Humbling Journey: Finding Joy in Fishing and Life After a Health Scare
Enjoying the sun and the view.
There’s something deeply therapeutic about standing on the Welsh coast, rod in hand, watching the waves roll in as I cast for bass. The salt in the air, the rhythmic pull of the tide, the thrill of a bite, it’s a privilege I no longer take for granted.
Last year, I faced a health scare that shook me to my core. What started as recurring water infections after cycling led to a series of tests, each one more nerve-wracking than the last. An ultrasound revealed a 3 x 2 cm lump on my kidney, and my PSA levels (a marker for prostate health) were alarmingly high at 7.9, nearly four times the normal range.
The Agony of Uncertainty:
The weeks that followed were some of the longest of my life. I endured countless blood tests, invasive exams (yes, including that finger-up-the-bum moment), and the gnawing fear that my body was betraying me. I was consumed by dread, convinced that decades of working with chemicals had finally caught up with me.
I still went fishing during that time, but my heart wasn’t in it. Every cast felt hollow, every tug on the line a fleeting distraction from the crushing weight of the unknown.
After six weeks of antibiotics, multiple scans, and agonising waits, I finally sat in the urologist’s office, bracing for the worst. To my disbelief, he fumbled for his notes for what seemed like ages before he composed himself and delivered the news:
Ah, yes, Mr. Abbott, the lump on your kidney is congenital. Unusual, but harmless. And your PSA? It’s dropped to 1.6. Perfectly normal.”
You’ve had a deep-rooted Prostatitis, most likely caused by cycling
Phew, the relief was overwhelming. My wife and I walked out of that hospital in stunned silence, then sheer euphoria. We celebrated that night, but the emotional toll had left me exhausted.
Then came the unexpected verdict: “I strongly recommend you never ride a bike again.”
He suspected my prostate was particularly sensitive to the pounding my undercarriage took from cycling, even with a super-soft seat. Some men’s prostates don’t take kindly to being rattled around for miles. So, my cycling days were over, a small price to pay.
A New Perspective:
That scare changed me. It smoothed out some of my rougher edges, as my wife kindly put it. I’ve become more patient, more grateful, and far more present in the moments that matter.
New Plans
I’ve brought forward my retirement to April; life’s too short to delay happiness.
No more skimping on holidays; time with family is precious.
Fishing is no longer just a hobby; it’s a celebration of being alive
A bit like the Ebeneezer Scrooge moment when he finds out he hasn’t missed Christmas.
The Trip That Said It All:
My most recent outing encapsulated everything I love about this second chance. A golden day that began with a shoal of Launce attacking my Seeker lure in the sparkling sunshine, the water alive with silver flashes and feisty pollock.
Not had any Launce for a few years now, they were hungry today
As evening approached, I pitched my tent on the clifftop, the sea stretching endlessly before me. Then, as the tide reached its peak under a dark sky and fullish moon, the bass came out to play. High tide brought with it four fish in an hour, the biggest stretching to 44cm of pure, fighting wildness, even if it was only 44cm.
Cotton Candy Noeby Lure for this one
Of course, the fishing gods had to remind me who’s boss. One lightly-hooked 2lb bass, a moment of complacency with my Hunthouse Cotton Candy Hound Glide, and suddenly I was the one getting hooked – two trebles buried deep in my thumb at 2 am. With no realistic chance of driving to the hospital, it became a solo operation: pliers, gritted teeth, and a first aid kit under torchlight. By the time I’d patched myself up, an hour later the bass had moved on – but the memory (and the throbbing thumb) remained.
Back in the Cave Tent, sipping Cocoa with the sea murmuring its lullaby, I realised something profound. Even the mishaps are part of the joy. Every cast, every fish, every sunset – even every hook in the thumb – is a reminder that I’m here, alive, and fishing
Now, when I cast my line into the sea, I notice the colour palette of the water more vividly, the way the light dances on the waves. Camping trips and nights in the fishing pod feel like luxuries, not just pastimes.
A Second Chance:
This journey has humbled me; it’s taught me that life, like the sea, has its ebbs and flows. The scary moments make us appreciate the calm waters. The health scares make us cherish the healthy days. And sometimes, it takes a hook in the thumb at 2 am to remind us we’re exactly where we’re meant to be – rod in hand, heart full of gratitude, fishing the beautiful Welsh coast.
Here’s to many more sunrises, more bass, and (hopefully) fewer treble hooks in unfortunate places. The best catches aren’t always the fish – sometimes they’re the moments, the memories, and the simple joy of being here to experience it all.
Tight lines, calm seas, and cherish every moment.
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