Unable to hook up with fishing

A bloke I golf with tells me he suffers a rare affliction called barracouta finger. It throbs at night, gives him hell on cold mornings, and has caused a deformity near his knuckle. I’ve heard of housemaid’s knee, club foot, and the tinea toe. But barracouta finger?

"Poor fellow. How’d you get it?" I asked.

Mournfully, he held up a crocked digit for me to examine.

"I stuck it down a barracouta’s throat."

I stared at him in disbelief. And then, I’m afraid, I giggled.

"I only wanted my fish-hook back," he explained.

"The sod bit me."

There are mad fishermen and madder fishermen, and my friend Shaun McCann would cheerfully agree he is one of the latter. He’s fished everywhere, and got his barracouta finger somewhere off the coast of Madagascar. Or perhaps it was Mozambique — it matters little. The fact remains that if universities did their job, and taught fishing instead of PhDs in victimhood, Sean would have numerous honorary doctorates, and be given even funnier hats into which he could pin his flies.

Recently, he invited me on an expedition to the Tongariro River, where’s he’s a partner in a famed fly fishing lodge. The likes of Zane Grey, the Queen Mother and President Carter have waded forth from its historic doors to pester the trout of Taupo. This invite seemed nice, but there was a large problem. I’d look like a jerk, because my fishing skills still haven’t progressed far past the "hopeful line dangler" category.  I’ve never cast a fly, and it looks a complicated art.

"Not a problem, I’ll teach you to cast," enthused Shaun.

"We’ll try the Arrow River, then launch a few into the pond by the fourth green at Millbrook. Bring your gumboots."

I started with another L-plates mate  on a river bend. Shaun had a rod, reel, and a hookless beginners’ fly made of lime green rubber.

"Like this," he said, demonstrating a pendulum motion that sent the fly dancing back and forth, as it tracked a flight path from somewhere behind his right ear, to a distance  30m out on the river.

I’ve blundered through life long enough to understand that when a master makes something look easy, you count on it being difficult. I started poorly, but when the wind came up and we moved to the quieter pond, I made better progress.

But still, when I flicked back the pesky beginner’s fly, it kept colliding with my hat, my nose, or my spectacles. With a hook this would be lethal — in no time I’d be feeding trout with eyeballs and tartan tam-o’-shanters.

"You’re going well, you’ve got a sportsman’s rhythm," Shaun lied. 

His optimism took me back to another of my failed blood sport lessons — learning the science of spear throwing. My brother was 10, I was 7, and the context was Cowboys and Indians. (Do kids still play this?)

We’d made bamboo spears, and his idea was we’d practise by narrowly missing human targets.

"Sit cross-legged on the ground like a squaw," he directed. 

"I’m the Indian — so I charge past and throw the spear into the ground between your legs. Don’t move."

The target he marked between my legs, seemed small.

"Nah, you’ll be fine.  Chief Geronimo never misses," my trusted big brother assured me.

He took his position.

"Walla, walla, walla," he yelled.

"Waaaah!"

Brandishing his weapon, he charged into a gallop, and swooped past, hurling the spear into the ground.

"Die, Yellowhair!"

Actually, Chief Geronimo nearly hit his mark on the lawn, but he wasn’t quite good enough. His spear brushed my quivering Junior Cods, and gouged into my thigh. Thirty years later, with the mark still visible when I went swimming, I was asked: "How’d you get that scar?"

"Combat wound," I grunted.

"Really, I didn’t know you’d served. Was it Vietnam?"

"Nope. Remember the Indian Wars? I took a spear. Damn Apaches."

Look, I missed the fly fishing trip and the chance to drown wearing luxury waders — I ended up with a surgeon’s appointment instead. I think Shaun believed this a very lame excuse.

- John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.