A tale of two halves
Read the full length version of A tale of two halves here
The day was punctuated with some tempered excitement. As we round an archetypal river bend the boat spooked a raft of ducks from the willows. A party of 5 set out from the willow on a frantic cross river paddle, Mum, Dad and 3 children. Yet, as the last of the ducklings hit the water, one almighty BOOOF of surface disturbance wreaked havoc on the group. In a puff of down and a wall of water the last of the party was gone. While 5 emerged from the willow only 4 made their way across the river. As harsh as it was, it was remarkable to witness a completely natural Murray Cod surface eat. Perhaps too eagerly, the base of that willow was peppered with casts to see if we could convince the cod to return for round two. But of course, why would they? With a stomach full of duckling that Cod had likely dropped anchor on the boat of the river, in the depths of it’s favoured hidey hole not to emerge for hours.
Bend after bend came and went. And with each passing honey hole our hopes were drifting away, much alike my thoughts at the time. Having well and truly entered the well known trance state of cast, mend, strip, strip, repeat state, I was not ready for engaging a Murray Cod at all. Right when I was knee deep in internally unpacking some of life’s great unresolved questions, namely Australia’s likely XI for the 1st Test of the summer, I felt the line go tight at the end of the strip. They say when a trout rises to a dry fly time expands, well the fraction of a second it took for me to pick up another length of line to continue stripping, and set a hook in what I thought would be a Murray Cod, lasted a lifetime. Yet, having endured the extended anticipation, condensed into a mere moment, my next strip was left with nothing. I had missed the fish. The shot we had fished all morning for. Christ. It’s a bit like a dropped catch in the slips. The fast bowler has worked their tail feather off, done all the hard work, only for you to biff the simplest of closing moments. I didn’t dare look Jimmy in the eyes having spent the majority of the morning rowing me into every juicy spot. I wanted to swan dive off the boat and sink to the bottom of the river…
Not prepared to lower my colours, I turned my mind back to the fish. Whilst my account of fish were to be lacking, I was determined not to let the same happen to my pride. Well, the next rock wall produced a Murray Cod, out of the smallest of back eddies, that was prepared to play ball with the fly, and stay hooked. The moments of mottled green, flapping around in attempt to regain control were filled with anxiety and dread. Much alike the boundary riding fielder sitting underneath a high outfield catch, the internal bellowing of ‘Don’t drop it’ rang through my ears. But as that beautiful, broad white lined tail flopped over into the net a sense of relief flooded over me. Like the fielder who had dropped the sitter moments before, for his teammate to bail him out and dismiss the offending batsmen, the impacts of my blunder were mitigated. It is amazing how in the state of jubilation, previous shortcomings can be forgotten and all that remains is the pure joy of success. In that moment, Jimmy and I enjoyed our success, tipped a swig of whiskey back, toasted to Andrew, wishing he was there with us, and quietly reflected on one helluva weekend.
Read the full length version of A tale of two halves here
