Down By The River - Chapter 17 - Mildura & the Houseboat Day 13

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Chapter 17 – Mildura & the Houseboat Day 13

It was the kind of day that starts late and stays strange. We were meant to have an early start,  the Business Blueprint “A Team meeting,” held on line. I have slept in and I missed it entirely. Frank’s mother had passed away the night before, and whatever agenda had been on the table suddenly didn’t seem urgent anymore. No one was in the mood for notes and strategyevidently as I catch up in the chat gropup apologising for my tardiness.

By the time I stirred, the others were already up. I remember the stillness of that morning. There was no need for speeches or sympathy cards, just that understanding among mates that grief comes in layers. Some things you just fish through.

So I wandered down to the back of the houseboat, rod in hand and old resentment in my back, setting myself up for what we’d quietly promised the night before: we were going to hit 200 carp. Not for glory. Not even for sport. Just for the tally. There was a strange sort of comfort in it, the repetition, the shared goal, the absurdity of counting fish like someone was keeping score.

By midday, we were in earnest. The numbers started ticking upward. The fish weren’t clever, just persistent. Like memories that don’t quite leave you alone. I found a clutch of shrimp under a submerged log, and that was enough excuse to set a third line, breaking one of our unwritten rules: “Two rods per man, unless it’s personal.” That day, it felt personal.

Lunch was coffee and a cheese platter on the grass at Trentham. Real coffee, too, evidently, not that I partake but someone had lugged an Aeropress and enough grounds to caffeinate a battalion. We sat under a threadbare sky, mugs warm in our hands, lines in the water, sun on our shoulders. None of us moved. It was too good. Too easy. A kind of lull that makes you forget how quickly it can all change.

And change it did.

A large carp comes aboard. Almost the largest of the trip and then another, almost as big, All the while Mumma Nature, patient and brooding all morning, decided she’d had enough of our lazy peace. The wind came first, snaking up the river like an omen. Then the clouds. Then, all at once, the roar. Trees bent. Dust lifted. The surface of the water turned from mirror to churn. And with it, like a scene out of some low-budget survival flick, the inflatable boat, tethered but not secured, caught the gust and went airborne.

It spun west like it had somewhere better to be. For a moment, we watched it in silence, part awe, part horror, until it hit the eddy behind the bend and just… sat there. Caught, bobbing, trapped like a forgotten dream circling a drain.

Rescue mode kicked in. Maurice stripped down to his boardies like he was born for Baywatch. I found the longest stick I could. Someone grabbed the camp shovel for reasons still unclear. No one got wet, which remains a small miracle. We laughed harder than the moment warranted, part nerves, part relief. Eventually, we got it back, the boat a little torn, the anchor rope chewed through, the pride mostly intact.

And all the while… the fish kept biting.

Even as the world above turned sideways, wind howling, branches snapping, the sky threatening mutiny, the river below remained eerily indifferent. The rods quivered like antennae sensing something beyond us, a silent rhythm undisturbed by the surface chaos. We’d cast and sprint, cast and rescue, dragging silver-scaled pests onto the banks like war trophies. The tally climbed with each haul. There was no loss of the count, not out of vanity, but out of momentum. We were on a mission. The number didn’t matter after a while. It was the absurdity of it, chasing ghosts in a storm, hauling invasive fish out of a river like we were cleansing something deeper.

Above the waterline, the ecosystem was in turmoil. Trees leaned, battered by gusts. Birds scattered in panicked arcs. Tents threatened to lift. The inflatable boat had already staged its airborne protest and been retrieved from the eddy like a petulant child after a tantrum. Conversations were shouted, half-heard through the rush of wind and adrenaline. We ducked for cover, instinctively flinching from falling seedpods and shifting skies, adjusting hats and wiping grit from our eyes.

But beneath the waterline? A different world.

Down there, it was business as usual. The current still curved around submerged logs like it had for centuries. Weed beds swayed to their own private music. Shrimp darted. Turtles, unseen but always there, slid silently past our bait. And the carp, unbothered, unbotherable, kept rising. Mouths open like slow vacuums, eyes glassy with either stupidity or sheer evolutionary arrogance.

It was as if the storm never happened, or didn’t matter. The fish kept biting, not because they were hungry, but because that’s what they do. That’s who they are. As long as we were silly enough to throw hooked bait into their world, they would oblige, tugging, wriggling, snapping like reflexes bred into their bones.

It struck me then, mid-cast, rod arcing through wind-battered air, how separate these two universes really were. We scramble and plan and panic up here, weather apps and camp setups and waterproof gear, all trying to manage the uncontrollable. Meanwhile, the river just is. It flows. It contains multitudes, death, birth, feeding, hiding, hunting, all without fanfare. The fish weren’t watching the sky. They weren’t waiting for better conditions. They didn’t care that our boat had nearly flown to Adelaide.

To them, we were the anomaly. The interruption. The storm above, with our rubber boots and bucket hats and bad jokes.

And maybe that’s why we kept fishing. Maybe that’s why the mission felt more spiritual than sporting. There was something grounding, even humbling, about interacting with a world that couldn’t care less about your dramas. A world where the storm didn’t mean metaphor or fear, just extra silt in the current and a few more bugs on the surface. The ecosystem below was steady. Decisive. Unmoved.

The deeper we cast, the more ridiculous our concerns felt. There we were, battling wind, losing tarps, laughing at the absurdity of a runaway boat, and yet, a few feet below the surface, the real business of the river kept happening. Silent. Unflinching. Eternal.

It reminded me of something someone once muttered while cleaning a haul under a flickering lantern light: “The river doesn’t change, not really. Just how we see it.”

That day, in the weird theatre of wind and water, I finally understood what he meant.

As evening fell, we strung the last few fish up and packed away the gear. The clouds broke just enough to let the sunset spill gold across the water. I sat alone, drinkr in hand, staring at nothing in particular. I had space. Just sitting there taking in the silence.

Later, around the table, we joked about calling the day “The Boat That Couldn’t” or “200 Fish and a Funeral.” But no one laughed loud. We just nodded, remembering the boat in the eddy, the storm that didn’t break us, and the fish that kept biting no matter what.

Sometimes, you don’t document the day because it was perfect. You document it because it stayed with you, like mud on your boots long after the rain has gone.