We are still alive! Sorry for the tardiness of this blog update but we’ve been essentially marooned on a sailing ship out of contact with civilization ie) internet access. With a day in hand after Piper’s birthday before the sailing adventure we engaged the boys in their school work and with Uncle Fraser around, endeavoured to plug some fitness into the day. It’s funny how one extra responsible adult permits enough flexibility to add some ‘me’ time. We’ve been abnormally slack in our fitness so it was an eye-opener and treat to finally do some. I elected to tackle some of the Airlie Beach hills on the bike – nothing like signs indicating 9% and 10% grades to peak your interest! Fraser bravely went for a run up and down these beasts and Jen had a go as well. We also needed to check in for our trip so found the company office and went through signing ours and our kids’ lives away as is the usual requirement. The option of scuba diving popped up and since I’ve been pining to get some in whenever we’ve been near the coast I managed to find a clinic nearby to have a dive medical – a requirement due to my asthma. After a saline challenge test involving increasingly long exposures to misted salty water and then spirometry, the lovely German doctor reluctantly granted me my ‘fit to dive’ certificate and told me not to die – she’d only been there a month and didn’t want a death on her hands. I assured her I would take ample care and thanked her for taking a scientific, evidence-based approach to the matter. Apparently, asthmatics comprise the highest group of morbidities and fatalities in scuba diving due to the difficulties some get with spastic bronchi (tubes in the lungs) and their propensity for blocking off segments of the lung from decompression as you ascend from depth. The area of lung then pops and if it expands quickly can cause what’s called a tension pneumothorax which if not resolved – is incompatible with life. Not being highly reactive in exercise or ‘fearful’ pursuits I was confident my asthma – which is mild at best at present – was unlikely to widow my wife and have her cash in on the life insurance.
Sailing day arrived but due to tides had to wait until the late afternoon before we were able to board and make it out of the harbour. With only a little over two weeks in Oz to go I set into some of the administrative tasks – banking et al – which needs completing before our departure. After clipping together the final pieces in their new Lego projects, the kids once again delved into their studies, trying to complete most of the week’s assignments before the sailing trip. We boarded the Magic of the Whitsundays, a 35 metre tall ship schooner built in Turkey 16 years ago and large enough to hold 38 tourists and crew. We had fortunately chosen a good time to go as there were only 13 of us embarking – all from overseas. It’s a beautiful wooden boat from stem to stern with 3 masts, an upper deck, lower deck with shade cloth covering and the galley where we have our gourmet meals – about the closest I may ever get to a cruise liner and for this I am very happy. Not really a big fan of those massive ocean going liners – always struck me as idiosyncratic while I was working in places where the people were as poor as dirt and you could see the opulence of an ocean liner on the horizon – just not right. As we exited port and entered the Whitsunday Strait – named by Captain Cook for the Sunday seven days after Easter - ie) the Whit Sunday, the sails went up and powered this massive wooden bulk some 8 knots up the passage to our first night’s anchorage at Stonehaven inlet. Prior to dinner we had our scuba briefing. Our scuba dive-master was a bleach blonde-haired Frenchman with a dead-pan sense of humour. As he skimmed through the basics of diving and breathing underwater he juxtaposed his address with descriptions of sea cucumbers, basic creatures which are essentially a thickened tube – eating through one end and excreting waste through the other (of course he liked to call it ‘Poo’ and said it a few times for emphasis). He described it as a true ‘dick – head’ as all the sexual organs sit towards the mouth end where one would expect to find a brain. He seemed to dwell on these sorts of details rather than those of the intricacies of diving – giving the briefing a rather jovial, light-hearted touch. He reminded me of our ski guide back in Chamonix although never once uttered “and god bless.” Dinner was a seasoned organic chicken breast atop of risotto in some mildly spiced sauce – succulent and beautiful. The Captain spoke to us after dinner, giving us a breakdown of where we’d been and where we were going. He was very humorous as well, pointing out the obvious in a succinct and witty manner. One of our main ‘adventure’ destinations the next day was home to a large, currently trans-sexual Maori Wrasse, the tropical fish equivalent of a bus. Wrasse are territorial and predominantly female with one large male called the Napoleon (because of the bump on its forehead) Maori (because of the seemingly Maori-like tattooing pattern to their face) Wrasse that essentially rules the roost. When he dies one of the women have to change sex and become the male – amazing! The former, and now deceased. Maori wrasse in the area was named Elvis and the new emerging one, aptly named, Lady Gaga owing to the previously questioned sexuality of the pop-star and the similar nature of the metamorphosing wrasse. Altogether, it was an enlightening afternoon and evening and we looked forward to our adventures over the next few days.
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