Tag Archives: sailing

The THREAD: July 2023

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Another month has rolled around, and with it winter school holidays and both my kids’ birthdays. I know they’re getting older (obviously), but I find it interesting that they are now beginning to comment on how quickly time flies by. When they were little, they felt like eons or entire geologic eras passed between one birthday and the next, but now they are experiencing the passage of time in a different, far more adult, way.

Naturally, having teenaged children has the tendency to make me feel considerably older, too. But the thing that brought me up short recently was a conversation I had with a friend while out of a walk in the glorious winter sunshine, and she asked me about holidaying in Hawaii, as she’d never been. I feel very fortunate to have winged my way between Sydney and Honolulu quite a few times during the course of my life, but admit to being aghast when I realised my first Hawaiian vacation took place forty years ago when I was seven years old.

Gulp.

So let’s move on — life may be short, but it’s still for the living. Let’s dive in to the July 2023 THREAD.

THINK | HEAR | READ | EAT | ADMIRE | DO

I’ve been thinking, as I would imagine many people have, about Sinéad O’Connor. While she was best known for Nothing Compares 2 U, as news of her untimely death at the age of 56 has spread around the world, the song I have found myself listening to is I Am Stretched on Your Grave. Based on a translation of an anonymously written 17th century Irish poem, Táim sínte ar do thuama, she recorded the lyrics over the top of a drum beat with very little instrumental accompaniment (save for some fiddle at the end of the piece). You can see her performing it live here, if you’d like — I suspect that is how she would like us to remember her: powerful, passionate, with superb and subtle control of her instrument.

Despite living in the Antipodes, I feel like my generation grew up with a succession of Irish singers who provided the soundtrack to our formative years. Bono is the most obvious of these, and thankfully he is still with us. But I am also thinking specifically of Dolores O’Riordan now, sadly, of Sinéad O’Connor. Knowing that both of these awesome talents have left us saddens me more deeply than I expected it to. I’m also feeling a little downhearted that a whole bunch of kids are probably only discovering today what a incredible talent Sinéad O’Connor was — I hope they also find out how damn brave she was, too.

Rather than dwelling on sadness, however, it’s best that I move onto hearing. Strangely enough, I’ve been listening to another Irish voice, that of Cillian Murphy, who is probably my favourite actor of all time. I listened to a great interview he did with Marc Maron, whose WTF podcast is one I find myself dipping into from time to time with great enjoyment. I have not yet seen Murphy in Oppenheimer, because I want to see it (if possible, should the scheduling stars and planets align) in 70mm as Christopher Nolan intended it to be viewed.

I suspect Oppenheimer is going to be among the most important films of the decade, if not the century, and by all accounts Murphy delivers a truly impressive performance, along with a stellar supporting cast. What is so lovely about Maron’s interview with Murphy, however, is that ranges all over the place — from the various guitars they own, to what it’s like to live in Ireland, to Murphy’s upbringing — and intersperses some heavier material (primarily about the film) with funny anecdotes, including one about Marc Maron meeting Cillian Murphy at an airport and failing to recognise Christopher Nolan, who was sitting right beside him. All in all, it’s an entertaining podcast and I’m looking forward to seeing Oppenheimer as soon as possible.

I have been reading a lot more than usual lately, because school holidays have provided me with the time and space to do so. I have read a couple of thrillers/mysteries, such as Michael Robotham’s Lying Beside You and Sarah Penner’s The Lost Apothecary, and also re-read Raymond E Feist’s fantasy epic The Magician.

More recently, I picked up a copy of Shankari Chandran’s Song of the Sun God at Townsville airport and decided to buy it because the story begins in Ceylon in 1946. After reading The Seven Moons of Mali Almeida, I have been interested in reading other novels set in Sri Lanka, and this multi-generational family saga was compelling and beautifully written despite detailing the horrors of civil war and the challenges of migration. This book felt very alive to me, full of small but significant details that enriched the action. Specific ingredients are added in scenes where food is being prepared, for example, and the ordinariness of these actions only highlights the massive upheaval the family members are dealing with: physical violence, social dislocation, philosophical and religious disputes. Chandran’s descriptions are brief but evocative, deftly weaving together history and emotion and relationships:

The map stretched, inviting and blue across the wall. The world was such a vast place, surely ther ewas somewhere they could go: somewhere they would be safe from riots and growing rage.

I was delighed to learn that this week Shankari Chandran has won the Miles Franklin award for her latest novel, Chai Time at Cinnamon Gardens. I know, having read Song of the Sun God, that the seemingly saccharine title will hide a book of depth that is unafraid to broach difficult topics, and am looking forward to reading it.

The other book I read and loved during the past month was Costanza Casati’s Clytemnestra, which is a retelling of the Greek tragedy from the perspective of one of the greatest figures of the Ancient World. The novel gains a sense of immediacy and accessibility from being written in the present tense: not only do we witness what is happening to Clytemnestra as it occurs, but we are also privy to her thoughts and feelings in those same moments. She becomes far more relateable, and as a result her quest for vengeance seems almost reasonable — even though she takes the lives of those who have betrayed her in brutal fashion. Clytemnestra was a magnifiently drawn character and the novel was a great read.

On to a different type of consumption now: eating. Oh boy…there are two parts to this section of the THREAD this month. First off, there’s the part where we went away on holidays and all the (delicious, amazing, high end restaurant quality) meals were included, so for a week I ate incredibly well but didn’t actually feel hungry again until I got home, so I probably ate too much. OK, let’s be clear. I know I ate too much. But the most extraordinary thing about that holiday was I didn’t have to plan or shop for or cook a meal for an entire week so it was totally WORTH IT!

Now that we’re home, I’m onto the second part. I’ve been working on providing the family with simple, tasty food. It might not be a fancy ceviche, or a differently themed cuisine each lunch time, or martinis by the infinity pool, but at least I’ve created some headspace to get back into eating well and as cleanly as possible. Tonight’s dinner? Swedish meatballs on cauliflower puree with broccoli. Last night? Pesto chicken with tomato and feta risoni and green beans. Tomorrow night? No flipping idea…that is tomorrow’s problem!

Speaking of problems (and freely acknowledging that most of mine are of the First World variety), you may recall a couple of months ago I finally finished watching The Americans. Working out what to follow such a show with was not easy — but I finally settled upon Schitt’s Creek as a palette cleanser, and that hilarious and beautifully executed sitcom well and truly did the trick. Various parts of Rose family parlance have subsequently entered our own family lexicon, and I imagine they will stay there for quite some time.

Since then, I’ve been admiring a few things on the small screen, including Shantaram on Apple+. I was initially hesitant to watch Shantaram, because I was not sure I would be convinced by Charlie Hunnam’s attempt at an Australian accent (and now, having watched it, I would give his efforts a solid B minus). I read Shantaram years ago, but not so recently that I could recall it in vivid detail. The storyline is compelling, not least because it’s based on the author’s real life (and crimes). The slums of Bombay in the 1980s are brilliantly brought to life — even if they were actually filmed in Thailand — though I was not particularly satisfied with the ending.

I then watched The Essex Serpent, starring Tom Hiddleston and Claire Danes, also on Apple+. The Essex Serpent is a period drama with moody visuals and interesting themes (think: science vs religion, women vs the patriarchy, rich vs poor). Both leads were eminently watchable (as always), the Essex coastline was suitably mysterious, and the hysteria generated by the “serpent” believable. I really loved Clémence Poésy as Stella Ransome, the ailing wife of the local vicar, Will Ransome (played by Hiddleston). Strangely enough, however, the ending of this show did not satisfy me either — it felt a little bit too neat. Humpf.

Anyway, that brings me finally to doing, and to our family holiday to the Great Barrier Reef. Despite dramas with planes on the way to and from Queensland (which included missing pilots, missed connections, an unexpected overnight stay in Brisbane on our way home and much gritting of teeth along the way), the vacation itself was spectacular and we were blessed with fine weather, even if it was a little windy at times.

In addition to the incredible food (which I mentioned above) we met some great people, including a lovely family from Switzerland who are currently living in Adelaide for a year. We also had some fantastic experiences: snokelling, hiking, sailing, paddle boarding, kayaking, and puttering around in dighies. One highlight of the trip was feeding fishy kitchen scraps to reef sharks off the resort’s jetty, another was watching glorious sunsets over the sea (which for this Eastcoast dweller is always a bonus). And as a final bonus, we saw some whales from the helicopter when we were transferring back to the mainland.

Anyway, that’s a wrap on the July THREAD.

I’m off to a themed trivia night I’ve been roped into and (no pun intended) have to get into my cow girl costume…fingers crossed we come home with a prize!

Until next time, mind yourselves.

BJx

The Thrifty Fictionista Feels Nostalgic…

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“Out on the islands that poke their rocky shores above the waters of Penobscot Bay, you can watch the time of the world go by, from minute to minute, hour to hour, from day to day . . .”

These are the opening lines of the Thrifty Fictionista’s favourite picture book, one I have loved since I was a child: Robert McCloskey’s Time of Wonder. Telling the story of a girl and her younger sister spending their summer holidays on an island in Penobscot Bay, Maine, it follows them as they explore the natural world around them. They swim, they sail, they laze in the sun — they even survive a hurricane that blows in one night.

I still love everything about that book: the beauty of the painted illustrations, the cadence of the sentences, every last carefully chosen word. I often wished, when I was little, that I could go on holidays just like the girls in the book, even though I lived on the other side of the world from Maine.

Like the girls in the book, I spent a lot of time on boats when I was a kid. My grandfather, who had served in the navy, was never one to be without some kind of seafaring craft, so my brother and I enjoyed time on a succession of yachts, one of which had sailed the Sydney to Hobart race multiple times, and later on an old Halvorsen cruiser. The sights, sounds and smells of moorings and marinas still make me happy.

What reminded me of Time of Wonder most recently, however, was something equally nostalgic, but completely unexpected. I was watching M*A*S*H with my kids (having got them hooked on that golden oldie after they had watched so many episodes of Brooklyn 99 I thought I was going to scream), and we came to the part of Series 5 when Margaret “Hot Lips” Houlihan gets engaged to Lt Colonel Donald Penobscott — and at the first mention of his name, there I was: right back in the middle of Penobscot Bay, exploring the Time of Wonder island and all its natural wonders.

At the moment, all I would like to do is dive between the pages of my old, battered copy of Time of Wonder and relive it all once again. Or even the shiny new copy I got for my own kids when they were old enough to read it.

But, since we’re in the process of building our house, that dear old book is somewhere in storage, along with many other treasured possessions of the paged variety. It has been hard not having my book “friends” around for the past nine or ten months, but now that build is drawing to close up stage I am itching to get my fingers on volumes I have wished for while living here in our tiny rental.

The Thrifty Fictionista could not do with out ALL her books, however — so old favourites and new have found their way up the 49 steps to our front door. Anna Karenina is here, rubbing shoulders with Lolita and Dorian Gray, and even The Once and Future King. There are books by authors whose writing I can’t live without: Helen Garner, Trent Dalton, Ed Ayres, Ursula Le Guin, Virginia Woolf, Hilary Mantel, Anne Lamott. And there are cookbooks, of course, too, thanks to Yotam Ottolenghi, Nigella Lawson, Poh Ling Yeow and Annabel Crabb.

Before too long, however, it will be time for us to pack these few books that did wend their way up all those stairs into boxes and take them to our new house. In Time of Wonder the girl is a little bit sad about the place she’s leaving, a little bit glad about the place she’s going to. The Thrifty Fictionista, on the other hand, is a little bit impatient to get out of the place I’m leaving, and tremendously excited about the place I’m going to — not least because it will have a library.

There will be space for books, space to watch endless re-runs of M*A*S*H, space to cook and space to dream, and even space to wonder where hummingbirds go in a hurricane.

And I can’t wait.

What a Piece of Work is Man

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RememberWhat a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet,
to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

Hamlet Act 2, Scene 2, lines 303-307

Today marks the anniversary of my grandfather’s death.

I have lived more than half my life without him, but there are days when I feel his loss as acutely as I did all those years ago.

My grandfather’s passing is, for me, inextricably linked with Shakespeare, specifically with Hamlet, which I first saw performed the day he died. So much of what the play explores resonates with me, then and now — the grief, the family torn apart, the musings on life and how to live it, or indeed whether to live it at all.

Hamlet’s soliloquies are among Shakespeare’s most famous. More than four centuries after he wrote them they are known the world over, often quoted and occasionally parodied. Keenly observant of the mind’s workings, Shakespeare never allows Hamlet to shy away from confronting his inner demons, and his words provide insights that are surprisingly fresh and relevant today. And yet, when life — or life’s sudden, unexpected end — overlays these monologues with memory, embroiders them with poignant and painful detail, Hamlet’s orations become imbued, for me, with much deeper meaning.

Who was my grandfather, the quintessence of dust I lost more than two decades ago?

He was but a man.

He was of average stature, but with a presence so immense that its absence left a gaping hole. His smile lit up any room, his laughter filled any void.

He was a passionate sailor, a successful businessman, an avid tennis fan, and a hopeful punter.

He valued honesty, loyalty, persistence and discipline.

He believed wholeheartedly in the capacity of a decent cup of tea to solve any problem.

He enjoyed words — reading them, writing them, hearing them. He was a prolific and witty correspondent; his handwriting was simultaneously elegant and bold. He gave me my first dictionary, my first thesaurus. He taught me to appreciate brevity.

Grief TolkeinHe served his country in the Royal Australian Navy as a Petty Officer Writer. He survived the bombing of Darwin, he was present at the Japanese surrender in Toyko Bay. He seldom spoke of the war.

He was handsome, charming and dapper.

He was twice divorced and thrice married. He endured the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, many of them aimed (understandably) by my grandmother and many more, I suspect, directed by himself.

Above all, he was a man of love. His hugs were like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a winter’s day. He was bighearted. He was generous to a fault. He was a blazing sun, full of love and light.

During his life he was not an angel, but I’d like to think that he is one now.

Swallows and Amazons Forever!

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SwallowdaleThere were shrieks of excitement at our place last week when we arrived home to discover a flat brown cardboard box on the front doorstep.  Now, my kids have both wised up to the fact that there are really only two things that get delivered to our house with any regularity, and since this carton was not big enough to contain a dozen bottles of wine, they immediately deduced — correctly — that this box contained an equally precious cargo: books.

“SWALLOWDALE!” yelled Marvel Girl, elated.  When given the choice between a sparkly ice-blue Elsa dress and the second installment of Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons series, my darling girl — bless her — picked the book.  For me, her choice speaks volumes (if you will please, please pardon that dreadful pun).

Swallows and Amazons and the series of books that follow it were first published in the 1930s.  They recount the adventures of the Walker and Blackett children during their summer holidays, first in the Lakes District of England and subsequently in other parts of the world.  Much of the action involves sailing — in dinghys named Swallow and Amazon, hence the title — camping, and a great deal of outdoor exploring and imaginative playing.

My parents read these books (yep, all twelve of ’em) to me and my younger brother when we were children.  At that time the stories were already more than half a century old and evoked an obviously bygone era, but they still motivated us to embark on a variety of nautical escapades.  The most memorable of these took place on a particularly windy day at Narrabeen Lakes, when my mother and I were careening so quickly — or maybe even recklessly — through the water in the family’s trusty Mirror dinghy (both of us high on adrenalin and the rush of freedom every sailor knows and loves) that my father, waving his arms in consternation on the sandy lake’s edge, turned as crimson as our tiny boat’s sails, while my brother fell about laughing watching the combined on-shore/off-shore spectacle. Our other adventures took place on a slightly grander scale on my Grandpa’s yachts, first Aphrodite and later Saracen II (who was built for speed had competed in seven Sydney to Hobart races), before increasing age finally forced my sea-faring grandfather to stow away the sailcloth, and we all putted about Pittwater with him on a Halvorsen cruiser called Chloe.

Strangely enough, The Bloke spent half his childhood on the water too.  His father remains a keen sailor and still races his yacht twice a week, despite being well into his seventies.  More significantly, however, The Bloke’s dad also built a Pirate Boat (from scratch, in his garage) for Marvel Girl, Miss Malaprop and their cousins, and even took the time to outfit this marvelous vessel with a mermaid Barbie figurehead and a bespoke Maltese Cross-bearing sail.  Watching his grandkids sailing about, every last one of them bedecked in a life jacket and pirate hat, brings a huge smile to his face — and to that of anyone else watching that little dinghy tack about the shallows with the Jolly Roger flying atop its mast.

I suspect that Marvel Girl’s own piratical capers have contributed enormously to her taking to the Swallows and Amazons series like a certain proverbial duck…that, and the fact that even though this is only her first year of school, she is loving reading.  She is, apparently, the second best reader in her class (a fact that she is nearly as proud of as her mother is).  When she emerged from her latest school assembly clutching a merit award praising her fluent and expressive reading, the spontaneous fist pump and grin of utter triumph she gave when she saw me in the playground more than made up for the fact that I wasn’t there to see her get the certificate.

But an equally big thrill for us both, and for Miss Malaprop, too, is that there are eleven — yes, eleven! — more books in the Swallows and Amazons series for us to read together.  I will enjoy reading my girls the stories of John, Susan, Titty and Roger (the crew of Swallow) and Nancy and Peggy (the Amazon pirates) and their summer holiday

Swallows & Amazonsadventures — even though there is no way I would ever let my own children camp, completely unattended, on a small island in the middle of a lake for over a week.  (More to the point, I suspect any parent remiss enough to do so these days would be reported to the relevant authorities faster than you can say “Child Protection Officer” or “Lord of the Flies“.)

But I am looking forward to re-visting that age of innocence which, although lost, lives on in print.  And I can think of no better way to spend our own summer holidays than revelling in the tales of theirs.

Swallows and Amazons forever!