It all started some weeks ago when I was called on to return a favour. A friend invited me on a fishing weekend, explaining that I owed him bad and should therefore attend his church’s pap swaai weekend. I duly accepted, but true to my nature, and not being one to be caught with my pants down (more on that later) I went out and bought two cheap fibreglass rods and two inexpensive but nice bait runner reels.

Pleased with my purchase I then started the process of finding out what was required to successfully complete two days pap swaai fishing. This quest naturally lead me straight to the internet and Google. Armed with new information I soon had traded hundreds of hard earned Rands for a couple of bottles of both foul looking and smelling “muthi” supposedly a guarantee of piscatorial success. Oh boy, in hindsight how was I supposed to know where this would lead me?

Well, the weekend finally dawned and it was with much eager anticipation that I lined up next to the pap swaaiers, and there were some pap swaaiers of note let me tell you. Fancy boxes, stands, especially coded muthi’s, knotted keep and landing nets and not to forget the life giving nectar, “brannewyn en coke”. The only similarity between me and the pap swaaiers at this point was that my physique seemed to fit the bill, varicose veins in the legs, a large beer boep, and a distinctly red nose from the previous nights overindulgence.

So what has this to do with specimen carp? Humour me for a while.

Well taking the lead from my rotund friend I hurriedly made up “stroppe” which confirmed that I was not designed to handle two hooks simultaneously, the one always ended up hiding in my finger. I then strategically positioned a couple of floaties on each of the hooks along with a twirl of dough, dunked the stuff into the closest aforementioned foul looking muthi and pronounced myself ready! No ways, I was then informed that I had to fashion this ball of ground maize around half my tackle, a bomb they said it was called. Once complete I had to pour some of this luminescent foul mixture over the bomb. It was done, I was baited, ready and hoping like hell that my first cast did no result in peals of laughter from the manne to the right and left of me.

With the excitement rising to fever pitch I made a good cast, red flourocene rising from the water as the bomb touched down, now I know why they call it a bomb. The second rod was a little better and the cast further, I was taught how to slip a policeman on each line and crouched over the rods waiting for my first bite.

And there it was, without knowing it I had entered the hallowed ranks of pap swaai. No drum roll, no fanfare, I simply took my place next to the rods proudly knowing that my lines were straight and that my casts good for a beginner. I then looked around to see who was admiring my fine anglership (surely you can have that word if you can have marksmanship?), the answer was no-one, my proudest fishing moment went by unnoticed, bastards!

Not overly phased by this tragic lack of interest in my progress I continued crouching over my rods like a coiled cobra waiting to strike. Well, sadly to say, the first bite was never to materialise and the only thing I caught over the weekend was a mild case of sun stoke, a serious hangover and a case very dirty feet.

Devastated by the massive failure to meet the goals I had set, I duly picked myself up dusted off and decided to organise another fishing weekend. I tasked my mate with the job and once again it was to the internet I hurried, the quest for better and more accurate information drove me mercilessly. It was there, in the cold passages of internet information, that I stumbled upon Anglers Haven, a portal of wisdom with it’s own resident experts talking a language only they could understand. After lurking awhile I registered and entered into dialogue with these faceless “pap swaaiers”, as I though all carp fishermen were.

Two weeks of confusion passed by while I rapidly came to the conclusion that perhaps this specimen carp thingy was mildly interesting. Torn between my newfound status as pap swaaier and prospective status of specimen angler I spent nights tossing and turning, waking up at times in a cold sweat screaming “is it a muthi or a glug”, “is it a strop or a rig” whilst having intermittent visions of people killing and eating carp …… yes I know …….. nightmares of the first order.

It was while fully awake and in full control of my senses that I forget who, but I think it was either Roger, alias “Born to Fish” or Graham alias “MD” and as I was to find out later “Camo Boy” who suggested I attended the social at Donaldson Dam. With much trepidation I mounted my faithful spare steed, the company bakkie, and rattled my way down to Western Area, found Donaldson Dam and immediately and headed off to the demarcated swims.

The first person I wandered into was Stefan who was being worked over by Roger who was mumbling something like “how many times must I tell you”. I then moseyed down the line and bumped into Manie and Stephan before finally reaching what appeared to be the official HQ of AH. A white Microbus adorned with free swimming carp and tackle manufacturers logo’s (tackle tart if you ask me). By this time Roger had worked his way back to “HQ”, Derek and Patricia had arrived shortly thereafter followed by Grumpy and Sandra. Speaking of Grumpy, you know what I can’t figure out about Grumpy? Why, if he was going to be nicknamed after one of the dwarves, why was it not Tiny? Was there a Tiny?

Anyways while in the pseudo HQ my eyes could not stray from all the goodies, pods, rods, spods, slingshots, crotched fishing line, which I am reliably informed is called Braid? Smelly particles (of what I was not sure) but it must have been nuclear waste as it certainly smelled like it. It was a feast for sore eyes.

Pretty soon some of the faithful departed for the promised land across the North West Provincial borders and I was left with my new found mate Graham. We lazed the afternoon away talking specimen fishing, tackle and other issues. It left me feeling decidedly warm and fuzzy about both the sport and equally importantly, the people in the sport.

Perhaps now you are getting to understand what this has to do with Specimen Fishing!

Anyways, more research, more advice, more hard earned Rands being thrown at tackle shops with gay abandon, and before you get ideas that “gay” is as in happy O.K. …… Okaaay. It was then that I realised, I was not even a bona fide angler and already I was being seduced by the Goddess of Tackle who was well on her way to turning me into a tart, a whore, dare I say it a slut. A quick check on the bank balance rapidly cured me. However, the Goddess of Tackle has not given up on me and continues with her recruitment drive, seducing me at every turn, relentlessly hunting me down.

After a couple of tentative specimen fishing dates, suddenly there was an opportunity to go fishing with the boys, Roger, Graham, Wijan my boet and I. Off we went. Tigernuts prepared and cooked to a turn, camp gear packed and caravan hitched. Graham and I decided to meet en route at the Shell One Stop on the N1. After an uneventful but fast, for caravan standards that is, trip we found the venue. As we approached we could see that Roger had been required to fight off the hoards of aspirant anglers seeking the hallowed spot he kindly secured for us. It was only later that I realised this was probably the best spot and was graciously given to the virgin specimen anglers, my boet and I.

After setting up camp I was handed a rig or two by Roger and told to get on with it. The setting up of pods and rods was accompanied by frequent insulting jibes from the peanut gallery “are you not ready yet”, “this gonna take a while”, “we haven’t all day”. Finally it was time, and Graham pulled into the shore with “Halibut”, an 9’ fibreglass beauty of a dinghy resplendent in her new livery, British Racing Green, with mustard coloured letters proudly proclaiming her name. Powered by an awesome Shakespear Trolling Motor having a whopping 34lb of thrust (have you noticed the only other time thrust is used with mechanics is to specify the power of a jet engine) need I say more.

As Graham stepped out of the boat in his camo outfit we lost him against the backdrop of the mountain. That was when I knew, “hier kom kak”, this is the real deal. Forget mielie bombs this is all out war. Tirelessly Graham took out 5 lines, 2 for my boet and the rest were mine. I never realised how much work and preparation went into specimen fishing, thanks MD for going out in the dark to drop my lines.

After an evening of great company, excellent jokes and tales of fishing glory I also realised that I am not fishing fit and hit the sack early after a bite to eat and a little Merlot. Allow me to clear this up now, Graham is the Cabernet King, it is I who is the Merlot King friend Francois. Anyway I suspect the only action of the night was a cacophony of snoring, from both ends I might add, before we awoke to idle rods having had no runs

So it was that day two dawned with the prospect of resetting lines and another opportunity of entering anglings hall of personal fame. The boys in the know now realised that conditions of the previous night were difficult and that perhaps everyone had not dropped their baits ideally. The morning was spent soaking up all the tit bits of information that were to hand, making the four thumbed rig, bet you don’t know that one either? It’s actually a normal combi bolt rig tied by my hands, which at the time responded like four thumbs.

We planned to get lines in earlier however Graham must have been exhausted from the previous nights ordeal and Roger kindly offered his services. And there he was, sunlight glistening off his grey and blue duck, tiller in one hand and fish finder in the other, looking better than a handful of frenzied tigernuts, although smelling the same. The only thing we did not establish was the location of the tattoo (private joke for the Jeff fa fa Dunham fans).

With daylight on our side out went the lines again along with the freebies. While Roger was paying loving attention to my lines Wijan and I were working our magic with two chickens one soon to be Peri Peri and the other a Lemon Pepper and Herb masterpiece. Once we had filled them with the cous cous stuffing they were ready for the fire. Chase, who we met earlier in the weekend had a bed of coals prepared, these were by now just right, the chickens were settled in their rightful place, on the spit over the coals.

By now all the lines were in, alarms set and it was time to sit back, enjoy the moment, wax lyrical about the pleasures of life and to talk a bit of bull, at which we all excelled. We dined on succulent chicken, salad, boiled and foiled (Roger style) potato’s. What a night!

Sunday morning greeted us with mist rising from the water and the sun about to wash the day in its orange yellow glow. The rods were quiet and no runs from the previous evening or early morning were recorded …………………… beep …… beep….beep WHO’S ALARM IS THAT ….can’t be mine. Beep …….beep, ITS MINE, rod one. “Hit it” Roger screams, “reel fast, take up the slack, and hit it again”. FISH ON DUDE, FISH ON.



Finally a fish, it does not matter at this point how big, how long, how heavy, all that matters is there is a FISH ON, all the money, all the listening, all the advice and all the help has culminated in this one moment, FISH ON. The mono line is forgiving and I do not feel the fish as much as I though, at times I don’t even know its there, just a dead weight. Fortunately I am not given to panic but I do notice that the sound of a bite indicator screaming loudly does tend to attract a crowd. I look up I am confronted by a bright array of pajama’s creating a surreal backdrop.

The lines are out far so there is time to reflect, it is with deep gratification that I take in the sights and smells of the morning, I consider myself to be blessed and am thankful for this serene opportunity to enjoy the outdoors with a great group of guys and a fish on the end of my rig (notice not strop). A little coaching here and there brings the fish straight at us and I am instructed to go into the water as it is too shallow to safely land where we are.

The water breaks and Roger points out the location of the fish, a bit closer than I thought about 50m out. It is at this point that I request Graham to remove my tracksuit pants as I need to get into the swim. As he was removing my pants I resisted the urge to utter the words “Graham while you are down there ….”. And there I was, stripped of all dignity, no pants, socks still on and wading half naked into the water, you have no idea how glad I was that I was wearing jocks, whew.

Out of nowhere appears Chase looking the part with gumboots, camo and matching beanie and one of those larney landing nets, (my R 120 one has still to see some fish slime). I coax the fish towards him and he slips the net easily and casually under “my” carp. Job done? not yet, for the first time I am a little apprehensive, I have caught fish before, I have landed them, I have released them but I have never practiced fish care as I have been reading about it. I am feeling an urgency to get a photo and to get this puppy back into the water ASAP.



Chase places the fish on the hooking mat and kindly unhooks the rig, explaining that I got a perfect hookset (thanks Roger it was your combi rig). The weighing sling is brought nearer and Graham zero’s his scale with the sling on. Chase instructs me to pour water over the fish and I obediently obey. I usually give orders in my job but somehow deferring to a youngster who is a better angler than me seems perfectly normal at this juncture. Graham and I gently roll Lily (it was caught under a lily pad, so whether a he or a she, I mentally named the fish Lily) into the weigh sling. Graham holds up the scale and announces 5lb’s, I confess I thought it was significantly bigger but before disappointment could set in we notice that “camo boy” has the scale 180 out of whack. 10.5kg’s thank you very much and a new Personal Best (PB).

Poor Roger at this point cannot share in the glory with me due the pressing throng and quietly retires a couple of metres away probably figuring there was already far to much advice being offered and that in essence too many cooks spoil the broth.

A couple of hastily taken shots and before I know it I am wading back into the swim with my precious charge in hand. I coax Lily, my genderless carp, out of the bag and watch as it slowly swims around, at times even heading back to me before leisurely heading off to deeper water. Until the next time I think.



I walk out of the swim and it occurs to me that I am now a specimen angler, not a good one, not an experienced one, not a well outfitted one but a specimen angler none the less. At which point I slipped out of my pap swaaier gear and into my specimen regalia is a little unclear, frankly it does not matter, most changes in life are an unconscious move from one state to the other. I am returned to reality after a bit of mandatory backslapping and handshaking and as I look around I pleasantly note that all around me are genuinely happy for me.

After all the excitement is done and reality has set in I am left feeling, well …… I don’t know what. I am not surprised that I caught a fish, I genuinely expected to catch a fish. Preparation was good, we were going to a place well known to some in the party, we had bags of experience all around so indeed my expectations were high so yes it was no surprise that I achieved what I set out to do. Please don’t think me blasé on this but perhaps it was the confidence I set out with, perhaps the moment was too big, perhaps the fish was not mine but ours, Rogers and mine that is. Roger set the bait up and positioned me in the perfect spot so it is with profound gratefulness that I share Lily with you mate. I am feeling good.

While I’m left dredging the depths of my soul I am snapped out of this reverie by a sound ……. beep …………… beep. Can you believe this, within the hour, and on cue, rod two is beeping. I can hear Roger in the background “this is why I hate mono, the fish can run 50m and you don’t know it”, “hit it” he shouts “and reel fast”. Well now what would you know, a freight train has just run over my line and is pulling me toward snags. Not being fully sure of my tackle I do not bring the fish “under the rod” as Roger would say and eventually not even Pieter in his boat is able to net the fish that I am reliably informed “would swallow a coke bottle”, whether 2 litre or not I don’t know. Well it got away ……… I don’t know how I feel about that either.

All I know is that for the moment I cannot wait for my next session, the companionship, the laughter, the fish, the whole experience. You ask me if I like specimen fishing? Yes I reply not fully knowing why. Want to go again? Yes I reply not fully knowing why. Are you going to continue? Yes I reply not fully knowing why.

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