Sport at it's best

I saw him coming about a kilometer off.

It was a stinking hot afternoon yesterday, the nor-wester was howling over the Canterbury plains making everything uncomfortable and I'd been working hard and long for some time and just wanted some solitude.

The river was the colour of that bloody hot french mustard that usually goes by a (translated) name like “Firehouse”, the wind too strong to wield a fly line and spinning seemed too much like hard work in the heat.

I'd thrown some bait in my fishing truck, gone across to the north side of the river and driven up the beach a few kilometers just to be alone.

The baited line thrown in the water was more for show, the crabs demolishing the bait almost instantly whenever it hit the water but the book was good, the peace wonderful and I carried a flask of iced water for my own comfort.

He was an older man, I'd guess around 70, wandering slowly along the water edge

The tide was rising and I was parked, along with my rod, about 10 metres up the beach. When he reached my line he followed it up to the truck, informed me that it was too hot for him that afternoon, wished me tight lines and immediately started retracing his steps back along the beach.

Fifteen minutes later I looked up and he was still only half way to the next vehicle I could see far in the distance also, I assume, surfcasting.

Never claim fishing is dull.