Fantasizing at Lake Okataina - finale

Nauseated at the smell of frying bacon and eggs, Ernie heaved up, again. His head throbbed and the daylight blinded him. In his denial he cried out, "Damn you, I'm not an alcoholic! I can take it, or leave it."

Alan, whose appetite was satiated, belched. "Sure you can, but see if you can keep down a mug of coffee."

At 7.30 am they met the lodge owner Tom, at the helm of a 5 metre launch. After clambering aboard, Alan took the controls while Tom jumped back on to the rashackle jetty.

The Lady Annabelle slipped away into the crumpled sea. Endless tumbled crests and hollows stretched before them under a low, threatening sky. The south-easterly was cruel.

What a flier this boat was compared with Calypso. She lifted her nose and thumped across the choppy waves, a white wake feathering out behind her. The skipper gazed ahead, whistling in gleeful anticipation, gradually bringing the launch to the centre of the lake.

"Jiggle your lure astern so you don't tangle up my line if you fall overboard," bullied Alan.

Ernie assembled his rig, and wedged the rod under a grappling hook, gagging from the mother-of-all-hangovers. Petrol fumes combined with a pall of cigarette smoke and the uneven rocking of the boat nearly overcame him.

Ah, to have the 'hair of the dog that bit him'. With fumbling hands Ernie passed a handle of home brew forward to Alan.

______________________________

Black spots on either side of an enormous dorsal fin swarmed before his eyes. Ernie felt suffocated, holding his breath. He was bruised and buffeted by a heavy, cold turbulence and dazzled by a luminous magenta swash flaring across the sides of a silvery monster.

Suddenly Ernie understood that he was below the suface of the water. His lungs were nearly bursting. Above was the brown underbelly of the boat. Had he fallen overboard or had that bugger Alan pushed him?

A gigantic trout was undulating towards him, its hideous lower jaw jutting forward like the bowl of a pipe. Ernie gulped and swallowed some water. Good God, the face was ugly! Protruding eyes focussed on him with a baleful glare. Crimson skirts yawned at the gills. Thick bulbous lips curled back, leering. A deep resonant sound bubbled up as the huge fish oscillated before him.

Ernie wasn't ready to die. he powered his arms and shot up out of the water. Spent, he flopped exhausted on to the deck, where he took long shuddering breaths, marvelling at his miraculous escape.

Alan regarded Ernie's twitching body. "You've gone a bit strange. Didn't know you took fits." He kicked the near empty skeg of home brew. "Next time, keep off the piss!"

Gradually Ernie's head cleared. "There's a trout as big as a bus just below the surface," he croaked. "And I'm going to hook it, if it's the last thing I ever do." Alan shook his head sadly and turned away.

As fast as he could Ernie reeled in his lead line and then grabbed the capped tube containing his long fly rod. Quickly he assembled it and started making powerful casts, looping a heavy-weight line back and forth in the air.

Stirred by his buddy's aura of confidence and excitement, Alan too, wound in his line. He watched with baited breath and mounting dismay as the water rose in a bulge, then cut the motor.

Casting his fly to the very centre of the radiating waves, Ernie jerked his rod making the fly skip. Again he cast. Suddenly the tip of the rod whipped forward to touch the water. In a flash the huge fish was off. Ernie's feet were firmly planted, but effort was needed to hold on to the rod. Within minutes nearly all the line had been pulled off the reel.

"The big bastard's towing the boat!" exclaimed Alan in awe. "I'll anchor you." Ernie's back was aching and he welcomed Alan's solid arms round his chest.

At the end of its run the heavy fish leapt out of the water, smashing down again on its belly. There was another five minute charge - running, diving and tugging the boat along.

"Man, you're crushing my ribs!" gasped Ernie. Fearful that exhaustion would make him careless he asked Alan to relieve him. Twice during the next hour Ernie asked Alan to take the rod again.

Each run was of lesser duration, culminating in a spectacular leap and belly flop. Ernie showed increasing consternation when the fish was in the air, knowing that the line could so easily snap. Was he keeping the line too taut?

At last to his gratification, the great fish turned and made another run; this time at the boat. Desperately Ernie retrieved the line while Alan threw the ridiculous little trout net aside in disgust. "How the hell are we going to get that thing aboard?" worried Alan.

Then the incredible occurred. In a final bid for freedom the fish shot up out of the water, its tail beating the air. Momentarily it hovered before crashing down for the last time, right into the boat.

Alan used brute strength to shove the slippery giant between the seats. No way was he going to let it jump out again. He eyed the trout anxiously while it thrashed about threatening to break his shins. Success exhilarated Ernie.

Eventually the Lady Annabelle made it back to the jetty where Alan's shouting and gesticulating compensated for the size and emptiness of the hills surrounding the lake.

Curious onlookers gathered - several fishermen, a few guests and the staff of Okataina Lodge. The procession wound across the beach and up the bank behind Alan who was cradling the rainbow trout in brawny arms. Proudly Ernie strutted ahead.

At the weigh-in voices were hushed and exclamations muted. An almost religious fervour gripped the congregation as the measurements were given. For the record, that rainbow trout, the largest one ever caught in New Zealand, weighed 13.5 kg and measured 106 cm in length. Tom, who had a cellar stacked with large mounted specimens, estimated it to be 12 years old.

The press and television were contacted and celebrations carried on into the small hours of the morning.

Ernie's plans for the future involved puchasing his own boat, a twelve metre launch, that he would name 'Home Brew'.

A cheerful log fire was burning in the lounge of Okataina Lodge, where the two adventurers, Alan and Ernie were greeted effusively.

"Well, how many trout did you catch?" asked the bar tender, pouring a couple of beers.

Alan shrugged his shoulders and spread his fingers helplessly. "We creeled a couple of big ones," he enunciated carefully. "But they got away."

At first there was politeness punctuated by awkward silences, but as different guests drifted in, imbibing became the order of the evening. They were mostly men, whose expanding fishing stories were always self-centred, sometimes irrelevant, and to Alan's and Ernie's gratification, geared to nostalgia or anticipation, rarely to the present.

"Bloody liars," muttered Ernie, as he downed another double rum and coke. He belched and acid bile scored his throat, threatening to choke him. Alan grabbed an arm.

"You coming to the dining room, or what?" he asked sharply, regarding Ernie's sloppy, inebriated face with consternation.

"Mushht go to bed." Alan hauled Ernie outside and back to their unit.

- - - - - - - - -

Later, having dined and feeling pleasantly drunk, Alan took a torch and sauntered through the park-like grounds.

In the moon light he thought he saw the ghosts of little old fishermen hopping about preparing tackle. Starting to sweat, it dawned on Alan that he was halluncinating badly, in his drunkeness. A shape materialised in the torch light, staring with red eyes.

Alan swept the torch around, thoroughly shaken. Wallabies, not imaginary dwarfs, they were only wallabies! He laughed in relief. About fifteen of them lolloped away to be swallowed up by the night.

Alert now, Alan flicked off the torch and listened to the haunting cry of the Morepork, bidding him to enter the deep silence of the bush. He padded softly over the dappled road, so as not to disturb the brilliance of millions of glow worms that starred in the trees.

Further along several silver and black bundles of fur suddenly gambolled about on the road, before disappearing again. He heard the alien rattle of those possums.

Alan felt at peace with the world, all the petty problems of the day having dissipated. He walked on and on enjoying the isolation and the freedom from stress; freedom from the drunken idiocy of others over whose lives he had no real control.

Part 2

When all the colours of the metal lines were out, speed was reduced again and the men settled down in the quietude to work their spoons near the lake bottom. Ernie wondered idly if at that point the volcanic lake was less than 100 metres in depth. He tapped the skeg of home brew and passed a handle to Alan.

Apart from the gentle putt-putt of the motor, the only other sound was the slap and tickle of the water against the sides of the boat. Warmed and relaxed in the bright sunlight, Ernie gazed into the clear water. He remarked on the amazing sight of a shoal of translucent jelly-fish wobbling in a multi-dimensional game of chess.

"Hey, watch your line," warned Alan. So Ernie side-strained his rod and contemplated more distant waters, where diamonds danced in glittering encores.

Ernie began nodding off pleasantly when all of a sudden he felt a drag on the line. A trout had taken his bait and was skulking on the bottom. At about the same time, Alan said he thought he had a strike, but shrugged; maybe it was just New Zealand again.

Alan was arcing his rod upward, releasing and repeating the backward sweep.

"Mine's still there," panted Ernie.

Alan gave an enthusiastic rejoinder, "So's mine. And it's a biggy!" Both men fell speechless, sensing success.

"Oh no, my fish is swimming across your line!" moaned Ernie. Suddenly the worst possible scenario occurred. Into view came the two lines knotted together, colour after colour.

"Some bloody dumb fisherman you are, sleeping on the job!" scolded Alan, feeling harassed and disillusioned with his so called fishing buddy.

Ernie ducked apologetically, "Sorry." He watched miserably as Alan proceeded to haul in the lines. Neither of them had noticed that Calypso was moving slowly round in a tight circle until Alan looked up startled, into the curious face of another boatie.

"Everything okay, mate?" he smirked, as Ernie grabbed the tiller and cut the motor.

"Sure, fine," grumbled Alan, giving a thumbs up. He turned his back to discourage further conversation. After cutting their lures free, Alan cut out a tangle of line that bunched up into a large ball. "Don't you dare say a word about this to anyone, do you hear!"

"Hell no Alan," Ernie protested. "But they'll know as soon as we return the rods."

"Bullshit! They've got so many strung up along the wall, they'll never notice. Let's go in; I'm pissed off with this dingy." Ernie felt grateful that the blame was being shifted from him. Alan centred himself with more aplomb and off they set.

After a leisurely trip of 40 minutes or so, they crept into the coarse pumice sands of Okataina cove. Together they hauled up the boat, remembering that some twenty years previously they had witnessed a flood following a subterranean disturbance. Those were the days when there had been a fleet of boats ranging from dingys to large overnight launches, all for hire at the landing.

Alan and Ernie were only too happy that the operation had been scaled down and no one was about to witness their degradation.

To be continued...

Part 1
New Zealanders are amongst the most successful trout fishers in the world - and Alan Stoutenburg was no exception, especially when it came to trolling for trout. He believed himself to be infallible; anyone able to hook the cunning brown trout with live bait from the Manawatu River near the runoff from the city sewage plant, was a 'cinch' for landing huge rainbow trout in Lake Okataina. Alan was that forever optimist, an ace angler.

His garden was well dug over in the quest for worms. A scorched earth policy rendered it tidy; few weeds survived, let alone plants. Alan would dig deep and then break up the clods of soil, elongating pink, multi-ringed worms, as he withdrew them mid exclamations of triumph. When his ice cream container was full of writhing bait and firmly lidded, he would caper around the lawn emitting crazy 'he-haw' noises.

Alan was of medium height and powerfully built with blonde hair, fair skin and shrewd blue eyes. He commanded respect but also amusement, when he donned an absurd thick-felted hat, his conversation piece.

Alan knew that he was an expert trout fisherman because he was a cross between a fish and a line! He was Pisces the Fishes, and his bottom line was the Truth. He always told the truth if a lie would not suffice.

Ernie Crutch, his fishing mate endured endless teasing from Alan. Crutch was an appropriate name because he was supporter, ducking to avoid Alan's sarcasm, yet always there as a scapegoat. Ernie was tall and skinny but wiry, with a sun-browned face, observant brown eyes and a cynical mouth. He was also a pessimist with a deep distrust of women, a misogynist, for whom chain-smoking was a defence mechanism - for warding off women. However, one of his more endearing qualities was his knowledge of rainbow trout fishing.

- - - - - - - -

Calypso, the 2.5 metre long dinghy with its two-stroke outboard motor, was dangerously tilted because Alan would sit far over on one side while insisting that Ernie perch on the bow. Then placing polaroids on his nose, he would step from one side to the other, trout-spotting in the unfathomable depths. Ernie would cling on frantically so as not to be jettisoned into the lake.

During that time the two lead lines were zinging out across the waters of Lake Okataina, the ratchets off and clutches loosened.

"Stop when you've reached fourteen colours," called Alan. "No trout are rising so I guess they'll be at the bottom. Must be hell of deep!" he added.

The sky was leaden and the wind indifferent, alternately buffetting Ernie and then flattening the hillocks and gullies into oily ripples. Ernie said nothing but tightened the controls on his reel after twelve colours, because they were still close in shore within full sight of curious Okataina tourists.

Suddenly the boat yawed. "Quick! Wind in your line!" gasped Alan. "I've had a strike." He pushed the throttle to dead slow. Ernie slackened off the drag and reeled in, keeping an anxious eye on Alan who was almost break-dancing in his ecstasy.

Backwards, Alan whipped the rod, which arced in half. Then he released it and repeated the manoeuvre half a dozen times. "Let it run! Let it run!" urged Ernie, not too loudly in case the trout heard and decided deliberately to entangle Alan's line.

Meanwhile Calypso was chugging determinedly towards a sheer, fern-fringed, sandstone cliff. Gingerly Ernie negotiated Alan's spastic legs and grabbed the tiller.

"Bloody fool! yelled Alan. "You've made me lose the fish," he growled angrily, still reeling in, unaware that a great cliff was looming.

At last Alan's nylon trace appeared, dragging in a long, verdant wig.

"Huh! You've caught New Zealand," guffawed Ernie, doubling up in mirth.

"Okay, smart arse; you stay down aft and I'll sit up front." The boat rocked wildly and then righted itself. But the propellor was churning air, not water.

After Alan had relocated to the centre, Ernie hugged the shore, waiting for
him to denude his 'spoon' of green hair.

What a perfect day for fishing, he mused; the phase of the moon in the 'making', an overcast sky with a ruffling of waters and not too cold. Perhaps he could persuade Alan to follow the contour line while trolling with the spinner near the lake bottom.

Alan would have none of it. He sulkily picked through the lures, choosing a gaudy orange 'cobra'. "What you have in common with a trout, is that you're both thick," he sneered.

Ernie's face twitched. He looked at Alan's massive shoulders and decided against making any personal comments. Currently lonely, he felt that it was better to be ridiculed than to be rejected.

When Alan took over the tiller again, tension eased. Alan grinned, ceasing to squint at Ernie as though he was an ugly weta.

As they ploughed towards the centre of the lake, Ernie consoled himself with the thought that after all, they were on holiday, and he wasn't pledged to catching a fish at all costs; not like Alan.

Ernie slid off the bow and splashed into water on the floor of the boat, the smash and spray of the bow-wave having proved too much.

"Ha, ha! you've wet your pants, you dirty old man!" ridiculed Alan. Grinning broadly he eased the throttle and the boat began to wallow, plunging up and down. Every time Ernie delved with the cutaway plastic bottle to bail out, the water surged away. Alan sat there stolidly, enjoying the spectacle of Ernie scrabbling around like a huge, disjointed stick insect.

Eventually the wind died down, the sun shone and the short, steep sea subsided. Ernie sat on the bow seat ready to pay out his line. They throttled forward, Alan's bulk causing the boat to list at a 30 degree angle.

To be continued:-

In March this year my partner and I loaded up the 4-wheel drive, attached the camper and then travelled for several hours to Colville in northern Coromandel (NZ). It was a perfect weekend in terms of the weather, scenery and action. Narrow coastal roads clung to cliffs, opening out into picnic areas in sandy bays with reflective blue waters.

John assisted as a marshall and a first aid official for the mountain bike races while I was merely a gopher - (go-pher this and go-pher that.)

By Friday afternoon hundreds of mountain bikers had set up camp in a paddock amongst the cowpats. We officials used a back-packers' hostel as headquarters for meetings, meals and social intercourse.

On Friday I helped John with sign-posting mountain tracks for the Saturday mountain bike races. We condemned one farm track that was so steep we nearly shredded our hands by crawling up jagged, broken rocks. The only hand-holds were sparse, prickly gorse bushes. Cyclists tyres and knees would have been slashed.

Across the road, set back in trees nestled a dilapidated old house, obviously a popular hang-out for locals, judging by the number of cars parked in the drive-way. 'Happy hour' reached a crescendo by 3:00 every morning. Drugged and drunken revellers roared and warbled to irregular thumping of drums and tuneless strumming of guitars. This set off the dozen or so farm dogs that joined in, howling and barking. Not to be outdone, cattle beasts in adjoining paddocks bellowed throughout. Then just as we were dozing off at about 5.00am the bells of a nearby Buddhist community ensured sleep was out of the question.