Breaking Point

As 2002 started, I was faced with the stark reality that I was reliving what my mother had gone through all those years ago in Mallorca. The horror of her existence with my father had become my own.

There I had my beautiful house, my beautiful children, my beautiful wife. But she was in love with another man and visiting him whenever she felt like it. And I was just supposed to accept the status quo, I guess. She never gave any indication of wanting a divorce or wanting to move in with him.

Her attitude was simply: I'm a mother and you're my husband and we have a beautiful home. But I have my lover that I go and visit whenever I see fit.

It was humiliating and painful, but I was also responsible for a business limping badly after all the setbacks of 2001—September 11th and everything else. And now I had to go away for a month to America, where Natasha had booked eight consumer shows back-to-back. Four weekends in January, four in February. The deal was I'd take January, Clinton would do February, and Natasha would handle all eight.

Remember—this was Natasha's first year of marriage. That's how incredibly dedicated she was to making Fishy Pete's succeed in the USA. I'll always be grateful for her dedication. And I'll always know that I let her down by not being able to function at 100%.

But it's like trying to box with one hand tied behind your back. Emotionally, I mean. To say this whole situation with Terry was cutting me to my core is an understatement. The depression, the anxiety, the lack of sleep—it was horrendous.

I set off for the USA on January 2nd. Arrived at JFK after a long, exhausting flight and phoned home from the first payphone I could find.

Terry did not pick up the call on her mobile and it went to voicemail. I then called the landline at home. Kim picked up.

"Where's Terry?"

"Oh, she's at Doug's. Dave and I are babysitting."

I lost my mind.

I phoned Mary, Terry's mother. "What the fuck is going on?"

She said she'd been asked to babysit but refused because she thought it was wrong. So Terry just asked Kim instead.

Astonishing.

I don't remember all the consumer shows. It's all a bit of a blur—one in New Jersey, a few along the northeastern seaboard. I was showing up, doing my bit. I even met my fly-fishing hero, Jason Borger—the guy who did the actual casting in A River Runs Through It. I met the legendary Lefty Kreh at one of the shows. He complimented me on my casting.

It should have been a fantastic part of my life. A celebration of what I'd accomplished with Fishy Pete's and the Fly of the Month Club. But it was an absolute living hell.

All I could think about was what was happening at home. What was Terry up to? As if I didn't know. And worst of all—Mikey. He was now the same age I'd been in Mallorca when the shit hit the fan with my father and Kirsten. I knew how it would be affecting him. How desperate he must be feeling.

Angie and Olie were four and six years younger than Mikey—too young to fully understand. But Mikey was ten. More or less exactly the same age I'd been.

I was on antidepressants. I took every opportunity to run, to jog, just to cope. I was reading Seat of the Soul by Gary Zukav. At one point I got online and sent Terry a bouquet of flowers at work, telling her how much I loved her. Pathetic in hindsight.

I was just trying everything to get through those four weeks.

I arrived back in Johannesburg. My loving wife didn't pick me up—Rudolph Pretorius did. He read me the riot act. Said he was prepared to release the last tranche of funds from the original Fishy Pete's deal because the sales were there and the potential was still there. But I had to understand: I needed to forget about Terry. Put it out of my mind and focus 100% on the business.

"Your marriage right now is irrelevant," he said. "If you lose this opportunity to make Fishy Pete's really work, you're going to be put back fifteen years in your life."

He was talking financially, of course. As I write this twenty-four years later, it didn't put me back fifteen years—it put me back a hell of a lot longer than that.

Anyway, I agreed I'd do my absolute best, and proceeded to do just that. But it was impossible to be my most efficient self when my marriage was crumbling around me.

It was early February. I was down in Lydenburg visiting the factory, trying to sort out the chaos. I got a phone call from Terry. Rudolph was actually on that trip with me, and I rushed outside to take it.

Terry said, "I want to make a go of our marriage. I've got too much invested in this. I told Doug it's over. I want to make a go."

You can imagine how unbelievably ecstatic I was. My heart was soaring on the drive back to Johannesburg.

Ironically it happened to be Valentine's Day. I booked a table at a restaurant in Rivonia, and off we went.

What an abysmal evening.

Terry just drank one glass of wine after another. She barely spoke to me. I said, "Let's just go home."

Now in the Discovery, homeward bound, she suddenly says, "Take me home."

"I am taking you home."

"Home is where Doug is."

"I'm not taking you to Doug's house. I'm taking you home."

So she starts to get out of the car—while it was moving. I grabbed her by the wrists. I'm a lot bigger than Terry, and I managed to hold both her wrists together with my left hand while I drove all the way to her sister Bernie and husband John's house in Linden.

I screeched to a halt outside their gate and basically threw her at them. "You deal with her. I'm going home."

I went back to the kids.

The next morning, Mikey asked where his mother was. I said she'd been feeling ill and was at Bernie's.

Oh my God. Just thinking about the horror of that evening.

A few days after that, I drafted a letter to Terry—which I still have to this day—and got her to sign it with a witness present. It basically said that if by March 16th (my birthday)—a month away—she had not made a decision on whether she wanted to pursue our marriage, I would immediately institute divorce proceedings.

I couldn't go through the hell of having Doug McCullum thrust into our lives the whole time.

When I look back now, my naivety thinking she would ever comply with such an ultimatum was ridiculous. But I had to try.

Not easy to relive that horrible, horrible January, February, and March of 2002