I caught a Snapper for the first time in my life last night. In fact I caught two. And – with a slightly guilty feeling of pride – I posted this picture on Facebook. As you do.

But this morning, a comment on the picture made me wonder why I’d gone fishing in the first place. It’s not something I’d ever thought to ask myself … Fishing is just something that seems to happen to people here in Golden Bay. Like growing your hair long and losing track of which day (or which month) it is.

As I pondered the question, I realised that I really don’t enjoy the physical process of fishing at all. You know, the part where you sit for hours doing nothing much. I can imagine, hypothetically, that some people might find this soothing, or peaceful. But inactivity drives me batty. It’s not like I have the attention-span of a clam, but when it comes to doing nothing, I just can’t get with the program. I’m the kind of person who needs to be doing stuff, even on vacation. Especially on vacation. I’ve always had an irrational dread of waking up to find that I’ve somehow been taken on a cruise-ship holiday. I can’t imagine doing nothing day after day (and of course it’s not like that; there’s presumably a whole lot of activities but I can’t shake the feeling that it would be some kind of hell-on-the-high-seas for me). I can never see past the idleness of the whole thing.

So I’m not there for the fishing itself. Why then do I do it?

Partly, I’m there for the conversations. Somehow, sitting out in the bay in an aluminium tin can gives people an altered perspective. They’re looking back at their daily lives, from the outside, a bit like an astronaut looks back at the earth from space. And that different perspective drives some very different conversations. And different conversations are what I love. Getting past the everyday facade to see some of what goes on behind the curtain. And getting to hear from people who sometimes don’t talk that much on land. All of which means that I can’t even begin to imagine fishing by myself.

Also, I’m there for the sea: I love being out on the water, where the light is so different. As an amateur photographer, I’m a light junkie. I get depressed by grey weather, which is probably why I’ve been happiest living in places where there’s a lot of clear sky. It’s not that I mind rain and storms: I just need the weather to take itself seriously and pour down, rather than pissing around for days on end trying to gather the motivation to precipitate. So by definition, it’s always good weather when you’re out in a boat (because if it’s bad weather, you’d be mad to go out fishing). Ergo, Fishing equals interesting colour and light.

And I’m there for the drama. By nature, I’m the kind of person who used to think he had life under control … that if I paid due attention to life, things wouldn’t go wrong. And mostly they didn’t. Until they did. So I’m normally someone who would avoid drama. But somehow drama at sea is different from drama on land. It feels more natural. Like it’s supposed to be unpredictable, whereas everyday life is supposed to be the opposite. Take last night: we had three Manson Men(*) in a boat, and our collective confidence in the likelihood of catching anything was sufficiently lacking that none of us had thought to bring along a container(**) for the fish. And we never have the right gear: we’ll talk about how hard it is to bring in the set line or remove a fishhook without gloves, but then two days later we’re back out on the boat with none of us having visited their friendly local glove emporium in the intervening period. And there’s nothing better to spark a friendly argument than three people all being wrong at once.  Speaking of drama, there’s also nothing quite like running into a sandbar on the way back to the harbour, just before dark. At speed. Twice. Fish tastes better when there’s still some burnt adrenalin in the back of your mouth.

Oh yes. And I’m there for the fish. I knew there was a reason. Yum.

(*)Manson Men are like Mountain Men. Just shorter.

(**)Disclaimer: I actually had brought along a bucket to bring home the fish I needed for lunch guests today. But I’d left it in the car. That’s about the limit of my drama-queen repertoire.