I signed up and started on a journey amassing knowledge, skills, and experience over nine years that, if I had planned and directed that energy, probably could have resulted in a bachelor’s degree - that could have resulted in me being able to buy my own chainsaw.
I was a journeyman of the FMG Young Farmer of the Year contest, which resulted in me competing in six regional and two grand finals.
Yes, I got my chainsaw, a couple of motorbikes and enough branded clothing to last until I am a very old young farmer.
The contest preparation pushed you into areas that you would never otherwise have ventured.
I went down rabbit holes and into warrens - the correct term for an interconnected series of tunnels inhabited by rabbits - where I memorised the 35-day gestation period of a kit - which is the correct term for a baby rabbit.
All this was on top of as many details as possible about Rabbit Calicivirus Disease (RCD) and any other scrap of info that could be shaped into a question.
The quiz component used to be the winning or losing of it all.
I gathered truckloads of useless information that I never really needed and probably only ever heard asked of another competitor.
But I thrived on it, as that aspect of the contest, in particular, was my time to shine.
A broad range of knowledge was required across the contest.
General knowledge, fencing, machinery, first aid, fertiliser - all and any areas imaginable were made into modules - and you needed to adapt to whatever was put in front of you.
Some people were better than others at that.
I have reflected a bit over the years since, trying to grasp what I’d actually achieved after all the effort apart from being some kind of jack of all trades and master of none.
Because not often do people ask the botanical name of a cabbage tree these days.
However, last week in one incident, any doubt disappeared.
My first day off-farm in nearly five months was a mix of socialising and helping out at a local event.
It appeared our role was done for the day and in a very rural way, a complimentary warm and shaken can of Lion Brown was our well-deserved reward.
From here on my plan for the day changed.
We arrived at the same time as a couple of paramedics, who we thought were there to attend to someone who had fainted,
Within moments it became clear the situation was a heap more serious and we experienced that awkward moment of feeling like spare pricks at a wedding as we watched on.
Out came the defibrillator, and the paramedics started chest compression.
My most recent medical experience was based on Shortland Street playing on the TV in the background.
Obviously, this didn’t thoroughly prepare me, and I guess I was expecting a quick and easy “made for TV” resuscitation.
Then, one of the paramedics asked “Who knows how to do CPR?”
It was at this moment I very slowly opened a filing cabinet in my mind, I imagine others could hear the sliders creaking.
My “qualifications” were a first aid course from my contest prep years and an expired first aid certificate that wasn’t good enough to be selected as a parent for school camp - but apparently, an exhausted paramedic didn’t care so much.
It was at this point I said “Hold my beer”.
I wasn’t really enjoying it, and it probably wasn’t an appropriate moment to be drinking anyway, so I decided to step forward and go.
On reflection, CPR was like a full-body beep test, starting on the top level - no warm-up, and no stretching. Just rib-breaking exhaustion interrupted by a defibrillator making a body boogie and clear the ground, multiple times.
It was a real team sport, swapping over until a pulse returned.
As we stepped back, so many others stepped forward.
It’s amazing how medical professionals and volunteer firefighters seemingly appeared out of nowhere to offer their help in the most rural way.
At this point, I found my beer and finished it, picked up some else’s and finished that as well.
Adrenaline had hit me and I was pretty amped and trying to comprehend what I had just been a part of.
A week later, in a meeting just as random at a gas station, I got to see that same man on his way home from the hospital.
Getting a hug from a man whose name I never knew a week previously is strangely a pretty cool experience.
So, we don’t plan our lives; you never know when it might be your turn to help or be helped.
But it was the FMG Young Farmer Of the Year Contest, as it is currently known, that challenged me and made me learn the skills that I then filed away without ever intending to use them.
The FMG Young Farmer of the Year rewarded me with so much more than a chainsaw.
So if you’re young enough, kind of a farmer, or just love beer and s*** yarns, sign up and see what you can learn.
One day in the future at a pub quiz you might have the winning answer to “What is the name of a baby mussel?” It’s spat.
Or - be able to assist in circulating blood around a body with compressions for seven or eight minutes and actually help someone else with living.
And, if you’re quick enough, your beer won’t even go flat.
Just a thought.
