26

Getting away from it all

Despite fierce links with the land and roots that go down at least six feet, there comes a time to consider rest and recreation, holidays and dalliances. Time out.

Sometimes farmers just have to get away from it all. Townies just don’t get it. Farming and farms, to them, is away from it all. The sumptuous landscapes, the soft lowing of cows, birdsong in the morning.

It’s all about role reversal of course. Farmers need to get off the land – away from the backbreaking labour, relentless elements, financial worries and the general ‘sameness’ of everything – to recharge their batteries. They often take to town and cities at holiday time. Ironically, as the farmers head into town, the townies in need of a holiday are heading out. Heading for the hills where recuperative physical space awaits. One man’s workplace is another man’s paradise.

But not all farmers seeking rest and recreation head for the bright lights and big smoke. Many landlocked men of the land head for the sea. Despite living close to Lake Hawea, where you might think such a large body of water would make them feel less landlocked, two sheep farmers decided to drive south to Invercargill and take the ferry across Foveaux Strait to Half-Moon Bay, Stewart Island, and a spot of fishing.

It was only a short break away from the rigours of sheep-station life. You would have thought an invigorating night or two in the pulsating rat race of Invercargill might have met their need for time out more appropriately. Yet the ferry crossing was pleasantly calm and calming, and the two farmers decided on an early night prior to the dawn departure of a fishing boat bound for blue-cod waters. The early night included the even more calming properties of Johnny Walker. One bottle was dispatched and a dent put in a second.

During the night the wind whipped up, churning Foveaux Strait into a challenging field of operations. The farmers suddenly felt that being landlocked had its appeal. The Johnny Walker repeated on them. It was bad enough being dragged out of bed before the sun was anywhere near the yardarm but, with the fishing boat heaving about at anchor, it was just a matter of which farmer would heave first. That honour went to the man from Cattle Flat Station, who punctuated the caw of gull and the slap of troubled sea on the hull with the sound of dry-retching. The majestic hills of home seemed mighty alluring right then.

Dry-retching of course is a fruitless procedure. Very little return on your investment. Meanwhile, the cod were biting, the boat yawed and the farmer from Cattle Flat Station, in a break with tradition, got a return on his dry-retching. His false teeth were ejected and plopped into the swell before bobbing out of sight. He took to his bunk overwhelmed by his poor fortune. A Johnny Walker hangover is a kick in the guts. Losing your false teeth is the act of an unkind, unforgiving God.

The farmer’s mate rubbed salt in the wound by suggesting that he was a piker. After considering for a moment that a piker might be a type of deep-south fish, and his mate’s comment less castigating than it could have been, the farmer from Cattle Flat Station sank deeper into a piteous state. He knew he’d let his mate down. Self-loathing set in. He was sea-legless, toothless and a wimp, which is not a variety of Foveaux Strait fish either, although it could at a pinch be some form of bi-valve.

Meanwhile the farmer from Dingle Burn Station hooked some big blues. He wasn’t feeling one hundred, but at least he was doing the business. Then he pulled aboard a cod with his mate’s false teeth wedged in its mouth. At about the same time his mate, feeling less close to death, emerged from the bowels. The false teeth were eased out of the cod’s mouth and handed to the ashen owner. He gave them a rinse before attempting to return them to his dry mouth. The catch of the century, a sign of a benign sea God, counted for nothing as the farmer from Cattle Flat, with a curse, removed the teeth and heaved them back into the bobbing brine. The teeth were not his. Not even close. A poor fit.

After their brief rest and recreation the farmers returned to the mainland, their hangovers clearing. The suggestion was made that, as they passed through Cromwell, they should do their civic duty and call on the local undertaker and talk to him about the rogue dentures. Perhaps the police would be interested too.

Certainly the patrons of the ‘bottom’ pub, (the mind boggled at such a reference until it was explained that the town of Cromwell had three pubs – the top, middle and bottom), would be keen to hear about their fishing expedition. As they were the time further fishing exploits on the Lindis River saw two recreational fishers come adrift.

The Lindis in Central Otago was pockmarked by deep holes. George and his young companion, seeking a short cut, used to drop half plugs of dynamite into the holes, leaving fish stunned and ripe for the plucking. Dynamite was de rigueur in those days when irrigation water races were being blasted through, so there was less clamour from locals when muffled explosions rent the air.

One day George had half a stick of dynamite in each hand, with the fuse lit on one. In a moment of absent-mindedness, he chucked the unlit stick into the waterhole while the lit one remained in his hand. The dynamite went off, knocking George off his haunches but, more dramatically, blowing off his hand. With blood geysering everywhere, he yelled to his young companion to rip some wire off a fence to help staunch the flow. The youngster returned with the wire but was so shocked by the scene of carnage that he took to the hills in a panic-stricken state.

The tale had a sad outcome. Back at the water hole in the Lindis an earlier, more successful charge had left several good sized fish prone on the surface, just waiting to be plucked. But with George busy wiring up his gushing wound and his young Boy Friday galloping willy nilly, there was no one to cash in on the bounty. Good fish wasted. Tragic.

Obviously fishing had its hazardous aspects. No point getting away from it all if your pursuit of choice leaves you minus a hand, or false teeth, and worse off than when you left the farm. Better to stick to duck shooting, another means by which farmers seeking time out could access a pleasant diversion that waited just down the road, over the ridge or out the back of a beyond that was still within spitting distance. Why fly to Coolangatta when the flight paths of mallards and muscovies provided a soothing means of forgetting the demands of mustering, mortgages and mothers-in-law?

To prove a point, a keen duck shooter was sighted up the Clutha River testing an old muzzle-loading shotgun. He was in the process of tapping home the powder wads with the old gun’s ramrod when a sudden flapping of wings overhead signalled a detachment of low-flying mallards. Being a good keen man Andy, obeying every instinct in the book and disregarding his lack of preparation, pointed the ancient gun skyward and pulled the trigger. For his troubles Andy ended up on his back but the ramrod was airborne. It ran two ducks through and climbed into the stratosphere before angling back to earth and spearing a fish lurking near the riverbank. One shot, of sorts, equalled two ducks and one fat salmon. A good return. And one slightly wrenched back, but that was a small price to pay. Andy in his mai mai was like a pig in clover.

Clarrie’s favourite duck-shooting possie was just past the local rugby grounds, on the shores of a small lake that was big enough to drive his farming blues away. Watching the rugby was relaxing too, now that Clarrie had hung up his boots and reached for the whistle. Refereeing was far more diverting than playing for the locals, who put too much emphasis on winning and subsequently lost a lot.

One Saturday while on his way home from duck shooting, Clarrie stopped off to watch the locals play. As he took up station on the sideline he was approached by a flustered club official.

‘G’day Clarrie. Are we glad to see you!’

‘Likewise Stan.’

‘Des King, our ref, has met with an accident.’

‘What happened?’

‘Pinged by a falling mallard, flush on the scone.’

‘Forgot to duck, eh?’

‘That’s right. So we need a replacement ref, Clarrie.’

‘I’m still carrying that dicky shoulder, otherwise I’d step in.’

‘It’s too late to whistle up a replacement from town.’

‘Still giving me gyp, that darn shoulder.’

‘Doesn’t stop you duck shooting though.’

‘Haven’t got my whistle – or my gear.’

‘We can jack up some togs and just use your duck-caller. That’ll do as a whistle.’

So Clarrie, put on the spot, reffed the game in a purple practice jersey, knee-length shorts and mismatched socks. The local side, trying too hard and fearful of mistakes, made a lot of mistakes. The duck-caller quacked away all afternoon, so much so that squadrons of mallards made several circuits of the park.

One thing that Clarrie noticed though was the lack of foul play. The harsh, urgent sound of the duck-caller seemed to carry more authority than a conventional referee’s whistle, and Clarrie thoroughly enjoyed the match. His shoulder was as good as gold and he arrived home feeling rested and recreated.