Nehaveigur

Beneath the surface, there were trout. On hot days they were suspended in the water without moving. My brother, for a few years, was obsessed by fishing and would frequently bring home trout for us to eat. In his room, he had a box with what to seven year old me seemed like sophisticated tackle. When he was away, I sometimes entered his room and went through the box to examine the lures. I was careful because he had told me that if one of the barbed hooks entered your finger, you’d have to push it out on the other side so you could cut of the barb.

You needed a license to fish, but my father was too stingy to buy one for us. One afternoon he invited a game warden to the mansion to discuss the deer that frequently grazed in the park. My brother, hearing that the warden was also responsible for fishing, proudly announced that only this morning he had caught several large trout. I could see my father taking a sharp breath. Fortunately for him, the game warden didn’t believe a word and just smiled condescendingly.

I begged my brother to take me fishing, and one day he did. He didn’t want me to break one of his fiberglass rods and instead cut me one from a hazelnut bush. At the end, he fastened a fishing line with a hook and some bait and told me to sit on the bank and not to bother him while he did some real fishing. I did as I was told, dangled my hook in the water and immediately felt a fish bite. I yanked out a good-sized trout. I must have made quite some noise, because my brother came running, only slowing down once he saw what had happened. For once, I could sense his respect, even though was muttering about beginner’s luck. When I told him the story many years later when we went fishing the day before my wedding, he couldn’t remember it.

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