The Maketu horizon is a ruby crease. The tide creeps to our feet and the gulls are beginning to call high above the beachside fish shop. Dad’s eyes slide away from the horizon. The clouds are dark and high. The sea roars.
We reach ‘The Cut’, hurl our lines, and sit on the big black rocks eyeing the nylon. Hours pass and the tides climb. The air is thick and salty. The waves and gulls provide a cacophonous backdrop but my father is still silent. His face is deeply creased and his cheeks hang low. His thick brow conceals half of each eye and tatters of grey hair hang out from under his beanie.
The clouds stretch to the horizon and the air carries a light fog. The waves are strong and the sea threatens, snapping at our feet. We still sit. I look to dad but his eyes are fixed on the line. Another wave slaps. The sky cracks loudly but we stay. The clouds tear open. The rain is all over us in a second and I want to run. Another wave slaps. A light flashes near the horizon and a few moments later the sky cracks again. His face drips but he is dogged so we stay.
The rain becomes thin. The old man looks pathetic, soaked through and stubborn. The top of his rod bounces. The line is tight. He snaps to his feet and reels furiously. The rod curls as he leans back and coughs. He keeps reeling and swallows hard. He coughs again and his eyes grow wide and mad. A fish bounces and skims in the waves and he reels.
Finally, a silvery fish hangs bouncing on the line. The old man drops the rod and snatches at his chest. His eyes are still wide, and he coughs again. Down on one knee, he looks up through teary eyes. He coughs and pushes off the rocks with a huge fist. He pulls a great knife from the bin and cuts the fish across the gills. He hurls the limp fish in the bin and picks up the gear. We walk and he slaps my back hard. An excitement tears through me. With eyes wide, he wears a mad yellow grin. I now know why for a day a year we leave behind the arrogance of our gift-wrapped life; we are animals, the old man and I. Next year when I have forgotten where we came from, the old man will reel me back in.
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