One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

Synopsis

I like to think that from adversity comes the true flavor of the moment.

This catch report is part of a story that unfolds over several years — a story whose origins I shared with you a few issues ago.

When you chase illusions, you know full well that obstacles will be many and progress will likely be slow. But if you focus more on the journey than the destination, then even the worst-case scenarios will leave a lasting imprint on a pilgrim’s heart.

What I mean is simple: every adventure deserves to be lived, whatever the outcome.

If you only focus on the goal you’ve set for yourself and, unfortunately, fail to reach it, you expose yourself to the cruelty of failure — that feeling that dulls the picture and drains it of all its colors.

This was the third time I set sail toward the East.

The third time my heartbeat flirted with tachycardia at the thought of setting foot on those lands. The third time my mind struggled to deal with the flood of emotions running through me.

Like every attempt, this one had something special. This year, my friend Franck Rouchouze, aka Staiven — the one it all started with — decided, just a few weeks before departure, not to join the adventure. Nothing serious, but his absence left a void we had to deal with.

Aside from that shadow, this edition was exceptional thanks to the presence of the very first official guest in a Brakass project. He was joined by another last-minute guest, no less valuable: Dylan Boutry and Romain Combet — renamed “D” and “R” during this session, which felt far closer to nirvana than to a simple fishing trip between friends.

We say it often, but the Brakass project exists first and foremost to self-finance expeditions, upgrade our video gear, and invite guests to experience our daily life for a moment.

This was a time for satisfaction. A time to enjoy that feeling of achievement. A time to bring our idea of sharing to life.

Pure NIRVANA, we told you!

Somewhere over the rainbow

Previous expeditions in these lands allowed us to explore, more or less effectively, a vast territory.

This year, the risk took on a different shape. Even though moving remained an option, we arrived for the first time with a rough game plan and a very specific target.

By day ten, memories were already piling up in our heads. Nights were short, and fatigue was kicking in hard. The plan was unfolding almost flawlessly, and our main satisfaction came from the fact that, so far, we hadn’t lost a single fish.

I’m starting this chapter on day ten, because that’s when we picked up R at DIYA International Airport.

So this new chapter begins with three of us. And honestly, R’s arrival felt like a real relief.

At the first drink, the tone was set:

Dylan: “Alright Rom, here’s the plan — you take the first one, the second, the third… and every single one after that until we wake up tomorrow morning, okay?”

Romain: “Yeah, no chance guys, don’t mess with me — I haven’t even contributed yet! I’ll take the first one, but after that we rotate!”

Soël: “Perfect — we’ll do exactly what D said!”

A few M&Ms later (Mèches & Moresques (mean Special cigarette and special beverage), D and I fell into a deep coma, leaving poor R running around in the rain without even having seen the swim in daylight.

If I remember correctly, D didn’t even hear the runs. As for me, I clearly remember that feeling of pure bliss — turning over in my bedchair with a grin on my face, knowing I wouldn’t move a single toe no matter what happened.

The morning that followed that night.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

After that good night’s sleep, we still had to deal with a tedious task that had already cost us a lot of time: getting our fishing permits.

Over there, fishing legally is quite complicated. To get permits, we needed a special number from the authorities — something like a national ID number specific to each citizen.

I had already spent nearly a full day being sent from one office to another, trying to find someone willing to help and negotiate a fake ID number.

Once that was done, we still had to wait a week to collect the documents in person, in what looked like their version of a prefecture.

That’s what we were about to do that day — but we hadn’t planned on being targeted by a mobile customs unit.

Just a few hundred meters away from finally getting our hands on the precious document, as we were walking briskly through the streets of this Slavic town, an unmarked van cut us off for a good old Balkan-style identity check.

Thankfully, no jail this time. Although the now-classic line “We’re here to make a fishing film” still sounded — and will always sound — a bit suspicious to anyone in uniform.

In the end, everything went back to normal, and we left the city a few hours later, fully legal this time — finally able to focus solely on fishing.

Back to fishing

Poopipoopoo...

When we got back, that Olivier Giroud lookalike was waiting for us after spending part of the day prepping the gear for a move.

Boats loaded, bait boats in hand, we covered the distance to our next spot.

This was just a transition area before moving to a much more remote zone.

Truth is, we picked it a bit in a rush. Two days earlier, after walking several kilometers to prepare a spot we had our eyes on, I ran into a local who had taken the only marker I’d left there during our first scouting session. No doubt about it — my marker had become his, and his rods were set all around it.

With night falling fast, I had to choose a backup area quickly, relying purely on instinct. It was way too late to start proper scouting.

So 20 kg of particles and 15 kg of boilies ended up on the bottom of this sexy bay entrance, stirred by the late afternoon thermal wind.

We didn’t take long to realize the area wasn’t bad at all, with a few takes from the very first night.

Another promising spot.

The vibe was perfect — the sun was back, luck was on our side, the fish had potential, and laughter filled the days. That’s probably the closest thing to my definition of “pura vida.”

As if things weren’t already good enough, the weather brought in a south/south-east wind, and I can still hear myself joking: “This smells like a big one, boys!”

Late in the afternoon, D joined me at base camp where I had been cooking batches of particles for the past two hours. He had just come back from baiting the area we had been dreaming of fishing for nearly two weeks.

We cracked open a few cans under the pine trees, projecting ourselves into wild yet very possible scenarios, dreaming of exceptional fish in these mystical waters.

Meanwhile, R stood guard, sharper than ever, ready to jump on any take.

You have to understand — expectations here are not the same as back home. We’re not dreaming of 40 kg fish, not even 30+. Here, breaking the 20 kg mark would send us straight to the moon.

At this stage of the session, every time we crossed the 15 kg mark, we were bouncing around like teenagers before their first date.

Each water has its own kind of specimen, and none of us were here to skip steps or look down on any fish.

Every take is a gift, and up to that point, we stayed grateful — fully aware of how lucky

we were.

Facing the setting sun, eyes half-closed and heads clouded by cheap warm beers, D answered R, who was stuttering on the phone:

“Guys, can you not hear me yelling? I’ve got a beast in the net!”

One of those childhood dreams… finally real.

Thunderbolt. So it’s true — even here, dreams can come true.

We jumped straight into the boat to join him and see what the lake had just given us.

And yeah… it was a proper lump. A type of fish we hadn’t seen yet, opening up new possibilities and filling us with both excitement and motivation.

Everything then happened very quickly as the sun disappeared.

The photo session was interrupted by another solid common, giving us the luxury of a double before celebrating this huge win — for the little idiots we are.

To me, this capture perfectly represents what sharing meant during this session. Everyone has their own vision of it, but here everything was truly shared.

I chose and baited the spot, Dylan built the rig and positioned the rod, and Romain hooked, fought, and safely landed that incredible fish alone in the waves. Once again — flawless.

Egos were left aside. Everything was shared, from A to Z.

That night, the drinks kept pouring — Chartreuse all around.

The emotional moment over — back to business.

We decided to stay 24 more hours, hoping for another big fish. Nothing crazy happened, but it confirmed something: 72 hours seems to be the limit on pre-baited spots.

A field, cows, carp… and a sunburnt cat

Finally, it was time to move to the area we had been waiting for.

Once again, the move was pure chaos — jokes, impressions, nonsense.

At that point, the film’s original soundtrack was completely ruined. Even before editing, we already knew the audio would be unusable.We arrived under a blazing sun around midday, and fish were already showing on the baited area.

We were rubbing our hands… until a storm delayed the rod placement.

No rush though. We had time, and we weren’t going to waste it by making mistakes. The goal was simple: be efficient for at least half of the session.

The madness could come later.

By early evening, things kicked off. If I remember correctly, D opened the score with a beautiful, spawned-out female, still thick in the belly.

I loved that fish.

Probably my favorite fish from the entire trip.

The next morning, he landed a stunning male as well.

In between, we caught several fish of all sizes — with a special selection for R, who somehow kept getting the smaller ones… even when we rotated rods. His bad luck only disappeared during that famous afternoon a few days earlier.

That damn cat was stubborn as hell.

This start on the new area was intense, and it took me a while to truly realize what was happening.

Sometimes you imagine things so much that when they finally happen, they feel completely different from what you expected.

I won’t speak for the others, but personally, it took me months to come down from this adventure.

Dreams are made to be lived.

This short story is only a glimpse of what happened over those weeks. Hopefully, one day, I’ll show you the full picture in a feature film — once I’ve caught up with my massive backlog of holiday productions.

If I can give you one piece of advice: don’t count on it too much. Tell yourself the film might never come out — that way, if it does, it’ll be a nice surprise.

Keep chasing your dreams, my friend. Fate will take care of the rest.

Much love from the crew.

S.