A Common Bond - Page 2
As I reached the far end of the gangway, a familiar smiling face appeared, it was Ken, an old friend who greeted me with a handshake. “Let’s get below and out of the weather,” Ken said without preamble. We descended a flight of stairs and entered a cozy compartment. Ken headed for the bar and reaching for a glass said “Tea or something stronger?”
I opted for tea, and gripping the mug to my slowly warming hands, sank into a welcoming armchair.
We spent the next few hours catching up on old times. Eventually there was a knock at the door. When Ken opened it, two young Ratings stood with my luggage.
“Just chuck it in here for now,” Ken said.
As the bags were unceremoniously deposited in the lounge, one of the Ratings handed me my rod cases.
“So you think you might get time for some of those local sea trout, eh!” Ken laughed, “You never change, I hope you get the chance, it might keep you from going round the bend,”
“Well you started it when you sent me that copy of the Falkland News!” I replied, “Don’t you remember that article about the girl from Scotland landing a 23 pound Brown trout?” I asked.
“Trying to better it eh?” Ken ventured.
“If I ever get time off this bucket,” I laughed.
I finished my tea and Ken showed me to my cabin. It was small, although I had been used to more cramped living spaces, and there was plenty of storage space.
“I’ll leave you to unpack,” said Ken as he headed for the door.
“Thanks Ken.” I called as the door clicked shut.
I opened the first of my suitcases and began to extract my things. As I reached in my hand touched something familiar. Wrapped carefully inside some towels was a picture of my son and I with fly rods, standing up to our thighs in the bright clear waters of the River Spey. The picture had been taken back in June, just before my departure. As an eighteenth birthday present for my son, I had arranged a five-day trip to Scotland. I gazed at the picture for a few moments, lost in warm thoughts, and then placed it on the desk to keep those memories alive.
Over the next few days, I became familiar with the shipboard routines. Dumbarton had mechanical problems and as her new Chief Engineer, I spent many hours deep in the bowels of the engine room, or pouring over schematic drawings. Occasionally I would drive to the airport, and once when I crossed the metal bridge I stopped the Rover just past it. On impulse, I decided to check out the stream that had lightened my spirits that first day.
Slipping and sliding down the bank, I arrived beside a beautiful free stone river.
Reaching down into the water, I felt the cool flow of it through my fingers. A small creature dashed from under the first rock I lifted, although it was too swift for me to identity. The water was a golden brown having been colored by its passage through the peat bogs miles inland.
I stared down into the turbid water, and at first I couldn’t see any signs of life, although the bottom seemed to be rocky, with numerous holding spots.
Then in the corner of my vision something moved and my heart seemed to skip a beat. A bright torpedo like shape moved quickly into the pocket water below a large rock. The huge tail moved gracefully side to side as the fish held its position. I estimated the fish to be about 36 inches long, with a large gaping mouth and a bright shining eye, which seemed focused on me. It was a fresh, sea-run Brown trout, straight from the South Atlantic, and heading up stream on an early run to the spawning beds. I tried to estimate its weight, although the dark water made it virtually impossible. This bright male trout lay behind the rock regaining some energy after the initial run from the sea. I stood completely still and the military clothing must have helped camouflage my shape while I watched. After about five minutes a swift beat of that huge tail and a slight movement of pectoral fins took the fish around the rock, under the bridge, and out of sight.
My heart was still pounding as I regained the roadway and headed for the Rover. First sightings of a large fish in a strange stream always had the same effect, and my mind was racing with thoughts of flies and rod sizes.
I was just about to climb in the vehicle, when something caught my eye. There on the hill just off the road, stood a large white stone. It was about five feet high and looked to have been carved from white granite. Surrounding the pillar was a neat picket fence, with a small gate giving access. Opening the gate and going closer I could see the stone had been inscribed with writing in a language that was vaguely familiar. It was Spanish, and with difficulty I translated it.
“Rest in peace you sons of Argentina,” it said.
Beneath the inscription was a list of names and the date, June 1982.
It was a small Argentine memorial, tucked away on this lonely hillside. We had fought a war with Argentina here on these remote islands. Young men from Argentina and from Great Britain had died. The conflict lasted only 100 days, but life in the Falklands had changed forever. Peace had returned, although along with it came a garrison that I was now part of. My thoughts of battles with beautiful sea run trout were banished by thoughts about battles between men.
I drove the last few miles to the ship deep in thought and as I reached the gangway, a notice asking me to contact the Captain greeted me. It seemed that we had received orders to sail, and any thoughts of trout disappeared.
Two weeks later we arrived back alongside our berth. It had been a successful patrol and with all our machinery running smoothly, there would be a chance for some time off. My mind was immediately filled with thoughts of flashing tails and straining leaders, and I was almost running by the time I left the gangway. Sliding into the Rover, which I had booked for the day, I gunned the engine and the wheels spewed gravel as I headed for the gate.
It was only a few minutes drive to the stream, and once the vehicle was safely parked, I followed a vague sheep trail towards the mouth of the river. Winter was drawing to a close and all around me were signs that the brief Falkland spring was almost upon me. Ewes were tending their new spring lambs and a Plover noisily defended her nest that I carefully avoided. A flotilla of Upland Geese was moving upstream against the current, with fifteen goslings trailing a tawny colored female and the snowy white male bringing up the rear.