It's a Bit Rugged, Mate by Al Lester

Author:Al Lester [Lester, ‘Big Al’]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781743486641
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand
Published: 2013-04-08T00:00:00+00:00

Big Man, Small Boat

Isn’t it strange how life takes all sorts of unexpected twists and turns? One moment everything’s on track and a man’s as happy as a happy thing, then voilà, your car blows up, your house burns down or some other bastard gets the promotion you thought was yours. Occasionally, however, these twists change for the better the direction a bloke takes in life.

I was pondering the above as I stood on the deck of the Aurora watching the northern shores of Stewart Island slip by and an albatross glide effortlessly beside the boat. We were heading to Port Pegasus, at the southern end of the island, and I had five new mates on board with me.

It all began when a non-hunting cobber of mine asked if I’d like to go on a hunting trip to Stewart Island. ‘It won’t cost you much, as the trip’s being sponsored,’ he declared. ‘My mate asked me if I’d like to go but a week in the scrub doesn’t do it for me.’

Given my current financial position, the prospect of a cheap hunting trip was indeed music to my ears. I was on the telephone straight away to secure the spot. The man I spoke with, Clint, had a deep, guttural-sounding voice, and I picked immediately that he was a large and probably obese man. Putting this aside, he was keen for me to come along, and we arranged to meet at a local pub later that afternoon.

I arrived early. There were only two people in the bar, one of them being the barman, Jeff, the other a short, thin chap. I joined them while I waited. The topic of conversation was the selection of the All Blacks for the upcoming first World Cup of rugby. As always, we all had strong opinions on the matter. For the life of me I can’t figure out why the selectors don’t just come down to my local and take advice from us knowledgeable rugby enthusiasts.

We had been yarning for a while and I was beginning to think that this Clint joker wasn’t going to front when the wee chap thrust out his hand and said, ‘Name’s Clint. You must be Al.’

Holy shit! That caught me by surprise, but I did my best to pretend that it didn’t. The telephone voice didn’t match the man standing before me at all. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even noticed the similarity of this bloke’s voice as we spoke. I was busy looking for the fat man.

Clint was, as I have said, a shortish, thin man who was in his early forties. He had an easy-going, jovial manner and seemed to have a strong liking for beer. I decided straight away that he was a good sort. By a strange coincidence Clint lived a mere two hundred metres from my home, but I had never clapped eyes on him before.

It turned out that several others had also pulled out of the trip so Clint asked if I knew anyone else who might be interested in coming along.

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