You wake up at six, when it’s still dark, and blindly slather all exposed flesh with sunscreen and insect repellent. Then you go and hang around the galley looking pathetic because you know, in there, Livo is MAKING ESPRESSO COFFEE. Yes, hang around there for a bit and soon you’ll have a flat white in hand.
As daylight slowly turns everything from black to grey to pink, Ross and Paul will herd you all into the boats and you’ll set out on the river. You drink your flat white as the boat gets up on the plane and carves the mirror-still waters, mangroves sliding past in the brightening dawn.
Finish your coffee, grab a fishing line, fish madly as the sun comes up and starts to beat down on your head. Keep fishing as the sweat and sunscreen and insect repellent oozes down your baking skin: ankles, toes, backs of the hands. Lose a fish, catch a fish, try a new spot. Cast badly, and catch every man in the boat in one elegant lassoing motion. Admire the collective composure as Ross untangles everyone; accept the nickname Tangles.
At nine or ten o’clock, break for smoko: Rod has cut us all exquisite sandwiches (ham off the bone, mustard pickles) and we brew coffee on the boat. Fish madly again until eleven or twelve or exhaustion.
Return to camp, victorious. Fillet the caught fish, describe the ones that got away. Jump into the murky wading pool and skol a beer just before your body temperature hits the red zone.
Relax. Eat. Wait for dusk to approach. Go fishing again.
After dark, roast barramundi in the coals.
Sleep. Repeat.
Wow, I thought only india gets that hot.