A long time ago there was a priest who had a son. They lived in a small mining village where people lived hard and fast lives. Most men drank and most women had affairs or knew someone that had an affair. But no matter what, the priest as a man of the church never said anything bad or never used a swearing word against any of them. When things really became too difficult he would go fishing. Only him and his son, from a previous marriage. Fishing to him was something sacred. The night before the trip he would inform his son of his plans. The two of them would then get the fishing gear ready. They would take out the rods, dust it of and hook up the lines. A special combination of brown bread and sweet corn would be mixed in the exact quantities and a special flavor would be added. It was not just the fishing, but the how that was important. Nothing was left to chance. The bait, the net, the rods and the rest were carefully selected. Tying the hooks was done with precision. Early the next day, long before sunrise they would drive to the water between the mine dumps. Once they entered the mine property they would stop the car a few hundred meters away from the water. In silence they would unpack and carry things to the side. They would set up their bait way back from the water then put on the boots, walk to the edge of the small dam and in silence cast the lines into the lake. Their feet would never touch the water and they would whisper to each other as to keep their presence a secret. After they casted their bait they