Yesterday, it was such a beautiful day, Deane moved to take the Ngaparata (a forty foot, forty ton cement trawler), out for a bit of fishing on the bay. I declined-(my fear-hesitancy-lack of faith in weather-diesel motors-kids at sea speaking). The kids also refused to go.
They were moping around, passive-aggressively cleaning bedrooms etc.
I looked at the pile of washing (haphazard on the treadstoopidmill), the dishes (lazing around grimy on the bench), more washing on the clothesline and general mayhem of five bored kids.
I decided that we also would go 'fishing'.
Deane was happy-the kids were not.
(Me-I'd prefer to go to my studio (oops...haven't got one) and paint all day).
The kids scrap their way to the car. We drive to the boat.
Rose is already in tears, repeatedly exclaiming," oh no! I'm going to die." and, "this is it! this is my night-mare". I tried to soothe her, for she was speaking of my undercurrent feeling.
The sky was blue, the gentle southerly was barely causing a ripple so the fear was irrational.
A friend and his two kids arrived, we all clambered on and motored out.
We 'motored' as only a boat of that size will do. I call it a truck.
We anchored and started fishing, kids throwing bait-stinking lines over, reeling them in too soon, and complaining about the lack of fish. Drew caught the first spotty -to applause. It was soon cut for bait while the eight year old boy gleefully practiced fish surgery with his dads filleting knife.
Boys laugh at blood and seem to enjoy poking fish eye-balls.
The first spotty was soon followed by two more. One was returned to its mother.
Our friend then caught 'the catch of the day'- a big kahawai. It was really, really impressive. Deane showed him how to kill and fillet it.
The few hours we were out was filled with lots of fish gut, excited buzzing kids. Paloma peed her pants and ate fish smelling nutella sandwiches. Rose calmed herself enough to engage in a bit of line dangling followed by playing.
Even I may have slightly enjoyed it, but don't tell anyone.