The Mexican Fisherman

By Pete

It is our own macabre curiosity that makes us jealous of those who have seen dark places. Those who have stepped into unlit rooms, when we have only gazed into the abyss from the doorway. There will never be a shortage of good citizens who by choice or by fear never venture away from the light. It is of little consequence that those who have, did it because they made it a conscious decision or had their choice made by circumstance. Should chance decide that you cross paths with someone like this, you will not be able to forget their story. This is a story I will not forget.
Pete we are of the same age. You started your journey before me. You have travelled further. I am jealous not because I am curious of what lies in the dark but because of what you have had that is good.
I am jealous because you dont pretend to be who you are. For good or ill. Man is only doomed to failure if he wastes his life trying to be someone or something that everyone else wants. I do not aspire to be perfect. I aspire to be who I am. Pete you have achieved this.

Anonymous infantry NCO

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris NZ
• Release date: Aug 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483690322

Pete

It is our own macabre curiosity that makes us jealous of those who have seen dark places. Those who have stepped into unlit rooms, when we have only gazed into the abyss from the doorway. There will never be a shortage of good citizens who by choice or by fear never venture away from the light. It is of little consequence that those who have, did it because they made it a conscious decision or had their choice made by circumstance. Should chance decide that you cross paths with someone like this, you will not be able to forget their story. This is a story I will not forget. Pete we are of the same age. You started your journey before me. You have travelled further. I am jealous not because I am curious of what lies in the dark but because of what you have had that is good. I am jealous because you don’t pretend to be who you are. For good or ill. Man is only doomed to failure if he wastes his life trying to be someone or something that everyone else wants. I do not aspire to be perfect. I aspire to be who I am. Pete you have achieved this. “Anonymous infantry NCO”

Book preview

The Mexican

Fisherman

Pete

Copyright © 2013 by Pete.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 10/11/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

0-800-443-678

www.Xlibris.co.nz

[e-mail]

700269

Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Prologue

Part I

The Journey Begins

Chapter 1   The End of the Beginning

Chapter 2   Nature vs. Nurture

Chapter 3   Love and a Man Called Ash

Chapter 4   Evil Awakes

Chapter 5   W.T.F.

Part II

Foolish Infatuation

Chapter 6   Home?

Chapter 7   Black Humour

Chapter 8   Trying to Heal

Part III

Goldfish

Chapter 9   My Goldfish

Chapter 10   More Red Dirt

Chapter 11   New Beginnings

Chapter 12   A Scrapyard and a Man Called BP

Chapter 13   Searching for Common Ground

Chapter 14   The Wedding

Part IV

Unequivocal Adventure

Chapter 15   Finally Happy

Part V

A Welcome Surprise

Chapter 16   Pregnant

Chapter 17   Meeting the Mexican Fishermen

Chapter 18   Malaria and the Clean Skin Bull

Chapter 19   Matthew

Part VI

Eating an Elephant

Chapter 20   Eekybeakybobo and Lulubluelu

Chapter 21   Hunting

Chapter 22   Separation

Chapter 23   Acceptance.

Part VII

Redemption

Chapter 24   Life After Death

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Acknowledgements

Quotes were sourced from or the individuals themselves.

http://www.brainyquote.com/

The Mexican fisherman story was sourced via

http://www.protolink.com/MexicanFisherman.html

To all those that have helped me on this; thanks, in particular, to Mr Legit. Your advice and direction has helped me share my stories in a palatable form. Thanks for your contributions, help with editing, and constructive criticism. I’m sure you all understand why I cannot name you. Thanks.

Boys, thanks for standing by my side through it all. To those that fell, it was an honour to fight next to you. You’re thought of often and will never be forgotten.

Mum and Dad, thanks for everything.

But above all, Kat, my goldfish, kiss the babies for me. You are the biggest part of this tale, and as always, I miss you and hope we can talk once again soon.

Finally, thanks to my fiancée Eve for never judging me.

Introduction

It’s only after we have lost everything, that we are free to do anything.

(Tyler Durden, Fight Club)

Most of this book was written in my sleep or in that place between a dream and conscious thought. I believe my subconscious may have had a greater part in the writing of this book than I did.

I dedicate its writing to the boy that died in me on 17 October 1993 and all that he may have become.

My Goldfish Kat, our children Harry, Helena, and James.

My family and friends.

The fallen, those we’ve lost and their families.

And lastly, my friend whose name I never asked—the first ‘Mexican fisherman’ I ever met.

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This book has been written in part as an apology to those I have hurt and so often offended during the course of my life. It’s as much an explanation as a request for forgiveness.

I am sorry for those of you who will be damaged by the writing of this, but this is a story that needs to be told. I have done my best to hide your guilt, changing all names involved and leaving nothing more than clues as to where these events took place. At times some tales may seem disjointed, irrational in their context, and almost as though they don’t fit in this crazy mosaic that forms the inner working of my mind; but, by its conclusion, I hope you may see the picture I have tried to paint. Like a Monnet, it’s blotchy up close but clear when viewed from a distance. No matter what you take from these tales, I have enjoyed their writing and sincerely hope you enjoy them too.

Prologue

A very small degree of hope is sufficient to cause the birth of love.

(Stendhal)

When you’re sleeping, you can ignore the ticking of a clock, the hum off the street outside, or the dripping of a tap. But an alarm clock will jar you from your slumber. You can hit the snooze button a few times, but sooner or latter you need to wake up.

My name is Pete, and I grew up in a town that was probably like yours. I probably had hobbies just like you too. I never went without as a child and was not exposed to violence, drugs, alcohol, or abuse of any kind. My parents loved and supported my brother and me as much as any two parents could, and it appeared I was headed for a normal life: married, with kids, two cars, and a nice house in suburbs like everyone else. But fate had other plans for me.

Now I’m alone, older, and wiser after having been both young and stupid. These stories are but a few of my own, shared with many, unbelievable to some. But I hope to tell more than just the stories. I hope to tell openly how I feel and felt at the time in a desperate attempt to put meaning to the insanity that has been there the last eighteen years.

I wrote this book very quickly, ideas pouring out as strange erratic ramblings, hitting the pages then forcing other details out of my mind’s hiding places. Each chapter holds a sometimes seemingly random story or two and reflections that only come with age and exposure to prolonged hardship.

I have had many dealings with other cultures, some of which I have written here. I will assure you, it is my intention to write of my observations without prejudice, and at no point is it my intent to label any other race with contempt.

Others may remember these stories differently to me; but this is my story, as I remember it through my eyes, as I felt then and feel now.

Kuri

I walked inside, grabbed my shotgun, and stormed out again. Kuri, Kat’s miniature foxy, was cowering under the dog box. I shot her—point-blank, right in the face. Although killed instantly, her rigid twitching body clung helplessly to life, her jaws biting furiously at her front left leg for a second or two as the last flickers of life slipped away. I reached under, pulled her limp corpse out, and stuffed it in a chaff bag. Kat wandered outside and now stood on the porch with a cup of tea in her hands, still in her PJ pants and a T-shirt having just got up. As Kat asked me a question in a soft enquiring tone, I turned and walked away, ashamed of my actions.

‘You kill Kuri?’

With sadness in my voice, I replied, ‘Yep.’

She nodded in acknowledgement, then slipped back inside as I walked down the drive, shotgun in one hand, dead foxy in the other.

‘I hope my boy didn’t just see that.’

As I walked away, I fell to my knees, breaking down, weeping. The dog was responsible for the deaths of thirteen lambs. I killed the dog. But I wept because I didn’t feel bad about either. I wept because I was just another cog in the machine, unable to change anything. If you have livestock, you’ll have dead stock.

There are some things in life you just need to accept, and how you deal with them defines you as a person. I’ve made some poor decisions.

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Having written this book, I realise a lot more about myself. Love, kindness, and affection have driven me all along, but I have lacked the ability to communicate that simple underlining message to the ones closest to me. So often, the events I describe here have shaped my life in ways I am beginning to understand only now.

But now, having found that one thing that means everything to me, I realise how little everything else does. When you close this book, maybe you will wonder as I am now: ‘Did I make changes to my life before it was too late? More importantly, did I need to change at all?’

Is it enough to just know who you are and love one’s self, celebrating your uniqueness without conforming to the needs of others?

Part I

The Journey Begins

A wise man by the name of Mr Grey once told me: ‘Boys don’t just grow up and turn into men. We must deliberately walk that hazardous route.

Some never embark on the journey, and many who begin it

do not complete it.’ This is where my journey began.

Chapter 1

The End of the Beginning

As buds give rise by growth to fresh buds, and these, if vigorous, branch out and overtop on all sides many a feebler branch, so by generation I believe it has been with the great Tree of Life, which fills with its dead and broken branches the crust of the earth and covers the surface with its ever branching and beautiful ramifications.

(Charles Darwin, The Origin of the Species)

I went fishing on the 16th; it was a great day. I got my first gummy shark, not a record breaker, but I was so proud. The trip out was my fifteenth birthday present. Tomorrow, we would head home.

Happy Birthday

I awoke, sliding face first through the gravel. The impact was brutal, as if I were thrown violently in a washing machine full of random metal objects. The sound was deafening, and then there was silence. For a split second, I thought I had just fallen off my bike as I slid in darkness through the gravel on my stomach, unable to respond to my surroundings. As I came to, my brain reeled as to what had just occurred. Seconds before, I was asleep in the back of our camper van, and now the smell of hot oil mixed with blood filled the air. I struggled to right myself, squinting as the dazzling light of a spring day whited out the scene of utter carnage before me.

The silence soon broke. My brother William was screaming. My mother’s voice joined his as she let out a series of horrified, panic-filled shrieks. The words ‘Daddy’s dead, kids, Daddy’s dead!’ rung clearly through the silence.

Someone had just killed my dad. Mum was OK, but William was in bad shape. I stood up; I felt no pain, but my body struggled to respond as cogs turned in my head slowly and deliberately. Some sort of primitive function buried inside me kicked into gear, and strange commands began to be yelled to my body from a creature awoken for the first time—a default setting perhaps, for a time such as this designed to make the human body respond when there is no conditioned response available from the conscious brain.

Dad’s not dead. Mum’s got that one wrong. She’s OK, and William is strong enough to scream his guts out, so he will be fine. Save your loved ones, Pete. Save your family; look for further threats, petrol, sources of ignition. I couldn’t smell petrol, and there is no fire. They will live, so will I. But my subconscious took a strange and dark turn in my disorientated state amongst the screams of my shattered family. Stand up. Kill him. Walk over there Pete, and kill the man that did this to you.

I staggered across the road as if in a dream, pausing to pick up a fishing rod; it was the closest thing I could find to a weapon. As I drew closer to the crumpled wreck opposite our camper van, ticking and hissing as its shattered engine cooled, I could see there would be no need for a weapon.

The front seats held two occupants. The first was a female passenger, her face hung towards her lap, indistinguishable and obscured by her hair. Her body shattered, particularly her legs, which were tangled in the mess of twisted steel. She was alive, just, and uttered low pain-filled moans.

The driver was dead; I could see his liver over the top of his seat belt. His head was misshapen from the impact, and his body was tangled amongst the remains of a vehicle whose make was now as indistinguishable as its occupants. He in no way resembled a form identifiable as human, or for that matter having ever been human. He was just… meat.

I snapped back to reality as Mum’s cries registered in my scattered head.

‘Hold on, honey! Hold on!’

I knew Dad was alive. I knew Mum would save him. My mother had always been a staunch and incredibly capable woman and things were going to be OK. A figure staggered into view and spoke to me briefly.

‘Man, you got to sit down.’

I felt hands on my shoulders, and I was gently lowered again into the gravel. Seconds, minutes, or hours may have passed in the following blur, but three memorable faces stayed with me—the first, a cop, who asked if I was OK.

‘What the fuck do you think, cunt?’ was my reply.

I remember thinking I was cool because I had just called a cop a cunt.

The second was a middle-aged lady in a heavy woollen dress. It was a hot day. Why the dress? I will never know. Her words were kind and reassuring but not what I needed.

Many others came and went, terrified by the wounds they saw on the shattered bodies of the accident’s six victims—two critically injured, one horrifically lacerated, and another dead.

The third face stayed by my side, face to face with me for what I later learnt was two hours as I lay there in the gravel. Just a mate, ‘the guy in the fluro orange running shorts’ as I have referred to him since, as that’s all he was wearing. He asked about the weekend, and we talked a lot about fishing. He didn’t try too hard to reassure me or tell me what was going on. He was just a mate, and I think maybe the first shoulder I have ever leant on man to man in total crisis. My brain was constantly reassuring me as he did, that everything was going to be fine and everyone will live. He went and got my shark and collected as much of my prized fishing gear as he could find, laying it beside me. He was keeping me talking and in a safe place, not here anyway. I don’t recall him holding my hand, but he may have.

I wish I could remember his name; I have not thanked him since.

I didn’t see a great deal of my surroundings, but I smelt, heard, and felt them. I was on one side of the camper van having been thrown clear on its last roll. My brother lay on the other side having had his leg ‘degloved’ and his cheek broken. Mum was below my father; he was pinned by his legs in the van, which now lay on its side, driver’s side up. She struggled to hold his head together as blood flowed from numerous lacerations. Dad had been smashed to bits. His right arm crushed at the elbow, now barely salvageable, and both his feet were pinned with his left foot held on by little more than his boot. Dad was screaming; weak, agonising cries as he struggled to deal with his incomprehensible pain. Mum saved his life.

Ambulance officers soon took over, holding his body together, fighting to stem the flow and replace the blood pouring from a million holes. When Mum finally walked free of the wreckage, she was covered literally from head to toe with blood, the dark red stains in savage contrast to her light green T-shirt and blue jeans. As she paced back and forth by my father, she rubbed her neck constantly, turning it from side to side in discomfort. We later learnt that her neck was fractured in two places. I don’t recall being assessed by the ambulance officers, but I was clearly not a priority.

For the next two hours I lay there, listening and smelling the scene—blood and oil, blood and oil. Ambulances, the drone of the fire engine, concerned onlookers’ mutterings, and the sound of the ‘jaws of life’ cutting Dad and the passenger of the other car free. It had been a 100 kph head-on. They had driven straight into Dad’s door, causing our van to roll 11/4 times. There was a row of pine trees, a fence on either side of the dead straight road, and flat paddocks with high yellow grass. I lay there, on my back, talking to my friend.

I was in pain now, well discomfort anyway, aware of the damage to my leg, back, and stomach. All the while, my subconscious mind soaked in the carnage, imprinting it deep within me.

I heard the ambulances leaving, taking William and the passenger from the other car from the scene. The air ambulance took Dad two hours after the impact. It took a lot to cut him free intact. I’m glad I never saw him at the accident scene; having seen the body of his assailant, I doubt I could have coped with seeing him.

I left the scene last with Mum. I was put on a stretcher and wheeled past the wreckage to the back of the ambulance. Our lives, everything that was us, was scattered all over the road. I burst into tears. In that instant, I knew it had all changed; my life would never ever be the same again.

The hospital was a blur. Mum and I laughed at William; he was looking straight through us, screaming at us: ‘I’ve dislocated my leg so fucking badly!’

He thought he had done it jumping off a bridge. He was in so much pain; his face was swollen on one side, and he was now barely recognisable.

Mum and I were both in ‘self-preservation’ mode and laughed at stupid stuff constantly. Black humour. I never understood it before that day. Mum told me how the only clear words from Dad were: ‘Is my dick still there?’

At the time his mangled, naked body was being wheeled past on a stretcher. I recall seeing him briefly, covered by a sheet and surrounded by nurses, doctors, and ambulance officers oblivious to their surroundings as they hurried him past. A weaker man could never have survived this. It just amazes me as to what the human body can endure.

I had a shattered bone off my femur, but it had remained intact. My back needed some stitches, and I was badly bruised… everywhere. Later that evening, Grandma picked me up and took me to her place. I watched Die Hard and went to sleep.

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I hear it in Dad’s voice even to this day—those screams—when he laughs, especially when he forces it. It is something I just have to live with. It will never go away.

Chapter 2

Nature vs. Nurture

Here’s to Alcohol, the cause and solution to all of life’s problems.

(Homer. J. Simpson)

I recall the overwhelming sadness I felt standing on a wharf as a young child. I guess I was around twelve as I watched the colour fade from a squid, dying next to a fisherman’s bucket. I asked a stupid question:

‘How do you kill such a beautiful creature?’

The young man pulled in another and crudely threw it on to the wharf next to the last. He turned, smiled, looked me in my eyes with a confused disgust, and then spoke.

‘Because they taste so fucking good, and I’m hungry.’

I recall crying alone in my room. I was getting teased at school. I resented my parents talking to the principal about it, and he told them I needed to ‘harden up’. My parents disagreed. They celebrated my intelligence and individuality. I was just another kid with a gentle soul that loved nature, drawing, and school. But after the accident, an inherently human part of me had died, as if a switch had been turned off or maybe on. The young man on the Warf was right. Squid started to look tasty, and I was hungry.

School days. Best days of my life? I have often thought that but they weren’t. In reality, carefree, or at least they could have been. I was a boiling mass of adolescent rage. A shattered father at home on the couch, hospitals, my brother telling me constantly ‘I wouldn’t understand’ and a mother that would fly into a rage far too often. I made a small boat in a wood class at school; I named it Mayday. Maybe my subconscious knew I was in deep trouble even then.

I remember how everyone ‘freaked out’ when they saw my brother’s leg and his horrific scars. My scars couldn’t be seen as easily, but they were there buried deep within me. William retreated after the accident, keeping to himself more and more often when at home. He became a very angry young man. So did I.

My first kill

Almost a year after ‘the accident’, as we had now come to call it, life had changed in many ways. I filled in for Dad a fair bit, and while helping Mum and her workmate prepare for his garage sale, I made a chance discovery. I saw a barrel sticking out of a box and pulled it clear, hoping my hippie generation anti-gun mother didn’t see. An air rifle; I had to have it.

‘How much do you want for this?’

I got it for $5, a real bargain but spent the next week hiding it from Mum and Dad. They hated guns, still do. I guess they have their reasons, but for me, it represented an exciting new world of possibility. A man’s tool, something always prohibited and discouraged, it represented the forbidden fruit of childhood now within reach at adolescence. It was a week before I could get to town and buy some air rifle pellets. Now, the time came to see if I could shoot. I went into the backyard with a can of coke, rifle under my arm, sipping my drink in the warm autumn sun. I can still see the light dancing on the ground as it distorted through the trees.

I figured the woodpile would be the spot, so I finished my can, then placed it on a log. I took a few steps back and looked over the crude iron sights at my target. Thwack. Hit it. I reloaded a few times, shooting holes in a loose group around the centre of the can. Not bad! Not to bad at all, a natural you might say.

As if on queue, a turtle dove landed above me. It cooed and turned its spotted neck in the dappled light falling through the leaves. It looked at me, tilting its head from side to side as a soft breeze wafted the last scents of the fading summer around us. I didn’t really want to shoot it. I just wanted to see if I could. I figured I’d go for the head; I’m probably going to miss anyway. But I didn’t miss. I shot it straight through the head. It crumpled, fell, and flapped in distress on the ground. I hurriedly scooped up the bird in my hands before sprinting to the bottom of the garden, disposing of the dove over the fence. The feeling of the last of its warmth in my hands and the blood running between my fingers made me sick.

My dad often jokes about how there wasn’t a bird to be seen for the next few years, but after I left, they all came back. I didn’t shoot native birds much. I just shot the introduced ones. I was learning to justify my actions to myself. I don’t believe this to be a good thing at all.

Like Jesus, I too can walk on water

Flying up north with my grandfather was fun, having to take three separate planes to get to the small island we would be fishing for the following week. It was my first time in this part of the world, and I saw some things that I had preconceived ideas on. I experienced an indigenous community for the first time, and it really opened my eyes.

Flying in, the plane banked hard to the left, and I looked down upon a small outback town on the savannah covered island. Red dirt, scattered trees, and dusty tracks wound their way around derelict houses. There were only a few buildings on the main street, but at least 2,000 people stood outside a small dwelling with a red corrugated iron roof. It was benefit day, and they were there for their cheques. The building was the post office; next to it, there was a pub, a big pub. On either side of the road, there were beer cans. Millions of them piled wide and deep, sweeping away from the pub in both directions.

Driving to the resort, we were overtaken by another car. We were doing around 100 kilometres an hour in a land cruiser, and they went past us like we were standing still. The car had flat tires and at least eight occupants.

Moments later we stopped to let a giant python slither off the road in front of us. It had a couple of big lumps in it. I later found out these were some of the kittens that had gone missing from the resort over the last few days. There was a ginger tomcat at the resort; huge, overly friendly in the evenings, and clearly a killer at heart. It had no teeth. It kept getting its face kicked in every time it tried to eat wallabies.

There were two Rottweilers at the resort as well. I became very close with these dogs and was saddened to hear they were both taken by crocodiles. While on shore, they followed me everywhere as if watching over me. I’ve wanted a Rottweiler since that first day I spent with them. Of all breeds of dogs, I