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. Read more…
But the real revolution is the grip designed by golfers : what a tremendous idea and great giant leap ! I believe every exotic fly fisherman or any one who had to blindcast big flies all day will applause. No more sweating, sliding due to solar cream and certainly more strength to shoot.
I stopped the bus next to the river that day; I turned off the motor and I was far from knowing that my life was about to take a sharp turn.
Every summer it was the same thing.. The great family transhumance that took us to the little village of Ousinieres, a port nestled in a dead end, a stone’s throw from Toulon. It was a place where I passed marvelous days as Tarzan, perched in the umbrella pines in the Hotel Provencal gardens, scrutinizing the hostile jungle. I returned to reality, regularly smeared with an awful resin that was like dog-shit and brought on my mother’s wrath; when I think of that marvelous woman, I remember the anger as theatrical and her wrath filled with gentleness. 
It was a few years ago (how time flies!) that I offered Stan our spy and fisherman of renown in Florida, a painting as gift for his services rendered to le Mouching. (Services that often border on the illegal, which is out of order to reveal here. Also, I choose to keep my mouth zipped.)
