Guest post by Phil Spratt, Orvis Festival Guide
Life is full of challenges, and some of those challenges are medical. This story is about the healing effects of fly fishing as a remedy to medical adversity.
We need to start at the beginning. I grew up in Shoreham-by-Sea, West Sussex, and it was a great place to grow up. With the sea in front of me and the South Downs behind, I developed a love of the countryside, wildlife, and fishing during those formative years.
I had a friend who loved fishing and introduced me to sea fishing. This was conventional bait fishing, and I caught a variety of species, fishing exclusively in saltwater. I dug my own bait — lugworm and ragworm — and found peeler crab.
When I was 16, our family moved to Cambridgeshire, and it was a shock. There were no hills and no sea, so I had to switch to coarse fishing. I was told to use lighter line, so I bought 8lb breaking strain, which felt light to me. I was quickly laughed at and told to buy 1lb breaking strain instead.
In 2003, I moved to Hampshire near the coast, giving me the chance to rekindle my love of sea fishing. I bought all the gear for conventional sea fishing, but it was hard work and nothing like I remembered from Shoreham. Where were all the fish?
One day I was travelling through the glorious Meon Valley when I passed Meon Springs Fly Fishery. I was curious. Isn’t fly fishing exclusive and only indulged in by the well-heeled and gentry? I thought no more, but the curiosity remained. Eventually it got the better of me and I booked an experience day.
It was a revelation. I was mobile, the tackle was light, and you could see your quarry. More importantly, you were in direct contact with the fish. This was very different to lugging beach casters, bait, and a box full of weights — and I caught rainbow trout. Meon Springs is an excellent stillwater set in stunning scenery, with a catch-and-release option. Fisheries like this are vital in introducing people to the delights of fly fishing.
Meon Springs later held an open day where a saltwater fly fishing guide demonstrated double hauling and talked about fly fishing for bass (not sea bass, just bass — they only live in the sea but tolerate brackish water, so why add salt). I was hooked on fly fishing as a method and realised I could transfer what I’d learned to the salt.
I bought some cheap tackle and headed to the beach. The first trip was a shock. I did everything wrong, and I’m sure I could have broken the world record for wind knots in a leader. It was back to the drawing board. I took double hauling lessons at Meon Springs, improved slowly, and started to catch — bass, mackerel, and on one occasion, a sea trout. Just as important were the friendships formed and the shared bond of salty fly fishing.
No mention yet of medical adversity, I hear you say. Fast forward to September 2019, during a competition in Cornwall, when I noticed my right arm was tiring unusually quickly. On closer inspection, my right bicep — my casting arm — had wasted, while the left was unaffected. My GP referred me to a specialist, and I was diagnosed with Facioscapulohumeral Dystrophy, or FSH for short.
It is the mildest of the dystrophies, and I have a very mild form. One side effect is a younger-looking face — something I’ve had to come to terms with.
How would it affect my fishing? I was due to travel to Ascension Bay in Mexico in November 2019 for a week of fly fishing. As it turned out, I adapted. Even with a wasted bicep, I could still cast by using more body movement. It can be awkward at times, but I manage perfectly well. Ironically, I’ve gone on to catch bigger fish.
Before the bicep wasting, my largest fish was a 9lb bass — very nice, though I’ve never been fixated on size. In Mexico I caught a 10lb jack crevalle that pulled like a train, but some left-arm bracing did the trick. Then came a 12½lb pike, a 14lb carp, and later a 16lb carp.
Following the diagnosis, although I could still cast well, I didn’t want to spend all day casting competitively. Around this time, I was asked if I would act as a guide at the Orvis Saltwater Fly Fishing Festival based around Chichester and Hayling Island in September 2020.
Then Covid hit. However, during a brief window between lockdowns the festival went ahead and was a great success. It now runs annually in early September and has gone from strength to strength. A beginner’s festival has also been added in June and has proved equally popular. It has been a great honour to be involved with such a prestigious company as Orvis.
It was during the first beginner’s festival that I had the opportunity to try the Orvis H3 8# rod. Would it help me cast more easily? Would it feel light in the hand? The answer was yes to both. It was easy to cast, had a smooth action, and was very accurate. The first time I used it, I landed a nice bass — an omen, perhaps. I bought one and have never looked back.
I later added a 9# and have used both rods in the UK and Cuba. They have helped considerably, as the ability to make a quick, accurate cast to a sighted fish can be the difference between success and failure.
At this point, the medical situation had been adapted to and all seemed well. Unfortunately, that wasn’t to last. My most recent trip to Cuba was in November 2022, but in October I foolishly fell off a platform while gardening, badly jarring myself and putting the trip in doubt. I needed four paracetamol a day to manage the pain. It was touch and go, but I made the trip and enjoyed a great week.
Before travelling, and just to be safe, I had an ultrasound scan after suspecting kidney stones earlier. The scan showed a dilated kidney, and my GP referred me for a bladder scan and a CT scan, which I had on Christmas Eve.
I was scheduled to receive the CT results on 9 January 2023. By then, the pain from the fall was easing, and on 8 January I stopped taking paracetamol — for the first time in around ten weeks, I was pain free. I was asked to come in early for the results. Seeing my CT scan on the urologist’s screen, we went through the images: a healthy kidney, the other kidney, and then lymph nodes. I was told I had cancer and between 12 and 15 months to live. Looking on the bright side, at least I didn’t have kidney stones.
A follow-up meeting with an oncologist confirmed the diagnosis. Chemotherapy would be palliative only, with no cure available. At that point, things felt bleak.
Through my Bupa cover at work, I was able to get a referral to another oncologist, and this is where things began to improve. The diagnosis was confirmed, but for the first time a new treatment — immunotherapy — was discussed. The plan was to undergo a series of chemotherapy cycles to shrink the tumours, followed by immunotherapy, a relatively new approach.
Unlike chemotherapy, which attacks both healthy and unhealthy cells, immunotherapy targets specific cancer cells and is considered a maintenance programme. While not a cure, it can keep the cancer at bay. How long it remains effective is uncertain, but early results from others undergoing treatment are encouraging.
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One thing I was determined to have from day one was a positive mindset and to continue enjoying life. I am very grateful for the support I receive from my wife, who really looks after me, as well as my employer, close family, and friends.
My friends include my fishing friends, who have been incredibly supportive. The funniest comment came when I was explaining what was happening and said it was a long story. The reply was, “Don’t make it too long as you haven’t got long!” In a gallows-humour kind of way, it really cheered me up.
Since the diagnosis, I have continued to fish, supported by my fishing friends who have rallied around me. I was fortunate to have time off work during chemotherapy, and during that time I lost myself in fly fishing — not only on rivers, stillwaters, and wading in the sea as the salt season arrived, but also at home in my creative space tying flies.
I tied both freshwater and saltwater patterns that I use to catch fish, hopefully. Losing myself in the creative process of tying, along with the thrill of the take, provided therapy perfectly tailored to me. It ran alongside conventional medicine as an escape into a healthy, meditative practice, time with like-minded people, and a huge boost of endorphins — all fantastic healers for mind, body, and spirit.
After three cycles, I had a CT scan to assess progress. My oncologist called to say the results were fantastic. The tumour had shrunk by 75%, I had regained function in the affected kidney, the cancer in the lymph nodes was reduced, and there were other positives I failed to register at the time. It was on to the next three cycles.
My final chemotherapy session was on 29 June, just before the Orvis Beginners Fly Fishing Festival on 1 and 2 July. Although I was fatigued, the therapeutic pull of the sea and fly fishing ensured my participation. It turned out to be our most successful beginners festival ever in terms of fish caught, and by some margin.
The highlight for me was standing in the sea next to an attendee who said, “The trouble with the sea is that you don’t catch anything,” only to immediately hook a bass.
Just over a month after the final chemotherapy session, it was time for a CT scan covering all six cycles. An appointment with my oncologist followed in mid-August. I felt fully recovered from chemo, but the scan results were still unknown. I went into the meeting optimistic, but not overly so.
The results were great. The tumour had disappeared and there were no signs of cancer. I am in remission. It feels like a miracle. How much my positive mindset and time spent fishing with friends helped, I’ll never know — but I’m sure it played a part, perhaps a kind of placebo effect.
I now feel fully fit for the main Orvis Fly Fishing Festival at the beginning of September. Beyond that, I’m hopeful of returning to Cuba in November 2023.
None of us can predict the future, so my advice is to embrace life, always maintain a positive outlook no matter how bleak the circumstances, and seize the day.
See you all in September!
