CHAPTER 17 THE WEST YORKSHIRE BOY

In West Yorkshire, the heartbeat of the community was the rhythm of the river. Fishing had been a way of life for generations, and the fishermen were the guardians of this ancient tradition. Every day, before the sun had even peeked over the horizon, the fishermen would gather their nets, their rods, and their boats, ready to launch into the river and cast their lines. It was a ritual that defined their lives, a dance with the elements that had been passed down from father to son, mother to daughter, across countless generations. And Max was one of the best. As the first rays of dawn spread across the water, Max and his fellow fishermen unfurled their nets, tossed them into the water, and waited. The river, once still and silent, was transformed into a chorus of splashes, the sounds of fish struggling against the mesh of the nets. Max's eyes were sharp and alert, always scanning the water for signs of movement. He'd learned long ago that patience was the fisherman's greatest ally,