Hard Luck

Some things are just inherently lucky. That, or they’re with you so often they just seem lucky.

I hadn’t been seasick in years. Not that I’m a weary old sea dog, but I thought I’d paid my dues watching my grandfather trawl the West Coast, spending mornings on the deck of the Winburg, and feeling the rhythmic slap of waves against the hull. My grandfather—who could tell the tide by the smell of the air—wasn’t afraid of much when it came to the sea. Having fished the cold Atlantic up to the Namibian border, he had earned his title. So, when he suggested we take a quick trip from Velddrif to Dassen Island to catch some snoek, who was I to question him?

Blind trust is seldom placed in undeserving hands. Having captained wooden trawlers in the days before GPS and fish finders, he could read the ocean like a well-thumbed book. I figured this was a safe bet. But I probably should’ve checked the forecast before we left the dock. Or at least asked.

We set off from Bokkomlaan early, the wooden jetty creaking underfoot as we loaded the last of our gear onto the small boat. The morning smelled of wet salt, diesel, and fresh bokkoms drying along the shore. The river was glassy as we made our way toward the mouth, the sun only a promise behind the dunes.

Further out, the waves started picking up, rolling lazily at first, then growing more insistent. I stared at the horizon, willing my stomach to stay in check. As we approached deeper water, the swell hit five, maybe six feet, and the wind began carving whitecaps into the sea. The once-calm morning had turned into a lesson in endurance.

My grandfather, steady at the helm, didn’t seem to notice. He told stories of fishing runs in worse conditions, of men who could gut and clean a snoek faster than a man could light a cigarette. I tried to focus, nodding at the right times, but my stomach had other plans.

The first to fall was my cousin, who had the unfortunate idea to eat a boerie roll just before we left. He turned green, then leaned over the side, giving the fish an early breakfast. I held on longer, determined not to be next, but fate—ever the comedian—had other ideas. A rogue wave sent a wall of seawater crashing over the bow, drenching us all and sending my lucky cap flying into the void.

I lunged for it, missing spectacularly, and barely caught myself before joining it in the deep. My grandfather chuckled, offering no sympathy—just a knowing shake of the head.

Defeated, I slumped against the side of the boat, the battle lost. Within minutes, I was bent over, adding my own contribution to the Atlantic.

For the next few hours, we rode the waves, casting our lines into the churning water, waiting for the telltale pull. Eventually, the sea took pity on us, and the snoek came fast and hard. My grandfather worked with the ease of a man who had done this his whole life, hauling in fish with a practiced hand. By midday, the boat was heavy with our catch, and my stomach had settled just enough to feel the stirrings of hunger.

The ride back was calmer, the sea having tired of its game. The river mouth welcomed us home with a gentle current, and the familiar sight of Bokkomlaan felt like an embrace. We cleaned our catch on the jetty, the smell of fish mixing with the briny air, while my grandfather told more stories of the sea.

That night, we feasted on fresh snoek, grilled over coals and basted with apricot jam. The fire crackled, the stars mirrored in the dark river, and the stories continued.

I never did get my lucky cap back. But maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need it after all.

Back at the jetty the next morning, as the first light hit the water, an old fisherman sat on an upturned crate, mending a net with weathered hands. He glanced at me, then at the river, and said, "The sea doesn’t take what it isn’t owed." My grandfather nodded in agreement, staring out at the boats bobbing on the tide.

I thought about my cap, my pride, and the long night at sea. Maybe some things are meant to be let go. Maybe luck isn’t something you hold onto—it’s something you find when you’re willing to lose a little first.