Enough

Learning to Live with the Victory

Chapter 4 – Knowing What You Don’t Know

The exercise of yesterday in the paddock loading tonnes of wood onto trailers has not taken a toll on my sleeping habits. I am up early, before the roosters begin to crow and before the first light of the day has started to light the land around the homestead. It’s mild for the last week of autumn, or it seems so in the house, with its remnants of heat from the dying combustion stove.

It’s a time to sit and think, a somewhat dangerous time, unless you have a purpose, as the doldrumistic nature of a mind like mine, might just end up down a rabbit hole. But after three days here in the central west, clarity is beginning to emerge.

I feel fat this morning and, if the scales in the bathroom are to be believed, a quick check of my weight last night suggests I have somehow managed to add almost three kilograms since leaving home. That is the sort of number that immediately encourages suspicion toward the equipment, because surely no human body can embrace expansion with such enthusiasm in such a compressed timeframe without some degree of mechanical exaggeration. Then again, an honest audit of recent behaviour suggests the scales may be less vindictive than I would prefer.

It is not particularly difficult to identify the culprit, because my aunt does not cook in portions so much as in abundance. Meals are not prepared merely to satisfy those physically present at the table. They appear designed to sustain a shearing team, a touring rugby squad, and perhaps a handful of weary travellers who might unexpectedly wander in from the road looking faintly undernourished. It is generosity in edible form, the sort of hospitality that belongs to a generation where providing plenty was both virtue and proof of affection. Faced with that sort of spread, something ancient and deeply unhelpful inside me wakes up and begins behaving as though famine may be declared before breakfast.

That, unfortunately, is where the real battle in any weight-loss fight tends to live, because the greatest obstacle is rarely the thing we most like to blame. It is comforting to point the finger at age, metabolism, genetics, restaurant portions, social expectations, or even suspiciously enthusiastic bathroom scales. Those make excellent villains because they exist conveniently outside our control. The deeply inconvenient truth is that the most effective saboteur often lives inside the same skin, armed not with ignorance, but with full knowledge of precisely what should happen and a remarkable talent for ensuring it does not.

The logical mind, in theory, ought to be a formidable ally. It understands caloric intake, energy balance, delayed gratification, and all the tidy mathematics that underpin sensible dietary behaviour. It points out, quite correctly, that a few days away from home do not represent some temporary suspension of biological law. It reminds me that the human body remains distressingly obedient to arithmetic regardless of location. It even quietly suggests that if one’s waistband has already entered tense diplomatic negotiations with the belt buckle, perhaps second helpings are not the wisest strategic move.

Unfortunately, the logical mind has all the persuasive charisma of an accountant delivering a lecture on depreciation schedules while standing opposite an emotional campaign team armed with garlic potatoes.

Because sitting on the other side of that negotiation is the urge, and the urge does not behave like reason. It does not present a balanced submission for thoughtful consideration. It storms into the room with all the subtlety of a political attack advertisement, presenting visible food not as a possibility, but as an opportunity that absolutely must be seized before civilisation collapses. I do not eat in those moments out of duty, although that would make for a much nobler explanation. Nor do I eat because I feel socially obliged to honour my aunt’s hospitality, although that too would sound respectably selfless. I eat because I see food, particularly her sort of food, and I want to eat it with an enthusiasm entirely disproportionate to actual nutritional necessity.

And it is never merely the protein that causes the downfall, because if that were the case, one could at least construct a vaguely respectable defence. One might argue the chicken was necessary for recovery after a physically active day, or that the body required sustenance, or some similarly noble nutritional justification. Such arguments, while transparently self-serving, would at least possess the dignity of sounding plausible. But the real betrayal always arrives from the supporting cast. In last night’s case, garlic-covered pot-roasted vegetables sat there glistening in a manner that felt less like side dishes and more like orchestrated temptation. They were not passively occupying plate space. They were actively auditioning for attention.

That is what makes the entire process so maddening, because ignorance is not remotely the issue. If anything, knowledge makes the battle worse because every poor decision arrives fully briefed. This is not the carefree foolishness of youth where one can genuinely plead inexperience. This is a mature adult, fully conversant with consequence, actively negotiating against himself and losing with depressing regularity. It resembles less a battle between discipline and indulgence than a domestic dispute between competing versions of myself, one armed with logic, spreadsheets, and sensible intentions, while the other arrives carrying roast vegetables and emotional blackmail.

People often talk about discipline as though it were some neat, linear virtue available to anyone sufficiently committed, as though the formula is simply knowledge plus determination equals success. That may well be true for some fortunate souls whose internal wiring is less adversarial. For others, the experience is considerably messier. The urge is not a polite whisper suggesting mild indulgence. It can feel irrationally immediate, emotionally persuasive, and almost physically insistent in a way that bears no rational relationship to the significance of the actual decision. It is faintly ridiculous that a grown man can intellectually understand that another serving of roasted vegetables is neither necessary nor life-preserving, yet emotionally experience refusal as though he were surrendering one of life’s great pleasures forever.

Being your own worst enemy is exhausting precisely because the enemy already knows every weakness, every rationalisation, and every available escape route. There is no strategic advantage to be discovered because the saboteur understands the system intimately. He knows exactly how to reframe indulgence as reward. He knows how to convert hospitality into justification. He knows how to whisper that a long day entitles one to comfort, or that refusing would somehow be rude, or perhaps the most dangerous seduction of all, that renewed discipline can always begin tomorrow. Tomorrow, of course, remains one of the busiest and most overbooked destinations in human history.

For this morning, however, the scales and I remain locked in a relationship of mutual distrust, both fully aware of precisely how we arrived at this rather uncomfortable point.

The day, when the light finally takes over, is grey and dull. Trevor has been researching the biting habits of the targeted species, Murray Cod, which seems an odd name seeing we are fishing Galari, but it seems a dropping barometric pressure might just assist our efforts which to date have seen only 2 fish from three attempts, and one of them being a carp which I am being vehemently told, does not count. When taken from a competitor 2 fish behind in the score, having not broken his duck as yet, fishing virtually the same rig, utilising the same baits, it was high talk from those left in my wake.

I even got a text from a mutual mate suggesting the Carp doesn’t count. I suspect “foul play” from my mate, inspiring his side of the debate as to the real score. But the truth is I have banked two separate fish, both of reasonable size, neither of which went back (the carp going back would have seen a law broken, because as pests they are trying to be eradicated) and as such in view, only it seems, that constitutes a change in the score. And with that I am winning, carp or not.

We head out to the same reserve as yesterday but aiming for a different “spot” on the river. This spot suggested by my cousin Daryl, is a bit further around the sharp bend in the river. A place which in time may well become a billabong such does the river turn back on itself. Galari is an old river that has snaked its way through Wiradjuri country for millenia.

Kangaroos, nicknamed “grasshoppers” by the family, greet us as we turn off the road. There are some very large specimens that seemingly slowly hop away, covering vast distances with each hop. Annoyed or in fight or flight mode they can reach ridiculous speeds, but for now they are unperturbed by us, but for safety head for the scrub.

Soon enough we are in position, past errant sheep, probably from the nearby neighbours, that have snuck into the reserve. It brings memories of Waltzing Matilda and what we might have done if we had ensured the esky was in the Cruiser. But we left that at home, so any thought of malfeasance is jokingly dismissed, not that we truly considered stuffing “a jolly jumbuck into the tuckerbag”.

Bites are almost instant. I have a line in the water and am dealing with a rerig from last night when Trevor suggests I have a fish on. He is closest so takes my rod in hand and strikes. Fish on is the call, almost immediately followed by fish off. A bad omen for the day. You never like to miss the first one. It’s the same as when we went fox shooting or chasing rabbits in my younger days. The superstition would take over, and even now it is rubbed in, particularly to a friend who so eagerly wants his first cod.

Then for most of the morning we have the same issue. Good bites yet fish missed. Often the bite would get more than a few tugs, a line picked up then nothing but a snag as the fish, clearly knowing the underwater topography, headed for cover.

Just away from where we have set up I have set another line, aiming at a submerged log on the other side of the river and time and time again, there are tugs but no hook up. I feel it’s the work of carp, that pest of the inland rivers. I am surprised when Trevor, annoyed at getting no bites at all, moves to the same spot. Even though I am getting productive bites on a regular basis, he seems to be devoid of action.

Then we work it out. I am using brown, ordinary hooks, he is using chemically sharpened red coloured hooks, and after suggesting that was the issue and he rerigging and almost immediately he is having bites, and even better he has hooked up.

He plays hard but unfortunately loses the fish mid river. This is all caught on video and distributed to all and sundry with great commentary and suitable sledging to accompany an almost bubble bursting moment.

Soon enough he is on again. Like I said, I thought the action we were having might just be carp, but this fish is playing like a cod, and sure enough when it finally breaks the surface, its white underbelly and green top half give away the species. He fights and I video, sledging him mercilessly all the way.

Finally the fish is by the side of the river, we net it and Trevor bursts his cod bubble. It will be close to legal in length but only the tape measure will confirm, and unfortunately it is three centimetres short of the 55 centimetres required for us to take it home. Having said that the fish is very fat and would do any table proud but we are not taking the risk. The fish is going back, but looking in its mouth we see the cheese we are using is certainly doing its job so full is the fish’s mouth.

Now comes the consternation whether this fish, although landed and is the targeted species, actually counts on the fish tally which I currently lead 2 to Nil. On a deep sea mission which Trevor and I often engage, it’s only fish in the box that count, but he is counting this one, as the rules change to suit the situation. He even has the temerity to discount my carp from yesterday as a pest fish as opposed to a targeted species. Yeah nah!!!

Over the day he catches another two, both short of legal fish, one so comically small it is difficult to properly capture on film, much to the hysterical delight of his oldest daughter, with whom I have been gleefully chortling as I sledge her father throughout the day. It is harmless nonsense, the sort of juvenile banter sensible adults are apparently expected to outgrow, yet thankfully many of us never entirely do. Here, oddly enough, is an outlet, one of the outlets I clearly need as part of the search for whatever this walkabout is supposed to bring.

Because if I am being brutally honest, the fish were never really the point, and neither, for that matter, was the timber, the drives, the practical projects, or any of the other perfectly respectable explanations one might offer when justifying the decision to disappear for a few days into the countryside. Those things provide shape to the day, certainly. They create activity, anecdote, movement, and something convenient to point at when somebody asks what the trip was about, because “I needed a few days fishing” sounds coherent, practical, and suitably masculine, whereas “I needed to get away from myself for a while because the machinery upstairs has become stale and repetitive” sounds rather less polished.

Yet somewhere much closer to the truth, that second explanation is probably the more accurate, because there comes a point where ordinary life stops being reassuring and begins to feel oppressive, not because anything catastrophic has occurred, but because repetition has quietly worn grooves into the soul. Retirement is sold, particularly to those still trapped in the workforce, as some magnificent promised land where every day is freedom, leisure, spontaneity, and relief from the tyranny of schedules. That is certainly part of the brochure. What the brochure tends to omit is that routine does not disappear simply because employment does, because responsibility merely changes costume while emotional patterns remain stubbornly familiar.

The alarm clock may become optional, but the mind remains distressingly capable of waking itself, often with the same concerns, the same half-finished thoughts, and the same vague obligations dressed in slightly different clothing. The obligations soften in shape but not necessarily in emotional weight. Before long, the days begin blending into one another, not because they are awful, but because they become predictably similar. That, I suspect, is how the rut truly forms, not with dramatic collapse, but through the slow accumulation of sameness.

People imagine ruts as dramatic things, as though one falls into them with some cinematic moment of recognition and a suitably dramatic soundtrack swelling in the background. The reality is usually far less theatrical. A rut is repetition made permanent by familiarity. You do not wake one morning and formally declare yourself trapped. You simply notice, somewhere along the line, that the scenery has not meaningfully changed in quite some time, and perhaps more troublingly, that some part of you has stopped expecting it to.

That is when the batteries begin to flatten, not necessarily in some dramatic emotional collapse, though the Black Dog is never entirely absent from the wider district, but in quieter, more insidious ways. Enthusiasm becomes rationed. Curiosity dims. Things once actively enjoyed begin to feel more like obligations requiring effort than invitations offering pleasure. You continue functioning, because functioning is what adults do, particularly adults who have spent a lifetime solving problems, carrying responsibility, and simply getting on with it. But functioning and feeling alive are not remotely the same thing, no matter how often we pretend otherwise.

So sometimes, whether consciously or not, you go walkabout, not because you possess some clear destination or mystical certainty about what you expect to find, but because remaining exactly where you are begins to feel emotionally dangerous in ways difficult to articulate. Rural air does not contain magical restorative compounds unavailable in suburbia, although silence, space, and open skies certainly improve the odds of clearer thinking. Sometimes you leave not because you know what you are seeking, but because staying put increasingly resembles participating in your own slow emotional erosion, and movement at least offers the illusion, if not the reality, of interruption.

Which brings me, somewhat absurdly, back to a tiny undersized fish and a stream of childish messages exchanged with somebody’s delighted daughter, because laughter matters far more than we often acknowledge. Not the polite social laughter designed to reassure everyone that the evening remains pleasant, but the ridiculous, unguarded kind that slips past the mental gatekeepers and bypasses whatever heavier machinery has been quietly grinding away in the background. The sort of laughter that arrives because a grown man has proudly landed something barely qualifying as marine life while his daughter enthusiastically joins the ridicule from afar.

There is nothing remotely profound about that exchange on paper, and yet its effect can be unexpectedly significant, because it interrupts the pattern. For a few moments, the internal narrative changes. You are not worrying about retirement, or purpose, or health, or unfinished responsibilities, or the vague existential fog that occasionally drifts across otherwise ordinary days. You are simply present in absurdity, present in friendship, present in silliness so gloriously pointless that it becomes therapeutic without ever meaning to be.

Maybe that is part of what I came looking for, even if I lacked the language to articulate it before arriving. Not answers in the grand sense. Not transformation worthy of a motivational seminar. Perhaps simply moments where the machinery stops grinding long enough for fresh air to circulate through the stale corners. Perhaps what I needed was not some dramatic emotional breakthrough, but proof that interruption remains possible.

I would be lying if I claimed this walkabout has yet to deliver some grand revelation or fully recharged the batteries in the way hopeful imagination likes to suggest such things should. The rut remains recognisable. The questions remain largely unanswered. Whatever freshness I imagined may still be sitting somewhere behind an unopened emotional door, stubbornly refusing to make itself obvious. But perhaps that door is no longer entirely shut, and perhaps all that has happened so far is that the latch has shifted slightly, allowing the faintest current of unfamiliar air to creep through. If that is all this trip has achieved for now, it may still be more important than it first appears.

The biting stops abruptly, and we endure for another hour before calling it a day. We need more worms if we are to continue on your quest, and the only potential repository is at Little Prairie, in the sewerage drain, a constant wet spot in a very dry land.

We are both tired, we started early, forewent breakfast and really need to settle for a while, not unlike the call from the end of the Beverly Hillbillies, that they don’t come back now.

We quickly settle and recount the days fishing before heading out and seeking the elusive worms for the repository. Aunty Kerre points us in the direction of a hoe, and we are soon turning sods of wet and smelly dirt, riddled with flies, the first real attack of pests other than a few mosquitoes and gnats on the river. We have not needed any Areoguard or insect repellent at any time until just now and even then, we persist without breaking off. I simply remove my hat and kill as many as possible nestled on my back.

The worms are few and far between, but we manage to gather enough to suggest that fishing tomorrow, should the rain stay away, might provide ample bait to attract something vaguely respectable. Not, of course, because Trevor has yet managed to land a legal fish, a fact I remain morally obliged to reference at every available opportunity, but because it would be nice to have something tangible to take home to justify the effort beyond simply a trailer full of timber and a growing collection of increasingly questionable fishing stories. There is comfort in visible outcomes. A fish in the esky, timber in the trailer, photographs of activity, and proof that the trip produced something measurable all satisfy that deeply ingrained need to demonstrate purpose.

But that, if I am being honest, is mostly theatre, because the fish are a trade-off, the timber is a justification, and the worms are little more than supporting cast in a story whose true purpose sits somewhere else entirely. They provide narrative structure because human beings like outcomes they can point at. It is much easier to explain a trip if there is a practical result attached to it. We went away, did some fishing, brought back some timber, had a productive few days. That version makes sense. It satisfies the accountant in me, the part of the brain that likes activities to reconcile neatly against outcomes, where the ledger balances and effort can be matched against visible return.

The truth, however, is rather less tidy, because the real purpose of the trip has precious little to do with fish, timber, or even productivity in the conventional sense. Those things are props. Respectable camouflage. Practical activities that make the leaving easier to explain, perhaps even to myself. Somewhere beneath all of that sits the quieter truth that this is about something far less tangible. A need to step outside the machinery of ordinary life. A need to interrupt the relentless sameness of routine. A need to move physically because emotional stillness has become just a little too familiar and, if I am being particularly candid, increasingly suffocating.

The phrase “walkabout” inevitably drifts into mind, though I use it with care and respect, aware that it carries cultural meaning far deeper than the casual interpretations often attached to it. Yet in the broadest personal sense, there is something recognisable in the idea of stepping away from familiar structures in search of clarity, reset, or simply breathing room. Not running away. Not abandoning responsibility. Not some dramatic act of rebellion. Simply creating enough distance from the ordinary noise to hear yourself think again, because sometimes the daily soundtrack becomes so repetitive that it drowns out anything resembling honest introspection.

That is a profoundly different proposition from the familiar cliché of the mid-life crisis, which popular culture has rendered almost cartoonish in its predictability. The mid-life crisis, at least in its most stereotypical form, is performative. It is external. It is the sudden sports car, the Harley Davidson, the questionable leather jacket, the expensive watch, the gym membership purchased with evangelical zeal, and the slightly desperate attempt to prove vitality through acquisition. It is less about discovery than declaration. Look at me, I am still relevant. Still adventurous. Still capable of making poor financial decisions in pursuit of youth.

Had I found myself at some other point in life, perhaps a Harley Davidson might indeed have seemed a perfectly respectable answer. One can almost picture the absurdity of it. Me, wrapped in more black leather than common sense would endorse, attempting to negotiate emotional complexity through the rumble of an oversized engine while pretending the wind in my face constituted profound personal growth. There is something faintly amusing about how neatly that fits the stereotype. If one feels stuck, purchase movement. If one feels ageing, buy rebellion. If one feels invisible, create enough noise to ensure invisibility is no longer possible.

But this is not that, because this carries none of the desperation of performance and none of the need for audience approval. There is no statement being made to the outside world. No theatrical reinvention. No attempt to impress anybody, least of all myself. If anything, this is quieter, less glamorous, and considerably more honest. A Harley is about announcing something outwardly. A walkabout, at least in the way I mean it, is about trying to hear something inwardly that has been drowned out by repetition, responsibility, and the low hum of everyday sameness.

A mid-life crisis asks one question, while a walkabout asks another entirely. The former asks, How do I look different? The latter asks, Why do I feel like this? Those are not remotely the same enquiries, even if both emerge from some form of internal discomfort. One seeks distraction through reinvention. The other seeks reconnection through interruption. One attempts to outrun time by changing the scenery. The other quietly acknowledges that the scenery may not be the actual issue at all.

And perhaps that is why the fish matter so little, despite the fun of pretending otherwise. Yes, it would be satisfying to take one home. Yes, there is practical comfort in evidence. Yes, Trevor’s continued inability to land anything legally edible remains a source of enormous personal amusement and entirely appropriate sledging material. But if we returned empty-handed, with no fish, no culinary trophies, and nothing more than a muddy trailer of timber and a few ridiculous stories, the true measure of the trip would still lie elsewhere.

Because this was never really about catching something in the water. It was about trying to catch hold of something in myself that has felt frustratingly elusive for rather too long, and perhaps discovering that while I may not yet have landed it, I have at least cast the line in the right direction.

But the “plastic” format remains and the timber still has not filled the trailer. We head back to the wood heap, drag out some logs which the chainsaw will be able to slab and ready them for tomorrow. The test case yesterday makes it easy to set up the framework ready for Mitch to simply add the chainsaw and slab three logs. Hopefully we can get upwards of 9 slabs to take back “justifying” the entire trip, if the half loaded trailer hasn’t done so already.

My cousin, Mitch’s sister Tammy arrives. She is here to collect her dogs, camped here while they were away in Canberra for medical tests for her partner. There were text today suggesting she has a project for me while I am here, something of a perception of skills I don’t have, but because I am “good” with computers, perhaps I can fix.

They have purchased a computerised wood-burning table and cannot seem to get it to work, let alone persuade it to communicate with a computer, although they already possess an enthusiastic catalogue of ideas about what it might eventually do for them once its electronic rebellion is brought under control. Thankfully Trevor, a marine electrician and all-round tradesman of the irritatingly competent variety, is available to “have a play” with it, which in Trevor language generally translates to diagnose, dismantle, mutter darkly, solve, and emerge looking as though the entire exercise was only a mildly entertaining diversion rather than an expensive technological confrontation.

Before dinner he studies the machine, consults the pictorial instructions with the sort of cautious respect usually reserved for documents clearly translated through several languages before arriving in barely recognisable English, then proceeds to completely dismantle everything they have assembled to date before rebuilding it properly. He laughingly comments that they have somehow managed to create a far more elaborate monster than even I would have been capable of constructing, which is big talk from a mate who knows my own expertise with mechanical and electrical matters extends roughly as far as identifying that something is broken before instinctively reaching for the phone to call him.

That, perhaps, is where perception becomes a rather dangerous affliction, because capability in one arena has a curious habit of being mistaken for universal capability in all others. If someone appears able to “fix” things, observers often stop distinguishing between context and competence, as though problem-solving were a single transferable superpower rather than a collection of highly specific skills. The dangerous assumption is that confidence in one domain seamlessly transfers into another. My ability to untangle taxation legislation, navigate bureaucratic absurdity, and apply decades of experience dealing with government departments does not magically qualify me to rewire a boat, assemble unfamiliar machinery, or offer meaningful technical guidance on specialist equipment. Yet from a distance, competence can look deceptively generic.

Human beings, however, are remarkably drawn toward helping, often for the simple emotional reason that helping feels useful and usefulness feels valuable. Someone presents a problem. We are standing nearby. Momentum suggests action. The temptation is immediate. Surely presence creates some implicit expectation to contribute. Sometimes that instinct is admirable, because genuine generosity underpins much of what makes families, friendships, and communities function. At other times, however, that same instinct becomes downright dangerous, particularly when enthusiasm outruns expertise and goodwill starts impersonating competence.

Helping for helping’s sake can be one of the more deceptively dangerous habits we indulge, because intention and outcome are not always remotely aligned. There is a peculiar risk in the blind leading the blind down a rabbit hole of enthusiastic incompetence, where everyone means well, everyone contributes ideas, and nobody wishes to be the awkward soul standing idly by admitting ignorance. Screws are removed. Buttons are pressed. Settings are adjusted. Theory is offered with extraordinary conviction despite originating from no verifiable knowledge whatsoever. Before long, a problem that might have been solved cleanly becomes a significantly more expensive educational exercise in unintended consequences.

I have seen variations of that story unfold countless times, not merely around machinery, but across business, finance, family advice, and life generally. The friend who confidently offers tax guidance because they once overheard something from a bloke at golf. The family member who “understands” Centrelink because of an anecdote from fifteen years ago. The business acquaintance recommending legal structures based on something that worked for their cousin’s mechanic. Nobody intends harm. Quite the opposite. The motivation is often sincerely generous. Yet good intentions possess no magical capacity to transform ignorance into expertise, however enthusiastically they might try.

That is why the old phrase “a little knowledge is a dangerous thing” continues to survive, because partial understanding can be far more hazardous than total ignorance. The truly dangerous person is rarely the one who knows they know nothing. A person conscious of their limitations tends to proceed cautiously, ask better questions, or seek appropriate assistance. The genuinely hazardous operator is the one who knows just enough to feel confident, but not enough to recognise the enormous gaps in their understanding. Confidence is persuasive, especially when wrapped in generosity, and spectators often mistake decisiveness for competence because both wear similar expressions.

What fascinates me about advice is that its greatest power does not always lie in providing answers, despite our collective obsession with certainty. People seek answers because answers feel reassuring. Decisive voices create comfort. We instinctively trust those who speak confidently, even when confidence and accuracy are only occasional acquaintances. Yet some of the most valuable advice ever offered consists not of explanation, strategy, or direction, but of a remarkably simple admission many people seem almost psychologically incapable of making.

The phrase “I don’t know” can be one of the most powerful tools available, precisely because it requires a maturity many underestimate. It demands surrender of ego. It requires the willingness to appear less capable than others perhaps assume. It prioritises outcome over self-image. There is rarely applause for uncertainty. Nobody gathers admiringly around the person declaring ignorance. Yet certainty without foundation is merely theatre, and theatre can become astonishingly expensive when reality eventually insists on participation.

Over time, I have come to believe that knowing when to say I don’t know is one of the clearest signs of genuine competence rather than weakness. I don’t know, but I know who might. I don’t know enough about this to advise. That sits outside my area of expertise. Those are not admissions of failure. They are declarations of discipline, personal honesty, and respect for consequences. There is wisdom in recognising boundaries, particularly when others may assume your previous competence in unrelated matters somehow entitles you to certainty everywhere else.

In taxation, I can help because I have spent decades navigating legislation, interpretation, bureaucracy, and the endless creativity of human behaviour attempting to negotiate all three. Even then, caution remains necessary, because certainty can be an arrogant illusion when laws evolve and interpretations shift. Outside that sphere, however, confidence without competence becomes dangerous remarkably quickly, particularly when the desire to appear useful overwhelms the wisdom to remain silent. Trying and failing is not always noble. Sometimes trying when you should never have tried at all is simply ego dressed up as helpfulness.

Trevor earns his value not because he magically fixes everything, but because when he engages, he does so from a foundation of genuine knowledge. He is not randomly prodding expensive equipment while inventing theories in real time. He is applying accumulated experience. Equally, I strongly suspect that if presented with something genuinely outside his expertise, he would say so without embarrassment, because truly competent people generally understand where their competence ends. That may be one of the most underappreciated forms of wisdom available to any of us, because knowing everything has never been the objective. Knowing precisely what you do not know, and having the courage to say it aloud before everyone disappears together down the rabbit hole, is often the far greater gift.

I can ramble on or I can call it a night. The latter seems the better course of action and for now the call of the land of nod is far too great. Tomorrow we expect rain, but knowing this area, it will probably “go around”. Will we fish, probably not, which then suggests that several things, ancillary to the trip brief might be on the agenda.

Firstly there will be the Business Blueprint A Team meeting at 8.00am, far later than the “normal” time we have wandered off to Galari to chase the elusive cod. Then perhaps we might attend to the apparently stone bruise hoofed horse, and maybe, just maybe, I can get Aunty Kerre in front of a microphone and ask questions of her history and have them recorded in such a way that I can expand and build a book covering her life much like I did for my Uncle Brolga