Awesome Fishing Trip

The boat looked nice on the trailer
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Clancy of the Overflow

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Scarborough Snake Pit
Stories & poems of Australia by
KODY A.I., our
Chat GPT assistant.
Prompts & editing by
Maxwell Jefferies.
We planned it for months, this trip up the coast,
A fishing adventure, what we wanted most.
The blokes had their rods, all packed and prepared,
With reels and big dreams, no effort was spared.
The boat sat in tow like a king on a throne,
Soon we'd be out there, just us and alone.

The 4WDs roared up the sandy dirt track,
The gear packed tight with no room or slack.
A convoy of mates, sun already high,
Not a cloud in the big, blue, endless sky.
The radio crackled with old fishy lies,
And tales of the one that got away with a prize.
Stories & Poems

The Geebung Polo Club

The Man from Ironbark

Awesome Fishing Trip

Never Been Bogged

“Too rough to go out,” said Bob with a frown,
As the wind threw more grit, the sun bearing down.
The esky grew lighter, but still we stayed dry,
The boat hadn’t moved, not even to try.
But with mates, you laugh and let troubles pass,
So we sat and we drank, parked on our ass.

We set up the tents, though the wind gave a fight,
It knocked them down twice, then stood them upright.
We camped by the shore, with sand in our hair,
And flies crawling over, without a care.
The boat stood silent, still gleaming and neat,
A trophy of dreams that looked good from our seat.

Day after day, that wind wouldn’t ease,
Blowing the sand like a swarm of bees.
Each morning we’d gather and check the rough sea,
But it looked worse than the day before, you see.
The fish stayed away, smarter than us,
And the midges kept on with their relentless fuss.

“Maybe tomorrow,” said Mick with a grin,
But tomorrow's breeze would knock us again.
We’d swat at the flies, sip on our brew,
For what else could a bunch of fishos do?
The boat, still on land, taunted us all,
Yet there it sat, proud and tall.
We reached the campsite, the beach open wide,
The wind whipping waves on the incoming tide.
The boat gleamed proudly on its steel-frame bed,
As we all rubbed our hands, imagining what's ahead.
But the wind started howling, fierce as could be,
And whitecaps crashed hard against the sea.

“We’ll wait for it to settle,” said Gaz with a cheer,
As he opened the esky and cracked the first beer.
We stood around waiting, our faces full of hope,
But the wind had us beat, like a man on a rope.
The boat on the trailer, stuck fast in the sand,
Didn't seem to care for our fishing plans.

The heat came in waves, like the outback's cruel breath,
We started to think we might sweat to death.
The midges attacked like a maddening swarm,
While flies found our faces, an Australian norm.
We slapped and we cursed as the sand whirled around,
The wind's constant howl was the only sound.
We thought of the fish just beyond our reach,
But not in this weather, not here on the beach.
Each gust brought more sand, more flies to our camp,
And the midges? They multiplied like a local damp.
We sat and we stared, with no rods in the sea,
This fishing trip wasn’t what it was meant to be.

“We could always try casting from shore,” Dave said,
But the flies buzzed louder, filling our head.
So we sank back into chairs, no line to toss,
For casting in wind was always a loss.
The sun burned our faces, our arms, and our pride,
While the boat still gleamed on its trailer, all dry.

The heat was relentless, sweat stung our skin,
The flies had a feast, biting us from within.
The esky emptied faster than planned,
But what else to do, stuck on this hot sand?
We dreamed of the barra we’d reel into shore,
But the sea refused, giving nothing more.

By midweek we knew this trip was a bust,
The weather and wind had broken our trust.
No fish to be caught, no stories to tell,
Just flies and midges, in a sandy hell.
Yet we laughed at ourselves, as Aussies tend to do,
For a bad trip with mates still beats a good one with few.
Gaz swatted a fly and let out a loud yawn,
“Let’s pack up the gear and head out at dawn.”
But no one could move, too lazy, too beat,
We stayed in our chairs, defeated by the heat.
The boat, still unmoved, glistened in the sun,
A reminder of what we’d hoped would be fun.

At night, the wind died, but we’d had our fill,
The week had been nothing but sand and chill.
The boat, that grand vessel, never touched the tide,
But at least we had beer, with mates by our side.
And though we caught nothing, not even a bite,
We laughed long and loud by the fire each night.

When the trip was done, and the wind finally stilled,
We packed up our camp, our hearts mostly filled.
The boat sat gleaming as we turned to go,
Never once launched, never once in the flow.
“Next time, for sure,” we all swore with a cheer,
But the only thing caught was a cold can of beer.

The flies still hounded as we loaded the rig,
And the midges bit Mick till he started to dig.
But we rolled up the tents, the chairs, and the grill,
And drove back down south, over dune, over hill.
We may not have fished, but we sure did have fun,
For a week on the coast’s still a win when it's done.

So here’s to the trips where the fish never bite,
Where the boat stays dry and the wind is a fight.
We’ll do it again, with hopes up high,
Even if we just sit and watch the clouds fly.
It's always a good trip with good mates and beer.
The fish? Well, they’ll be bigger next year!
We planned it for months,
   this trip up the coast,
A fishing adventure,
   what we wanted most.
The blokes had their rods,
   all packed and prepared,
With reels and big dreams,
   no effort was spared.
The boat sat in tow
   like a king on a throne,
Soon we'd be out there,
   just us and alone.

The 4WDs roared up
    the sandy dirt track,
The gear packed tight
    with no room or slack.
A convoy of mates,
    sun already high,
Not a cloud in the big,
    blue, endless sky.
The radio crackled
    with old fishy lies,
And tales of the one
  that got away with a prize.
We reached the campsite,
   the beach open wide,
The wind whipping waves
   on the incoming tide.
The boat gleamed proudly
   on its steel-frame bed,
As we all rubbed our hands,
   imagining what's ahead.
But the wind started howling,
   fierce as could be,
And whitecaps crashed hard
   against the sea.

“We’ll wait for it to settle,”
   said Gaz with a cheer,
As he opened the esky
   and cracked the first beer.
We stood around waiting,
   our faces full of hope,
But the wind had us beat,
   like a man on a rope.
The boat on the trailer,
   stuck fast in the sand,
Didn't seem to care
   for our fishing plans.

The heat came in waves, like
   the outback's cruel breath,
We started to think
   we might sweat to death.
The midges attacked
   like a maddening swarm,
While flies found our faces,
   an Australian norm.
We slapped and we cursed
   as the sand whirled around,
The wind's constant howl
   was the only sound.
“Too rough to go out,”
   said Bob with a frown,
As the wind threw more grit,
   the sun bearing down.
The esky grew lighter,
   but still we stayed dry,
The boat hadn’t moved,
   not even to try.
But with mates, you laugh
   and let troubles pass,
So we sat and we drank,
   parked on our ass.

We set up the tents, though
   the wind gave a fight,
It knocked them down twice,
   then stood them upright.
We camped by the shore,
   with sand in our hair,
And flies crawling over,
   without a care.
The boat stood silent,
   still gleaming and neat,
A trophy of dreams that
   looked good from our seat.

Day after day,
   that wind wouldn’t ease,
Blowing the sand
   like a swarm of bees.
Each morning we’d gather
   and check the rough sea,
But it looked worse than
   the day before, you see.
The fish stayed away,
   smarter than us,
And the midges kept on
   with their relentless fuss.

“Maybe tomorrow,”
   said Mick with a grin,
But tomorrow's breeze
   would knock us again.
We’d swat at the flies,
   sip on our brew,
For what else could a bunch
   of fishos do?
The boat, still on land,
   taunted us all,
Yet there it sat,
   proud and tall.
We thought of the fish
   just beyond our reach,
But not in this weather,
   not here on the beach.
Each gust brought more sand,
   more flies to our camp,
And the midges? They
   multiplied like a local damp.
We sat and we stared,
   with no rods in the sea,
This fishing trip wasn’t what
   it was meant to be.

“We could always try casting
   from shore,” Dave said,
But the flies buzzed louder,
   filling our head.
So we sank back into chairs,
   no line to toss,
For casting in wind
   was always a loss.
The sun burned our faces,
   our arms, and our pride,
While the boat still gleamed
   on its trailer, all dry.

The heat was relentless,
   sweat stung our skin,
The flies had a feast,
   biting us from within.
The esky emptied faster
   than planned,
But what else to do,
   stuck on this hot sand?
We dreamed of the barra
   we’d reel into shore,
But the sea refused,
   giving nothing more.

By midweek we knew
   this trip was a bust,
The weather and wind
   had broken our trust.
No fish to be caught,
   no stories to tell,
Just flies and midges,
   in a sandy hell.
Yet we laughed at ourselves,
   as Aussies tend to do,
For a bad trip with mates still
   beats a good one with few.
So here’s to the trips
   where the fish never bite,
Where the boat stays dry
   and the wind is a fight.
We’ll do it again,
   with hopes up high,
Even if we just sit
   and watch the clouds fly.
It's always a good trip
   with good mates and beer.
The fish? Well,
   they’ll be bigger next year!
Gaz swatted a fly
   and let out a loud yawn,
“Let’s pack up the gear
   and head out at dawn.”
But no one could move,
   too lazy, too beat,
We stayed in our chairs,
   defeated by the heat.
The boat, still unmoved,
   glistened in the sun,
A reminder of what
   we’d hoped would be fun.

At night, the wind died,
   but we’d had our fill,
The week had been nothing
   but sand and chill.
The boat, that grand vessel,
   never touched the tide,
But at least we had beer,
   with mates by our side.
And though we caught nothing,
   not even a bite,
We laughed long and loud
   by the fire each night.

When the trip was done,
   and the wind finally stilled,
We packed up our camp,
   our hearts mostly filled.
The boat sat gleaming
   as we turned to go,
Never once launched,
   never once in the flow.
“Next time, for sure,”
   we all swore with a cheer,
But the only thing caught
   was a cold can of beer.

The flies still hounded
   as we loaded the rig,
And the midges bit Mick
   till he started to dig.
But we rolled up the tents,
   the chairs, and the grill,
And drove back down south,
   over dune, over hill.
We may not have fished,
   but we sure did have fun,
For a week on the coast’s
   still a win when it's done.
.
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