A Fishing Spot

This is the story of a friend of mine, an amateur fisherman—the kind of amateur that any professional, upon seeing him on the river, would quickly pack up his rods and leave the fishing to a more worthy master. Well, Alexey is an experienced fisherman who's seen a lot. And among his tales of giant catfish and man-eating pike-perch, there's a terrifying story about an unsuccessful fishing trip. Whether you believe it or not is a personal matter; I'm just the storyteller. So, let's take it all in order—in the first person and in the original source's style, so as not to spoil the impression.

My father-in-law kept pestering me to go to the Volga. He has a dacha fifty kilometers away, and it's easy to leave in the cool of the day, leave at about five o'clock, and within forty minutes, be unspooling your rods to catch the morning dawn. But for me, this approach is rather disrespectful to fishing: a good spot still needs to be found, baited, and set up—a quick, quick fix is just for fun. However, my relative was persistent, and one day I gave in, but with a condition. We decided this: I'd head out in my "tank" (a Niva) in the evening, pick out a spot, and prepare it for the morning fishing. My father-in-law would join me later. He doesn't know the river anyway, and I don't tolerate anyone else getting in my way when it comes to preparations—everyone gets in the way. That's just me.

I grabbed my gear, tackle, bait, and half the trunk's worth of bait and headed out to the river, using a map to track down which areas and roads were where, so as not to accidentally stray into a nature reserve or wildlife sanctuary. I set out before dark. I spent most of the trip planning how and what I'd fish with. I had a whole arsenal of fishing rods and spinning rods in the car, but this time I had no intention of doing anything. It was an uneasy and stupid feeling. I'm usually happy when I get to the water alone like this, but here I felt like turning around and heading back. I figured it was because I'd be fishing with my father-in-law—an unusual partner, so I was nervous... Although I'd never experienced anything like that in myself.

It was getting dark quickly, as it should be in early September. Forests and villages flashed past the "tank." The road wound northeast. The sound of a train could be heard in the distance; a railroad was running nearby. It was already dusk when I reached the dirt roads and, using the GPS, got close to the river.

The spot was good; even in the dim light, I could make out a gently sloping hill covered with birches and a sloping cliff jutting out into the river. I parked the car closer to a grove beneath a prominent hill and decided to walk around with a flashlight to see what I had to work with. The cliff was gentle and narrow, overgrown with waist-high grass and willows, but perfectly suitable for fishing. The reeds in this area were sparse and low, so I didn't even have to cut "windows." I went to get a hatchet. I chopped down a few particularly sprawling bushes and flattened the grass. I set up a folding chair and built a fire. I cooked porridge with pulp, added vanilla and strawberry flavorings to this miracle (that's how fish sometimes taste), and kept it warm... I threw it into the river. I baited the spot. I lit a cigarette, turned off all the flashlights except the headlamp, and began to stare at the water. To myself, I thought, the anxiety had only grown stronger. A depressing feeling had appeared, as if I'd done something wrong to someone. I shrugged it off. Perhaps it was the autumn blues creeping up on me. I finished my smoke and, just for fun, decided to cast my line, measure the depth, and get to know the spot better. I settled in, cast, and waited for a bite. About twenty minutes later, the float veered off to the side, gently, but against the current. I hooked it and landed a burbot fry. What a surprise! A rare trophy in these latitudes, but an honorable one. I cast, and ten minutes later, I'm hauling a fish a little bigger than a palm ashore again. What kind of fishy spot is this?! Two burbot in half an hour, and it didn't matter that they were small. I freshened up the bait and cast again. A bite, and already a third burbot in the keepnet. I stopped and thought. A fisherman's superstition came to mind. I don't believe in such nonsense myself, but I remembered it and was a little scared. They say burbot gnaw on drowned fish. I even had a veteran angler tell me about how they pulled a corpse from the bottom, covered in burbot...

So there I am, standing on a cliff. Looking at the river. All around is night and silence. Burbot are splashing in the keepnet, and bad thoughts are swarming through my head. Okay, I think, I'll cast one more time and then go sleep in the car. I squat down and peer in, but there are no bites. A small ripple runs across the water. I hear something splash in the reeds. And these measured slaps on the water—as if someone is swimming along the edge of the bank. I look up and freeze in shock. There's a guy standing waist-deep in water. He's not doing anything special, he's just standing there and looking at me. I take advantage of the moment to look at him and am even more surprised. He's not squinting at my flashlight, he's kind of pale, water is running down his hair in rivulets. And what's strange is that he's not dressed for swimming. He's wearing a striped club shirt, and you can see that he's wearing a belt with a cowboy-style buckle that matches his jeans. He looks at me unkindly, but doesn't make any movements. He looks like he's either a drug addict or some kind of alcoholic. I call out to him, like, what do you want, why are you scaring the fish? He clasps his arms around his shoulders and looks down. I hear an indistinct muttering, I can't make out anything, like some kind of gurgling sound. I only understand one phrase.L: "I'm cold." I crouched and began to crawl backwards at a goose pace. And the night visitor was shaking and muttering. I'd moved about five meters from the water; I couldn't even reach the night visitor with a flashlight. I could only hear his voice. I scolded myself for my cowardice and decided to address the man again:

"Get on the bank if you're cold. You'll warm up by the fire."

And in response, he let out a furious yell:

"You can't!" he almost screamed and slammed the water.

Everything went quiet. I got up and ran to the car. I started it, turned it toward the river, and turned on the headlights to get a better look. No one was there. Where had the man gone? And where did he come from, looking so strange?

I gave up on fishing, packed up my gear, and headed back. And I felt goosebumps running down my spine and an unpleasant chill down my neck. Already on the highway at an intersection, I almost crashed into a car. Two local "athletes" got out and started yelling at me and threatening to fight me. I blurted out that they could take me anywhere, just as far away from this place as possible. The guys were curious about why I was so scared, and that they were human too... I told them everything as it happened. I looked, and the guys were nervously smoking and exchanging glances. And then they told me that a visitor with that description had disappeared at the beginning of the summer. Apparently, he fell into the river drunk. His body was never found.

We said goodbye without complaint, and I went home with a firm desire to get drunk, but at home and away from the river.