Text by Alfredo Parra
The sharp click turned the head of a cow that was grazing meekly near the shore, and disturbed all the surface fauna; the three lemon-green buoys went down in complete rebellion through the free waters of the creek. An Olympic cut, worthy of the Olympic pitcher that was “El Alemán”, who with an unusual anxiety to throw far, forgot to lift the pick up of his reel and release the line with the resulting result. Thus he lost his second tackle of the day, and then he rolled up his trousers and grumbling, strode into the stream like a cold-numbed heron.
Although it was hilarious, you shouldn’t laugh hard at this man, because “El Alemán” had a very bad temper. He took enormous pleasure in unleashing the pent-up furies when the opportunity arose. He was a born fisherman, one of the best the town gave, although he was more of a lagoon fisherman. Very measured in his actions; scrupulous in the presentation of the bait; he filleted the tooth with such precision that there were even those who called him “the surgeon”. No one could ever say of him that he carried blunt hooks, old bait or unenviable rods. He had won over seventy fishing trophies, all corresponding to an undisputed first prize. Precise, observant and reserved when picking up the best piece, the person behind this story had well earned the respect of his peers.
But that day, the stars that ruled your destiny should be very misaligned. They may have had family problems, the kind that you don’t forget or go fishing away. You could tell at first glance that something was wrong; but in spite of this, it was very amusing to see him advancing through the stream hoisting up his pants, with his almost two meters tall, enraged, and at the same time without giving up his cautious habit of walking slowly, planting his feet firmly, so unquestionable way. He walked as if he were saying with every step, “I just put one foot on the ground, and now I’m going to lean on it.” Which is why it was so much fun having him at our mercy, in a situation that was clearly beyond his control.
At the moment, the water was only knee-deep. It could be thought that he was still in control; but we wondered, not without concern, what would happen when he got in a little more. The buoys gained the free current toward the center, as if magnetized by that propelling force and at the same time powerful suction. No one attended to his cane anymore. We saw the giant, very involved in the rescue of his buoys, while he lost respect for the cold and advanced inexorably. He seemed more appreciative of the recovery than the cautious he always showed in his walk.
And suddenly… he disappeared. A depression in the “Arroyo De Las Gallinas” swallowed him up, as if hatched by one of the mythical birds that gave the course its name. We stopped seeing it for a couple of seconds, but it immediately emerged, with a spring impulse, because next to the well, where El Alemán fell, the waters were very shallow. And which angry Poseidon, who raised storms with his trident, raising both arms, exclaimed to heaven: “Toifel!”
We couldn’t resist it anymore. We didn’t care that he got angry forever, or that he chased us like flies. Simply, and already calm to see him safe, we laugh out loud until we run out of strength.
Since then we call it “Toifel”, (which is written “teufel”), and which in German means “devil” or something like that. A somewhat extravagant name for popular taste, especially considering the environment.
The important thing was that Toifel began to be like one of us: that he knew that he, too, made mistakes. And as soon as he found out about it, he started having a lot more fun fishing.
by Juan Ferrari
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