Blue is your classic New Zealand agrarian
sector Blue . A typical hard man raised on a farm in the back
blocks of Pio Pio, deep in the heart of New Zealand’s central
North Island.
Tall, thin, big sticky-out ears matched to bigger
feet, long arms and with it all, gangly. Thin, but strong – immensely
fencing-wire strong. The sort of hard man that formed the backbone
of our rugby before money introduced a new breed.
Many think Blue is clumsy. Bits of his body do move
in very mysterious ways. Limbs especially seem to take on a life
of their own, not necessarily moving in directions recommended
by his brain, or good sense.
Clumsy? They may be wrong. Blue is simply too enthusiastic
for his own good – and the good of those around him. Once out
and away from the mind and body numbing rigours of backcountry,
high-country farming Blue drinks in draughts of life in barrel-load
swigs.
Out-on-the-town Blue s enthusiasm takes charge completely.
His body, used to the wide-open spaces, does not fit comfortably
into the confined spaces of trendy restaurants in Auckland. Blue
always sits at the head of the table. No one risks sitting to
his right or left. He does not talk much, but when he does enter
conversations he does so with unabashed gusto. His long arms flailing
and swinging in tandem with his tongue, splaying glasses, cutlery
and food in wide sweeping arcs. Unsuspecting waiters approaching
quietly from behind risk, and often find, their tray-loads of
food and drink deposited on the floor or on other diners.
I like Blue. He is a great man to have around when
fishing. His enthusiasm fills the spaces between fish, never flagging,
always busy, always one fish away from a great day.
Even seasickness can not slow him down, and he does
suffer from that malady. But guess who rises first in the morning
to cook up a mixed grill, sausages, bacon and chops, with greasy
potatoes, eggs and fried bread?
"Gives you a good base for a decent spit",
he says.
And spit he does. Not a meek draping over the gunwales,
not lying heaving into a bucket, no, not for Blue. He marches
up to the transom, places his hands firmly on his hips, arches
backwards – then thrusting forward, emits a coughing yodel – propelling
breakfast in a loping arch out over the stern. A definitive chunder.
Stomach cleared, he ambles down to the galley and
fills up the newly vacated space with thick slices of bread separated
by a large slice of cheddar, liberally moistened by chutney and
pickles.
"Just in case I need to fire another salvo,"
he rumbles, wiping the remains of the sandwich from around his
smile.
Some forms of fishing preclude Blue. Once I made
the mistake of taking him out in the tiny tinnie. Just once.
Getting into the boat was a disaster. Both arms
and most of his torso made it over the gunwales, but only some
of one leg – the rest of that leg and it s foot caught under the
boat. The other leg operating completely out of synchronisation
with the task at hand swung around and connected with the front
coming. The torso and arms now without any support rolled forward,
propelling the shoulders into the other gunwale. This part of
the body came to an abrupt halt causing the rest of the body to
jack-knife over the now stationary part. The trapped leg came free
and the tinny lurched over driving the far gunwale deep under
water.
Blue s arms and hands now coordinated under the
stern orders of self-preservation found the gunwale and pushed
back springing his submerged head out of the water. Unfortunately
his legs – still operating independent of rhyme or reason – failed
to halt the upward thrust, so the other gunwale now sunk below
the surface.
Blue made for the car to dry off and put on some
dry clothes, while I bailed out the boat.
Eventually we made it out to the spot, and without
thinking I asked Blue to toss out the anchor. In one swooping
movement he picked up the anchor and whirling in an arc threw
it over the bow, his body following the course of the anchor.
His feet did not initially follow this course but eventually submitted
to the pent-up centrifugal force and followed Blue s body. Fortunately
Blue s nose found the anchor cleat and bought further movement
to a halt. Liberal applications of cotton wool and Band-Aids soon
slowed the flow of blood, and we baited up.
Blue lifted up his rod and swung it into the cast.
I ducked – far too slowly – and felt the thud in the middle of
my back as the hook-laden bait smacked into my vest that doubles
as a life jacket. The rust stain still testifies to the part of
the hook deeply embedded in the vest after we had to cut away
the rest.
Finally with baits in the water we settled back
to wait. Suddenly Blue s rod bucked and the tip dived under the
surface. Blue reacted immediately and heaving back on the rod,
wound the reel like a demented dervish. In the shallow water the
kingi soon came into view, and with one sweep of the rod Blue
simply swung the 12 kilo fish over the side and into the boat.
The whole process lasting less than 10 seconds.
The kingi lay very still for about 2 seconds and
then went utterly ballistic. Tackle boxes crashed into the bottom
of the boat, spilling their contents, which the kingi then spread
throughout the boat. For a few dangerous moments the gaff flailed
about until a slash of the tail sent it over the side.
Then I saw a new side of Blue. One of his hands
found the club and in one swing smashed it down on the kingi s
head – dead centre between the eyes. The fish shuddered, then
froze, turned white and its lights went out.
Blue smiled. "Bit of sport, eh?" he drolled.
I could only shake my head as I contemplated the carnage in the
boat.
Every year for ten years Blue and his farming neighbour,
Dick, fished for two weeks in search of a marlin. Neither had
yet gained that prize.
Dick is a huge man, well over six feet tall and
very generously proportioned . His white hair and very pale skin
made his nickname – Moby – a foregone conclusion. Moby is also
extraordinarily strong. Rumour has it that a steer once charged
him from behind, hit him and then wandered off with legs wobbling.
Moby had not moved an inch. Just a story – probably?
The inevitable happened on the tenth trip. Moby
hooked up. On 37 kilo stand-up gear, a huge drag-setting, and
Moby s strength, the striped marlin soon sulked behind the boat
– far too soon. The double was on the reel but the leader lurked
just out of the reach of the novice deckie, whose courage was
sorely tested by the sight of this very green, big fish now facing
directly away from the stern.
Up stepped Blue. His long arm reached out and grabbed
the leader. The marlin decided it was time for off and with a
massive flick of the tail headed away. Blue hung on, and on. Right
up to the transom. There something had to give and it did. One
of Blue s size thirteen big grips on the deck lost its adhesion
and his leg shot right up between Moby s legs, and on upwards.
A scream indicated that Blue s leg s progress had crashed to a
halt. Moby s thighs clamped together locking Blue s leg in place.
Now firmly anchored, Blue s strength awaited a stern
test. The number eight fencing wires he used for sinews popped
up as he hung on. The marlin slashed at the water spraying the
cockpit. The force of the fish s struggle against the immovable
leader lifted the marlin out of the water. Up and up, till finally
it crashed over onto its back then rolled onto its side, where
it lay quietly beside the boat.
Blue, his leg now freed from Moby s crotch, stepped
back driving his heel onto Moby s instep. Moby screamed again.
"We gonna let it go?" asked the skipper.
Moby could only nod his agreement, his testimonials
still lodged in his throat making speech impossible. Maybe he
did not even get a good look at the fish, his eyes were still
streaming. Besides he was doubled over trying to hold his injured
foot.
"Bit of humour, eh?" said Blue, watching
the fish swim away, "feel like a beer?"
"Jees, you re a clumsy bugger," croaked
Moby.
"Yeah," smiled Blue, "good fish though,
eh? Do ya want a Lion Red or a DB Natural?"
Next year was Blue s year and his day.
It was a perfect sod of a day. A stiff south-easter
blew a vicious chop across the face of a big to large northeast
swell. Sea conditions that tested the hardiest of stomachs. Blue
s tender tummy was no match for the conditions. His mixed-grill
breakfast departed over the stern very early in the piece, followed
by several regularly spaced editions of his family-sized cheese
sandwiches.
The conditions were rough enough for some to suggest
that contemplating the water from the veranda of the Bay of Islands
Swordfish Club bar might provide better sport.
Blue would have none of that. Lucky choice.
Late in the morning and just after downing yet another
cheese sandwich a marlin jumped on a lure in Blue s turn. He grabbed
the rod and settling himself into a stern corner got stuck into
the fish. Twenty minutes of heave and plenty of ho saw the leader
just off the rod tip.
"I Ll get this one," said Moby, elbowing
past the rest of the crew and in front of Blue.
Blue spotted the mean gleam in Moby s eye and took
two long legged steps back behind him.
The fish and Moby were about equally matched at
140 kilos each, so it proved a keen contest. But the foul sea
conditions played a hand. The boat reared on top of a chop – on
top of a swell – and fell into a hole. Moby s gargantuan stomach
popped over the transom and the sudden change in weight distribution
started to topple him over the side.
Blue stepped up grabbing his friend s jacket, but
slipped as he moved and his right knee drove up between Moby s
splayed legs. Moby yelled but pain made his hands grip tighter.
Blue hung on to Moby with one hand, the rod in the other. The
marlin decided enough was enough and retired hurt.
The pressure off, the deckie stepped in, and as
Moby slumped into the game chair clutching his parts privy, slowly
pulled the marlin in, and released it.
Blue took a look at the departing marlin, lost the
horizon, and rearing back flung his body forward tossing his latest
sandwich into the wake of the now unseen marlin.
"Ton of laughs, eh?" gloated Blue, "wanna
beer and a sandwich?"
"Clumsy bastard," moaned Moby.
"Yeah," answered Blue, "didja want
a red or a blue?"
Blue and Moby have asked me out on their next trip,
and I jumped at the chance. These days there is just too much
blandness about. Political correctness and right-speak do not
help. Life s true characters are getting fewer and farther between.
But good sense and self-preservation must prevail.
The first things I will pack will be hard hat, flak jacket and
cricket box. Still, could be a bit of humour, eh?