A fish out of water

Here are the basics: You craft yourself a fishing rod (all it takes are three sticks and a couple of bundles of string) and then use it to cast your lure into a body of water. Now get this: fish love that lure. They cannot resist it. Before long, you'll be hauling armfuls of top quality seafood into your unfairly maligned restaurant. Meanwhile, everyone who ever doubted you will be furiously biting their fist in an effort to suppress their astonishment and envy. It's the perfect plan!

Armed with a freshly crafted rod and a can-do attitude, I stride past my restaurant (it's called UG and I'm open to seven-figure offers if any potential buyers are reading) and onto the handy nearby wharf. I cast my line into the water and wait for some sashimi-grade fish to take the bait. After a few seconds, I see movement in the water. Then, there's a tug on my line. With the reflexes of a panther, I reel in my catch. It is a grubby old bone. 

This is an inauspicious start to proceedings, but I've never been one to give up at the first sign of difficulty (I usually give up at the second or third sign of difficulty instead). I pocket the bone and cast my line again. The same rippling in the water ensues, the same surge of optimism follows, and I reel in… a saddle. On the one hand, it's better than a mouldering old fragment of skeleton. On the other, it's going to take some real culinary creativity to turn this leathery chair-horse into a Michelin-worthy meal. 

After allowing myself a few moments to wail at the sky in anguish, I gather my thoughts. Clearly, this rippling ocean is actually a horrible bog filled only with skeleton bits and horseriding accoutrement. The solution is clear: I need to set sail for uncharted waters. I bash together a boat and grab hold of the oars.

Soon, the shady forests of my home are but a distant memory. As I heave at the oars, I pass snowy peaks, desert plateaus, and blossoming cherry groves. Along the way, I occasionally pause to cast off, and it's during one of these moments that I catch my first fish. A cod. Success! 

I cast off again. Another cod. Within five minutes, my inventory is heaving with stinking old cods and I am beginning to wonder whether I'll ever be able to catch anything that's either extravagantly valuable or life-changingly delicious. 

My arrival at the village isn't quite the triumphant return I'd hoped for: no villagers line the shore waiting for me, and no statues have been erected in my honour during my absence. No matter – I decide I'll build my own monument to adventure and the call of the oceans. The design of my aquarium directly mirrors the design of UG, with a frame of acacia logs and tasteful uplighting provided by carefully positioned sea lanterns and sea pickles. 

The construction proceeds fairly quickly, albeit with occasional pauses to rectify the terrible village-wide floods I've caused. Filling the aquarium with live fish, however, is a much, much more time-consuming project, as I'm forced to take to the seas once more. This time, I'm armed with a bucket instead of a rod, and I have to scoop fish directly out of the briny tides. The process may be miserably slow, but the end result is a work of art (that also happens to serve as a glowing advertisement for my restaurant).

After more than 50 casts, I catch a salmon. On my very next attempt, I snag a pufferfish. At long last, things are looking up.

Then, after what seems like hours of casting, reeling, and shrieking-at-the-sky, my patience is rewarded with a beautiful tropical fish to call my own. This is the single rarest fish you can dredge out of the deep in Minecraft, and gazing at its vibrant orange scales and mysterious, inkblack eyes fills me with a sense of childlike wonder. I hold the gorgeous creature in my palms and marvel. And then I throw him into the increasingly stinky bag with the rest of my catch and set a course for home. 

My arrival at the village isn't quite the triumphant return I'd hoped for: no villagers line the shore waiting for me, and no statues have been erected in my honour during my absence. No matter – I decide I'll build my own monument to adventure and the call of the oceans. The design of my aquarium directly mirrors the design of UG, with a frame of acacia logs and tasteful uplighting provided by carefully positioned sea lanterns and sea pickles. 

The construction proceeds fairly quickly, albeit with occasional pauses to rectify the terrible village-wide floods I've caused. Filling the aquarium with live fish, however, is a much, much more time-consuming project, as I'm forced to take to the seas once more. This time, I'm armed with a bucket instead of a rod, and I have to scoop fish directly out of the briny tides. The process may be miserably slow, but the end result is a work of art (that also happens to serve as a glowing advertisement for my restaurant).

With my labours complete, I know that I should head back to the kitchen to prepare for tonight's dinner service. But after so long at sea, dry land feels humdrum and dreary by comparison. As the breeze picks up, I can hear the siren song of the ocean calling to me, as though a voice on the wind is whispering my name. I later realise that this noise is just a horrible spider hissing and gurgling in my ear, but the point still stands – I'm just not cut out for the life of a landlubber anymore.

I pick up an oar, walk down the jetty, and clamber (very gracefully) into my boat. It's time to set sail again.