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.

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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:-