I suppose it needs to be recorded up front that I regarded the members of the South Coast Fly-Fishing Club as being highly skilled and experienced in the art of fly-fishing and it was with this certain knowledge that I looked forward to our mid-winter weekend excursion to the Underberg.
The group rendezvoused just before six bells on a Friday at Paddock in southern Kwah-zoo-loo Nah-tahl and headed in two vehicles for our destination.
Neil took the lead on the basis that he ‘knew where Banchory was’. Stan and our indubitable chairman, John, rode with him.
I followed with Sakkie, packed to the hilt with supplies, including his pap (mielie meal porridge) pot and spinach.
We need to turn left here, Sakkie said a couple of hours later, as we watched Neil’s blue Triton fly past the entrance and off into the distance.
The scene was idyllic. The large dam lies among rolling hills on the Banchory Farm. Herds of dairy cows grazed in the fields, while a hundred red-knobbed coots noisily chased each other from one side of the dam to the other. The road to the cottage is not suitable for all cars and we silently gave thanks that we were driving off-road vehicles.
We were unpacked in no time and the manne (men) got stuck into assembling their kick boats. Neil and Sakkie had generously offered to lend me a kick boat and flippers so that I may be properly introduced to the world of professional trout fishing from a waterside perspective, and I soon had my kit ready to launch.
By ten we were all on the water and I settled down in expectation of my first catch. Clear skies and silence, broken only by the clukuk of the coots and the gentle sound of the water lapping on the sides of the pontoons.
Just before lunch, this tranquil scene was shattered by Stan suddenly shouting in a frenzy. I turned to see his rod bent and bouncing in his arm held high. I got it! I got it! he cried out. It’s a mother! This was followed by, Fuck, have you seen this thing! Much more of the same echoed through the hills.
I watched in awe as he battled his fish to the boat and swept it into his skep net. I kicked my way towards him. Four-point-one kilos, he shouted out, proud as punch. It’s the biggest fish I have ever caught.
Shortly after that Sakkie’s rod dipped sharply and for a brief moment I thought he would be in, only to watch the ‘mother’ break loose and swim away. It was the start of an amazing weekend.
Much later we all returned to the cottage where Neil regaled us with his story of a catch weighing in at 4.3 kilos within an hour of Stan’s magnificent landing.
Problem was, he said, there was no one to witness it, before pulling out his phone to show us a selfie of another massive trout that was too big for his net.
The same afternoon we launched again, but by this time a gentle breeze was blowing from the east toward the dam wall where all of the big fish seemed to congregate. The team decided to rig Sakkie’s kick boat out with an outboard motor and following lot of debate and exchange of ideas, the boys went about securing the battery and getting him afloat. It was at this point in time, as I intentionally refrained from offering any opinion, that the first indications that my mentors may not necessarily have the level of skill and experience I thought they had, started to appear.
Sakkie had just launched his boat when he swivelled himself around, dropped his propeller shaft into the water and turned the accelerator handle. Nothing happened. What the fuck! he exclaimed.
Just adjust the catch higher, shouted John over the wind.
What? shouted Sakkie, as he drifted further away. The catch on the shaft, replied John. Loosen it and move it up so that when you drop the prop it will go down below the water.
Fuck! was all we could hear as Sakkie slipped and slid from left to right as he battled to gain control. Eventually Sakkie kicked the boat back to the launch site where he was able to make the necessary adjustments and once more head for the fishing waters.
I discovered that kicking a kick boat in windy weather is a ‘small’ challenge that my mentors had seemed to have forgotten to mention. It wasn’t long before I found myself swept up against the dam wall, partly exhausted from my efforts to keep abreast and largely frustrated that I wasn’t spending any amount of time actually fishing. I pulled the boat onto the grass and walked back for a cup of coffee and some rest.
No sooner had I emerged from the cottage with a steaming hot cup of coffee in hand than I noticed Sakkie had disappeared behind the weeds to my left and hadn’t come out for an inordinate amount of time. I decided to investigate.
I walked back along the shoreline in the general direction of the wall. Stan shouted to me from mid-dam that I should let him know if Sakkie had caught anything. As a rounded the bend in the shoreline I found Sakkie on his feet winding some rope from a folding grapnel anchor onto the frame of the boat. He was evidently very agitated that his anchor rope was far too long and that the anchor had been dragging. Once again, I decided that it was better not to add to his frustration by offering the advice of a novice. So, I simply stood by in moral support in case he would need a push or something. Finally, he was able to shorten his rope and get back onto the boat whereupon he pushed himself away from the side and switched on the motor.
It was then that I heard him shout out, The fucking battery is flat.
I headed back to the cottage, figuring it was the safest course of action. Looking back from the vantage of the deck and to my utter surprise, I saw Sakkie in mid-water, flying along at a rapid rate in what appeared to be hot pursuit of Stan. On closer inspection however, I noticed that the two kick boats were attached by a length of rope. Stan had poor old Sakkie in tow!
Saturday brought on a howling gale and even the intrepid masters chose to stay off the water. The cottage is equipped with two excellent hearths where we set up roaring fires and turned our attention to the stock of liquid refreshment of which there was ample variety.
By mid-afternoon we drove off in search of St Bernard’s Peak Inn, which was some twenty kilometres further on into the mountains. It was here that we watched the Stormers rugby team give the Bulls from Pretoria a surprise thrashing while we consumed a few frosties in front of another magnificent fire.
The Saturday night braai was executed in masterly fashion in the second hearth inside and by the early hours of the morning the assorted drinks were exhausted, so we hit the sack.
Sunday morning came and Stan was back on the water before sunrise with Neil and I in hot pursuit. But it wasn’t long before the wind came up and I was battling once again. We packed and departed by ten o’clock, windswept and sunburnt. A weekend of extraordinary laughs and camaraderie and two record-breaking fish to our collective name!
Tight lines everyone!