Best 544 quotes in «fishing quotes» category

You know how sometimes you meet writers that are so full of themselves? They feel really proud that they wrote something . But what they don't understand - and I like to tell this to writers - is that writing is like fishing. It's just like fishing. If you don't fish that often, you're not going to catch that many fish.

Angling is a recreation. It’s supposed to be fun.

Angling is a sport, so sporting ethics should apply.

Angling is like the lover who generously and passionately gave us our first kiss, who stole our heart and set the unforgettable benchmark for all who followed.

Beneath it hung a faded photograph in an Oxford frame. It presented a Victorian gentleman wearing an ineffable air of hauteur and a costume which suggested that he had begun to dress up as Mr. Sherlock Holmes but, suddenly losing interest, had gone out fishing instead.

As an angler and a gardener, I cherish each drop of rain that falls.

Asking an angler why he or she needs so many fishing rods is like asking a woman why she has so many pairs of shoes.

As a boy, in my own backyard I could catch a basket of blue crabs, a string of flounder, a dozen redfish, or a net full of white shrimp. All this I could do in a city enchanting enough to charm cobras out of baskets, one so corniced and filigreed and elaborate that it leaves strangers awed and natives self-satisfied. In its shadows you can find metal work as delicate as lace and spiral staircases as elaborate as yachts. In the secrecy of its gardens you can discover jasmine and camellias and hundreds of other plants that look embroidered and stolen from the Garden of Eden for the sheer love of richness and the joy of stealing from the gods. In its kitchens, the stoves are lit up in happiness as the lamb is marinating in red wine sauce, vinaigrette is prepared for the salad, crabmeat is anointed with sherry, custards are baked in the oven, and buttermilk biscuits cool on the counter.

But in the dark now and no glow showing and no lights and only the wind and the steady pull of the sail he felt that perhaps he was already dead. He put his two hands together and felt the palms. They were not dead and he could bring the pain of life by simply opening and closing them. He leaned his back against the stern and knew he was not dead. His shoulders told him.

But the delight of wading that clear mountain water, scrambling over rocks, or sitting on a boulder in the sunshine and gazing with dreaming eyes into the brown pebbled pools below, was enough joy without feeling the tug of a trout on the end of the line. Often we could see them in the sun-flecked depths below, quiet as shadows except for the occasional waving of a fin.

Choosing to become a fly-fisher, or at least committing to being a fly-only angler, makes me feel like I’m washing away the grime from my fishing tackle to reveal the beauty of what lies beneath.

Catching fish is low on my agenda when I go fishing. I’m much more interested in savouring the day and exploring the wildlife of the river.

Catching fish is secondary to the immeasurable joys of the watery world.

Cormorant fishing: How stirring, How saddening

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.

Da Høitiden og den berammede Fæst Fremskinnet, at alle blev buden som Giæst, Var Brudgommen længst uti Havet. Hvad var her at giøre, mand skicket ham bud, Mand satte Fartøyer og Slupper herud, Og allesteds Havet omstrømmet; Hand lod sig dog icke beqvemme dertil, Han bad dem inbiude, hvem Fanden de vil, Den Giæstebud hannem ey sømmet.

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.

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.

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!

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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

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”.

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.