LIKE MAGIC Savs
I’m sitting on the tailgate of my truck staring vacantly ahead and contemplating the day. Bags, rod tubes and coolers surround me in an arc of disorganisation. I’ll only use a fraction of what I so hastily packed. I don’t mind, even the pretence of preparedness sits just fine with me.
like considerably longer than it actually is and still the whole process feels natural, familiar and, given the times, almost reassuring.
From the street below I hear the sound of a motor decelerating and I slide down onto my feet. The street lights go out just as The Super model roars up to my gate, all headlights and familiar smiles. We’ve been doing this for years now and neither he nor I are ever late. It’s this sort of unspoken commitment that keeps the wheels of friendship running freely.
It’ll take you half a lifetime to realise it but there’s a sense of ritual that insidiously creeps its way into most of what you do. You’re surprised to experience a vague sense of comfort from this. The innate value of ritual is difficult to describe, although we all recognise it. It is the natural result of something done repeatedly and is quite distinct from ceremony. You don’t have time for the self-important, unnaturally showy displays of ceremony. Ceremonies require planning. You abhor planning. Rituals just are.
We no longer discuss in any real sense anymore what time we’ll leave. The terms of our accord were forged through habit and it has held fast. ’Early’ is five-thirty, ‘not too early’ is six and ‘we’re in no rush’ is six-thirty. It’s still within the first few weeks of the season and with the river running low large areas of it will not hold fish or will be impractical to approach. We’ll only fish parts of our beats today.
Simple activities, like the order in which you slip into your boots or assemble segments of your rod, all have, when done properly and often enough, a ritual quality about them. Patting the pockets of my vest and mumbling “flies, tippet, floatant, net” before I turn my attention towards the water has for years been like a mantra to me. Disrupt his ritual and even the most confident angler will experience a spark of disorientation.
It’s a little after not too early and just as we’re transferring the last of my gear into Supermodel’s new SUV The Artisan pulls in. We feign irritation and give him hell for his tardiness. He plays along, remonstrating unconvincingly. To be fair he’s barely minutes late, but it needs to be done.
This is to be my second outing on a river this season. The first was a fortnight ago when I fished alone on a stretch that I don’t fish much but that I know can be productive in early spring. It has a series of long, deep pools separated by mixed riffle water. I fish it with a light nymph under a buoyant dropper and, if all else fails, which it often can, a small streamer can be bumped along through the pools with a reasonable expectation of success.
Pulling up for fuel at the regular stop Supermodel tops off his tank while we get coffee. We haven’t done this for what feels www.saflyfishingmag.co.za
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