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black sheep go forth… September 23, 2009

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I’ve just watched one of our all-time favourite films for the ‘nth’ time with my wife: Big Fish.  It always leaves me with a lasting impression of hope for family and whilst I think about my relationship with my father, it is as complex as the protagonist(s).  I can see many similarities with my father in this film.  He imparted stories to my siblings like old friends, but had not directly to me.  Maybe he doesn’t think I’d find them interesting or is it just that we don’t connect in the same manner?

While others I knew had already made their mark and were heading toward their cyclic-life, it was apparent that I was only starting out.  This could have caused anguish for my father who wondered why I was not moving into life as expected and thus became frustrated.  Both my older and younger brothers are financially successful and have families of their own; I feel a little behind by this measure.

He always seemed bothered to help, like I was detracting him from what he really wanted to be doing.  For example, I’d had an car accident some years ago.  The other driver involved was an eighteen year old kid who’d just received his P-plate and on his maiden voyage, ran a red-light.  I hadn’t seen him at all, as he was in the windscreen-arch (-) as I started to complete my turning circle.  The first acknowledgement of his existence was the look of horror on his face at the crumpled-up impact of my car into his drivers-side door.  He looked directly into my eyes at that crucial point before his car spun around, hit the curb, rolled once and landed on it’s wheels again.  I was stunned for longer than I even knew, but somehow moved the car off the road, opened the door and ran as fast as I could toward the P-platers car in a desperate hope that he was alive.  All I could think about was that I’d killed someone and the horrible feeling that ensued.  However, accidental it may have been, he was just a kid and had at least ten more years of living before he reached my experience.

I’d never been more relieved when I saw that he was alright, but had blood running down his face.  Once he told me his mum’s number, I called to inform that I’d hit her sons car, then called an ambulance and the police.  I was shaking when she arrived and expected to be king-hit.  She actually embraced me as well as her son and asked if I were okay.  I felt so muddled with shock, but called my father to tell him about it and asked if he could pick me up (you always call your parents first).  He did not respond in a manner of typical fatherly concern, he was angry.  It seemed unbelievably misguided to be more concerned about my car.  ‘Fuck the car, dad!’  At the very least some inquisition, but he filled me with such emotional confusion I just hung up on him.  Following that, every number I called resulted in the ‘I’m too busy’ remark.

The person who came to my aid was someone who had proven themselves trustworthy countless times.  And if he is reading this now, he knows the importance of trust and honour, for those qualities are akin to him.  He arrived within fifteen minutes of the call I’d made, with a bottle of water and genuine concern.  Told me to sit down, drink the bottle and relax.  I was overwhelmed at his mateship, but also with the total absence of affection from my own father when compared with the P-plater’s motherly concern.

Okay, maybe there isn’t a huge correlation between my father and the protagonist in Big Fish.  However, there are many and varied examples of the difference in behaviour and action when compared with my siblings over scenarios that warrant fatherly attention.  But that doesn’t mean to say that I cannot still desire it, like we all do at some point that feels like we’re missing something from our lives.  I want to be recognised in my fathers eyes as someone worthy to be concerned about, nothing more.

Near catastrophe at Pirate Bay January 1, 2008

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piratebay_crop.jpg

Let’s just say it was hot! Yesterday it reached 42°C (108°F) and it seemed that Pirate Bay was the worst beach to set our tent upon for a New Years Eve celebration. But what made this adventure a potential threat? Let me fill in the blanks.

Firstly, the cumbersome gear we loaded our bodies with and trudged through loose sand to fulfill some idealistic vision of how New Years Eve ’should’ be celebrated. By the time we’d walked along the pestilent pathway, we sought nothing more than the ocean itself, yet we were still so far from it. Simply the weight of what we carried to the beach, was not something to be done in sweltering heat and each step taunted us. From the low cliff, I angrily threw the gear down to the sand and feeling faint, climbed down to go set up the tent. The ability to look out for our puppy – being so very much smaller, could be carried out or drown in the undertow – made the experience even less enjoyable; he was as exhausted as we were. Furthermore, we were lamenting the 2.5Litre water supply we brought, not enough for two people in such conditions and with Zappy to consider, that water dispersed quickly.

Feeling possibly the worst of us all, Special K had to exorcise some demons behind the dunes and as I carried the entire collection of crap to an unshaded spot on very hot sand, I could not simply stand it any longer; I needed to find shade and located a small cutting in the crumbling sandstone cliff. Though I noticed the spider webs strung out and hanging like vines between the crags, I pushed it out of my mind, what mattered was survival. Zappy lay at my feet, breathless, while I took some water and shared it with our puppy. Special K returned exhausted, teary and wanting very much for the idea to remain of a perfect champagne NYE. After more water, I threw myself out into the heat and set up the tent with help from Special K. It really was pointless, the tent was hotter than the beach itself and all it accomplished was to sap our strength even further. Zappy was entertained as long as he didn’t go anywhere near the water; the tide frightened him. We were just happy to have some cold water around our legs, but it would not suffice. It became a moment of choice – dehydration and fainting with possible death thrown in or load up, get back to the car and go rejoin civilisation. We opted for the latter.

Though even in such potentially dangerous conditions, evidentially our love for each other proved the selflessness of our characters, i.e. we put our partner before ourselves. ‘I want you to have a mouthful’ my dear lady said, after I’d argued the point. This beautiful interchange made us even more determined to get back and kiss with full lips.

Foolish, over weighed and under prepared, the path back was more painful than the trip down. Zappy was panting and stopping every few metres for a rest and I carried him when I could. I kept a watchful eye on Special K, who looked extremely weak, I was no better. Over the dunes, two surfies walked past, the first bloke passed without comment though obviously noticing our status; the second asked if our puppy was alright. I told him we’d run out of water. A helping hand these days is hard to find, so we were taken aback when he gave us some water and carried half our stuff to the car park. I had no intention to resist, his help restored our faith in human decency. We thanked him expressively and wished him a prosperous New Year. He patted me on the shoulder and said ‘find a tap and drink until you’re okay to drive. Happy New Year.’ It will be now, I thought.

We spent a good half an hour refilling and resting. A teary eyed Special K said ‘I’m so glad you were with me, I don’t know what I’d do without you!’ I likened Special K to a sandcastle; visually strong, but crumblingly soft and mushy under pressure. The fact is, we are both unfit, unhealthy and unready for such an idea as ludicrous as what we had undertaken. All I wanted was to find a milk bar and fill up again and I voiced this concern to Special K ‘the best thing for us now is isotonic and water.’ We headed off, back toward Rye and came across a general store on the corner of the round-a-bout. Buying two bottles of Gatorade and a small sampling of sandwiches – they were snapped up in seconds. Following the snack, I had a strange feeling of disorientation…I am never disorientated. I always have a ‘feeling’ which direction north is situated and thus, which direction back to Melbourne. When I turned left at the T intersection ahead, I was expecting to see the bay on my left, not the right. It was not merely a shock, I felt like we were in a different part of Australia.

The heat by now was passing, a cool change looked to strike. But the fact was it was getting late, toward sunset. Every beach along Mornington Peninsula was packed. Every car park full. We parked beside the road, past Rosebud East and had a late lunch along a beach path, under some shade. Zappy was glad of the salmon flesh and basil dip and anyone that looked to walk nearby our vicinity and threaten his pack’s feeding got a little Zappy yappy bark and grumble. ‘Rrrrrr Rrrrrr Yip!’

Special K was rehydrated and feeling well, I felt better after some food and agreed to swim in the bay. We left our belongings atop a fort-like digging, some kids had obviously made. I thought it’d be funny, Zappy could protect the fort. Initially I left him sitting on our beach mat, next to the heavy backpack and he sat there guarding the ‘home’ as Special K and I submerged ourselves. I was thankful for wearing the rashie as it cooled me quicker when the wind blew and I suggested Special K should get one also. As the evening approached, nothing looked more appealing than going home and resting. Lying on the floor, watching the Melbourne fireworks on TV (it really was average compared to Sydney’s extravaganza. Let me elucidate, fireworks are usually only good to see in person, we were watching and saying ‘Oh my god, this is incredible’. Compare that to the shitty and ditsy songs from my home town). We felt extremely tested and worn – so much so, that New Years Eve passed without much inclination to celebrate, though we need not worry about next year, it will be incredible!

heat exchanger December 1, 2007

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The stifling humidity was the driving force behind our decision to hit the bay with snorkels in hand. I was tired anyway, from lack of sleep the previous night and the impact of a stressful implant on Friday, not to mention feeling dehydrated. By the time we arrived at the southern-most beach of Canadian Bay, we wasted no time and dived under the luke-warm water.

A dancing array of sunlight laced the ribbed lungs of submerged sand, slowly the depths showed their true colours. Of particular interest were the large rocky areas, housing small schools of toad fish and some strange worm-like suckers. Venturing further this time, it was frightening. Normally I like to be submerged in water just over my head, today we reached depths three times my height; it was a big step. Simply the spaciousness below my feet and the unknown murky darkness beyond the wavering reefs, caused me to panic. Tash tried to gain my attention to a school of some hundred fish deep ahead and though I knew with more exposure this fear would disperse, I desired to swim breathless back to shore, with Tash in tow.

It was a small beach, no more than fifty metres across, but below the unseen surface lay much to see and we were happy to have seen something more than sea-cucumber eggs and banjo shark offspring as found at Frankston beach. In the shallows, I felt easier and waded out a little way; the water was becoming increasingly icy as dusk approached. Shivering underwater, we had to emerge into the blasting wind. It took the better half of an hour to bring life back into our frosty bodies.