Fritzes Go Fishing.

I've got a friend. A German. A German of the purest breed, a thoroughbred, even though he's descended, however many generations back, from Russian émigrés. A big fishing fan, so big that at the word FISH he goes on point like a hunting dog, his eyes glaze over and he starts drooling.

His name is Kurt. We met in Germany, I happened to be working there on a contract in the early 90s. He knows Russian swearing to perfection (my doing), conversational Russian with a dictionary. And so one day he got it into his head to catch a BIG FISH. Well, we've got plenty of fish, but as for BIG... The fish is there, but because of its size, proportional to the years it's lived, it's so damn wise that catching it takes no small effort (we're not talking about fish under a pood). So I went cap in hand to a gamekeeper I know. The old boy is so old he probably remembers Napoleon, but for as long as I've known him he's always been perky and spry beyond his years. He's lived his whole life on the river and knows all the Big fish practically by name. One word led to another, a bottle made its way across the table, and I got the old man talking. The old man wiped his mustache and spoke: -You'll get your BIG fish!

I call Kurt and give him the happy news. Some time goes by, and he arrives. Bristling with rods like a hedgehog with quills and hung all over with all kinds of gizmos. We drive to the old man's. The old man has a boat. A big boat, the same age as the old man, but just as sturdy and solid. The old man sails it, or as he puts it GOES on it, like this: he takes a long, strong pole, stands on the bow, sticks the pole into the bottom and walks to the stern holding onto the pole. He repeats this a few times, and once the boat has picked up speed you can just stand at the stern and, as the old man puts it, `nudge along` with the pole. He handles that pole just phenomenally, and the boat gets up to a pretty decent speed. So anyway, Kurt and I got to the old man's, drank to our arrival as is proper, and started setting up the tackle. Kurt, already `half-sloshed` (a German's a German, what can you expect), is trying to put together some kind of, in his understanding, SUPERTACKLE for a SUPERFISH. The old man took a look and said: Chuck that the fuck away! and brought out of the shed a rope as thick as a finger and hooks that looked like the anchor off an aircraft carrier. Kurt's eyes went as big as saucers, but since Germans are a delicate people, he kept quiet. Then the old man turned all sorts of super-scientific lures over in his hands and tossed them aside too. That's when I got curious. The old man dragged out an ancient blunderbuss and, without moving from the spot, bumped off a couple of crows. After singeing them with a blowtorch, the old man fitted them onto his hooks. About a meter from the bait he slapped on a couple of bricks.

The tackle is ready. Kurt is dumbstruck. The old man digs a couple of truck inner tubes out of the shed, grabs a pump and hauls the whole lot into the boat. Kurt says nothing, but his eyes say enough for three. We load into the boat, the old man finds a spot on the river by signs known only to him, pumps up the tubes, ties his tackle to them and chucks the whole thing overboard, then calmly pokes his way back to the bank and heads home. Kurt is lost in thought, and if I didn't know the old man, I'd have been pretty puzzled by now too. Evening's coming on, we finish off the schnapps and off to bed.
In the morning we're itching to get to the river, but the old man holds us back. We do chores around the place, with Kurt pestering the old man the whole time with questions about what we're trying to catch. The old man keeps mum. Toward evening we grab our rods and go catch just plain fish.

Kurt pulls out a hefty bream of about 4 kilos and happily announces that he's caught a big fish. After taking a photo with it, he gets ready to release it into the river. We take the fish away from him. Law-abiding Kurt, on learning that we're going to eat a fish caught (oh horror!) without the proper license and, on top of that, not having passed sanitary inspection, fell into indescribable horror and, knees trembling, kept waiting for the `polizei` to show up, ready to arrest and fine us on the spot. He trembled until the first shot, then happily wolfed down the fried bream and sang the praises of the old man's skill.

The next morning one of the tubes sticking up like floats in the middle of the river wasn't where it had been. The old man, his eyes gleaming with excitement, rubbed his hands and said: -Well, lads, a good piglet's latched on, haven't caught one like that in a long while. Just look at that, dragging a brick around with it! Come on, into the boat, we'll catch the villain right now! We jump into the boat and start searching. All day we circle around the river, widening the circles, but there's still no sign of the tube. Finally, toward evening, the old man got tired and decided to go ashore for a bite. I tagged along with him, fishing is fishing, but a guy's gotta eat. Kurt, gripped by the excitement, decided to keep searching on his own. He found the tube right opposite the spot we came to after a hearty lunch (or dinner). He apparently found it just before we got there, and so I got to watch everything that happened next from the sidelines.

So, Kurt spots the inner tube, rows up to it and grabs the rope. The catfish (as it turned out, it was very angry), unhappy at being disturbed, immediately tears off, yanking Kurt out of the boat along the way like a cork out of a bottle. While still in mid-air Kurt figures out that this fish isn't joking, so it's time to get out of there. He reached our bank (the Volga is about 150 meters wide at this spot) in about 5 minutes (swimming or running, who the hell knows, at any rate during the swim he never went deeper than waist-deep in the water), and that, I think, has to be a world record. The rest was a matter of technique. Grandpa dashed over to the neighbor's, grabbed the oars, jumped into his boat and went full steam toward the tube bobbing up out of the waves. He didn't pull it out of the water, just tied a rope to it and hooked the rope to the bow of the boat. We stood on the bank and watched the catfish giving grandpa a ride around the river. Kurt forgot all about his wet clothes, kept staring, eyes like an owl's, first at me, then at grandpa in the boat, and kept asking non-stop: Was ist das?, now and then throwing in: Holy shit! After dragging grandpa around for half an hour, the catfish got tired and grandpa started slowly steering toward the bank. The neighbor came over, intrigued by grandpa's sudden burst of energy in running off with his oars and boat. The whole crowd of us couldn't persuade the catfish to come out onto the bank, so the neighbor had to start up his ancient `Niva` and haul the fish out with it. Pulled it out. Measured it. 2 meters 70 cm. Weight almost 200 kg. Head the size of a cauldron. Smacking its lips. Sweeping its tail across the sand. Kurt was so happy he nearly kissed it, used up all the film in his camera, practically raped the video camera trying to capture every bit of that catfish. The catfish was over half a meter around, well-fed, and next to it Kurt looked like a chicken. Then I see the neighbor lugging over a chainsaw. Turns out he was going to butcher the catfish. Kurt nearly screamed, spread his arms, defending the catfish. Squealing obscenities like a drunk cobbler, and pulling me closer. Wouldn't let the catfish be cut up, so we let it go back. And grandpa shed a tear too, said it was like being young again, there are hardly any giants like that left. We drank to the catfish's release, the next day Kurt had his picture taken with everyone, gave all his tackle to grandpa as a present, and I saw him off to Germany full of impressions of RUSSIAN FISHING. Two years passed since that memorable fishing trip.
Back home Kurt is a member of a fishing club, and when he showed the photos and video of the catch there, as always happens in such cases, right away there were envious types, and skeptics, and people who simply wanted to catch a fish like that too. Well, wanting never hurt anybody, and the chance to make the dream come true only came years later. Anyway, another phone call, a trip to grandpa's, the traditional bottle and grandpa's consent. Three of them arrive. Kurt, like a seasoned oyster, came empty-handed, and the other two Fritzes in full camping gear.. As luck would have it, I was busy those few days, so I drove them to grandpa's, and everything else, sorry, I'm telling from his point of view, since I wasn't a direct witness myself.

So. Well, you brought the Fritzes, left, we had a drink to getting acquainted, as is the custom, started getting the tackle ready. And what the hell possessed me to move the bed in the house to make room for the guests to sleep. My sciatica, damn it to hell, seized up so bad I could have howled. Well, I know Kurt by now, told him what to do and went off to lie down. He got everything ready, they all came into the hut, had one for the road and went to the river. Kurt seemed to be more sober, but those two were just plastered. And they didn't seem to have drunk much, a couple of liters between the four of us, but look how it knocked them out. I didn't wait for them to come back, went to bed. In the morning I wake up, Kurt's snoring on the floor soaked through, the other two are gone. Well, I got worried, started waking Kurt. No way, sleeping like a log. I said to hell with my sciatica and hobbled down to the river. I come out on the bank, and look - Mikhalych's ST boat (a river vessel for carrying bulk cargo, ST series) is sitting on a sandbar (a shoal in the river). Nobody visible on board. I shouted and shouted, clambered into the neighbor's boat and steered toward the ST. Climbed aboard - nobody. What kind of mystery is this, I think, where did everyone go. Went into the wheelhouse and told the dispatcher over VHF that the vessel's sitting on a sandbar and there's no crew on board. The dispatcher answers: I know, two RBTs (river push tugs) are headed there, and the whole crew is in the nuthouse, they've all got the DTs. Well, I think, something fishy's going on. Mikhalych never touches a drop on board, let alone the whole crew drinking themselves into the DTs……

I need to find Mikhalych, I think, but it's 30 versts to the district center, can't make it on my own. Went to the neighbor to ask a favor. Started up his Niva, drove to the nuthouse in the district center. Found the doctor, and he tells me: The diagnosis of ‘delirium tremens’ wasn't confirmed, we're considering ‘mass psychosis’. What, how, I don't understand a thing. I shake the doctor down, and it turns out the whole crew (4 people) saw a talking buoy on the river. And the buoy was speaking some non-Russian language, according to them. I figure something's fishy, and the neighbor and I race back. I wake Kurt.
He comes to a bit and starts telling the story. Turns out they piled into the boat, and the two fresh Fritzes were, as they say, completely wasted. Kurt, being the most sober (past experience showing), grabbed the pole and decided to follow grandpa's example (I described the method). Three times or so he ran along the boat successfully, they got almost to the middle, the boat was moving nicely, and then Kurt decided to push off once more. Jammed the pole into the bottom, ran to the stern, needs to pull the pole out, but the bastard got stuck, and following the laws of physics it pulled Kurt out of the boat. The boat started moving away at a decent speed, and Kurt was left hanging on the pole.

The water in that spot is about a meter and a half deep, the real depth starts a bit further out, but he still doesn't feel like taking a swim, so Kurt grabbed the pole a bit more firmly and started gazing around mournfully. It got dark pretty fast. Right then the running lights of the aforementioned ST boat showed up on the horizon. Kurt's little German brain decided it was rescuers coming. Without thinking twice, he pulls out a flashlight and starts blinking it. I'm no expert in navigation, but I believe a vessel heading downstream is supposed to keep the buoy, or "bakan" as they call it, the one blinking white, on its starboard side. The helmsman conscientiously steers a little to the left, and the vessel just as conscientiously plows up onto the shallows. Kurt, thinking the boat has slowed down for him, starts yelling. In a moment of danger ALL people yell in their native language, and that's exactly what Kurt did. At that moment a whole flock of f-bombs came flying off the deck from the captain, who'd felt the hard jolt to his vessel. It started to dawn on Kurt that he'd done something wrong and was about to get beaten up. So he said screw it all, let go of the pole, made a dash for the shore, got home, lapped up the rest of the schnapps and went to bed. The people left on the vessel came to their senses, switched on the searchlight, lit up everything around and found no buoy. They reported it to the dispatcher. He listened to the story about how the white buoy first blinked, then started yelling in some foreign tongue, and then suddenly jumped into the water and swam off to shore, and immediately called an 'ambulance'. Meanwhile the other two Germans woke up in the reed beds where the current had carried the boat, didn't find Kurt and, figuring he was somewhere nearby, decided to go fishing on their own. I described the tackle for catching BIG FISH last time. The Germans had seen it too, knew what it was for, but didn't know HOW. So, following German logic, for line LIKE THAT they picked up rods JUST LIKE IT on the shore (you get the picture, right), each of them with at least half a cubic meter of firewood in it, and cast the rigs into the water. They couldn't figure out what the inner tubes were for, so they just put them on, imagining they were life-saving devices.

And that's EXACTLY how the fish inspection patrol found them on the river. Now picture it: a major waterway, in the middle of it a boat with two gloomy guys who don't understand a damn word of Russian, hung all over with photo and video gear and holding THAT in their hands. What would you have thought?

Anyway, once everything got cleared up, the shipping company, the hospital and everyone else directly involved were rolling on the floor laughing, the old man got stuck with the nickname STANDARTENFÜHRER, Kurt paid all the expenses and fines, the Germans got all their gear back and made lots of new acquaintances. They turned out to be people with a sense of humor, took the whole thing in good spirit, so there was no international scandal, and Kurt pensively asked whether he'd be allowed to shoot a film here.

The continuing story of the German anglers.

This time I was there myself, got the full experience, so to speak...

All the fuss died down, everyone calmed down, except the Germans. They had come to fish, after all. They got over the stress, whispered among themselves and resolved: to hell with the BIG FISH, let's at least catch some regular ones. The old man doesn't mind. He suggests going for pike. Everyone voted YES. Tackle gets rigged up, spinning reels get oiled, seven-league boots get readied, the usual hustle, basically. Only Kurt is sad. He came WITHOUT tackle this time! Well, the old man, kind soul, pulls some "krugi" out of the shed. Anglers will know, but for non-anglers let me explain. A "krug" is a disc made of light, hard material (so it floats), painted a bright color on one side, with a small stick set into the other side. The line is wound around the disc and run through the stick. A hook with bait is tied to the line. When a fish bites, it pulls the line off the stick and flips the disc over, unwinding the line from the disc at the same time. You spot the bite by the flipped-over floating disc (that's what the paint is for). So anyway, the old man explained to Kurt what's what and advised him to catch some frogs for bait (pike take them well). So we piled into the boat and headed for the islands. The two Germans went along the bank with spinning rods, I cast a couple of bottom rigs for zander, the old man took up cooking, and Kurt climbed into the boat and went off to set the "krugi" near the reed beds, having first caught some good, choice frogs. The old man caught some little perch, ruffe and other small fry for fish soup (small fry, sure, but the soup's tasty!, got it cooking, called me over, we each downed a hundred grams, lying by the fire, chilling. The soup is almost done, the vodka's spreading warmth through the belly, it's cozy on the sand by the fire, bliss in a word. We hear the Germans coming, chatting. They walk up pleased, one had pulled out a nice asp, the other a couple of nice pike too, basically they're happy. They sat down with us, knocked back a hundred each, and so did we. We got to talking, everyone rubbing it in his own way, but as they say, an angler knows an angler... Anyway, we understand each other, having an unhurried chat.

The soup is ready, time for dinner. Still no Kurt. Finally he shows up. Mad as a hundred Indians, he walks up to the fire. Silent. Pours HIMSELF one (!), sucks it down without a bite of food (!!!) and sits down by the fire. The old man and I look at each other anxiously (well, it's a reflex by now!, then the old man carefully asks Kurt what happened. And then!!! Kurt jumps up, spits furiously at his feet and bursts into a speech. What a speech it was!!! In two languages, with dancing and gesticulating, with hopping and howling, with laps around the fire and fist-shaking toward the reeds. The old man and I listened spellbound, and the old man hung on every word with his mouth open, nodding respectfully in time with the words. Oh, what a speech it was!!! I think even the asp and the pike on the fish stringer were spellbound. Yes, since our last meeting Kurt had far surpassed his teacher, i.e. me. Plumbers, cobblers and locksmiths couldn't hold a candle to him now. MUSIC flowed from his lips!!!

The only printable Russian word that flashed through that speech was FROGS, and the German part was nothing but prepositions. The Germans stood there with their mouths open too, listening, afraid to move a muscle. Finally Kurt calmed down. Grandpa immediately poured him another 200 and said he hadn't heard music like that in a long time. The Germans nodded respectfully. Kurt sucked down the schnapps, calmed down for good, and, calling us to follow him, headed for the boat, his legs tracing pretzels. Intrigued, we trailed after him in single file. We clambered into the boat. Kurt takes us over to the reeds. We pull up. Without a word, he picks up a float rig, puts a frog on the hook and drops the rig into the water.We look at him questioningly. A reassuring gesture. We look again. The float rig bobs on the water. About 3 minutes go by, the hooked frog surfaces next to the rig and calmly clambers up onto it, having completely forgotten its actual job. Kurt slaps the water with a pole, and the frog disappears into the water. A few minutes later the whole thing repeats. Since Kurt had about fifteen rigs, and they'd drifted apart from each other too, it turned out that Kurt was busy the whole time "breaking up the demonstration. "Considering German patience and the distances between the rigs..... In short, there was plenty to fly into a rage about.
When it finally sank in for EVERYONE, the laughter woke up the crows sleeping in the trees.

Author unknown....

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