A Note from Youth: A River Full of Fish
It was the river that taught me how to hold a rod. And how not to break.
I can’t even count how many times I imagined my longed-for river. I saw it vividly, even though I had never been there. At night, the water rushing over the weirs sang the most beautiful songs into my dreams, songs I had ever heard. I still hear them. I pictured which fish hid behind which stone. Sometimes I saw beneath the surface, where thousands of small whitefish swam, gracefully waving their orange fins. Now and then, a perch would break the shoal, and from the bottom a snake’s head would peer up. For a long time, I looked forward to the day when my grandfather would take me to the king of rivers. I couldn’t talk about anything else anymore. My ninth birthday was approaching.
My birthday! Perhaps the most beautiful day of my life. From my grandfather, I truly received my first rod. “At last, I have my own,” I rejoiced. It was small, and not as heavy as my grandfather’s. The other gifts didn’t matter to me. I slipped on my rubber boots, dug up one worm after another from the compost heap, and the joy was radiating out of me. I knew that today I would finally see the magical river.
In the valley between the trees, a silver river winds. Just as it was in my dreams. I run toward it, even as the tall grass lashes my eyes. I want to touch it. I fall to the ground and dip my hands in. With my palms, I caress the water. It smells wonderful and tastes so sweet. The scent of meadow flowers, of forests, of the river. It is the most beautiful place in the world.
“Grandpa, there’s a weir over there, and a millrace with a little footbridge.” I didn’t know where to look first. At the weir stood a fisherman. He wore tall green boots, a green shirt, and a hat with jay feathers tucked in. I sat down in the grass and watched his mastery from a distance. He pulled one small whitefish after another. A true king. “Come on, let’s greet Mr. Habart,” Grandpa said. Proudly, I grabbed my little rod and walked toward him. “Good day,” I greeted politely. “Petrův zdar! (the traditional Czech greeting among anglers). So you’re the old man’s grandson?” he replied. At once, I clutched my grandfather’s sleeve. Mr. Habart laughed, turned back to the river, and cast again. His goose-feather float rocked on the surface as he gently let the line slip from the reel. He guided the feather lower, then stopped it again. Right where the water turned back on itself. The quill dipped, and in an instant a silvery body broke the surface. A large whitefish headed straight for the tin bucket.
Grandpa went off to gather mushrooms and left me alone with Mr. Habart. I didn’t want to fall behind, so I tried to tie on a hook with a float. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t get it right. “Come here, boy, I’ll show you everything,” Mr. Habart said. He laid his rod down in the grass and showed me how to tie a hook properly. I was embarrassed, because I already knew how. I couldn’t understand why it wasn’t working now. I watched the old fisherman’s hands as he taught me new knots. They were easier than the ones I knew—and stronger. After a while, I tied the hook myself, the way he had just shown me. My shyness quickly melted away, and I began to feel at ease with Mr. Habart. I threaded a worm onto the hook and flicked it into the water. I had forgotten to open the bail, so the float landed right at my feet. On the second try, everything worked. The float hit the surface, but the water quickly carried it away until I could barely see it. Then it sank, and I struck hard. The fish was gone. I cast again. The float drifted the same way, toward the reeds by the shore, and again it went under. Another strike—nothing. “You little rascals, so that’s where you are,” I muttered. I moved further down the bank and served the worm right into their nest. Again the float sank, and again no fish. I didn’t understand. I turned to Mr. Habart, who sat on a rock watching me. “Boy, come here. That’s not the fish pulling. The current is dragging your line down, and with it the float. When you cast, you must watch the water—its currents, ripples, and backflows. When it drags, let the line slip from the spool. And when your float drifts into a backflow, reel it back in. You must stay in contact with your float.” I hadn’t expected it to be so difficult. Mr. Habart tossed a piece of pine bark into the middle of the river and told me to watch it. “See how the water carries it away?” Soon it was out of sight. He tossed another piece, closer this time. It floated, then returned. Over and over until it ended up right beneath our feet. “The current doesn’t just control a piece of wood—it controls every fish, and above all their food. Your float must drift as freely as that bark. That’s how fish food moves in the water. If you don’t adapt, you won’t catch anything!” The king of anglers clipped off my painstakingly tied hook, tossed another piece of bark into the water, and had me cast only the float. “Now, try to stay as close to the bark as you can.” I loosened the line, then reeled it in, moving the rod up and down, left and right. Slowly, I was getting the hang of it. My cork float began to move far more naturally. “Good, boy, good. Now you can tie on a hook and lead a whitefish.” I tied the hook quickly, threaded on a juicy worm with that unmistakable compost smell, and cast out. I let the float drift freely, and soon I was playing my first whitefish. I was overjoyed. Even the king of the river was smiling. The second cast brought a second whitefish. The third cast, a third. The river was full of them. I was living perhaps the most beautiful day of my life. The two of us stood together on the rocks, casting and playing fish in sync. We were the perfect pair, and I never imagined I would learn to master the river so quickly.
Grandpa came back from mushroom picking and could hardly believe his eyes. Proudly, I was striking into whitefish, and I felt like I was in a fairy tale. The weir was murmuring, birds were singing, and the fish were biting. It was the most beautiful place in the world.
“Mr. Habart, are there other kinds of fish here too?” I asked, a bit challengingly.
“Yes, above the weir there are perch, in the millrace trout, and further down in the pools, bream,” he said. I had to try them all. He was right. A perch swallowed my worm, and in the millrace a rainbow beauty too. Before I touched the fish, I wet my hand—just as Grandpa had taught me. I examined its colors carefully: the brownish-green back, the lighter sides with red spots edged in pale halos. And between its dorsal and tail fin, that small extra fin. Mr. Habart explained that this is how you recognize salmonids—rainbow trout, brook trout, and the queen of the rivers, the huchen, though she doesn’t live in the Chrudimka. I hung on every word. But Grandpa was already preparing to leave. “Grandpa, please, I still want to go to the pools for bream.” Grandpa nodded, and in an instant I was running through the tall grass. I raced to the spots Mr. Habart had pointed out. There, in the pools where the big bream lived. Here the river was completely different. Calm, much darker. The currents were barely visible. Mr. Habart and Grandpa caught up with me as I worked the water. It was paradise on earth. I cast upstream and walked with the float, letting it drift freely. But nothing happened. “Boy, you can’t keep pacing back and forth. You’ll trample all the fish, not to mention cast shadows over the water. Stand still, cast upstream, and let the line slip until you can clearly see the float.” I obeyed the master fisherman. Still nothing. The float didn’t move, and Grandpa finally called that it was time to leave. “Three more casts, Grandpa!” I pleaded. Those last casts I aimed, just as Mr. Habart advised, toward the huge boulder where the water was said to be deepest. On the final cast, everything came together—the float landed just above the rock. I fed line out, and the current carried it tight against the boulder, where it stopped and suddenly vanished beneath the surface. I struck, and the rod bent. Now this was a real fight. The bream used the current to its advantage, letting itself be carried downstream. It fought with everything it had. The fish even pulled line from the reel, set in advance by Mr. Habart. A truly strong fish. But with such teachers behind me, there was no way I could lose this battle…
My other great passion was sport, something my father led me to from an early age. In the mornings I started at hockey practice, in the afternoons I spent time on football, and I ended the day in our yard with a small hockey stick, shooting endlessly against the wall. That’s how I spent every weekday, never doubting that one day I’d be like Wayne Gretzky or Karel Poborský. In fifth grade I enrolled at a sports school and fully committed myself to hockey. Training every day of the week, and weekends—if there wasn’t a game—we spent at Seč. Over time, the matches piled up and I grew into a fine hockey player. But my time at the water grew fewer. I played in the same line with Aleš Hemský (we shared a school desk all through elementary), who today plays for the Edmonton Oilers. On the right wing with us was Petr Průcha—together we not only scored goals, but also went fishing. Back then our great idol was Jaromír Jágr. (Good God, he’s still playing.) One time we were sitting on the pier fishing for zander when my float started bouncing along the stones. I struck, and from the depths pulled up a huge zander. We slipped it into a keepnet and rushed to the cottage, eager to show off our great catch. Grandpa gave a nod of approval and went to light the grill. Grandma laid out the board and knives to clean the fish. But my hands were still trembling with excitement from the big fight, so I passed the knife to Petr, who cut off the head. He asked if he could keep it mounted, because he’d never catch such a fish again. When I asked him why, he answered without hesitation—that he’d be playing in the most famous hockey league in the world, the NHL, alongside Jarda Jágr, and he wouldn’t have time! (Petr was unbelievably hard-working, and of all our squad back then, there was no one I’d have wished it for more.) I gave him the zander’s head, and a few years later I was cheering from the television as he took to the ice for the first time in the same line as Jágr. And some time later, they even won the World Championship together! A man should never be afraid to dream big, because only then can those dreams come true. Petr pursued his goal with far greater determination than I ever had. I found my own calling a little later—on a completely different field.
Then came a hard time in my life, when my parents divorced. Those days were very difficult for me. After endless arguments, the court decided that my sister and I would stay in the care of our mother. We saw our father only rarely, and everything felt like it had fallen apart. Hockey, which was financially demanding, became a heavy burden for my mom. On top of that, she found a new partner, and he and I didn’t get along at all. In fact, I didn’t like anyone who was close to her or my dad. I just wanted to turn back time—to when we were one family. I struggled with it deeply, and I even had to see psychologists. I remember being asked to draw pictures, which they probably used to evaluate my state of mind. I kept drawing the same thing over and over—fish, fish, and more fish. Thinking about them always made me feel better. That’s why I cut back on sports, and my grandparents started taking me to the cottage more often. That was where I felt best. By the water, on the pier, among the fishermen sitting around the reservoir. I could forget everything that was happening at home. It was the best therapy in the world!
With my little Lipno rod, the one my grandfather gave me, I fished every spot I could find—every pool, every depth, every shallow. I knew where the carp, zander, and catfish spawned. The fishermen began to call me “the mayor.” Every time we arrived at the cottage, I slipped into my boots and ran straight to the water to see what had been caught, where the wind was blowing, and how strong it was. I walked half the reservoir, stopping at each angler for a chat and a look into their keepnet. In the evening I decided where I’d go next. But I had to go to bed early. The rule was simple: the faster I fell asleep, the sooner I’d be fishing. I woke before dawn—most importantly, before Grandpa got up. As quietly as possible, I slipped down the stairs into the garage, threw my backpack over my shoulders, and rushed to the water. If I woke Grandpa, he’d invent a chore for me, and I couldn’t fish until it was done. I weeded raspberries, mowed the grass, fed the rabbits, painted the fence. Grandma always pitied me and tried to talk him into letting me go. When she saw how restless I was, she’d call from the balcony: “Go to the water, I’ll bring you a snack!” Grandpa supported my fishing, but as a civil engineer he wanted me to “become something,” because fishing would never earn me a living. (Grandpa, I’m glad you were wrong about that, at least once.) He not only raised me with the motto “no work, no reward,” but also took care of my education—writing dictations with me and drilling math. In sixth grade, he picked up the eighth-grade textbook, and our hard lessons began. When I returned to school, I was given a failing grade on the holiday assignment. The teacher didn’t care that I knew the Pythagorean theorem and could calculate the area of a triangle. In eighth grade I failed again, because everything Grandpa had taught me I had already forgotten—but instead I knew material meant for ninth grade!
And so I slowly began to grow out of my boyhood boots, and things in my life started to turn for the better. With my mom I had a lot of freedom. Later, I would take the train to the sandpits around Pardubice and spent more and more time there. Often, I came home very late. Fish had completely enchanted me, and fishing consumed me entirely. The truth is, whenever they looked for me at home, they always knew where to find me. I never used fishing as an excuse to do something else or go somewhere else. It was quite the opposite. I even chose my high school based on the fact that I could stay in Pardubice. I didn’t want to leave the fish or the little spots I visited every day with my dog Nelly. Apart from fishing, nothing else mattered to me—school least of all. I was constantly thinking about fish, even at the dentist’s, just to distract myself from the fear I had of him. Looking back now, I can say there was really only one thing I did properly: fishing. But I wasn’t lazy. I took every chance I could to earn a little money. Yet I worked only to throw all those earnings straight into the water. As my mom used to say: “If people knew what you’re capable of throwing into the water, they’d lock you up in a madhouse—and me too, for letting you.” The funny thing was, she said this while we were in our apartment kitchen preparing delicacies for fish. She tore clover, thyme, and mullein flowers for me, which we dried on the balcony and then mixed into my famous dough baits. In the evenings, while watching TV, we rolled the dough into little balls, which we then dried again. Sometimes we made dozens of kilos of them.
The idyll ended when I had to start high school at the electrical engineering school. I probably chose it because of Matiční Lake, which lay along the way to school—or maybe because most of my friends from primary went there. I don’t really know. One thing was certain: electricity meant nothing to me. I wasn’t interested, I didn’t study, and soon I started skipping classes. In the morning, I’d leave home as if heading to school, but in the basement I had my fishing gear and a change of clothes hidden. I’d move my lunch from my schoolbag into my fishing rucksack and set off for “Maťák,” as the water was called. It was a perfect place to hide, and I had a few spots baited for some fine grass carp. Retirees often sat around me, and they took a liking to me because I always brought along my magical mash balls. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of Mom. She worked at the hospital, and her way home took her right past Matiční Lake—my hideout. I’d crouch down quickly so she wouldn’t see me. I felt guilty every time and swore to myself I’d go to school the next day. But when morning came and I pressed the red button marked “Ground Floor” in the elevator, the pull was stronger than me, and once again my steps led down into the basement.
I took the long way around along the Chrudimka River so that as few people as possible would see me. All I looked forward to was that glimpse of an eye in the lilies, a few bubbles rising to the surface, and my float dancing on the water. I caught an incredible number of grass carp and carp. I was becoming a skilled angler—but at the same time, a first-class liar. It weighed heavily on me that I had to lie to my loved ones. Back then, the only joy I had was by the water—when my float slipped under, or when I was with my dog Nelly, who knew all my secrets. When the inevitable finally happened and the truth came out both at school and at home, I had to hand over the key to the basement. Instead of fishing, I had to attend tutoring in math and physics, which my grandfather arranged for me. Somehow, I scraped through the first year. One day, I found the basement keys back on my desk—and life lit up again. Summer break! I took a job at a vegetable shop and bought myself a small tent with the money I earned. I immediately pitched it at the Gigant sandpit, where I spent the holidays, and later moved with Nelly to the Elbe. I’d stop by home occasionally, but before long, the river was pulling me back again. I returned to the Elbe at the tip, where Nelly was always happiest with me. Sadly, our time together at that beautiful place was coming to an end. After that, we would meet there in another way.
At the end of the summer, my father—at whose place Nelly sometimes stayed—called to tell me she had been hit by a car. I ran to her as fast as I could. She was still alive, but in terrible shape. She had lost her tail, her pelvis was shattered, and she suffered multiple open fractures. My father and I rushed her to the best available vet in hopes of saving her. After a long operation, we brought her home. She looked so much better. She even ate some fresh ham from the butcher’s on the corner with appetite. I carried her outside, tears welling in my eyes. She lay in the grass, and our glassy eyes met. I told her she had to get well soon, that we’d be going fishing again. I shared all my plans with her before carrying her back inside, as my second year at that dreadful school was beginning. Sitting in class, I thought only of her. When I came home, her condition had worsened dramatically. Her stitched wounds had torn open again. My father was already in Italy for work, so I had to make the decision alone. It was not easy, but I couldn’t bear to see her suffer any longer. I took her back to the vet, and after consultation, I ended her pain. I held her head in my hands and stayed with her the whole time. I lost my most loyal companion. I buried her at her favorite spot on the Elbe’s tip, where her cross still stands today. Since then, that place has been known as “U Křížku” (“By the Cross”).
Sometimes I still stop by her grave; today, other canine friends rest there too. It made me realize how fragile life is, and how short it can be. For the first time, I truly reflected on life and death—but also on my own future.
That very day, I told my family that I was done with school—that I was going to chase what I truly loved! Even if it meant working nights to pay for a dorm room. A week later, my mom and her partner were already seeing me off on a six-hour bus ride to the city of ponds—Třeboň!
Sometimes life takes unbelievable turns, but back then, at that little cross, I promised her that I would become a fisherman—through and through! And it was probably the best decision of my life. I began living a completely different life—the one that was truly mine.
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