The Eureka moment of the Fly of the Month Club—and the sudden influx of capital it brought—had completely revitalised my sense of ambition. Fishy Pete's was going to the moon as far as I was concerned.
Our fly tiers were hard at work producing the Rapala trebles, Rap Tails as we called them, but I made sure my very best talents were set aside for Fly of the Month Club. Every fly we sent out was to be a miniature work of art, each one tied with care and precision. I have much more to tell you about FOTMC but now I need to relate a deeply sad event.
I’ve already mentioned Tiny Roos: a truly lovely lady in her fifties who had originally worked as Pete Immelman’s admin manager. When I bought him out of the business, she stayed on—and became mine. More than just a colleague, Tiny was a friend. She had been a huge emotional support when I had really needed it a couple of years before.
On this fateful day, I arrived at Fishy Pete’s and parked as usual around the back. It was a big, warehouse-like structure—you could enter through the rear. At the front was the fly shop, and just behind that, through the main workspace, was the fly-tying area where all my ladies sat at long tables, tying away. Beyond that were a few simple offices. Tiny had a small one, right next to Arno’s, all open-plan.
The rear entrance led straight into her office and as I walked in, I saw her at her desk—but she had her head down on her arms. Something didn’t feel right.
I looked across at Arno, just a few metres away, and said, “Is Tiny okay?”
He shrugged, looking a bit uncertain. “She said she wasn’t feeling great. Just putting her head down for a bit.”
I walked over and touched her shoulder. And then came that sudden, horrible realisation. There was also the smell—something movies and books don’t prepare you for. When people die, the body releases everything.
I shouted for Arno, and we both sprang into action. We lifted her carefully and carried her straight into the back of my car. I drove like mad to the local hospital.
I already knew what I knew, but we had to try.
In those days—this was 1998—South Africa had quite a few Cuban doctors working in an exchange program of sorts. So out comes this Spanish-speaking doctor as we screech into the emergency bay. He took one look at her and said flatly, “Esta muerto.”
Even now, it’s difficult to describe how I felt. Tiny was a genuinely good soul. I knew she had a heart condition, but I never realised how serious it was.
She’d been caring for a son with severe intellectual disabilities—Patrick—and was married to an older man named Tiens Roos, a builder. At that time, Tiens was working for Dave Hinton at Valentine Projects. The had diversified from just tile making to building lodges.
I rang Dave. “Something terrible’s happened,” I told him.
“Oh shit,” he said.
“Where’s Tiens?” I asked.
“He’s working on one of our builds—about 15 kays out of town.”
“I have to tell him myself.” I said. "I'll be over in five minutes and we can drive out together" replied Dave.
We pulled up at the site. It was a half-built lodge. Tiens was on the roof. As our car pulled up, he looked down and caught my eye. You could see it—the moment he realised something was wrong. He came flying down the ladder, strode over to me, panic in his eyes.
“Wat het gebeur?” he said anquish in his eyes.
All I could say was, “Tiny... Tiny is dead.”
And this strong, wiry man—probably in his seventies, definitely older than her—just crumbled. I’ll never forget it. He absolutely broke down. He loved her, no question.
Fishy Pete’s took care of the funeral. It was the first time I’d experienced a traditional Christian burial, where you walk past the grave and throw a handful of soil onto the coffin. That moment stayed with me.
Tiny Roos went straight to heaven, no doubt in my mind. She didn’t even pass Go.
She was a kind, patient, honest, rock-solid woman—and I was lucky to have known her.