Dave was making moonshine at the house, which struck me as odd but was apparently quite the normal practice at the university he had attended back home in the USA. Through a combination of supplies he had stolen from various conference halls and event centres while on assignment for the temp labour company, along with a series of two litre pop bottles and an antiquated pressure cooker he’d found in the basement, he had been creating liquor of unknown strength for some time. Distillation expertise aside, Dave was not my favourite roommate atop the hill.
While Dave was racist, xenophobic, anti-intellectual, and miserly, he was also an alcoholic and a perpetual smoker: when not actually puffing away in the corner of the living room (next to an open window but naturally blowing towards the television, as though he couldn’t turn away for an instant), he could predictably be found rolling another cigarette while enjoying a mountain dew. This isn’t to say that he lacked any redeeming qualities, however. He liked to work as many hours as possible temping (all the better to loot), and was thus away for most of the time. I suppose that was just one quality, after all, but I am sure there are others. But why would I describe one of my dozen or so roommates, especially in relation to a Maori woman’s concerned gaze? Let’s go another step further back, shall we?
The All Blacks were busy celebrating their very recent Rugby World Cup victory over the villainous French when I swept into the pub where my roommates were quaffing with impunity – my having arrived somewhat late initially having doomed me to watching the game down the street at a less popular venue before my repair to their location. High spirits were the order of the day as we celebrated the AB’s win and we talked as a group for some time, until a yawn from me brought a certain degree of derision my way. After some good-natured ribbing I reminded my compatriots that I had planned on an early start for my inaugural New Zealand fly fishing trip and began to beg my leave from their increasingly blurry festivities, only to be stopped by a challenge from Dave, the bootlegging anti-intellectual. It seemed that there was no way I was going to catch anything anyways, and that I was being rather a huge bitch by leaving early (at 2AM). This struck me as an odd challenge from someone who described his fishing experience as “getting drunk all morning with my family, having lunch, then getting drunk all afternoon before going out to the clubs!!”, but I took it in stride as I made my way back to the top of Mt. Victoria to sleep some celebration off.
Though feeling a bit delicate the next day, I nonetheless roused myself somewhat early and made my way down to the train station in order to get out into the country. A couple of small towns later I was at the river, which was unsurprisingly bereft of any other fishermen due to the previous night’s celebrations. As it had been years since I last did any fly-casting I was not surprised to find myself rather terrible at it, but at least there were no observers to my terrible attempts on the path across the river at this early hour; at any rate my ineptitude was short-lived and by lunchtime I was rolling my line out with a passable degree of skill, though without any fishy success to show for it.
After a sandwich I decided to try my luck just below an overarching pedestrian foot bridge, as I liked the look of a pool in the river there and felt that I could stand to be seen now that I had brought my casting skills up to an acceptable level. I switched my fly from a dun-coloured nymph to a flashy baitfish imitator and made my way under the bridge to find a position to cast from. Suddenly, upon standing up after crouching under the bridge, I found that I had accidentally pushed my rod tip up into an overhanging branch – thus seriously tangling my line. This became an object of mirth for passers-by, as the tangle was about 11 feet off of the ground and seemingly worsening as I tried to work my fly out of the foliage. Finally I resolved to simply tug it loose from the leaves and, after warning the Maori woman out on a stroll to watch out for flying fish hooks, gave it a pull.
My footwear betrayed me in this instant, as my right foot slid forward in the mud in time with my pull on the line; this resulted in me almost losing my balance – which would have been mortifying in light of my spectator – but I managed to regain my footing with a semi-intentional flourish and turn towards the footbridge. Instead of an approving smile for my catlike reflexes, however, the woman seemed to be rather perturbed by something. What it was did not remain a mystery to me for long, as I turned my head back to look for my inch-long, tinsel-striped fly.
As the adrenaline surge from my remarkable balance move began to ebb I immediately began to notice a pinch in the loose skin directly behind my right earlobe. My first thought was a mild wave of relief – as I hadn’t even had a chance to use the fly yet and would have rued losing it outright – followed by the more jarring realization that I had no readily available way to unhook myself. After assuring the concerned pedestrian that I was, in fact, fine, I sat down a distance away from the bridge (with my left side facing the increasingly-frequented path) and considered my options. Though it was a simple thing to clip the line to the fly it became rather obvious that I was going to have to de-barb the hook before it would come out with any degree of comfort. As the wind had begun to pick up to unfishable levels anyways (and because I had forgotten my pliers at home) I decided to head for home.
It was on the train back that I realized the real problem: that even if I managed to sneak into the house without Dave seeing my stylish faux-baitfish neck accessory, I still had no fish to back up my claim of competency. Seeing no other option I did what any reasonable person would do, and stepped into the fish market on the way back. After finding a locally-caught brown trout at a reasonable price I proceeded to the checkout area as stealthily as I could. While handing over the money I inadvertently turned my head to the left as a car backfired outside, thus exposing my tinsel-clad passenger. To the cashier’s credit he didn’t ask me how I came to have hooked myself; I like to believe he knew. All he did was hand me back me change, and give me the oddest look.
This goat has nothing to do with this post. But man, look at them ears!
Cool story bro.
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