Everyone at some time or another eventually experiences the kind of stress that incapacitates, where the delightful curveballs that life throw at you evade the cricket regulation catches required to save the ball from crashing into your face. So I was no stranger to the numb effects that came as a direct result of Rudi, like Jack before him, behaving like a dull boy. But even the planning for a downtime necessary to remedy my dire situation would bounce off my cranium like a Brett Lee bouncer.
In steps long time friend and regular agony uncle, Greg, to sell me on a weekend fishing trip to his favourite haunt in Umtinzini. Three days and two nights on the KwaZulu-Natal north coast, just the two guys, free of anything resembling responsibility, decorum or meals that included all the major food groups. The only problem was the two-week time span between accepting this exile to sanity and the delicate condition I was in. That the dogs were already backing away in panic when I got home in the evenings was not a good sign that I would make it to D-day without dismembering a colleague or eating my progeny. So careful conditioning and chemically induced sleep was employed as well as the dismissive, “No problem, I’m on it!” whenever crisis presented itself. With blinkers firmly attached I fixed my sights on what was going to be the last boat to Rudi’s normality.
01:30, Fri morning and I’m anxious to get going. The plans to leave at 02:00 orchestrated by Greg’s iPhone fishing application predicts high tide at 05:00, forecasting the best conditions for fishing in weeks and I have all my kit in the driveway awaiting his 4xTazz, kitted with Rockfords finest filling rattlers. The full moon lighting the night sky & hills of home has me temporarily filled with a reluctance to leave Michelle & the boys behind on this hedonistic exploit, but as Greg pulls in, I remind (convince?) myself that this is as much for them as it is for me.
A quick kiss for the slumbering wife, and we’re off, filled with a boyish excitement that has me resisting the urge to hang out of the windows and wake the neighbours with a western ‘YEEEHAAAAAHHHHH!’. Greg’s playlist includes some 60’s & 70’s great like Golden Earrings Radar Love and more that are escaping a Vietnam movie’s soundtrack with us, and pretty soon we’re gobbling up the miles, sharing the road with a few brave truck drivers avoiding the striking mobs.
It’s not that long when the adrenaline begins to wear off and the lack of sleep introduces me to a fresh game of eyelid tug-of-war while trying to carry stimulating conversation with my pilot. We make good time, getting to the gate a half hour ahead of the Parks boards opening time at 05:00 and we resolve to fight the doziness with a few stretches and strides in the fast receding darkness. The smell of the sea and chorus of alien birds/frogs treats my exhausted consciousness with visions of what the weekend holds. Not only are we here to rescue our battered psyches from certain padded lodgings, but we have also come to relegate into history, my rather embarrassing record of never having caught a fish. So at 38 years of age, I was about to perform a long, long overdue rite of passage.
The magic hour approaches and we realize that the vigilant gatekeepers are warmly ensconced in the gate house, oblivious to our mission. Minutes later, and we are at the expansive estuary amongst the mangroves and Greg manages to setup both his & my kit with rods, tackle and bait in the time it has taken me to minister to the morning libations (fisherman custom, apparently).
A Fish Eagle signals the commencement of the day’s events and, as if on command, fish start jumping randomly which judging by Greg’s excitement is a good thing for us and my cause. So with grim determination, a cast reel in one hand and Tennessee’s finest in the other I prepared myself for fishing nirvana.
There is something magical about being attached to a large body of water through a fishing line, the anticipation of a catch, the casting out and reeling in becomes symbolic of the ebb and flow of the tides of the mind concealing the activity under its surface which it yields only with a little skill and a lot of patience. The morning yields little to either for the intrepid fisherman and cowed by the fierceness of the morning sun, we retreat to establish a base in the wooded campsite.
Finding a suitable site the 9 sleeper tent proved simple as we were the only campers all weekend, and with camp setup and breakfast greedily despatched a morning nap was my next stop.
What appeared to be moments later, I awoke to a tent doing its best impersonation of a convection oven. An industrious Greg had been out again and caught a sandfish for some lunch, and I kicked myself for a lack of stoicism which had potentially cost me my mission. I became determined that this would not happen again.
So on our next sortie at 5pm, it was all business and bravado, and I was trying to muster the kind of resolve that would lure the fish to commit mass suicide through the sheer force of my will. I was not to be disappointed.
With concentration as taught as piano wire in its highest key, I was regularly set off in frenzied action by the merest vibration. Fellow fisherman across from us looked on to what they must have thought was a shoal of starved fish camped in my spot. Then eventually, a tug that did not relent.
“Bru, I think I may have one here…..”
Drawn to the shrill excitement in my voice, Greg ran over to assist me in reeling in my first fish, a beautiful Grunter, weighing in at a massive 250g.
“Well done, cuz. But you have to throw it back. It’s too small.”
My vanity was injured for only a little while as I landed another Grunter and then Two Tiger fish in quick succession. Mission accomplished!
The rest of the weekend had the estuary yield nothing else for my hook but did provide excitement in the form of a cloudburst with a mudslide into the tent and did provide the release we were fishing for in the first place. The biggest catch was not the 500g sandfish we had for lunch. It was the peace that we brought home in our unburdened souls.
The detritus of tortured minds were left behind discarded like the unused bait where the ants could have their fill. We leave for Maritzburg, ready for the bite of reality and relishing the next opportunity for an escape.
[rps]
