owlrigh

It's magpie season again, and unfortunately this time I can't avoid the two magpies who have it in for me. They're right on the Pacific Highway, and there's no way of getting around them; they take turns at bombdiving. Hardly has one been waved off before the other comes in from a different trajectory.

A couple of weeks ago Ben and I went for a ride into town, the first time that these birds decided to do the double-up attack. He pedalled up on ahead and stopped once he was out of their range, laughing at my continued assault.

"Hey, I don't have to ride too fast -- just fast enough that you're behind me, because then they'll go for you!"

That they did, and that they did again on the way home.

They continued to get me after that, whenever I was by myself, and then I caved in and stopped riding to town. I couldn't bear the fact I couldn't even try to avoid these birds; there was no escaping them.

I was discussing these birds with a lady at work one evening.

"You should try going along the highway!" she said. "Try that route instead. Get off your bicycle when it comes and walk, because that way it won't see you as a threat."

One afternoon I began with the first of these things, and it was then the magpie nest location became clear -- in the big tree at the very corner I used to turn. Also right under the new path along the highway, and it went for me with a thirst for blood in its ghoulish little eyes.

It was off the bicycle for me, and I tried to walk it along while keeping an eye on the magpie. The creature of evil then ran along beside me as I tried to walk, but mostly ended up getting tangled in my bicycle and falling over.

There had to be a solution!

( My Brilliant Idea. )

On another bicycle note, a comfortable, nice, totally uplifting one: I got myself a women's saddle seeing as my old one was dying, and this women's saddle is the best thing in the world. A Terry Butterly Ti women's specific saddle, shorter in the nose and with a blissful channel in the middle.

I never quite realised how annoying my old one was. At least now I can avoid the magpies in comfort.

( New and old bicycle saddle. )

There's been a low pressure system hanging around the Northern Rivers area the past few days, which will stay over the weekend. High wind warnings were issued and now flood warnings for all the major rivers in force. We couldn't sleep the other night, because of the wind howling and being in general nervous over whether the anchors would hold. Nothing untoward happened, unless one counts a lack of sleep.

Ben's father, Dan, left for Mackay yesterday morning, going to check a boat for someone who's interested in a boaties' opinion of its current seaworthiness. We dropped him off at the bus stop and then hung around town. Before leaving we had a look at the ocean; the beach was a mass of white froth and the wind, even though it had eased off considerably, was still so strong I could only just wedge the car door open with my body to get out.

It was just edging towards evening and Ben had gone ashore when I looked over at Dan's trimaran and noticed it was now further out in the river and pointing towards my boat, a sign it'd dragged anchor. Chances are if a boat points sideways to the wind, it's moving, adios, bye-bye.

"Ben," said I into the phone immediately, "you'd better come back. Your dad's boat's moved."

It must have snagged something, for it stopped moving shortly after. It was dark when Ben finished moving her closer back into the shore and resetting her anchors with the strongest one shoring up against the prevailing winds. He turned her navigation lights on so he could keep an eye on her against the dark background of the mangroves, the bright red and green lights reassuring us over the next few hours that she was all right.

We'd decided to pack it in for the night, for although it was windy it's wasn't as bad as the night before, and we were tired from sleep deprivation. It was still raining, though, and around 11pm Ben went outside to bail the dinghy so it wouldn't sink, as happened recently when we slept through the rain.

He'd hardly gotten back in the boat and was drying himself off when the wind picked up suddenly, and the next I knew the boat was flattened sideways, wind screamed, water came through the boat, and Ben was swearing.

"Fuck! Fuck! Dad's boat just flipped over!"

I jumped up and threw my clothes on hurriedly and scrambled around in the dark for my glasses, which had gone flying when the boat was knocked sideways. There's a reason to get laser surgery, thought I out of nowhere, and eventually I found my glasses -- and opted for the contacts, instead, in case the wind and rain picked up again.

By the time I was dressed it was eerily calm, and has remained that way ever since. Gone from 55kt (100km/h) winds to nothing in the space of minutes. [ screencap of Ballina weather info from bom.gov.au over this period of time ]

Our dinghy had filled up with water; the gust had come down the creek in a white wall of wind and water right up our stern, which was why the cabin had gotten wet even though the boards were all in. Priority was saving the dinghy and getting the engine working again. The fuel container was gone and we had just enough fuel to get ashore.

"I'm scared the shed's fallen in," said Ben, "I'm shaking."

We both were. We made it ashore just as the outboard began to splutter and ran up the yard, which was flooded with water, up to the shed. It was miraculously still standing. All around us small boats had fallen over and trees were broken and this shed, banged together with recycled roofing tin and whose sides are nothing more than tarpaulins had held together. Inside was a shambles, but it hadn't fallen in on the catamaran; I think it would have broken Ben if he'd found that these last two years of work had just been destroyed.

We found some fuel, "borrowed" some, and then went to look at the the capsized trimaran. The current in the creek was strong and the boat in the middle of the channel. The only thing keeping it in place is the mast stuck fast into the mud underneath it.

"Let's go ask Jacko for help," said I, expecting him to brush my suggestion away. "I know you hate asking people for help, but we have to this time. We have no rope, nothing."

He didn't even put up a fight about it and off we went, knocking on a yachties' boat downstream and sourcing rope and assistance. First we had to bail his dinghy out, and then took ages motoring against the current to get back to the boat. Tying a rope to the riverbank was hard, because such was the force of the water on the rope that the dinghy wouldn't move. We eventually managed, just, and then for the rest of the night watched the debris make an island of the trimaran.

As the night wore on we pulled out the boathook and pushed the collection of sticks and logs piling up on my yacht, for if the pressure grew too much it probably wouldn't hold, and Gecko would go on down the river too -- we ran out of diesel a couple of days ago and the prop is fouled; even if the engine was full we wouldn't go anywhere, not with how much growth is on the hull.

I kept quashing tears at the thought of Dan's home gone; he left yesterday with only a backpack, and now that's all he has in the world. The only comparison to a house I can think of is someone's house burning down, only they'd still have the land value, and the house would be insured. Now Dan has nothing, no savings, no insurance ... nothing, not even money to fix his boat if it could be salvaged -- and he has no money even for that.

At least he wasn't inside. His chances would have been slim, what with the boat flipping around in the wind and then smashing back down in the water. With it upside down it would have been impossible for him to get out, if conscious to do so. If last night had been the night before, when he'd been on board ...

"I can't believe Dad's boat's capsized," Ben kept saying last night. "I just watched the lights go around, it just flipped with the gust. I can't believe this, it's like it didn't happen."

"Let's have a cup of tea," said I, and continued to do so as we maintained watch throughout night, eyes burning but still awake.

When I was working during the day I would ride an extra twenty minutes out to the breakwater wall and see what the water was doing. When on these rides I would often see the same people over and over again: the guy who "walked" his dog by having the dog pull him along on a skateboard; the two grey-haired ladies who colour-coordinated with their pink bicycles, but whom I never saw riding; the older Aboriginal man who would call out and wave as I rode past.

This morning I rode out to get a loaf of bread from one of the local bakeries. I discovered this loaf, their Pana di Casa, a dense, light-tasting sourdough which reminds me of the breads my mother used to make, an excellent example of home-made bread. It's best eaten the day manufacture, and as I sped along to get some, I came up behind a couple of people along the bike path. I wormed my way around them slowly and was about to speed up again when the man called out --

"Wait!"

I stopped and hopped off the bike, then turned to face them. It was the Aboriginal guy of the many waves. They were middle-aged with friendly faces, and when they got closer I noticed the guy had wonderful, beautiful dark eyes.

"Hi. I've seen you around a lot, and I wanted to know your name. I'm Antonio, and this is Rhonda," he continued after I introduced myself. "I've seen you for the past twelve months."

( And so their curiosity is satisfied. )

It rained almost non-stop for a season last year; with winter it broke, and it was with sighs of relief that we welcomed the dry cool days. An entire summer of rain. We dreaded the appearance of summer towards the end of last year, and although it wasn't as bad, it still rained more often than not. I splurged and bought expensive raingear, two sets; one for boating, and one for on the bicycle, so that either way I wouldn't get caught in a downpour and join the legion of drowned rats.

The weather has turned grey again, and the rains started up. There's a low squatting above us. I've been lazy the past few days, not doing long rides because of rain. Walking through the quagmire of a boatyard is bad enough; riding through town and having an accident on every hidden pothole just takes the fun out of things.

This morning I entered the cockpit to greet the day and as I looked around I noticed the dinghy was apparently missing. This is not an entirely uncommon event; a couple of years ago, when we were anchored in Mobb's Bay, the dinghy disappeared.

( oh no! )

The short way to work involves a 15-minute bike ride, and that's my old route; the new one's 40 minutes and involves a loop taking me out to the northern breakwater wall, following the bikeway which starts not too far from here and goes just about right up to the supermarket's door.

My thighs are the hugest they've ever been, thick and ropy with muscle and I don't have to even think about squats anymore; I can lift heavy boxes from a squat when at work, push harder on the bicycle than I can ever remember. I've always been kind of wimpy when it comes to speed, and now I find myself wishing for a racer with narrow tyres and sleek frame just so I can whiz past the chaps with their fluoro lycra in the morning.

I come across amusing things:

( just warbling about cycling )

The median age of Ballina residents is 43 (making it 17th on the oldest rank of NSW towns), with the population of over-50s increasing with every census. Every apparent housing estate isn't filled with families and bicycles on the front lawn, but older chaps walking their fat sausage dogs and sitting on their front step with a cup of tea. I was employed for a few months last year in cleaning up on a new aged care building site.

Around here you don't have to look out for young men hooning around in their hotted up cars, but for oldies screaming down the footpaths in their souped-up electric carts. They're not supposed to go any faster than 20kph but seeing that some of these grandpas go past me when I'm doing faster than that on my bike, I daresay some of taken to tinkering with their wheels.

It's not just the older folk who use the electric carts; the younger folk who use them stand out, and get askance looks when they drive around the supermarket on them. This land of fat people will get even fatter if everyone need not get off their wheels and instead are allowed in every shop! Some make me worried when they're beeping their way around the aisles with quick jerky moves as they try to steer closer to the shelves to pull what they want off it without having to bend too much, or even -- the horror! -- get up off their comfy seat.

Sometimes you see old people carefully walking with their walkers -- a more common scene in, say, Brisbane than here. These old people are thin, frail, delicate; I want to put them in one of those carts, but then again, that's probably the reason for why they're still walking, that they've forgone the wheels their companions have chosen.

This is an oldies town, Ballina; people who find out I live here exclaim -- what a wonderful place! I love it there! -- but if probing questions are then asked one finds it is Byron Bay, 35km away, or Bangalow, 20km away, or Alstonville, 10km, that they like; places I can't easily reach by bicycle as there are no road shoulders and I would put my life at peril. Public transport is so dear that it's not even a consideration -- to go to Alstonville, a charming pit-stop town, would cost me $5 one way.

Ben and I had enough of Ballina today, and headed on to Lismore, a town of population demographics skewed to the other age range. It's most likely because of the university there, and with the hippy influence of Nimbin and Mullumbimby giving it a fresh, if alternative, feel.

It's not without its eccentricities; the mental health hospital there has given it a large number of eccentric people, or perhaps it's all the pot being smoked? And so walking down the street will at times have you being accosted by some harmless eccentric wanting to shout at you that you're wrong! And that all things are evil.

I go for the bulk food store there, for the health food stores, and for the vegan eateries I've never seen anywhere else in Australia, actual dedicated vegan cafés. I wish that I lived there instead! I would be accosted by the slightly mad, I'm sure, but I was already kind of used to that.

All that said, there is one bonus to the large aged population: the small library has the best range of craft books I've ever seen. It swamps the non-fiction, and then the rest is all about the navy and other marine-type stuff. The other part of the oldies around here's the Naval Retirement Village -- and so the otherwise interesting Ballina Naval and Marine museum is all filled with navy ship models and nothing about the interesting history of the area, of the origins of the town as regards to shipping of logs, or anything like that.

There's the balsa wood raft, La Balsa raft, of the madmen who sailed it on over from Ecuador to Ballina in 1973, taking nearly 180 days, sinking all the while as they got progressively water-logged. Their display is so full of inaccuracies it makes me wince, each spelling of the men's names becoming more original every time you see it. The navy section is definitely not like that, with every t crossed and every i dotted!

Ballina's also got the most rain of all of NSW -- last summer it rained for six months, putting the boat building project back enormously and making me fat and lazy because I couldn't be bothered getting soggy on my bicycle riding to and from work. We hope that this summer coming up is dry and warm, so our time here can draw to a close and we can away from the dry, drained feeling this town inspires. It's feels like where everyone comes to die, just waiting for that to happen and in the meantime buying their sago and Bonox like they have since they were young. I wish I could shake life into this town!