HOW TO GO FISHING 2

The overdue sequel to the story; HOW TO GO FISHING 1

The Preface.

HTGF1 was the first post I ever made on this blog. It was a story which because of the Instagram caption character limit, didn't have a home. 

Hence Corner Stories was born. A way I could give mates a means to engage with what I was making without putting it too in their face. 

Originally it was just called MQN8R so that I could publish whatever felt like me. But I decided it needed its own identity, as I wanted others to use the functionality to share their inner monologue and photographic perspective. I want your stories, not boring photos of you on holiday.

With that out of the way enjoy HTGF2; a few stories from summer folded into each other.

HOW TO GO FISHING 2

Finally we made a real effort to get out on the tinnie. A year or two had passed since the original failures and so it only made sense to have another crack. 

Even if that crack was the sound of a can of fourX while one of us would frivolously tug the rip cord as if something had changed and it was going to start. 

Our first real mission went about as you'd expect. 

Austin and I trekked down the coast to retrieve the war ship from its slumber. Big thanks to Daniel for housing our wonderful bad decision. Tis the generosity of mates that continues to keep operations afloat. For me personally this was a big moment, I was going to tow my (third of a) boat behind the back of my own Australian made car. I tried to explain this nonsense to Aus, "We're probably the last generation that can do this, that can afford to do this."

I have an irrational fear of bureaucracy. I fear that with a change of the rules and laws the cost of entry to a culture can become unobtainable for most. And so we pulled over to admire the moment.

The dodgy American Johnno, mounted to the slowly sinking alloy beer can, strapped to the homemade vin swapped leaf springs, rigged up to my hunk'o'shit billion dollar baby. I was proud. 

I thought of the old couple I bought the ute off. Dad drove me to the Golden Grove police station were I signed some papers, dinged my bank account and burned home in my first utility.

Summer in Australia belongs to the coast. When I was seventeen my cousin took me out on his tinnie. We cruised down from Lady Bay catching squid and a sun burn. Dropping anchor at Second Valley surrounded by people swimming, jumping, better boats, yachts, heads drinking champagne, it was a scene that got me. It was that scene that Tom sold me when I answered his phone call during work and committed to one of the greatest bad ideas yet. I remember what he sounded like on the phone, the sound of possibility. It was the same sound he had when he told me to send it through at Seacliff where I inevitably and immediately bogged the commie.

Fortunately Ethos was able to pull me out but with the tyre pressures so low I rolled one of the rears of the wheel and had to throw on the spare. Whatever masculinity I was clutching onto was pretty quickly taken from me as a group of lads drove past and let me know I 'Can't park there!'

Next came that moment we seemed to constantly run into. Boat off the trailer, someone waist deep holding it while someone else desperately pray-pull-starts the degenerate 3.3 half runner. But when it fires up it makes a noise that triggers the same part of your brain that hitting the major on a equally degenerate machine makes. Bliss.

Tom, Ethos, Aus & I climbed into the sinking ship, both fig-and-legit. The motor puts out sweet fuck all powa as three and a half heavy units plus some fourX and all the shit the coppers told us we didn't have in HTGF1, plow ocean at max throttle. 

With shit eating grins we pat each others backs celebrating as we were essentially pissing about aimlessly. And yet this is what its all about. I don't think we even brought rods. Eventually the motor did that overheating thing followed by no-start. It was around about this time Tom and I clued into how much water we had been taking on. I rationalised our inability to plane the boat was us, but it was clear something wasn't quite right. Out came the oars as we retreated away from Brighton Jetty. Aus and Ethos rowed. Tom fiddled with the tiller. I drank our gold. Eventually Tom work'd the Italian tune up and we sunk our way back to the trailer. At some stage someone had been a bit careless and cracked the front of the tinnie open a tad.

Days later Aus & I cleaned out the boat, JB weld plugged it, tried to refresh the motor, new spark-plug, cleaned carby etc. I was ready to do some actual fishing. And so I harnessed that Tom sound to sell my brother Archie to come fishing with me. We borrowed our brother Myles's car - which had been written off my a drink driver and repaired by a collection of mates & myself. Launching the boat would be a decent test of my rather hopeless mechanical ability.

The car didn't get bogged.

The tinnie didn't sink.

The boat still barely ran.

We darted around Marino having a go.

There is less to tell here except for one moment. As Arch had a flick and I tried to get the thing started again a much nicer boat pulled up about 25 metres from where we were drifting into shore. This boat dwarfed ours, and floated a small group. They were clearly bored and looking for some form of entertainment. One of the chicks aboard asked the bloke;

"Do people actually catch any fish here?"

"No." he responded. 

Not 'nah'. Not 'less since algae bloom' just a straight no. 

The conversation in earshot felt targeted, but in that moment Arch was on and reelin in. Never have I been so pumped in my life to see someone pull in an absolute shitbird of a fish. As if that wasn't enough I got the fucking thing running. We'd won by a point, didn't kick it through the middle but didn't have to. We'd won.

I took that win as cause and decided the Johnson had (poorly) run its course. The next stage of motor boatin would need a few more seahorses. So one weekend when Tom was working out that way he brought back a Mercury his Grandpa had given him before he passed away. Tom and Ethos had made an attempt at tryna get the thing goin one Yorkes trip to no avail. Left with me at the shed and I gave it my best to work out where the trip up was and managed to make the thing run. Exciting times. From there the boat sat at my grandparents waiting for the right occasion. Tom kept sending me beach cam screenshots of Seacliff. And so one warm rainy afternoon I looked at his message and decided this was it. I grabbed the bottle of wine that had been sitting on my shelf for years waiting for this moment.

A storm was coming, everyone was making tracks towards the mid coast. At the beach there was near no one.

Car didn't get bogged.

Boat didn't sink.

Motor ran. 

A successful launch we were flying, and I mean flying. By no means is the setup quick but compared to what we knew, with such little weight, brewing clouds reflected in the water, the slight falling spit it was  euphoria as we were gliding away from shore

The calm before the storm. A few kilometres in and the impeller exploded and the merc overheated. And just like that we were back to oars. So we drank and smoked and felt young and alive.

The fog began to set in and our mortality was remembered. Tom rowed us in while I got properly pissed. As we emerged from nowhere the surf life saving club came over to ask if we were okay, but we just giggled and told em we were aight. Sitting on the balcony at the hotel we watched what coulda been. 

Sticking together will save a sinking ship. 

The truth isn't new.

Life's short.

#fishon