I got the shits, chucked a tantrum ... whaddever you want to call it. Fishing with Old Salt means strange hours, harsh conditions (wind, sun, night, scary sometimes) and not a lot of money. So being the deckie to end all deckies does not mean I have to listen to the whingeing. A boat means freedom, right? It shouldn't mean being confined within a few feet of someone who needs to get their shit off their liver.
After thirteen days and numerous bets between everyone as to the exact date I would unquit, Old Salt turned up at my house with a freshly bled salmon, and left.
That night, some friends and I ate salmon. I baked it scales on, foil wrapped, with lemons and bacon (a traditional Toa family recipe) and we peeled succulent strips of this great southern peasant food into our slavering gobs.
Well ... it's salmon season, and then it's herring season, and then it's King George whiting season. And I miss it. And computers and writing and meetings just don't cut it, compared with being out on a WineDark Sea, in a little boat, at night, stars all around and mullet jumping out of the water. Dammit. I'm an addict.