You Know What To Do

Tomorrow will be the day. I won’t sleep well. I’ll be a bloody grump because of it. Still, people much worse off than me. Bout of shit sleep never hurt no one. Shouldn’t complain. I’ll get to check the forecast on ZB early though so that’ll be something.

Steve’ll pick me up at 6:30am. He’ll call from his truck twice that I’m a ‘plonker’ and then blast the horn if he thinks I take too long to get out the door. God forbid I do. Pauline’ll just about have bloody heart failure. He knows better with our Pauline, does Steve. But he likes giving her the shits. Reckons waking her up at that time of the morning will knock some sense into her and she’ll join us. Not bloody likely.

Yup, despite not getting enough sleep I’ll be ready to get that big‘un. Steve and I will catch up on the week. He’ll tell me about his flash job in town doing some shit in finance, or accounting, or both, or something. I’ll let him know that I still don’t have a bloody clue as to what he does with his time but he must be good at it because it’s all he bloody does. That and fishing. And chasing skirt. Work, perks and skirts, that’ll be how he’ll describe it. He’ll pretty much explain everything he’s done or about to do using words like ‘closing this deal’, ‘sign off’, and ‘circle back’ which I won’t understand and I won’t care about. He’ll even ask me about my week. Probably. Not necessarily. If he does I’ll have to tell him about the rounds of golf and my new found love of crosswords. Which’ll be bollocks. I’ll tell him ‘If someone had told me 25 years ago that I’d be living here struggling over bloody crosswords, well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather, yet here I am’ and he’ll laugh because he couldn’t think of many things worse.

The journey will take us about 40 odd minutes at that hour of the morning. Just over the headland and down to the marina. Steve’ll have the boat already set up by the time he gets to mine. One of them morning people. He’ll call himself a ‘lark’ and I’ll call him a ‘tosser’. He may even talk about our different life choices. He may even bring up that I’m ‘just’ retired and he’s a finance lawyer, or a bank manager, or whatever. And I’ll remind him that despite not making as much money as him, I worked damn hard for nearly 50 years as a small business owner; I’m still with the same girl I fell in love with at 19; and that I’m not paying support for three bloody kids. He’ll reply with a cheeky smile and say ‘we fishing, or what?’ I’ll need to get one more knock in so I’ll go on to remind him that even though he makes a shit load more than I ever did he’s as tight as a duck’s arse. He’ll reply with ‘so what’ and I’ll remind him of how he would never pay for the marina fees even though the amount he pays in launching costs week after week would’ve probably added up to the mooring fees a couple of times over. I’ll have him on that it’s just his new missus that stops him spending on that sort of thing. Let him know that she’ll be thinking that if he has the boat moored then he’ll spend more time on the water, with me, and less time going to exotic places, with her. That’ll remind us we should invite the girls again. It’s been, what, like a month since last time?  If we keep inviting the girls to come along and they don’t, then it’s not really our fault when we go and they don’t. Stuff ‘em. My missus ain’t such a big fan of Steve’s new bird anyway. ‘Yeah, stuff ‘em’, Steve’ll say and then we’ll laugh because neither of us would ever say that to our girls. We’ll decide then that it’s probably best we leave them to them on shore when that bloody fish hooks up anyway.

I’ll have baited up my rod before I hit the boat so I waste no time getting it down half a click as always. By this stage it’ll be after seven so we’ll have a good 20 minutes to motor out to the spot. Bloody thing’ll probably out there already, waiting for us. Between 7:45 and 8:30 it’ll happen. Couple of bites at first. Then wham! Strike! Same routine every time. Blasted thing won’t hook up though. Not yet. 

‘Too cunning’, I’ll say. 

Steve’ll agree. 

‘All that blighter does is take my bait.’ I’ll complain.

Steve’ll agree. 

‘Starting to cost me more in bait than it would be to go to the fishers and get a nice hunk of cod or something.’

Steve’ll make some smartarse remark about the bait I’m using. I’ll remind him that I have used squid since Adam was a boy, and I’ll add that I haven’t seen his line moving a bloody inch so why doesn’t he just shut his pie hole. 

He won’t, though. He hasn’t kept that thing shut for years and it’s both made him a shit tonne of cash and a shit tonne of legal fees. I’ll tell him if he could keep it shut once in a while he would have a lot more money. He’ll say he wouldn’t have made it though. Fair play.

I wonder who Steve’ll talk about this week. He’ll bring one of the school lads up about an hour into the wait for the second strike. He’ll use their nickname too so I’ll have to have a real think about who the hell he is talking about. He’ll say a name like ‘Dezza’ or ‘Watzy’ or ‘white Dave’ or ‘Māori Dave’ and then I’ll have a think and then say something like ‘oh shit, what’s he up to these days?’ and Steve’ll rattle off some back story about what they’re up to. How the hell he keeps these stories in his brain is beyond me.

I’ll ask him about ol’ mate Jimmy Parata who Steve brought up a few months back. He’ll probably just shake his head about how the recovery from his accident is going. It’s only been a short time. I’ll talk about how all these old boys seem to be getting frail and Steve’ll agree. I’ll suggest that means we are getting old too. Steve’ll say, ‘probably’. 

He’ll ask me about my retirement again, too. He may even use the opportunity to give me some of his ‘famous’ investment advice. He’ll remind me of the tip to invest in Google in the early 2000s and how I didn’t listen to him then. I didn’t then and I will not start now. I’ll remind him of the amount he lost in ‘09 and he’ll tell me it was nothing more than a rounding era. I’ll remind him that I’m the only one who knows the actual figure he lost and he’ll say, ‘oh, that’s right’. 

But then I’ll smack him on the arm and tell him I’m just putting the shits up him. But I’ll remind him that, unlike him, not everyone has money to just throw around in some company they’ve never heard of with some rich prick who’ll screw you over as quick as look at ya. 

‘Nah’, I’ll tell him. ‘Not for me’. 

And that’ll be it. For that week at least. I might add that I was happy as with the bank just to wind him up and he’ll throw his head back and laugh. He’ll then talk at me like I’m a kid and he’s the teacher and he has some pearls of bloody wisdom to pass on to me. Something about inflation. Interest rates. Bollocks. I won’t listen though. I’ll just nod in his direction every now and again and look for that little bugger beneath the waves.

But one thing I am sure of is that Steve’s a bloody top bloke. Steve’ll always pick up when it’s my number. The number of times he’ll answer the phone when in a meeting, or on a conference call, or even when he’s bloody flying. He’ll say something like ‘oh hey bro, you good?’ and then I’ll talk for an age until he waits for a pause in the conversation and then tell me he’s doing a board report, or a job interview and I’ll swear and tell him he doesn’t need to answer the phone every time and he’ll say, ‘yeah, I do’. 

Steve’ll always do that for me.

I've decided that tomorrow I’m going to beat him to the chase on joke telling. I went to find some camo pants, but I couldn’t find any. He’ll get a kick outta that. It’s the sort of joke he’ll rattle off without thinking. Bastard. I need to really concentrate and learn it down pat. No doubt he’ll remind me that I am a shit joke teller after that and we’ll both laugh because, well, he’s not wrong.

I’ll get out a beer then and say ‘it’s knock off time somewhere in the world’ and laugh. He’ll ask what I have in the chilly and I’ll tell him ‘the same as every other week, ya stupid git’. He’ll tell me it’s not as good as the craft beer he bought in town last week. Actually he’ll tell me it’s ‘cat piss’ and I’ll tell him it has exactly the same shit in it and his poncy bloody brand so why would you pay double the price? He won’t respond to that.

We’ll try to work out how long we have known each other for. ‘Too long’, Steve’ll say. ‘And still no fish.’ And we’ll both laugh.

You can bet your bottom bloody dollar that the minute I take a sip of that beer, that pest of an animal will come back and he’ll hit the line hard. It’ll be like it’s watching me, waiting for me to be vulnerable with a beer in hand. The reel will squeal and the beer’ll go flying across the bench seat. Possibly over the side. That’ll piss me right off. I’ll yell at him to grab the reel while I’ll put on the harness to catch this mother-of-a-thing. He’ll be all over it like a cat on a mouse.

Then the yelling’ll start. 

I’ll get angry because he’ll let the clutch go too much. He’ll tell me I’m full of shit and to let him do it. Between us we’ll bicker until one of us does something stupid and the friggin’ line’ll break. 

Then the blaming’ll start.

He’ll tell me I don’t know shit about fishing. I’ll tell him that ‘I actually do’, mainly because I’m not very good at having a damn great row in the heat of the moment. 

Then I’ll take the rod off him and we’ll both sit and bring the line on, leaving the ratchet on. Each click will remind us of how close we got.

I’ll mumble that he let the catch of the bloody day slip away. He’ll mutter that if I wasn’t so precious about every-bloody-thing he could have concentrated better.

‘Dick’, I’ll say.

‘Arsehole’, he’ll reply.

And we’ll be right as rain again.

When the hook comes up he’ll take great pleasure in noting that the fish got off and that he didn’t actually mess it up like I suggested he did.

On the trip back we’ll talk about the weather packing up and pick whether it’ll be worth going out next week. Which, of course, it will.

That little shit isn’t gonna get the best of us. Our Pauline won’t even ask if we caught anything. She’ll just smile and say ‘did you boys have a good time?’ And I’ll kiss her on the cheek and say ‘cheers, love’ to the cup of coffee she’ll be holding for me.

‘We’ll get it next time’, I’ll say between sips.

‘I’m sure you will, hun. I’m sure you will’. And she’ll start whistling as she turns back to the house and the dust from Steve’s truck and boat trailer settles softly back to the ground.

Yes. Tomorrow will be quite the day.