owlrigh

I saw Ben's dad, Dan, in the companionway of his boat one afternoon, as Ben and I were coming home.

"Put a shirt on!" I shouted out the window of the car as we went past, down to where my boat is in the yard and parked. We got out and played with one of the local yard dogs, and then --

"Did you say something?" came Dan's voice from behind us.

We turned around. He was standing on his deck, stark bollocks naked, and we swung around quickly again and made faces at each other. Urgh.

"Geeze, what's wrong with him?" I asked Ben.

"I dunno." He looked thoroughly disgusted.

Both of us avoided looking towards Dan's boat, and eventually I made my way up into the boat and tinkered.

There was a knock at the back of the boat.

"Hey, yeah, sorry about that," said Dan, poking his head over the transom.

"Oh, hey! No worries," said I, "I've seen my fair share wrinkly old men naked. No harm done."

"Oh, okay." He talked about what he was going to do with his boat before he left.

"You should put in a canopy over your cockpit, what with your newfound penchant for nudism," I put in. "You wouldn't want to get burned."

Later on in the day I was talking to one of the owners of the boat yard, and he came up in conversation. I told her what he'd done and she grimaced at the image.

"Where's he going to go now? Which of his women?" she asked. He has a couple of them on strings. "I don't know what they see in him! Although you'd know!"

"Not much to see, no, I wouldn't be standing around on deck if I were him," said I, and then we laughed ourselves silly until her husband turned up to see what the fuss was.

Just before work Ben and I went to have coffee together. We eventually got around to discussing the incident.

"Ha, he would have come over to see your reaction. Did you tell him why you'd seen naked old men?"

"Well, no, I thought you didn't want me to say."

"Thanks," said Ben. "You should bring it up all the time now, to embarrass him. When we go out to dinner, 'oh, hey, can you read this on the menu for me? My eyes haven't been quite the same since you flashed me,' that sort of thing."

We laughed uproariously, getting strange looks from other customers.

Since then, thankfully, he's kept his kit on; maybe he realises it's inappropriate to flash your son's partner, even if she is giving you the shits...

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.

"We've got 60 knots of wind," said my father's SMS. "You'd better get back here."

Ben and I were in northern NSW on a car trip, and had just arrived in Ballina when this message came through. Sixty knots of wind and Cyclone Larry wasn't due to hit the coast until the next day! If the wind was that bad already it meant that the cyclone trajectory had changed and it was heading towards Mackay.

A follow-up message changed things; my father, Phil, had merely been exaggerating. There would be sixty knots the following morning, when the cyclone itself would hit the coast up near Townsville. Where our vessels were kept was at the end of the storm warning.

That night there were messages and calls from yachties all over Australia; people in Tasmania seeing if our vessels were all right, folks in the Whitsundays ringing to say that they were in the thick of things, winds rising and seas rolling on in high.

One guy in Shute Harbour, where our vessels had been for months while working on charter boats, couldn't move despite being open to the south-easterly, the worst quarter for the winds to be coming from with a cyclone. The seas were rolling in there, and as his engine wasn't working he had to sit it out, anchoring his trimaran as best he could and going ashore to see how it turned out. When the storm subsided there were yachts to be found on the rocks, in the mangroves, and boat bits floating all over the harbour.

( Mackay's weather and boat work. )

My brother is a representative example of those on water. He is somewhat of an extremist in one of his views, and most vociferous in it, in a contemptuous sort of way. It goes along these lines: "People on land are so lazy! They just don't want to break with the status quo! How can they bear to live in one place so long? Don't they want to go sailing? They think it's dangerous, but it's more dangerous on land, where you can get hit by a car! More people die in car accidents than on water!" All said with a sneer. Ignoring the fact, also, that a hell of a lot more people go on land than there are on sea, and if there were equally representative numbers then you could say something like that, but not beforehand. Plus ... people who go on water tend to be a bit more careful than they are in cars, because they're just so used to the latter.

True, it has always been an annoyance of mine when people say that they wish they could do something, when they could -- only it would mean a change in lifestyle, an easy acceptance of not seeing the same people all of the time, all that sort of thing, the type of event which most people are unwilling to do because that which is familiar is more engaging than that which is not. Commenting upon landlubbers is a common theme in yachties, and the more I hear it the less I am liking it; both because I can see why people would like to stay on land and because you hear something enough times and it grows boring.

( What they all say! )

My cooking ability, in the way of people who can throw ingredients together at random and come up with something excellent, is just about nonexistent. I have cookbooks. They get used, unlike most people's collections.

I was treated mostly to my brother's fare upon moving onto the catamaran. Boiled potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots, meat, rice. I didn't eat the meat part. This grew so boring I opted out of eating his meals fairly early on, started doing my own meals, and then gradually took over the cooking.

Cookbooks are not altogether infallible; a couple of times I eked out a recipe and looked at the end product in amazement, for it had about the same kind of bland tastelessness that all of my cooking, without assistance, will turn out like on its own. One of my first hits upon an excellent recipe occurred while my brother was down in Brisbane and my father and I were on our own.

It was an aubergine and potato curry -- eggplant and potato -- and when I tasted it I nearly scarfed down half of it myself. The day my brother came back I made it for him as well, looking at my dad beforehand to make sure he didn't object. He didn't.

My father is meagre with his praises. "Not too bad," means that you're on the way to a sure-fire winner, and if he says nothing you can be sure that it's at the very least edible without anything offensive to it, but even if you pump him for feedback it's just not going to eventuate.

( Reaction other than mine, and the recipe. )

How does child etiquette go? I always understood that you didn't really go and talk to them or give them food or anything like unless their parent was around or you knew the child in question. Just because of how fearful people are these days if nothing else, for seeing your child with a stranger is enough to send some into spasms.

My mother is one of those who loves to go up to people with kids and begin speaking to them -- all the more so if they're stroller-bound. She definitely talks to them then, cooing and exclaiming to their carers just how handsome or beautiful that particular child looks.

One of the few I ever approached was years ago, as a wailing toddler followed her mother along a park, wanting to go back to the pool.

"Hey, sweetie," I said to the child, "your mother is probably really tired right now, and you'll go back to the pool another day when you're both not so tired."

The child blinked at me -- probably wondering who the hell this odd woman was -- and then stopped crying. When I got up and walked away she went after her mother, looking back at me every so often. Blessedly quiet, however. Crying children drive me up the wall -- all the more reason for borrowing the creatures when they're fun and handing them back when they're not.

Other than this I've tended to leave strange children alone. It was such, however, that I had a shock to my system the other day.

( Others do things differently. )

Usually one finds me trying to read in the most unlikely of places. One of these, however, wasn't in the tent while my brother and I were camping. It was in there that my brother took out his book to read, squeezing out every minute of daylight he could and then using the bike lamp to continue on when he got to a particularly good place.

This is notable. This is something so strange it ranks right up there with the world being flat and the moon being made of cheese.

My brother has discovered reading.

I am not saying that my brother has been illiterate all of his life up to now. No, he learned to read around the same time that I did, but up until now he was one of those people whom I meet from time to time who say "oh, yes, I read a book once" and make it sound like they ought to win awards for such a thing.

It began when I moved on board Big Bandicoot, back in November. I bought New Scientist and kept finding him taking the issues off me and reading it in some corner, usually after I mentioned something about an article. One particular night of note was when I came back to the boat and found him ensconced in his cabin not watching a movie, as he was wont to do, but reading his way through the entire issue of New Scientist.

It was astounding. I wanted to give him a hug and sing praises that he was reading. I felt as proud as a parent whose child has just learned to use the potty.

( It gets even better! )

It is said that one cannot teach an old dog new tricks. A cliché, true, but certain things make me wonder if this does not have certain truths behind it. Two particular things of recent times come to mind.

For months now my father, Phil, has insisted that my mother has learned to row. we were living on the yacht Pampero II -- all ten years of it -- she did not know how to row.

"I cook, I clean, I do everything around here, and now you want me to row? Sicky mierdas," she would say, and that would be the end of it.

This time the boys said that she would know how to row, and Phil said that he'd taught her to row while they were anchored in Horseshoe Bay.

I was going ashore one afternoon, back to the hostel -- while I was still staying at it -- and wanted my brother, Damien, to take me. One unfortunate thing about this whole cruising thing is that Damien's really taken the whole thing to heart. Ask him to do something and you'll be lucky if he gets around to doing it an hour later. This was one of these times.

"Get ma to do it," he said. "She knows how to row."

"Good idea!" said I, ignoring the chagrined look upon his face. "Ma, take me ashore!"

( We did not quite float all the way out to sea. )

Little did we know, as we decided to have a shower shore after a hot sticky day, that it would be the first of many, even if the next would be salty. We piled the dinghy with empty jerry cans and showering bags and off we went, with our usual pushing and shoving and swearing at the dog for barking in our ears.

The dog appeared for brief visits while I showered, wriggling his little body under the stall door and sniffing about before leaving. I laughed and finished early, so that I could go play with him. As soon as I finished mine, however, so did Damien, and he took over the dog.

At loose ends, I went to fill the jerry cans. The faster it was done the less time ashore -- and less time being eaten by midgies, for it was that time of night. I was filling the last jerry can when the boys came back down, and the last jerry can being on the aft of the dinghy I stayed there and they piled into the centre seat.

"Can you start the motor? Can you? Don't flood it ... she can!" said Damien, as I started up the outboard. I reversed out, shoving the dog away, and set for the middle of the river and the catamaran.

"Stop! Stop!" they cried shortly.

"What? What?"

They were shifting madly and then, when I looked to the edge -- no freeboard. Water was pouring in!

( Man overboard! Rescue! )

"We'll leave at dawn," Damien and I told one another, "just as it gets light. Set the alarm for 4:30am."

When the alarm sounded I got up to turn off my phone and then snuggled down back amongst the covers. Three hours later the town hall tower clock gonged and awoke us and we slowly began to get ready. No need to worry about lateness of leaving once hours of daylight have already passed you by!

The good thing about the ride back north to Bundaberg was that the wind was going to be up the arse the whole way. Seeing as the ride down had been hindered by the gusts I was looking forwards to it.

"Do you want to get a milkshake?" Damien is obsessed with these, and here would be none to be had for another day. With his assent, we navigated Bazaar street -- aptly named -- and parked ourselves in front of the health food store.

We milled around out there for a while, for although the door was half opened it still wasn't open to business. As I mooched around for my wallet, the store owner appeared.

"Milkshake?" he asked, pointing at Damien. "Soy?" he said, and pointed at me. "Banana?"

"Wow, you're good." And all we had to do was sit outside waiting, for he brought them out to us as well.

( A good couple of days on the road. )

We are further up in the tropics from Brisbane, and seeing that it is summer one would reasonably expect the days and nights to be warmer and more humid than down south. It was that way up in Bundaberg; come to Maryborough, however, and come night time you freeze.

The first night here Damien and I slept in different cabins. At first it was warm and we'd sleep atop the bedding, then come some time in the middle of the night we'd find that we were shivering and quickly duck under the covers, wishing we had more. So it was that I suggested that we pool bedding resources and share one of the cabin bunks.

After sorting it all out, last night Damien hopped into bed and I followed him. We lay there discussing the ride and various bicycle things and then boatbuilding techniques. If nothing else I am picking up a lot of information on how to build my own yacht one day, with one special caveat: only the most foolhardy do so, for to do so is to spend oodles of money and oodles of time and chances are there's something to be had cheap as chips just around the corner.

"We're never going to get to sleep, are we," said Damien.

( Hours and events later ... )

Ça suffit! My mother comes over today and hands me a "letter". On it says that she wants to sign over my flat to my brother since she owes him money. We'd agreed that I would have this flat and I would pay them the money back as I had it ... although she kept harping about how this was her place and now finally I have had enough.

Before I even agreed to take up this place I had the feeling that it would cause me problems, and sure enough it has. Nothing but them over and over again and now I wash my hands of it all -- I'm signing it over to my brother and leaving. I've enough of the headaches of my mother attempting to micromanage my life and changing it all on me and then having my brother and father come upon me like a ton of bricks when I dare suggest that things are not all above par.

Already I have started putting into motion the plan of selling my belongings. I have no idea what I can get for most of it, but whatever it is that'll be more than I have now.

( Selling my books, fannish stuff, flatmate... )