Be on time
On the way back to the water's edge, concentration is at a peak, notwithstanding the fumes stored up during lunch. Each team establishes its battle plan to climb the ranks. Not only according to their own rankings, but also taking into account those of the other pairs. As we head for berth thirteen, Mario and I rehearse our instructions: a minimum of one fish per run, with landing neting by the team member compulsory.
Here we go again! Forty-five minutes to catch a fish can seem a very long time when we don't get any bites, or too short when the angler gets nervous. After a good half-hour, following Mario's advice to the letter, slowing down the retrieve as much as possible, I catch the fish. Phew! we're right on schedule.
At post number two, it's Mario who manages to decide on one, which I promptly pocket.
During the seventh run, luck deserted us. We score another hood, but it's clear that, on the fish side, the time is no longer ripe for activity or fantasy.
The needle turns
Eighth and final run: last chance to keep our morning place. The space is pleasant, with an advance shared with the neighboring team. Mario, as persevering and attentive as ever, settles in at the tip of the post and tries to extend his shot to overtake the throws of the competitors on the right. Personally, I keep to the left, in the cove, where I rub shoulders with a very young angler, a new recruit to the Club Mouche tençois. The little guy fishes cleanly, methodically varying two different techniques.
I climb a final black booby. A few small gobbles appear towards the fateful thirty-metre line. The needle turns. He catches a few fish on distant docks. Mario and I, nothing, not a hint of a touch.
The young schoolboy suddenly raises his cane. Missed! He raises it again. And again. This time, his teammate rushes off with the landing net. I run to measure their catch and note down thirty-five centimetres on the sheet.
Still nothing for us. Counting on a renewed appetite or pep from the trout, I extend the line as far as it will go. Correct positioning. Even though we only have a few minutes left, I work hard to bring the booby back, knitting the line imperceptibly. But when I lift the rod at the end of the lift, I'm disappointed! The fly is tangled in the leader and hangs ridiculously low from the top of the rod. In a mechanical gesture, I move my hand towards the tip of the tip to free it, when, as if detached by an invisible hand, the booby slips and falls into the water. With the rod in the air, I regain contact, but strangely enough, the line is hooked at the bottom. No, I'm not caught in a root, the line is moving. I raise the banner sluggishly, putting up a little resistance. A roach perhaps. My heart is pounding. At the height of my disbelief, I try to bridle the fish, because it is one!
Recovering from my surprise, I alert Mario, who pulls his flies out of the water. Stepping over the fly rods we'd carelessly spread out at the edge of the pond, he brandishes the big landing net and prepares to put it in the water. It's not a dazzling fight, but understanding that this is the fish that's synonymous with victory, I treat him with the utmost leniency. The first attempt at exhausting the fish fails miserably, as it does an unexpected about-face. This is sure to spark hilarity among the surrounding competitors. We cheerfully respond with a resounding "Yes!" when the trout is finally swaddled. I set this miraculous catch free while our neighbor, the controller, crosses out our sheet. Within a minute, the horn sounds to signal the end of hostilities. Then, in a fraternal gesture, Mario and I give each other a big hug.
A great victory and some bad news
That's how we won the 18 ème Coupe de la Haute-Loire; by a very narrow margin, as we accumulated 62 place points against 66 for our pursuers. And with it, the hundred-euro bonus allocated to the winners. With our arms full of prizes and the voluminous carved trophy, big smiles and off-set caps, we posed for posterity to the applause and congratulations of our fishing friends.
After the last gallop of beer, we set off in parade mode, honking our horns. Finally, alone in the car, we savored our success:
- "You see, Mario, I had a feeling about this one! We had a great day and we refunded the registration fee. I owe you five euros.
- You can keep them.
- No, no, no, good accounts are... "
A month later, while I was fishing near Tence, Mario's son Nicolas phoned me. With a dry throat and a muffled tone, he told me that his father had died the previous evening of a devastating heart attack. I let myself slide into the cold grass and wept.
