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I was just releasing a lovely fish (don’t dream, it was just a chub) when I noticed the guy (shirtless, pudgy and as ugly as a right-wing activist) trying desperately to cross the river. Maybe he was unstable because of the big bag he was carrying or maybe he been unstable since birth… anyway, the fatty looked ill at ease.

I have to say that to choose this spot to cross the river says a lot about the cosmic void between the ears of this shady character. Effectively, the force of the current would even give a hard time to a normal, hardy salmon. As for the stones scattered on the bottom, the soap from Marseille or the best skin of a banana couldn’t be less slippery or treacherous.

The poor guy was doing as well as he could, all the while squealing like a pig in a slaughter house: “Oh..Oh shit! Damn it, I’ll never make it to the other side! Oh…shit, damn!”

So much so, that my pure christian soul was troubled and maybe because of Saint Whomever or Saint Whatever, I proposed to help to the poor devil.

“Could I give you a hand sir? I have non-slip shoes so I can easily help you across!”

And its true that my new JMC shoes that I recently bartered with my friend Manu Vialle were awesome and efficient. The adherence was such, that I had the impression my soles were a many-tentacled octopus (Manu, please don’t forget the promised percentage! Thank you.)

“I wouldn’t refuse a helping hand!” replied the poor cast away. I grabbed his hand (my God! What a horrible sensation it is, to take a stranger’s hand and find it greasy with sun cream!)

So there we were, the two of us slowly crossing the furious river.

“Tell me” said the fatty “with fly-fishing, are they biting?”

“Not bad, not bad… I’ve had worse days!”

“Me. I’m a hunter. What’s good about hunting is that, we don’t give a fuck about No-kill.  Everything is for the stomach!”

At that moment I started to think that my generosity toward this jerk was ill-placed.

He started in, squeezing my hand a little harder because of the force of the current in this spot: “Me, I really like the Ardeche. For vacation it’s a lot better than Dunkirk, that’s where I live. Where I’m from, there aren’t any rivers. There’s only a small lake that you could cross on foot if you wanted to… not a lot of current in a lake…”

“Yes, I can believe that!”

” The only inconvenience is the mud. You can sink up to your nose in the lake!”

“That is certainly regrettable” I admitted.

“But on the other hand the lake is private and at least there are no arabs or niggers to annoy us!”

There, I reached the end of my patience and couldn’t take it any longer; I let go of the greasy hand and the jerk flailed about shouting curses which were inaudible because of the furious current that took the poor northerner toward a big pit downstream where, body and soul, he disappeared from sight.

Proud of myself, I folded my rod, jumped on my motorcycle and hit the road; I headed for home with the light conscience of a job well done.