FIC: Up Shit Creek 2/8

[lobelia321]

Title: Up Shit Creek
Part: 2/8
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Other info: See Part 1/8

The Saturday had started badly, and it had then proceeded to get worse, increment by increment, until it got to the point where they were on the river without the paddle.

First thing in the morning, there had been Dom, hopping about the house with an insanely gleeful grin on his face and being generally insufferable. Billy and Karl, going boating? Fabulous idea. Dom not there? Karl was a fantastic substitute. Billy upset? No way, Karl was such a great bloke, so knowledgeable about New Zealand, much better company than Dom.

That was Dom's conviction, at any rate. Billy just glowered. Dom didn't notice. He was too busy putting on his combat trousers and looking at himself in the mirror with his sunglasses on, affecting paratrooper poses.

Next there was the ferry trip over to Picton. That was when the weather did one of its infernal turn-abouts. It was getting cooler and cooler. In fact, it was bloody freezing. Billy shivered in his short-sleeved cotton shirt. He took himself, his six-pack and his knapsack into the cabin and stared morosely at the choppy crests on the waves out in the Strait. To take his mind off the boating fiasco, he opened the paperback he'd brought with him. *Julius Caesar*. Shakespeare. Nice and elevated.

'If you know that I do fawn on men and hug them hard,' Billy read. Those weren't even Caesar's lines; they were Cassius's lines. But somehow, the lines conjured up Caesar, anyway. They conjured up images of Karl, dressed up as Caesar in one of those old *Xena* episodes. Absurd. Absolutely absurd. Absurd to think of Karl hugging men hard. And Karl looked absurd in those ridiculous Caesar robes. Well, not absurd maybe; he actually cut rather a fine figure in those robes. Even Billy had to concede that. And he delivered those Caesarean lines with a certain grand panache. That was because he had lines, of course. He had a script. Without a script, the guy was at a complete loss for words. Without a script, Karl could barely manage to string two sentences of any interest together. Without a script, Karl was plain Mr Dullsville.

By the time, Billy was off the ferry and on the bus to the boating place, he had pulled himself together somewhat. He told himself not to be stupid, not to give in to base impulses, to put a cheerful face on the inevitable and to be nice and friendly to Karl. Just that: nice and friendly. It wasn't Karl's fault that he wasn't Dom. Not everyone could be as funny and easy-going as Dom. Billy practised a friendly, genial expression, grinning at himself in the reflection of the bus window.

Billy's friendly, genial expression froze on his face when he first caught sight of Karl, standing on the jetty, next to the boat-rental hut. Karl was decked out in full outdoors kit. He was wearing a fleecy zippered and hooded brick-coloured windcheater, and on top of that some beige waterproof jacket-thing with around eight thousand pockets and velcro strips. On his head, he sported a sturdy baseball cap, and on his feet, he sported sturdy wellington-type boots, and at his feet, he had an enormous canvas bag, stuffed to the brim with-- well, with stuff of one description or another. A ziplock bag of apples poked out at one end, and a sports water bottle poked out at the other end. And, most dreadful of all, strapped onto the top of this monster tote was a fishing rod. Next to the bag stood a plastic bucket, and in the plastic bucket, there was a knife, some fishing tackle and an evil-smelling pot of squirming worms.

Shit, it looked as if Billy was not only going to be treated to tedious pronouncements on New Zealand's scenery but also to endless rantings about fucking fish and bait and tackle. Instead of the nice touristic outing with fellow Brit Dom, this looked as if it was going to turn into a serious wildlife expedition with Kiwi expert Karl. Billy felt distinctly underdressed in his cotton shirt, with his knapsack slung over his shoulder, his six-pack in hand and his paperback stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans. Karl, on the other hand, looked like a first-class berk.

In effect, Billy's carefully-planned little trip was being hi-jacked by the outdoorsman from hell.

"Hi," said Karl.

Innocuous enough. Friendly enough. But Billy's genial expression had long gone the way of his cheerful resolutions. He stomped up onto the jetty and said shortly, "I didn't know we were going to be fishing."

If Karl was offended by the rude tone, he didn't let on.

"Oh," he said. "But that's what you do in Marlborough Sounds. Well, unless you're a complete spinner."

"A what?" said Billy.

"Oh, just a tourist, a sightseer," said Karl.

"Hmph," snorted Billy. He felt so annoyed by the sight of Karl in his fishing gear, he could barely contain himself. If there was one thing that was worse than a crashing bore, it was a crashing fishing bore. 'Stay calm, stay calm,' Billy told himself. 'Take a deep breath.' So he did, took a deep breath, stomped to the end of the jetty and stared out at the river. He didn't turn around as Karl started heaving all his clutter in, a lot of clutter, accompanied by a lot of fussing and weight-shifting, to judge by the way the boat was creaking and knocking against the pier.

Billy spent the next few minutes staring into the water, wishing Dom were there. Dom would just laugh, crack open a beer, dip his fingers in the river, make a joke, ruffle Billy's hair, fight with Billy over the right to go first on the oars. Billy rubbed his chilly forearms.

Finally, the fussing and creaking and weight-shifting seemed to come to a natural end. Karl's stuff was loaded into the boat. The fishing rod poked out over the side. Karl stood next to the boat, looking over at Billy.

Not saying anything, just staring at Billy. Doing that staring thing again. Making Billy feel tongue-tied and stupid. Making Billy stalk back to the boat on unsteady feet.

Not saying anything himself, Billy bent down, put his hand on the gunwale and clambered in. There was an alarming rocking motion because Karl got in at the same time; they both straightened up, and then they collided with each other in the middle of the boat. The boat rocked, Billy held on to something, that something was Karl. Both Billy and Karl froze in the middle of the boat.

"Sorry, sorry," said Karl and lurched backwards. This just made the boat rock more which made them fall into each other's arms yet again.

"Sorry," Karl repeated. Billy snatched his hands away. Karl took his hands off Billy's forearms. He had gone bright red but Billy didn't want to look at Karl for any length of time. He didn't want to think about Karl falling into his arms or about Karl going bright red. He didn't want to think or know about any of that. He just wanted to sit in the fucking boat and have a nice little row.

That was all.

None of this fussing and fishing and falling against each other.

By the time, Billy was ensconced on the middle bench, his ears were burning. He didn't know why his ears should be burning. They were probably burning with irritation. The spots where Karl's hands had touched Billy's bare forearms were burning, too. It was too, too stupid.

Without asking Karl who should go first, Billy grabbed the oars and manoeuvred them into the correct position in the rowlocks. In the process, he nearly knocked Karl over the head with one of the oars but Karl said nothing about it, and Billy said nothing about it, and the silence was worse than anything. The silence filled Billy with such inner rage that he had to bite his lower lip. There'd have been no silence with Dom. There'd have been a lot of good-natured banter and ragging and laughing and probably a good portion of rowing jokes.

Billy was sure that at the back of his mind he had stored at least a dozen or so good rowing jokes but with Karl facing him, he felt tongue-tied, and he couldn't think of a single one of them. Come to think of it, that was probably just as well. Around two-thirds of Billy's rowing jokes involved some form of sexual innuendo. And Billy did not want to trade sexual innuendo with Karl. Absolutely not.

Billy and Karl were still silent when Billy finally managed to get the oars into position. They were also still silent when Billy first dipped the oars into the water. The boat moved a few feet, then stopped. Billy lifted one of the oars and pushed it at the jetty. The boat swivelled on its axis but didn't leave the pier.

Karl cleared his throat and broke the silence. "Sorry. You need to cast off the painter."

"The what?" Billy said.

"You know," said Karl and gestured towards the back of the boat. Billy looked and saw a metal ring with a thick rope attached to it. The other end of the rope was wound around a pole on the jetty.

"Oh," Billy said. His ears were burning again. Karl seemed bent on humiliating him. Karl seemed bent on making Billy feel tongue-tied and foolish and irritated beyond reason. Stupid. This would not have happened if Dom had been there. Sure, Billy wouldn't have known about the rope, oh sorry, the *painter*. But Dom would have been just as clueless. They would have discovered that they were still tethered to the shore and fallen about the boat laughing. There would not have been this silence and this tongue-tied awkwardness.

Billy bent across, causing the boat to wobble, and unfastened the rope from its pole. He coiled the ends into the bottom of the boat, and then he pushed the boat off the jetty with the oar. This time it moved off slowly.

Billy started to row. It had been a while since he'd been on a boat and the position of the oars seemed a bit unfamiliar. And then Karl piped up again and said, "You're rowing the Italian way. Did you mean to do that?"

"What? The what?" snapped Billy.

"I mean," said Karl and cleared his throat again. "The Italians, they row facing forward. We usually row facing aft."

'I'll aft you in a minute,' whispered Billy under his breath.

"Sorry?" said Karl.

"Nothing," said Billy and proceeded to turn himself around on the bench, facing away from Karl, facing the back of the boat. In doing so, he nearly lost one of the oars, and Karl had to lean forwards and grab it.

"Here, I'll show you," said Karl. There was more rocking, and suddenly Karl was directly behind him. Billy could feel Karl's breath against his nape. It made his hairs stand on end. Karl reached around Billy and adjusted Billy's hands on the oars. He was practically encircling Billy in his arms from behind. Fuck, the guy had a nerve. Billy wanted to jerk his hands away. He wanted to tell Karl to piss off and to stop being such a know-it-all. Instead, he submitted to being encircled and adjusted and breathed on, and the whole time his heart was beating like mad.

This was really getting too fucking ridiculous.

Billy didn't know why his heart was beating like mad. His heart didn't usually beat like mad when guys were around. Billy's heart beat for girls, not for boys. And it certainly didn't beat for stupid, know-it-all Karl.

Except it did. It was still thumping in his chest even after Karl had moved back to his own bench. Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Luckily, Billy did not need to look at Karl any longer. Karl was sitting behind him, in the bow of the boat, and all Billy could see was the long, wandering shoreline and the tall trees on the surrounding hills and the expanse of river, winding its way between the hills and shimmering dully under the overcast sky.

At least, it was quite good to be rowing. It was good to feel the muscles pull in his shoulders and stomach and stretch along his back, to slide back and forth, plying the oars, to feel the boat shudder beneath him and hear the waves lapping at its sides. Nothing but sky above, nothing but water all around, nothing but Karl behind him.

Karl. Somehow Billy knew that Karl wasn't facing forwards. Karl wasn't looking at the river and the shoreline ahead. Karl was facing backwards and looking at Billy. Billy could practically *feel* Karl's eyes on his back. What was more, Karl seemed to have been emboldened by being able to see only Billy's back, not his face. Because Karl was starting to talk, and God, was he boring.

Billy listened with only half an ear. Karl was going on about the sounds, about the water levels of the different rivers, about the differences in water level between summer and winter, blah blah blah.

"I go fishing quite a bit in Buller River," Karl was saying. "That's not far from this area. That's a great river for trout, New Zealand trout. I do quite a bit of fly fishing there. Of course, with the trout you'd want mainly weighted nymphs along, that's the only type of fly they'll go for, really. The Bead Head's a good one to use, or the Hare and Copper."

And this was how it went on and on; Jesus, how was it possible for one guy to be such a yawning bore? It was unbelievable. As if anybody could possibly give a flying fart, a flying bloody Bead's Head, about the stupid bloody details of fishing in bloody Buller River.

"This is, of course, a good time to come to this area," droned Karl. "It's between Christmas and February that the place is packed, packed to the gills with tourists. This is nice now, nice and quiet. You could row about here all day and you might never see a soul. There are some nice secluded sandy beaches here. There's one coming up behind the next headland, in fact. We could stop there, have a bite. Part of this area is for mussel farms. Salmon farms, too. You get a lot of fish here, all sorts, mainly bass and john dory, gurnard croaks, oh, and hapuku, almost forgot those. It goes on for miles like this, there's a whole maze of rivers and inlets here. But I know my way round here pretty well, so you needn't worry that we'll get lost."

Who was worrying? Why did Karl see fit to adopt such a condescending tone? Billy started to feel irritated again. How was it possible to dislike a person so much? Billy didn't normally dislike people with such vehemence. But somehow everything that Karl did or said and even the way he looked set Billy's teeth on edge.

"Those rocks, " Karl bored on. "They're actually fairly dangerous. Even when you're not very close, there's a bit of an eddy there. Do you want me to take over rowing for a bit?"

"No," snapped Billy.

"Okay, okay, sorry. It's quite a tricky passage. But you're doing fine. You're doing really well. Keep to port, though. Port! Uh... port is the left side of the boat, okay? And keep the paddle broadside. Broadside! Look out!!"

And that was when Billy lost the paddle.

TBC