly-fishing would be going on hold for a while.  

During the eighteen-hour flight south, I struggled to concentrate on my technical journals in preparation for my new job.  Very often however, I would find myself reaching for that publication, and my love of the outdoors became aroused.  Between the covers of a Falkland Island Newspaper were photographs of heather covered lowlands, granite-strewn mountains, Landrovers and all manner of wildlife.  It slowly sunk in that I would be spending the next six months in this place.

Even those images hadn't prepared me for the surprise when I stepped off the plane.  I didn't expect to find a bit of Scotland in the South Atlantic, nearly 8,000 miles from my home in England. Gazing around as I descended the steps to the asphalt of the Falkland Island main airport, I was struck by the similarity.  Bleak heather covered tundra surrounded me, and in the distance were snow-covered hills. 

The walk across to the arrivals building was short and cold, with snow flurries sending frigid flakes into my English summer clothing.  I had left home during a beautiful warm summer, and arrived in the middle of the Falkland winter.  

My luggage tumbled out onto the carrousel, and I was pleased to see that my rod cases were intact.  Although I had been posted to this remote spot, I had no intention of leaving my beloved fly rods behind.  Depositing the bags onto a trolley, I made my way out to the parking lot, where I hoped my transport would be waiting.  A Naval Rating led me to a waiting Landrover, and having loaded my gear, we turned out of the parking lot onto the road to the harbor.  In all directions the landscape appeared to be the same, with treeless bleak tundra and the occasional flock of sheep to break up the monotony. 

After traveling for some twenty minutes, we crossed a metal bridge, beneath which flowed a peat-stained stream.  In the distance I could make out the coastline, and although the driving snow almost obscured the view, the stream raised my dark mood as it meandered across the bleak landscape.  I began to muse about bright, sea run trout … perhaps cousins to the northern Scottish clan that my son and I had found in the Spey a few weeks before.

At last we drove past some deserted buildings, piles of military detritus and rounding a corner arrived at our destination.

“Here we are Sir, home sweet home,” my driver said brightly as we approached the jetty.

There on the other side of the wooden planking was my new home.  Her Majesty’s Ship Dumbarton was gray and business like, with the Union Flag proudly fluttering from the Jack Staff as she tugged at her mooring lines.  “Don’t worry about the bags Sir, just get yourself aboard,” the young driver said, “I’ll send someone down with them later”