This is an email I sent while I was living in Sydney, to a mate in Bendigo after a solo inland fishing trip at Christmas ’98….
Roger,
Regarding my Chrissy break:
What a great couple of days fishin’ and so very successful (as I’d expected)!
Borrowed my mates 12 foot tinny with his 6 hp motor (surprisingly, he was rather reluctant to let me take it), packed the car and drove the three and a half hours to Blayney (about 20minutes short of my final destination – Carcoar).
“Three bags of ice please mate”.
“Sorry, no ice on Boxing day”
No worries – you see, a couple of days before I had the good sense to spend a hundred bucks getting my car wired up to take the Oldman’s Engel portable fridge/freezer – my beer will be plenty cold in there.
Called into Carcoar pub for a quick couple of Schooners on the way through – “By the way love, do you sell Stubbie-holders, I’m camping for a couple of days and it seems to be pretty warm out there”
“Nah, sorry – we only took over the pub ten days ago – haven’t had a chance to get any in stock”
“No worries, thanks anyway – I’ll try at Manduramah Pub, up the road”
Had a few coldies, sitting in the car, (as of course it started pissing down after I set my tent up) and went to sleep. Getting up in the morning I decided I’d listen to the weather report on the car radio before I wet a line.
Hmmm, not enough power in the battery to spark up the radio – it seems that the old fridge takes a bit of powering.
No worries – I’ll rustle up a bit of tucker while I sober up, then unhook the boat trailer, roll the truck down the hill and clutch start her (I always park heading down hill for just such circumstances).
This bread that I bought yesterday seems pretty stale – I know, I’ll butter both sides, fry it up in the skillet and warm up some of that lovely roast pork left over from Christmas dinner Yumm Yumm. So I buttered my bread, got the pork out and set up the camp stove in anticipation.
Hmmm – no gas.
Unhook boat, throw breakfast in bag in back of truck, roll down hill and start car, drive around property for twenty minutes charging battery, hook up boat, drive to town, buy gas come back cook some bloody breakfast – Yum, Yum.
Now off to the dam. Hmm, she seems to be a bit windy – as a matter of fact she’s blowing an almighty gale. But I’m no pussy, I can cop a bit of breeze. I launch the boat, head off and anchor some 600 yards from the ramp . You see, last time I went fishing here was with my mate (Pauly – he owns the boat) and he likes to take charge of the vessel – he sits up the back with the motor and fuel tank, he steers and even takes control of the anchor, which sits at his feet. He sometimes takes great pleasure in steering into small waves and trying to make them splash over the bow and get me in the back. So last time we went out at this very dam, as is his custom, he dropped the anchor and secured it to the rear of the boat. But this time too it was blowing a gale and funnily enough when the wind-waves struck flush against the flat stern of the boat, they commenced splashing freezing water right up his back. He grunted and groaned for about half an hour while I sat up the front smiling – it didn’t strike him that if he tied the anchor to the front pointy bit of the boat (as you’re supposed to) this wouldn’t be a problem.
So I’m very much aware of which end to point into the wind (it’s very obvious really), so I’ll have no such trouble. I chuck out the anchor, tie it to the front and start fishing – dry as a bone. I then notice people trolling past me and catching a few. Hmm, that might be the go in these conditions, I’ll drag the anchor in and troll. The anchor is stuck in the mud. No worries – I’ll motor up past it and drag it in. The motor starts and away I go. It was not long after that the motor seized (infact, very shortly after coming into contact with the anchor rope). Now what do we have? – the motor won’t lift up, the anchor is now attached to the boat about three feet under the water line and I start swinging, arse to the wind – and the waves. Splash, splash, splash – Hmmm. I’m getting wet and the boat seems to be filling up with water. I charge down the back and make a desperate reach for the rope. With the extra weight, water now pours in over the stern and I still can’t reach the rope. Retreat to the middle seat. What to do? water is still splashing in and it is now up past my ankles. Okay, bail some water out – then what? Get an oar, reach the rope and drag it up so I can grab it. So I make another dash to the rear and this time, as well as my weight, comes the rest of the water I didn’t bail – which is quickly joined by gallons more – as the rope slips off the oar. retreat once more – start bailing.
Now, my tracky-dacks are wet up to the knees and the weight of the liquid is beginning to expose my grossly unattractive anal-cleft, my sloppy-joe is wet up to the armpits and I fear my watch has stopped ticking through being water logged. I realise that regardless of my next ploy, if I am to get a hold of the rope, a lot more water is going to piss in first. So I bale some more, prepare myself for another assault (pull up my pants), get a firm hold on the oar and charge. This time I get a hold of the rope, drag in the anchor, plop back into the middle seat with all the water following me – I relax while the wind blows me into the bank.
I hop out, up to my calves in mud and commence baling. Finally dig my hand down in the mud and water and unravel the rope from the prop. After twenty minutes up to my balls in the water, wrestling with the boat (prop still stuck in mud) trying to get the bastard to face into the wind so I could push it out and start the engine, I finally give up. I hopped in, started the Johnson, cranked her into reverse and gunned-it backwards into the waves until I was far enough out to swing it around. Twenty minutes back to ramp, soaking wet and bloody near exhausted then a short fifteen minute wrestle to get the mongrel straight enough to winch on the trailer, then off back to camp. Changed into dry shorts and sat protected from the wind, by the river, in the sun for an hour thawing out and smoking like a bastard!
It took me another two pubs before I could score a stubbie holder – and the rest of the four days pretty much continued in that vein – I never did put the boat back in the water – F#@k the fish!!!
And with that, I’d like to thank you very much for your kind wishes of good luck for my fishing trip ……. YOU PR!CK!!!
Fondest regards
COSKERIE