The Fishing Hole
In 1866 Frank, then aged five, watched particles of ice form miniature continents on the kitchen window. He had been monitoring the relief map for some months, had named the landmasses, created inhabitants and forms of government for each one. He had also developed histories, cultures, religions and languages but felt uncomfortably aware that these owed too much to his father’s personal history and Norway’s difficult past century or so. In short Frank was already beginning to tire of Art-for-Art’s sake, and wanted to find a more practical arena in which to exercise his imagination.
Shifting his focus he noted that his mother and father continued to fuck upon the permafrost whilst two huskies sniffed at their discarded clothes. After a few more minutes his father stood, brushed ice and grit from his back and ignoring his clothes, marched towards the house. Frank’s mother meanwhile took handfuls of powdery snow and rubbed it into her face, neck, and then methodically into her entire body. It was a post-coital ritual which Frank believed to be common amongst the females of her tribe. His father, although an enthusiast for most things Sami, preferred a hot bath as a way of restoring the circulation to his extremities after love-making.
To his great surprise, and slight annoyance as he was still engrossed in a developing naval conflict between two southern ice continents, Frank’s father called him into the bathroom. The geographical theme continued as his father’s knees and face rose up, islands above the water and beneath the tropical steam; the beard undulating like a mass of seaweed and the pink tip of his penis some kind of buoy.
“I’m sure you agree with me that it is right that domestic duties should be shared equally amongst the family; at least in the modern, enlightened family,” he began, his booming voice echoed by the pine panelling of the walls and at once muffled by the dense steam. “We, that is your mother and I, have decided that you are ready to help in the gathering of foodstuffs.”
“But I do manage the vegetables,” retorted Frank, proud of his herb garden and unique method of propagating root vegetables in gravel under glass-topped igloos.
“I am referring to something rather more active than that!” his father laughed without derision. “Today you are coming with me to get fish.”
Frank thought about the ochre flaps which hung in the pantry. As far as he was aware fish came on the occasional ship from Russia or Norway that made an unscheduled stop at Edgeøya because the captain had been at college with his father. He knew that they once lived; why else were there bones in amongst the tough salty fabric of which they were made?
“Is there a ship coming?” he asked. Again the laugh; warm, protective.
“No, we will find the fish ourselves. I have made a fishing hole. We shall be patient hunters.” The water cascaded from his huge body as he emerged from the bath and reached for a towel. “And we shall go now. Your mother deserves a rich meal tonight. Together we will catch, prepare and cook for our wild empress.”
Frank was astonished at this sudden door opening into his life. He tasted his ignorance and from that moment on savoured the unexpected as the salted herring which hung in the Edgeøya pantry. He rushed to put on his coat, gloves and boots, and within ten minutes father and son were tramping across the impossibly hard ice towards one of the many bays on this side of the island.
They stood on a ridge and watched the ocean smacking massively black into the rocks fifty metres below. Frank was impressed. In later lives he was to meet people who lived by terror, but he would forever be able to anaesthetise fear by visualising that particular spot in the Arctic Sea. His father turned and seemed to disappear into the ice. Frank hurried to see what had happened and saw that there was a steep path; steps cut into the ice leading down to some mysterious destination, and his father standing just below him, arms outstretched, waiting for him to follow.
Frank considered the peril, tried to balance it with the intellectual excitement of discovering what it was to get fish, and then felt himself short circuited by what he later found other people called love and trust. He leant into space and fell, almost senseless into his father’s arms.
At the foot of the steps there was a shelf of rock beneath which the viscous sea boomed ceaselessly. His father took two balls of cord, gave one to his son, and played the other into a dark crack in the ground, fitting steel hooks to the twine every half metre or so. When it was fully unwound he wrapped it about his left wrist, inside the heavy glove, and attached the hooks as Frank let his own line down into the crevasse. Then they sat, breathing, smiling; sharing a common purpose, incredibly safe from the thumping of the sea which produced irregular falls of ice from above.
Frank caught his breath as he felt the strong tug on the line. His father just raised his right hand and the gesture calmed the boy. He relaxed and the line kicked twice. He noticed his father smiling and every now and then mouthing the Sami word for yes. He copied; mouthing the same word each time a new sudden pull was transmitted along the cord. Time passed, It was summer so there would be no night as such, but the faint twilight deepened the blue of the sky which could be seen above the jagged edge of the crevasse. At last his father spoke.
“This place is only accessible for a couple of weeks if the summer is especially kind. We will come again tomorrow should the weather permit it. Now, let us bring in the catch.” He freed his wrist and began to pull up the line, twisting fish after fish from the hooks as he did so. Frank could not wait, he knew his line was likewise heavy with the silver creatures, and he methodically brought them up and added them to the slippery pile that grew between the father and son.
Finally the lines were both clean and rewound. Frank’s father took a knife from his pocket. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, and he slit the belly with one pass of his hand, and on the return twisted to deposit the innards directly into the sea. Frank watched him empty three more fish and then felt a surge of knowledge and power. He opened his hand and was given his own knife. His father was forgotten in the blinding intensity with which a five year old enjoys the repeated process of evisceration. He had loved his father unconditionally for a few hours; this other pleasure was going to last for several lifetimes.
In 1866 Frank, then aged five, watched particles of ice form miniature continents on the kitchen window. He had been monitoring the relief map for some months, had named the landmasses, created inhabitants and forms of government for each one. He had also developed histories, cultures, religions and languages but felt uncomfortably aware that these owed too much to his father’s personal history and Norway’s difficult past century or so. In short Frank was already beginning to tire of Art-for-Art’s sake, and wanted to find a more practical arena in which to exercise his imagination.
Shifting his focus he noted that his mother and father continued to fuck upon the permafrost whilst two huskies sniffed at their discarded clothes. After a few more minutes his father stood, brushed ice and grit from his back and ignoring his clothes, marched towards the house. Frank’s mother meanwhile took handfuls of powdery snow and rubbed it into her face, neck, and then methodically into her entire body. It was a post-coital ritual which Frank believed to be common amongst the females of her tribe. His father, although an enthusiast for most things Sami, preferred a hot bath as a way of restoring the circulation to his extremities after love-making.
To his great surprise, and slight annoyance as he was still engrossed in a developing naval conflict between two southern ice continents, Frank’s father called him into the bathroom. The geographical theme continued as his father’s knees and face rose up, islands above the water and beneath the tropical steam; the beard undulating like a mass of seaweed and the pink tip of his penis some kind of buoy.
“I’m sure you agree with me that it is right that domestic duties should be shared equally amongst the family; at least in the modern, enlightened family,” he began, his booming voice echoed by the pine panelling of the walls and at once muffled by the dense steam. “We, that is your mother and I, have decided that you are ready to help in the gathering of foodstuffs.”
“But I do manage the vegetables,” retorted Frank, proud of his herb garden and unique method of propagating root vegetables in gravel under glass-topped igloos.
“I am referring to something rather more active than that!” his father laughed without derision. “Today you are coming with me to get fish.”
Frank thought about the ochre flaps which hung in the pantry. As far as he was aware fish came on the occasional ship from Russia or Norway that made an unscheduled stop at Edgeøya because the captain had been at college with his father. He knew that they once lived; why else were there bones in amongst the tough salty fabric of which they were made?
“Is there a ship coming?” he asked. Again the laugh; warm, protective.
“No, we will find the fish ourselves. I have made a fishing hole. We shall be patient hunters.” The water cascaded from his huge body as he emerged from the bath and reached for a towel. “And we shall go now. Your mother deserves a rich meal tonight. Together we will catch, prepare and cook for our wild empress.”
Frank was astonished at this sudden door opening into his life. He tasted his ignorance and from that moment on savoured the unexpected as the salted herring which hung in the Edgeøya pantry. He rushed to put on his coat, gloves and boots, and within ten minutes father and son were tramping across the impossibly hard ice towards one of the many bays on this side of the island.
They stood on a ridge and watched the ocean smacking massively black into the rocks fifty metres below. Frank was impressed. In later lives he was to meet people who lived by terror, but he would forever be able to anaesthetise fear by visualising that particular spot in the Arctic Sea. His father turned and seemed to disappear into the ice. Frank hurried to see what had happened and saw that there was a steep path; steps cut into the ice leading down to some mysterious destination, and his father standing just below him, arms outstretched, waiting for him to follow.
Frank considered the peril, tried to balance it with the intellectual excitement of discovering what it was to get fish, and then felt himself short circuited by what he later found other people called love and trust. He leant into space and fell, almost senseless into his father’s arms.
At the foot of the steps there was a shelf of rock beneath which the viscous sea boomed ceaselessly. His father took two balls of cord, gave one to his son, and played the other into a dark crack in the ground, fitting steel hooks to the twine every half metre or so. When it was fully unwound he wrapped it about his left wrist, inside the heavy glove, and attached the hooks as Frank let his own line down into the crevasse. Then they sat, breathing, smiling; sharing a common purpose, incredibly safe from the thumping of the sea which produced irregular falls of ice from above.
Frank caught his breath as he felt the strong tug on the line. His father just raised his right hand and the gesture calmed the boy. He relaxed and the line kicked twice. He noticed his father smiling and every now and then mouthing the Sami word for yes. He copied; mouthing the same word each time a new sudden pull was transmitted along the cord. Time passed, It was summer so there would be no night as such, but the faint twilight deepened the blue of the sky which could be seen above the jagged edge of the crevasse. At last his father spoke.
“This place is only accessible for a couple of weeks if the summer is especially kind. We will come again tomorrow should the weather permit it. Now, let us bring in the catch.” He freed his wrist and began to pull up the line, twisting fish after fish from the hooks as he did so. Frank could not wait, he knew his line was likewise heavy with the silver creatures, and he methodically brought them up and added them to the slippery pile that grew between the father and son.
Finally the lines were both clean and rewound. Frank’s father took a knife from his pocket. “You don’t have to do this,” he said, and he slit the belly with one pass of his hand, and on the return twisted to deposit the innards directly into the sea. Frank watched him empty three more fish and then felt a surge of knowledge and power. He opened his hand and was given his own knife. His father was forgotten in the blinding intensity with which a five year old enjoys the repeated process of evisceration. He had loved his father unconditionally for a few hours; this other pleasure was going to last for several lifetimes.
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