Best 544 quotes in «fishing quotes» category

Fish don't need swimming gear when speeding through deep waters.

Fish don't need swimming gear when speeding through the deep waters.

Fishing enables us to get closer to nature.

Fishing keeps men boys longer than any other pursuit

Fly-fishing in England has a sense of homeliness to it.

Fly-fishing is an act of hope that leads to a net full of fish and a head full of dreams.

Don’t worry,” he said, that grandfatherly smile spreading across his face once more, “I’ve been fishing for over forty years.  You’ve got plenty of time to catch up, maybe even pass what I’ve done.  You’re a perspicacious piscatorial pursuer, and I’m sure you’ll catch the big ones.

Fishing unlocks the primeval hunting gene.

Fishing encourages escapism.

Fishing provides time to think, and reason not to. If you have the virtue of patience, an hour or two of casting alone is plenty of time to review all you’ve learned about the grand themes of life. It’s time enough to realize that every generalization stands opposed by a mosaic of exceptions, and that the biggest truths are few indeed. Meanwhile, you feel the wind shift and the temperature change. You might simply decide to be present, and observe a few facts about the drifting clouds…Fishing in a place is a meditation on the rhythm of a tide, a season, the arc of a year, and the seasons of life... I fish to scratch the surface of those mysteries, for nearness to the beautiful, and to reassure myself the world remains. I fish to wash off some of my grief for the peace we so squander. I fish to dip into that great and awesome pool of power that propels these epic migrations. I fish to feel- and steal- a little of that energy.

Fly-fishing is the simplest, purest, most skilful and pleasurable way to catch a fish.

Fly-fishing encourages us to dream – of rose-tinted sunsets and lazy spring days when swallows swoop and the hedgerows are blossomed in brilliant white.

Fishing in the right pond is better than fishing in the wrong river.

He wanted me to go with him, and had cast his line, hoping to snag his most elusive catch - me.

Give a man a fish shop and he’ll flounder. Teach a man to manage a fish shop, and he’ll learn to fill it!

He reached down, pulled on a piece of seaweed and came up with a handful of gleaming white shells, shook off the water and tossed them on to the sandy bank. I attempted to do likewise, and came up with a handful of slime and a few broken bits of twig, one of which had a tiny but very angry-looking crab clinging to it.

God gave you the sea, but you still have to fish for yourself.

It had been a long quest. Yet I was within casting distance of my dream.

If you are trying to look clean, neat and avoid casting your nets in trouble waters, you will catch no fish.

If you fish and catch nothing, you have still caught a lesson.

If you want the most beautiful fish in the sea, make sure you have the most appealing bait.

I'm homeless, and I'm an alcoholic. But I have a dream.' 'What's that?' 'I wanna go fishing.

Humans seem to have an innate drive to master other creatures.

I am free, so I will go forth and fish – as a man alive.

I denne Skiærsmissel det artig tilgik, Hver toge til takke den skade de fik, Og ingen lod anden anmode; Thi den Harpunerer behote sit Spiud, Og Hvalen beholte sit Spæk og sin Hud, De skiltes ad Venner og gode.

Load the sailboat with bottles of white wine, olive oil, fishing rods, and yeasty, dark-crusted bread. Work your way carefully out of the narrow channels of the Cabras port on the western shore of Sardinia. Set sail for the open seas. Navigate carefully around the archipelago of small boats fishing for sea bass, bream, squid. Steer clear of the lines of mussel nets swooping in long black arcs off the coastline. When you spot the crumbling stone tower, turn the boat north and nuzzle it gently into the electric blue-green waters along ancient Tharros. Drop anchor. Strip down to your bathing suit. Load into the transport boat and head for shore. After a swim, make for the highest point on the peninsula, the one with the view of land and sea and history that will make your knees buckle. Stay focused. You're not here to admire the sun-baked ruins of one of Sardinia's oldest civilizations, a five-thousand-year-old settlement that wears the footprints of its inhabitants- Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans- like the layers of a cake. You're here to pick herbs growing wildly among the ancient tombs and temples, under shards of broken vases once holding humans' earliest attempts at inebriation. Taste this! Like peppermint, but spicy. And this! A version of wild lemon thyme, perfect with seafood. Pluck a handful of finocchio marino,sea fennel, a bright burst of anise with an undertow of salt. Withfinocchioin fist, reboard the transport vessel and navigate toward the closest buoy. Grab the bright orange plastic, roll it over, and scrape off the thicket of mussels growing beneath. Repeat with the other buoys until you have enough mussels to fill a pot. In the belly of the boat, bring the dish together: Scrub the mussels. Bring a pot of seawater to a raucous boil and drop in the spaghetti- cento grammi a testa. While the pasta cooks, blanch a few handfuls of the wild fennel to take away some of the sting. Remove the mussels from their shells and combine with sliced garlic, a glass of seawater, and a deluge of peppery local olive oil in a pan. Take the pasta constantly, checking for doneness. (Don't you dare overcook it!) When only the faintest resistance remains in the middle, drain and add to the pan of mussels. Move the pasta fast and frequently with a pair of tongs, emulsifying the water and mussel juice with the oil. Keep stirring and drizzling in oil until a glistening sheen forms on the surface of the pasta. This is called la mantecatura, the key to all great seafood pastas, so take the time to do it right.

In this ever changing world, there are few things that have remained constant for me. The chance of hooking a nice trout still excites and thrills me to this day....just as it did when I was a kid. I like that!

It was one of those places where mist lingers well into the day and the dawn chorus starts early.

It is the goings-on between bites that excites the traditional angler as much as when the float goes under.

I unconsciously decided that, even if it wasn't an ideal world, it should be so and painted only the ideal aspects of it - pictures in which there are no drunken slatterns or self-centered mothers . . . only foxy grandpas who played baseball with kids and boys who fished from logs and got up circuses in the back yard.

It was one of those rare moments where one has a vision of the scope of the wild ocean. Not just small cylinders firing to keep a tiny engine running, but rather the giant, massive gears of nature, each one with its own reasoning, its own meta-logic, spinning in its particular circle in competition or in confluence with the gear below it. We zeroed in on the school, but our progress was painfully slow, It would have been foolish to speed into the tumult-we would have ruined our baits in the process and doomed our chances of hooking a tuna. But luckily, the commotion did not subside. If anything it only grew more frantic and exhuberant on our approach. Beneath the birds, beneath the dolphins, beneath the menhaden, there should have been an equally vast school of giant bluefin tuna, collaborating with vertebrates of the so-called higher orders of life to form the floor of the prey trap, sealing the baitfish in from below, while the dolphins and birds made up the trap's walls and ceiling. A strike from a giant tuna seemed inevitable.....as the boat moved forward, I saw seabirds gathering up ahead into a cloud, the size and violence of which I had never seen before. Gannets - big, albatross-like pelagic birds - flew hundreds of feet above the churning surface of the water. In a flock of many thousands, they whirled in unison and then, as if on command from some brigadier general of bird life, dropped in an arc, bird after bird, into the water beneath. The gyre of gannets turned in a clockwise direction, and down below, spinning counterclockwise, was the largest school of dolphins I'd ever seen. There in the angry blue-green sea, the dolphins had corralled a vast school of menhaden-small herringlike creatures that, when bitten, release globules of oil that float on the surface. Oil slicks flattened the water everywhere as the dolphins swirled around, using their exceptional intelligence and wolf-pack cooperation to befuddle and surround the fish, which in turn whirled in a clockwise direction.

Smile, tip your traditional hat, and enjoy your time by the water.

I wanted to add a photo of where Bruce Beckham's Inspector Skelgill likes to fish but I couldn't figure how to do it.

Looking for a wife is like fishing; before you go, make sure you don't have a hole in your net.

Natural selection has a new aspect, one that is psychological denial. Such denial where the “individual benefits as an individual from his ability to deny the truth even though society as a whole, which he is apart, suffers”.

Night fishing accentuates the atmosphere of a lake. It is as if, once darkness falls, the character of the pool announces, “I am here.

One of humankind's most enduring misconceptions is that of nature's bounty... the belief that nature is such a powerful force that it is indestructible.

People fish because they are searching for something. Often it is not for a fish.

She had golden blazing sun kissed hair, which hung down in loose, lazy spirals, a heart shaped pouted mouth, which was pink tinged with violet blushing, wide, spangled blue eyes that glimmered sparks to flicker and ember in the vivid intelligence of the moon’s love, and a yielding body, that seem to tangle in loose rhythm as I walked near to her.

There are a million-and-one ways to enjoy a day’s angling. Catching fish is but one of them.

The act of fishing – for fish, dreams or whatever magic is available – is enough.

there are no houses to wife. only window seats to occupy when the weather needs changing & waters to flow past our ankles on Sundays as we fish.

THERE'S A KIND OF PEACEFULNESS IN THE NAMES OF ENGLISH COARSE FISH. ROACH, RUDD, DACE, BLEAK, BARBEL, BREAM, GUDGEON, PIKE, CHUB, CARP, TENCH. THEY'RE SOLID KIND OF NAMES. THE PEOPLE WHO MADE THEM UP HADN'T HEARD OF MACHINE-GUNS, THEY DIDN'T LIVE IN TERROR OF THE SACK OR SPENDING THEIR TIME EATING ASPIRINS, GOING TO THE PICTURES, AND WONDERING HOW TO KEEP OUT OF THE CONCENTRATION CAMP.

There are some pools that woo us, as if in courtship. Others challenge, as if yearning a feisty relationship.

There’s always an opportunity to fish for something – even if it’s just for laughs or ideas.

There is a wonderful simple human reality to Christ's hunger. The man is famished. He's missed meals for three days, He has a lot on his mind, He's on His way back to heaven, but before He goes He is itching for a nice piece of broiled fish and a little bread on the side with the men and women He loves. Do we not like Him the more for His prandial persistance? And think for a moment about the holiness of our own food, and the ways that cooking and sharing a meal can be forms of love and prayer. And realize again that the Eucharist at the heart of stubborn Catholicism is the breakfast that Christ prepares for Catholics, every morning, as we return from fishing in vast dreamy seas?

The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if they had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought --to call it by a prouder name than it deserved-- had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until --you know the little tug -- the sudden conglomeration of an idea at the end of one's line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating.

The truth hurts sometimes. If we are going to be taught by God, the fisherman, we first need to be captured by Him. And His hook is going to have a bite. Of course, it's going to hurt. The truth hurts when we are sinners and when we acknowledge we are not surrendering to the truth.

The sky a net, its mesh clogged with glowing stars.

The water is a dark flower and a fisherman is a bee in the heart of her.