The Old Man and the Sea…of Troubles

Velddrif wakes up slowly...

The first rays of sunlight creep over the salt pans, gilding the snoozing bokkom racks and chasing shadows from the banks of the Berg River. It’s here, along these silty shores, that old Andries van der Merwe readied himself for what he called the last great trawl. The rest of the town called it another one of Andries’ crazy ideas.

Andries had spent his life aboard the Winburg, a weathered bakkie, (not your "hierdie is n Ford, n hond drink uit n bakkie, bakkie) older than some of the local pelicans. Its timbers groaned louder than Andries’ knees, and the engine—a relic from an era when people still thought asbestos was a miracle—sputtered like a chain-smoking aunt. The Winburg had seen better days, but then again, so had Andries.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Piet Klaasen warned as Andries inspected his rods and nets, which looked suspiciously like they’d been borrowed from a soccer goalpost.

“Better to die at sea than in one of those old age homes with bingo cards and weak coffee,” Andries retorted, giving the netting a resolute tug. It immediately tore, leaving Andries holding a fistful of nylon threads. “A minor setback.”

The plan was simple, if optimistic: Andries would take the Winburg out one last time to catch the big one. For years, rumors had circulated about a legendary kabeljou the size of a refrigerator that prowled the waters near the estuary. They called it “Die Baas”—The Boss. Fishermen spoke of it in hushed tones, usually after a couple of brandies. Some claimed it had sunk skiffs; others said it could read minds. Andries didn’t care about the myths. He just wanted to haul it in and retire as a legend.

By mid-morning, Andries had coaxed the Winburg into the water, accompanied by his loyal crew: Gertjie, a one-eyed seagull who seemed to have no personal boundaries, and a cooler box packed with biltong, Coke, and something Andries referred to as “fishing juice”—a mysterious amber liquid that smelled faintly of turpentine.

The engine coughed to life, belching black smoke that made a pair of nearby flamingos reconsider their choice of nesting grounds. Slowly, the Winburg chugged into the open waters, Andries at the helm with Gertjie perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot. Except this parrot occasionally pooped on its owner.

As the town watched the boat disappear into the horizon, some shook their heads in disbelief. Others placed bets on how far he’d get before he sank. The general consensus was halfway to the sandbar.

By noon, Andries had settled into the rhythm of the sea. The sun shimmered off the waves, and the occasional mullet leapt out of the water as if auditioning for a fish circus. Andries cast his net and lines with surprising grace for a man whose back sounded like bubble wrap every time he bent over.

Hours passed without a nibble. Andries sipped his fishing juice and squinted at the horizon, muttering, “Patience, old man. Die Baas didn’t get big by being stupid.”

Gertjie squawked in agreement, or possibly protest; it was hard to tell with seagulls. Suddenly, the lines went taut, nearly yanking Andries overboard. He gripped the rod with both hands, veins bulging like the Berg River at high tide.

“I’ve got you now, you bliksem!” Andries roared, feet slipping on the deck as he wrestled with what felt like the entire contents of the Atlantic. The Winburg groaned in sympathy, its ancient planks protesting under the strain.

After what felt like an eternity—and a particularly close call involving a rogue wave and Gertjie’s beak—Andries hauled his catch onto the deck. But it wasn’t Die Baas. It was a tire. A perfectly round, rubbery reminder of humanity’s knack for ruining nature’s beauty.

Andries stared at the tire. The tire stared back, or at least seemed to. Gertjie waddled over and pecked it experimentally. “Don’t mock me,” Andries growled, hurling the tire back into the sea.

Just as Andries was considering heading back, the water around the Winburg began to churn. A dorsal fin the size of a bicycle wheel broke the surface, followed by a shadow so massive it blocked out the horizon. Andries’ heart raced. Could it be?

“Die Baas,” he whispered reverently, gripping his fishing rod like a knight preparing to joust.

The kabeljou breached, its scales glinting like molten silver. It was magnificent. It was terrifying. It was swimming directly at the Winburg.

“Oh, hel,” Andries muttered as the fish slammed into the trawler with the force of a rugby tackle. The Winburg rocked violently, sending the cooler box flying and spilling its contents into the sea. Gertjie let out an indignant squawk as he lost his perch and crash-landed into the biltong.

Andries scrambled to secure the line, which was now hopelessly tangled around his feet. The kabeljou circled the boat, its eyes glinting with what Andries swore was mockery. Summoning every ounce of strength (and a few sips of fishing juice), Andries cast the rod one final time.

It snagged. The fish thrashed, pulling the Winburg in circles like a dog chasing its tail. Andries held on for dear life, a wild grin spreading across his weathered face. “Come on, you overgrown sardine! Let’s dance!”

By sunset, the battle was over. The kabeljou had escaped, taking half the line and a good chunk of Andries’ dignity with it. The Winburg limped back to the dock, its hull sporting a new dent shaped suspiciously like a fish’s head.

A crowd had gathered to greet Andries, some out of concern, others out of morbid curiosity.

“Did you catch it?” Piet asked, suppressing a smirk.

Andries stepped onto the dock, soaked, bruised, and smelling like defeat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single fish scale, larger than a beer coaster. “No,” he admitted, holding it up for all to see. “But I met him. And he’s real.”

The crowd murmured in awe, or at least polite pretense. Andries turned to the river, where the water rippled as if something enormous was just below the surface.

As he shuffled away, Gertjie perched on his shoulder once more, pecking affectionately at his ear.

“Next time,” Andries muttered. “Next time, I’ll bring a bigger rod.”