With every click of the reel and every whiff of fisherman's brew (saltwater, beer and prawn guts) it's felt like I've been reeling in the past itself.

I grew up fishing in Sydney's Pittwater where sandy floors gifted us flathead, whiting, flounder and blue swimmer  crabs. The mangroves were hunting grounds for bream and trolling was a sure-fire way to score a bagful of tailor.

In my early 20s, I swapped Pittwater for the inner-city where I angled for stories and girls instead. I'd occasionally make the trek back to Pittwater but in the years since my childhood, overfishing rendered the place almost barren.

Guilty over my part in this pillaging - and increasingly sentimental about the sanctity of marine life - I vowed to never fish again.

Then I moved to Manly, not far from my mate Squid. Squid loves fishing, so it wasn't long before the phone rang. It was 6pm on January 14, 1998.

I know this because what followed was so unexpected that I emailed my expat brother in Malaysia the next day to confess - and swear off fishing forever.

Recently I discovered he kept the email for all these years. This blast from the past was so bizarre I feel compelled to share it. So, here goes:

"Last night started normally enough. I got home just as the TV weatherman was telling pregnant [now ex-wife] Sarah how hot she'd been all day. I cooked dinner then settled to watch the cricket and wait for Squid who was due at 8pm with rods, bait and an esky.

As we walked to the old Manly Gasworks I spied a shape scurrying through a pool of light that spilled from an overheard lamp. 'Did you see that mouse?' I gasped. 'Mate, that was a rat,' said the Squid, 'and there are heaps of them down here!'

I honestly thought he was joking. Y'know, I've never had much to do with rats. I can only recall ever seeing two in my life - once at Central Station and once outside a restaurant in Bangkok. Both times there was a comfortable distance between the vermin and I.

We set up the fishing gear on a concrete pier. The tide was right and the Australia vs New Zealand one-dayer was crackling out of Squid's transistor. It was shaping up to be a lovely night. All we needed was some fish.

We had a couple of beers and the usual gibber. 'I'm thinking of joining Alcoholics Anonymous,' mused Squid. 'I'll still drink, just under a different name.' We checked the lines now and then but a couple of hours passed before we realised we weren't getting any nibbles at all.

The whole time we'd been aware of rustling, scratching sounds in the dark behind us.

Finally, having worked up enough Dutch courage to face what I knew to be there, I swung Squid's torch around and busted four rats - big bastards - nosing towards the bait bucket.

They didn't flinch in the torchlight; they just looked at me as if to say 'Wot?' I was a bit shocked but also slightly pissed, so I shrugged it off. In hindsight, we should've just left.

Another hour passed with no bites. Boredom set in. Despite being repulsed by the rats, we decided to toss some prawns closer to where the noises were coming from to see if we could lure them out.

Sure enough, the Manly Gasworks Rat Army emerged from a crack in the wall and grabbed the prawns. It was disgusting but we kept it up. I don't know why.

I gathered some rocks and before long I was taking pot shots at rats. Wednesday night, 30 years old, about to be a father and I'm out throwing rocks at sewer rats! What's wrong with this picture?

It started drizzling so we began packing up. I was glad to be getting out of Rat City but for some twisted reason Squid produced a handline and baited it with a prawn.

I hoped he was going to cast it in the water but, nah, he tossed it towards Rat Wall.

You have to remember we hadn't had a bite all night but after two or three minutes fishing for rats, the handline took off like there was a blue marlin on the end.

With a sense of dread I swung the torch around again. Lo and behold, Squid had landed a big, fat, brown-grey rat

. He was yanking on the line and the rat was jumping in the air, squealing, hissing and tugging away from us.

It wasn't hooked; it just refused to let go of the prawn! I took aim with a rock and nailed it right on the arse. It scampered away ... Weird silence ... nervous laughter.

Then he did it again! Squid's hand-line clattered on the ground - Rat No. 2 was even bigger. It squealed and jumped about, prawn between its yellow teeth. I fumbled in my pocket but I'd run out of rocks.

I started to panic. 'What if the rat is hooked and we have to deal with it?' So I charged at it: 'Raugh!' It darted back to its crack in the wall.

We left that horrible place without further ado. Squid kept marvelling that it was easier to catch rats on a line in Manly than it was to catch fish.

But the truly shocking thing was that we even tried in the first place! Here was I - on the verge of parenthood - at the old Gasworks messing with the local rat life. As for fishing? Never again." 

And so, only a few weeks ago, I went fishing again for the first time since The Night of the Rats.

As I stood on the honey coloured sands of my local break, I thought back to that fateful trip to the Gasworks and counted how lucky I am now to live in the Illawarra where the beaches are pristine, the fish are plentiful and the rats, well, not so much.

I must invite Squid for a visit.