Gotta Run

In a matter of hours the North Island whitebaiting season starts. The quiet rivers I pass every day will suddenly have a horde of expectant, ever hopeful band of fisherfolk all trying to "catch a feed". Whitebait are the young of several species of small native fresh water fish that travel up the river in spring in schools. They are delicious. Traditionally cooked in fritters, they have a subtle flavour, and are highly sought after. If the whitebait are running the absenteeism around here soars, Grannies pass away in droves, and "sickness" stalks the land.
Ever optimistic, but full of excuses, the whitebaiter has all manner of theories about tides, wind, moon, current, water quality, and types of net. The river is always too high, low, slow, or fast. These matters are discussed at length in the pub. Rumours run stronger than the whitebait. Whispered stories of how so and so got 15 kilos yesterday, and more the day before.
Disputes over position, (or pozzies) are not unknown, and those that grossly breach river etiquette have been known to end up in it.

Stories abound about the huge catches in "the old days" when hauls were measured by the kerosine tin and were fed to the chooks. Meanwhile I have a good mate who lives on the river. I might go and see him tomorrow, about dinner time.