My African adventure (or how fishing saved me from burnout)

Here I share a sample chapter from my new book, The Magic of Fishing, which is about family, friendship, love, loss and, of course, fishing. It took me over half a decade to write, thanks to busy work and family life, but having a willing publisher is a dream come true and makes all the effort feel worthwhile.

You may wonder what fishing has to do with careers, or what place it has on LinkedIn, but this particular tale comes from the second half of the book, which is less nostalgic and focuses on more recent events than the 'magical' childhood angling adventures with my granddad. It's still largely happy and sentimental, but I talk openly about how my passion for fishing and nature has helped me through the ups and downs of adult life, including the pressures and stresses of business leadership.

And in this particular chapter, I relate how an amazing trip to The Gambia in West Africa, some ten or eleven years ago, helped save me from something many would refer to as 'burnout'. Whatever you might call it, if we're talking about working 7-days-a-week, never taking a proper break or switching off, and all while experiencing some of life's big challenges, then I have been there, done that and got the t-shirt as they say.

It's nothing to be proud of, but I learned a lot, so I offer this story up as food for thought and, I hope, entertainment.

Naturally, if you like what you read and are left feeling hungry for more, then the book is available from most online and high street retailers and all purchases - and indeed online reviews - will be gratefully received! The chances of a career change are slim to zero, but it would be nice to prove my publisher has an impeccable eye for new talent.

Finally, I'm no medical expert, but if you're suffering from any of the symptoms described then I would urge you to speak to your GP, family or friends and don't feel that 'just keep going' is the answer. Sometimes it's unfortunately part of the answer, but it's never the only solution - and should not be viewed as a badge of honour. While flying to The Gambia for ten days of fishing might not be a realistic (especially during the current pandemic) - or indeed a desirable - option for many, taking a proper break or seeking support certainly is...

Sample chapter from The Magic of Fishing by John Moorwood

Catching fish can be relatively simple or extremely tricky, and can therefore mean many different things to the millions of people who regard it as an integral part of their lives. I am no exception, and being in angling’s magic circle has brought me immeasurable happiness, excitement, peace and a deep appreciation of nature. It has also helped create strong family bonds and several friendships to last a lifetime.

Every time I go fishing – whether snatching a couple of hours or taking part in a competitive match, and no matter if I’m successful or not – I’m semi-conscious that I’m creating another mosaic of subtle memories that will join countless others already locked away. And as for those rare trips when the stars seem to align and everything goes perfectly, I’ll still be replaying those if I ever get too frail to go. That’s how strongly a handful of ‘red letter’ days are tattooed in my mind.

For many people around the world who rely on fishing as a way of life, it’s a serious business – a dangerous but essential source of food or income. And even for those lucky enough to be pleasure anglers, it can become an obsession. Whether one’s dream is to catch the biggest specimen, find the perfect venue or compete at the highest level, it’s something that can occupy the mind, body and soul. Some merely seek solitude, relaxation or fresh air, and thankfully there is no right or wrong way to enjoy it.

Few in the UK manage to become professional anglers, although they do exist, and there’s no doubt that having the necessary instincts, ability and dedication to make it one’s job is an admirable achievement. Yet many who fish infrequently cherish their hobby, particularly the social side, just as dearly. Whether meeting with like-minded individuals at events, as part of a club, or simply by chance at the waterside, it’s a common bond that transcends social class, gender, ethnicity, experience, age and any other theoretical divide one may care to suggest.

I’ve met many anglers over the years with whom I’m sure I could have become good friends, easily striking up conversation and enjoying a good laugh, only to part with a mutual farewell of “tight lines” and no idea if our paths will ever cross again. Occasionally they do, and I’d much rather spend my days recognising long-lost but familiar faces while wandering riverbanks than gradually spotting regulars in a steamy commuter carriage. If I could choose.

I cherish all these aspects of fishing and more, but during a difficult period in my thirties I can honestly say that my passion did something extraordinary for me. It still feels strange to claim, but fishing saved me. Saved me from what is harder to define, but let’s just say I was close to the edge.

Close to 'burnout', as they say in the business world – because I was still adapting to life as a single dad and wrestling with my new reality as the work pressure continued to pile on. And it eventually got to the point where it, whatever it may be, felt all-consuming.

One of my younger brothers is a fireman, while his wife is a nurse, so I’m well aware that the stress of an office job should not be overstated or invoke too much sympathy – not when others face injury or care for those in pain on a regular basis – but for a whole host of reasons I’d reached a point where, I believe, I was close to experiencing what some might call a breakdown.

Burnout is now recognised as a medical phenomenon of the 21st century and, looking back, I was certainly showing many of the symptoms. I was emotionally fragile, mentally agitated and struggling to sleep. I became anxious about many things, unable to focus for very long, and felt increasingly worn out from insomnia and persistent stress.

I was so exhausted I once went completely blank, somehow asleep and awake at the same time, in an important meeting at work. Thankfully, a mentor who knew something of what I was going through was quick to recognise I was seriously unwell and sent me home to rest. I stumbled through the tube and train home in a daze, while receiving several texts and voicemails urging me to see a doctor.

I took the advice and received some strong sleeping tablets that finally knocked me out for a night. Sleep was all I wanted for several days, but my concerned colleagues and family stayed in touch and urged me to go on long hikes in the wintry countryside. I walked for miles, my breath clouding around my head like the muddled thoughts inside it, and strode on until I was physically knackered too. Yet nothing seemed to ease the pressure I felt, real or perceived, in a more permanent way.

I appreciated the week off but, before returning to work, I realised that I probably needed a proper break. Not a holiday with friends, or even with Fred, but a way of completely removing myself from work, pressure, society, electronics and everything that had come to dominate my waking hours. I’d never had such a holiday and didn’t really know if they existed, but after easing my way back into the weekday routine I was lucky enough to start chatting to a colleague who knew about my love of fishing.

He suggested I should go on an angling adventure or ‘safari’ as he put it. Not to retreat to some caravan park in Devon, or a secluded cottage in the New Forest, but to fly somewhere new, exotic and miles from anything resembling London. After a quick Google I discovered a specialist travel company offering group trips to The Gambia in West Africa. The website was pretty basic but promised sunshine, deep blue sea, spectacular ‘big game’ fish and, most importantly, no mobile masts in sight.

I hadn’t turned off my work phone in six or seven years, and I hadn’t been fishing for months either, so I made a tentative call to establish whether I could afford such a trip. After chatting to the company’s owner for half an hour I dared hope for salvation, and he told me to expect a DVD about the experiences they organised. He also reassured me I could join an existing party of two or three anglers to help keep the cost down.

I naturally tried Andy and Steve, gently pitching the idea of gigantic fish and ten days away from it all, but I was hardly shocked when they confirmed it would be impossible to get time off to join me. I completely understood, of course, particularly as I’d not managed a holiday of more than a week for several years myself, most of which had been interrupted by work issues anyway, but I’d unfortunately reached a point where I couldn’t afford not to take time off. Or to do whatever else it took to regain some calm and perspective.

Several months later – and only after swallowing a crushing, last-minute work request to cancel my first booking due to another business crisis – I finally boarded a plane. It was destined for Casablanca, where we stopped briefly, before changing flights and leaving for The Gambia. Once there, I met the handful of fellow anglers joining me for the adventure and we chatted briefly before piling into a beaten-up Land Rover and bouncing along seemingly endless dirt roads.

We passed through a scorched, amber landscape that was all new to me and helped drive home the fact I’d finally made it to West Africa. Upon reaching our destination, slightly bruised, thirsty and disorientated, I sat alone and unpacked my suitcase in a basic, whitewashed hotel room.

Despite splitting the cost with two strangers, I was lucky enough not to be sharing, so I relished the quiet, relatively cool sanctuary following the long and fairly complex journey to get there. For the first time in months I felt a moment of tranquillity, although I do remember instinctively reaching for my phone and feeling a familiar jolt of apprehension as I went to check it for messages.

To my great relief, and despite plentiful pre-travel warnings, I was surprised to see no reception bars. Even though I was there to recharge, the well-trained urge to know what was going on, and whether I was being asked for anything important, was still there.

Only removing the option completely allowed me to relax – for now at least, because I’d been told there was some unreliable Wi-Fi in the reception area. Even that didn’t matter for now, I told myself, because most of the trip would be spent aboard a boat and maybe, just maybe, I’d follow the doctor’s orders and turn everything off for ten days.

Despite my new surroundings and many hours spent in the air, I slept deeply that first night, laying undisturbed under a creaking ceiling fan and only waking when an early alarm signalled a start to the fishing. I first met my new friends again at breakfast and learned one of them, a retired professor who’d taught at Sheffield University, had been on a couple of these trips before. They were his annual break from his otherwise-continual and admirable role as a carer, and husband, for his severely disabled wife.

We soon hit it off, despite a huge age gap, and were still chatting excitedly when our guides Pepe and Max arrived. They introduced themselves and completed a group of six men who would soon be spending a lot of time together. Pepe (pronounced Peepee) was Gambian and therefore spoke good English, yet he seemed strangely familiar in some other way.

I’m very good at walking straight past A-list celebrities in London – only for a friend to stare back in amazement and say, “Oh my god, did you see such-and-such?” while I shake my head and say, “Really?” So it took a few minutes to click. Eventually, I realised I’d seen his intelligent eyes and friendly smile on TV – in Robson Green’s Xtreme Fishing series, which I explained giddily, like a star-struck teenager, to my new friends.

Pepe had clearly guided more than one Xtreme Fishing fan and took my babbling questions with good grace, but he seemed interested to learn that I lived in Surrey and had once passed Robson Green, who lived in the next village along at the time, while on a bike ride with Fred.

Mr Green had been cycling with a young passenger, too, but, along with our northern accents, it didn’t seem enough common ground to request a selfie or exchange numbers at the time. Putting that to one side, I learned that Pepe had given Robson some cash for a laptop, which had apparently never materialised, likely due to some genuine mix-up, so I promised to nudge the Geordie actor and singer if I should ever see him again!

Max was from Senegal and spoke only a little English, which he did with a thick French accent and an infectious grin. We shook hands and then drove along the coast for an hour, through bustling villages and more scrubland, before arriving at a picturesque bay that was home to many colourful, wooden fishing boats. Our two vessels were the only ones made of fibreglass, both of them equipped with powerful-looking, twin Honda outboards.

Otherwise, they seemed like a fairly rudimentary craft, with an open cabin towards the front and a canvas awning over the decks. Pepe explained that the Prof and I would use one boat, along with him and Max, whereas the other two anglers would meet their guides on the other.

The water was shallow enough for us all to wade to and fro in our flip flops, or bare feet, carrying heavy freezer boxes from the beach to the boats. They were full of drinking water and a few beers, accompanied by battered cans of diesel fuel, crates of food and armfuls of fishing rods.

After several trips, watched by half-interested professional fishermen tending their traditional boats, we finally clambered aboard and surveyed what would be our new home until nightfall. I noticed a series of sloping, metal tubes in either side of the gunwale that would soon hold the butts of the formidable rods we’d be using, which I’d been told were capable of handling anything from Jack Crevalle to a variety of sharks.

Once we’d said goodbye to our companions and pulled up the anchors, Max pushed us further out across the shallow flats, before hauling himself over the side and starting the engines. He was soaked up to his chest, but his vest and shorts would dry out in minutes once re-exposed to the fierce African sun and a fresh breeze of our own making.

After his assistant had started the engine, Pepe slowly steered us clear of the remaining boats, before pushing the throttle forward and propelling us further away with surprising force. The bow lifted up and started to smack against countless small waves – bouncing us towards the horizon while we held onto the rails at the rear, continually sprayed by saltwater and laughing like kids.

As we reached the open sea and slowed down to a more steady pace I slapped on more sun cream, adjusted my sunglasses, pulled on a baseball cap, checked my lifejacket fastening and tried not to weep with joy. But there was no doubting this was a moving experience. We were on our way to the continental shelf, in search of ocean-going monsters, and I felt no stress, just sheer exhilaration as we moved further away from land.

I didn’t think things could get much better, but soon Max was pointing starboard and shouting in French. I turned my head and saw we’d been joined by a small pod of dolphins. They chased us for twenty minutes, jumping and rolling repeatedly only a few feet from the hull, and I soon decided they looked as happy and free as I suddenly felt. We all yelled in delight and even shook hands at times, never growing tired of watching such amazing creatures in the unbeatable high definition of real life.

Later that morning, and indeed during every magical morning of the trip, we tackled up our rods with industrial strength line and hooks, before sending big chunks of fish down into the depths, or trawling giant lures behind the boat. We were in search of awe-inspiring, hard-fighting and beautiful species such as mahi-mahi, wahoo or, in one unforgettable encounter, sailfish.

Growing up to ten feet long and reckoned to be the world’s fastest fish, the sailfish is a member of the marlin family. And not only do they have an impressive spear with which to hunt, they get their name from a huge dorsal fin that enables them to make dramatic manoeuvres while chasing fast-moving prey, or indeed while escaping from devastated anglers.

They’re famous for spectacular battles, often featuring several searing runs and breath-taking, acrobatic leaps, so are naturally one of the most sought-after pelagic species. Growing up in Sheffield or living in Surrey, I’d never once imagined trying to catch one, or at least not with any serious hope, but I got my unexpected chance when the Prof connected with something massive during a dramatic last day at sea.

Like mine, his rod tip was gently curved over by the resistance of a lure being worked far behind the boat, but it hadn’t once signalled any predatory interest. In fact, we’d had four rods out since mid-morning, all trawling imitation prey a few feet below the shimmering surface, and none of us had seen any follows, strikes or other signs of action all day.

It was looking like our first blank of the holiday – a bit hard to stomach seeing as we had to leave the following morning – and we were feeling as close to boredom as it’s possible to get off the coast of West Africa. Our skipper’s expertise and everyone’s persistence eventually paid off, however, when the Prof’s rod wrenched over without warning and the screaming reel was shrill enough to cut through the chugging engines.

Both he and Max scrambled to get hold of the bucking rod and, just as he managed to do so, we saw a glinting spear – dark against the distant waves and shaking wildly in an attempt to shed the hook. “Sailfish!” yelled Pepe.

“Oh my god” was the only response his bewildered, older customer could muster, while I swore repeatedly in disbelief. My friend could barely get the rod above horizontal, such was the strength of the take, and Max was soon having to help, meaning there were two pairs of hands now trying to cushion the braided line as it left the spool at an insane and seemingly unstoppable rate. I could see where it entered the water, many yards away, and watched it zipping through the surface, leaving a fizzing wake like a miniature speedboat, as the big fish veered away.

Pepe scrambled to fetch a fighting harness from the cabin and Max took the strain for a moment, so the Prof could get into it. Our guide was younger and stronger than the rest of us, but still gritted his teeth and placed his feet wide apart before leaning back with every muscle straining.

Pepe helped my awestruck companion get his arms through the straps before clipping each side of the harness into holes on either side of the rasping reel. The butt of the rod was then wrestled into a plastic cup against the Prof’s belly, so he was able to use his shoulders and back a little more effectively.

The sailfish was soon living up to its impressive reputation – repeatedly leaping, cartwheeling and twisting through the air, and now at an alarming distance from the boat. At times it appeared more like an illusion, and every breach drew subconscious gasps from the near-helpless onlookers.

Max tried to help his customer regain some control, because he was now sweating profusely, asking for water and looking a little flushed. I offered verbal encouragement while both men held on for dear life, swearing and shaking their heads as yet another violent dash began.

It took another fifteen draining minutes for the duo to regain any line and it was only the assistance of Max that made it possible. By this stage the Prof had to sit down and was panting with exertion, before looking at me and begging for a break. I could tell he was serious and agreed to take over, so we went through another tricky, almost comedic process of transferring the harness and heaving rod to another person.

As we did so, I felt excited and worried in equal measure – adrenaline combined with cold fear that I might lose this incredible fish that had almost broken the original angler. Once in the hot seat, I confirmed I was ready, tensing my body in anticipation. Max let go of the rod and I felt the incredible power of the sailfish for the first time.

It was now deep down, somewhere fairly near the boat, and I was advised to ‘pump and wind’, repeatedly heaving the rod tip upwards before winding furiously to regain line as it came back down. That way I was able to keep some measure of control and not allow things to go dangerously slack, but it was more draining than any gym workout.

So much braid had been taken in the early stages that I was soon drenched in sweat and trying to ignore a growing ache in my arms and back that threatened to leave me slumped uselessly next to the Professor. The fight went on and on, and I gained a new appreciation for the pain of Santiago’s epic encounter with a giant marlin in Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea.

Not until well past the half-hour mark, and only after making a final dash for the horizon, did the magnificent fish noticeably start to tire. It eventually came close the surface and stayed there, which is when I was able to cautiously draw the slanting line nearer to Max’s outstretched and gloved hand.

He strained to grab hold of the taut leader, with the sailfish just ten or twelve feet below the surface, and leaned so far over the side I felt sure he would topple in, right next to the deadly looking bill. Once the thick nylon and steel swivel came within touching distance, he made one more stretch and managed to grasp it, expertly twisting his hand to ensure a couple of turns were looped around it.

 By this time, Pepe was holding onto his waistband and both of them heaved to try and bring the sailfish right up to the surface. Their combined strength was enough and at last we could claim an authentic catch – leading to shouts of triumph and a rush of jubilation that was shared equally amongst all of us.

I don’t expect I’ll ever witness a more breath-taking capture. As the giant fish rolled onto its side, its huge dorsal fin splayed out in all its glory and electric waves of colour flashed and rippled along its flanks. Iridescent blue and purple light pulsed in fleeting stripes while a big, baleful eye looked up at us through the crystal water. I looked back in dumbfounded wonder and could only pat the Prof on the back, both our legs shaking with exertion and clothes sodden with sweat.

The next few minutes were turbulent, but Max and Pepe got hold of the spear at one end and a scimitar-like tail at the other, somehow lifting the fish aboard briefly to be unhooked and then held reverently by its combined captors. We were unable to weigh it, but no one cared, and our next priority was to tag and safely return the mighty fish to the water.

Once lowered overboard, Max again held the bill in his gloved hand and Pepe gently eased the boat forward, pulling the fish alongside and forcing water back through its gills. We rested our exhausted arms on the side and watched its long body begin to recover, moving more forcefully and sweeping its tail steadily, before Max decided it was ready and let go.

He used the final moment of contact to push the huge, shimmering head away from the boat, before slapping the surface in celebration. The fish dropped away as we continued to move forward, but treated us to a final, defiant flash of light along its sides before diving back to freedom.

We couldn’t stop smiling for an hour afterwards, meaning our facial muscles were soon as tired as the rest of our bodies. We were overflowing with delight and Pepe opened some celebratory beers for the homeward journey. As we savoured the cold drinks, clinking bottles and gaining speed once more, it was surely the high-point of an already unforgettable trip.

My emergency break not only introduced me to a new country, friends and incredible species of fish, it also saved me from something quite dark and dangerous. I followed the doctor’s orders and, by the time I got home, felt revitalised.

I had lots of photos on my iPhone and countless memories but, more importantly, I also had a new appreciation for the importance of mental health, rest and recuperation. Adult life is rarely plain sailing and there were still some major challenges to come, but going to The Gambia for ten days had meant I was stronger, wiser and – most important of all – more grateful than ever for the magic of fishing.

Copyright John Moorwood 2021, all rights reserved.