All external non-dissolvable stitches out. Scars looking really good. Shoulder already has movement to within 10 degrees of where we want to be after 6 weeks when I lose the sling, which means keep doing the basic exercises and we'll be there no worries. Just have to NOT go beyond the movement limits at this stage. Still a long long way from full movement though. Will have to re-teach my shoulder how to work, which is a bit daunting. Kinda makes sense, as some of my lack of movement after the stack wasn't because of pain, it just, well, wouldn't work properly. Even if i gave it the evil eye... Lots of emphasis that it will be 6 months before enough strength to be confident it won't dislocate easily. So no SUPing, no windsurfing, no anythingmuch till summer. "Even AFL players are 5 months" (they do Collingwood shoulders). Never had so many people telling me to keep popping pain killers (haven't had any for 4 days, and don't really see the point). Thinking i'll just have to get used to things one handed. Lemme tell you, hanging washing/buttering toast/opening jars is a flipping nightmare!! And putting on a shirt is a bizarre swearing one armed madman contortionist act...
So why am I walking round with my arm in a sling I hear you ask. Well, here's the expurgated version - the one without the gannets...
At the top of Red Carpet, 15 min pre-stack
GPS of Red Carpet, stack, ride home
Crashed my mountain bike while riding the amazing graded trails at Forrest in the Otway Ranges, Saturday (6 June 2015) of the Queens Birthday long weekend . Had done nearly 35km already, and had just finished the descent of the Red Carpet (which was pretty technical in the wet from rain the day before). Was basically on the flat slowly winding along singletrack through the trees, when whoosh... front wheel just slid out sideways when I turned into a corner. Tree root(ed) maybe? Dummy put my hand down to cushion the slo-mo fall, but as soon as it hit the ground I knew it was a mistake...
arms/shoulders don't bend/creak/crunch that way do they?
Left shoulder was dislocated, but luckily I popped it back in before muscle spasms took over and it held itself dislocated out. Tried continuing on the track but my left hand couldn't operate the brake without pain. Nothing else to do but walk back along trail, toss the bike over a fence I'd just passed, and ride the 6km back, via gravel road and railtrail, to the farmhouse we'd rented.
Drank lots of red wine that night - felt ok! Next morning felt better again. Did 5 km trail run with kids. Next day felt better again, even chopped firewood (one handed though) and did 20 km mtb ride with Pandora , drove manual car home. Rode bike to work (40 km total riding each day) following week.Went SUP surfing with Dave Wednesday morning to celebrate a life. "Why'd ya let that one go AB?" lamented Dave after watching me drop off the back of a head high wave. "No power on my backhand at all" was the reply; interestingly 8-90% ok on the forehand.
Saw doc Wednesday night for a test result (Bugger; Basel Cell Carcinoma on back, which I now have to get cut out) - and told him I had a sore shoulder. He thought rotator cuff because i couldn't move my arm below elbow sideways. Best to get it checked.
Marriners Run - two days AFTER the stack!
Friday, scans done at the gurus of sports imaging. Strange looks from radiologists and nurses. "Mate, did you *really* just ride your bike here?" "Yeah, why? Can you see anything?" I'd actually punched a 'large' chunk of bone off my shoulder (glenoid) when I crashed and it dislocated. "So is there something you can see on the scans then?" I asked the bloke zapping me with a giant circular machine (that didn't actually go 'ping' - though it did tell me to hold my breathe!). He looked at me like I was crazy - as did the nurses and radiologist! I was just a bit bewildered by all the fuss... till I saw the CT-scan. Now that was a sobering moment.
The culprit right there, looking from my back. Glenoid
Operate Friday night, 6pm, to reattach bone using suture anchors and dissolvable tacks made of corn starch/tapioca/sugercane (science types call it polylactic acid)! Takes 3.5 hours instead of 1-2 estimated. Afterwards it hurts like hell. Post operation X-Ray almost had me faint with pain! Nurses gave me Endone (oxycodone - otherwise known as Hillbilly Heroin) like it was jelly beans at a kids party.
Mmmm... opiate (fast and slow) and anti-inflam brekky
Now 1 week into 2 weeks at home recovering. No longer on any opiate based pain killers, of which I was taking both slow (Targin) and quick (Endone) release versions earlier. Still on the anti-inflammatories (meloxicam). Now realise that the reason we breezed through the first week home alone (well, if you don't count my first ever bad constipation episode; frankly I now know what its like to birth something...) - no boredom and generally pretty dam happy with what's ultimately a fairly ordinary situation - was cos I was as high as a goddamn kite! Overall, everything's looking good, or at least as good as can be expected. See Brendan (surgeon) for stitches out and assessment Tuesday.
In sling for 6 weeks, 3 months to get full mobility back and ride MTB again (bit earlier for commuting), 6 months for full strength and hence able to SUP and windsurf again. And as for our traditional snow trip in August, well lets just say we're now starting a club for discerning people who don't ski Australian snow in El Nino years. (Its the skiing equivalent of instant coffee you know.)
Did I mention I have an amazing supportive beautiful wife? Who has just bought her dream Mountain Bike...
Its not every day you rack up 500 of anything.
Well, except minutes. And heartbeats. And metres walked. And millilitres of pee. And...
Well, apart from all that...
Its not every day you rack up 500 of anything.
But today was one of them.
After being anally retentive enough to log all my windsurfing sessions since 1997, as you do, (http://www.baywx.com/Sailing-Days.txt), its happened.
Five. Hundred. Days. So what to do for the big five zero zero? Epic wavesail at 'Longarms?' Crack 40 knots on a speed run? Go for my first forward loop at Ricketts? Yeah, all hero stuff and worthy of the occasion, sure. But what did we actually do?
Well... 10 knots. Ok... 2 second max of 9.34knots to be precise. Now yes, 10 knots is slower than a wet week and highly unlikely to enter you into the windsurfing hall of fame, but we wanted to do something different. And the wind was light and the inlet siren song was beckoning... so we bunged a sail on the SUP board and made an attempt to sail to the mouth of Shallow Inlet. Ok... we only made it 2/3 way - current and wind worked against us - but a) it was magnificent being out there all on our own, and b) in the process, we had plenty (2 hours) of solitary meditative and thinking time. And in the thinking time we thought about our best/worst list from the 500...
So here goes.
Me in smoke haze on Mad Mike Monday (Dec 11 2006)
Best session: Always the last one... but Mad Mike Monday was pretty hard to beat. Proudest Moment: Three way tie - watching Mistress P crack 30 knots at Sandy/1 y.o son standing on sail, grabbing boom, beaming up a smile and pretending he was windsurfing/Freesail magazine publishing my article on driving to W.A to windsurf (and paying me $100 too. Yes, I know they ripped me off, but hey,... I got paid to write my crap). Biggest Wipeout: Getting fully smeared by a 5+metre monster set and being held underwater with no gear and thinking... "Geez, this is not a bad way to go out" before rational thought kicked in and we swam to the surface like a bastard. Then got hit by the next wave in the set. Then the next. And the next... See pic below.
Aftermath of Biggest Wipeout - Sandy Point
Most Annoying: Semi-permanent ear gunk infection-y thingy from too much time in water. (But too-much-time-on-water is barely enough.) Most Bizarre: Wally arriving home with no gear on his roof - and no idea where it all blew off either. (Somewhere between Korumburra and Mentone; gear never found...) Most Stoke: Over-rotating a back loop and landing with my knee in the sail - actually left a dimple! (Sadly, still haven't landed one properly 5 years later...) Biggest wimpout: Never even tried a forward loop :-( Wimp wimp wimp Dumbest obsession: Doing a goddamn duck gybe - secretly sailing at Elwood to nail it away from my mates... Longest walk of shame: Thinking "Gee this sail is getting old" about 2 minutes before it blew itself to smithereens... about 2 km down the beach from where I started at Rye. Stashed gear in the bushes, walked back, then DROVE up the highway to the GPS waypoint where I'd left my stuff... (felt rather chuffed with my logic and GPS skills on thatta one, must admit) Most annoying: Those goddamn Ricketts Point sea urchins; many a minute has been spent with the dettol and tweezers sitting on the bathtub soaking feet... Wildest wildlife: Lying in the water off Green Point (Brighton) next to my gear as a flock of Australian Gannets dived on a baitball all around me. Then realising "oh poop... my sail is clear monofilm..." Longest sideways sail: Middle Park, when my fin dropped out of the bottom of my board 300m offshore. Had to do a dead hang and slide sideways all the way in. Only THEN found out some fin bolts are metric and some imperial...
Longest walk of shame Rye - red line is swim in. Car required to collect kit.
"Did that really happen?" moment: Sitting with JM talking bollocks on the beach, when a truly freak gust picked up 'his' sail and flipped it over - straight onto my fin. Pop. Bang. Big rip - small problem: he had borrowed my sail... (All he could say - and understandably so - was "Did that really happen?") Biggest Freak out: tie -- watching Mistress P almost get decapitated by a kitesurfer off Lancelin in 2000/watching Mistress P sail straight into a cray pot line off Coronation (W.A) and get flung like a rag doll in the jaws of a rottweiller... when she was 5 months preggas. "Well I tried to land on my head..." Not sure if that helped my heartrate.
Sign of things to come; Fave spot/girl/future son
Classic moment: Too many, but having Mistress P follow me out into the surf at Coro (W.A) and then looking back to see her get catapulted off the top of a 2m wave,... meaning she ALMOST did a full forward loop without trying. She was a tad, errr... surprised. (Didn't follow me out that often after that... strangely.) Biggest disappointment; Any session where you get totally skunked/Going 500 sails and still not being able to fast tack properly. The latter is almost pathetic. Most keen: Driving all the way to Lake Connewarre (near Geelong) to sail in shallow mud. (Why?) Watching Frosto spend a few hours searching in said mud on hands and knees for a lost fin was also high on the amusement scale. Longest windsurf 'commute': 3000+km across the Nullarbor. Loved every tree-less minute of it. Best/Worst line: (NB: NOT said by me) "The only way that could have been better was if some hot chick was strapped to my board giving me a headjob..." (To be honest, they weren't far off the mark... it was a pretty good session.)
Cruising the Sandy Point Inlet. Fanatic Bee/Naish Force
Good Samaritan moment: Rescuing a somewhat obese lady who'd crazily gone fishing in a tiny Kmart blow-up boat in a howling offshore wind at Shallow Inlet and been blown away. Literally. Lost her boat and rods and oars and all her stuff... sounds funny, but she wasn't far off drowning at the time. Sailed out and dragged her back in - still reckon I have the gouge marks in my board from her clawing at it and hanging on so tight. (Don't think she even said thanks.) Fave spots: Coronation Beach W.A (windmills) on a south-southeasterly late in the day - preferably sans sharks/Longarms (Sandy Point) on a south easterly/Rye winter morning northerly/North Ricketts on 28knots WSW Worst Spot: Cherry Lake, Altona. The only good thing to come out of Altona is 98 RON premium unleaded - how I managed to get talked into sailing there is beyond me. Cut my foot on the bottom, forced to soak it in dettol for a month in lieu of amputation. Must-visit spots in next 500: Gerroa (NSW), Robe (South Australia), Gnarloo (Western Aus) Sweetest setup: Wind - 28 knots/Starboard Acid 80/4.1 Neil Pryde Zone/23cm Naish fin. Nuff said.
Pre Sail-log, circa 1985. Mum would drive (Thnx Mum).
Weediest sail: Lake George, South Australia; if you didn't get on the plane in 10 metres you had to stop, de-weed your fin, start again. Arguably also my 'saltiest' sail... And people camp on the mud spit in the full sun. Those wacky Croweaters... Most beautiful sail:Lucky Bay, Cape Le Grand National Park, near Esperance, W.A. Semi-circular bay, so you could drive on the perfect white sand till you found your favourite tack. Was the only one out - started to think "Why?" (Sharks??). Kangaroos tried to eat our Kaluhau cheesecake (but that's another story). Longest swim: Broken uni out the back at Coronation (W.A) and board had skidaddled home on a wave, necessitating a long and less buoyant swim-in towing my rig. Took bloody ages. But everyone kept a close eye on me so felt (almost) safe. Best "mental image": A photo mind snapshot of one of my first ever true down the line wavesails... scooting across the clean green wave, nothing but the curl infront of me with Wilsons Prom in the background... I thought I'd arrived in heaven.
It only took a few years to work out how to turn around...
Worst own injury: Catapulting headfirst into my sail at 30 knots on eastern sandbar, Shallow Inlet speed run. Sore neck for a month, crick for a year. Worst friends injury: tie - Dave Walland stingray stabbing at Ricketts Point (and hospitalisation)/Joel Ryan broken leg in surf in Waratah Bay (and hospitalisation). Funniest Video: tie -- Frosto's "mooning" of the Sandy Point inlet as the last scene in a 30 sec sweeping panorama of the incredible view from the top of the highest dune/Joel getting his wetty cut off, then leg set with a ballerina point (necessitating his cast to be cut off and they start again), after aforementioned leg breaking Best video: Adrian's 'Indian Inc' epic covering our first W.A trip. Full 45 minutes of stoke, and great music selection too... Oh, and Robby Naish's RIP. (Still cant believe kiddies under the age of 25 have never seen it... Still cant believe he sails pink sails.) Worst quote in a windsurfing video: Me - after being told a crack had been spotted in my F2 256 waveboard and maybe I should take it a tad easy for fear of a long swim with the sharks... "Death or Glory!" (followed in the background by Walland's "...death more likely..." )
F2 256 at Coronation Beach, W.A. No cracks showing (yet)
Saddest moment: Dumping the remains of my snapped (and aforementioned) F2 256 in the bin at Geraldton tip. You served me well grasshopper. And you did politely wait until the last hour of our last day of a three week trip to bite the dust. Much appreciated. Biggest annoyance: Jet skis. We call then jerk skis. Followed closely by stubbing my toe on the universal. I hate that. (Yes, I have a rubber cone now, thank you.) Most unusual catapult: Sailing at 25knots plus off Ricketts Point... and stopping dead after hitting a semi-submerged fishing bucket! I flew like superman (and I don't mean with my speedos on the outside of my wetsuit). Best community spirit: Standing on the beach on a perfect sou'wester Shallow Inlet speed sail day, but unable to get out as I'd broken my mast the day before. Random guy (now known as Andrew Daff) says "Why don't you borrow my spare" - and gave me a 100% carbon KA. Felt bloody brilliant! (No, I didn't break it too.) Best race result: Well, my only race result... 36th in the Breakwater to Beacon. Total of 28.8km in 58 minutes, one knee through the sail, and WON the random prize (a new sail... karma dude....$1000 worth... thanks SHQ). Gotta like that...
Mike (1 y.o) - starting his 500... Ricketts Pt.
Best after sail routine: Barbeque shapes, cold beer, shower (preferably with beer), steak-based meatfest, block of Cadbury's finest, watch (with mates ) video of days sailing, bed (sans mates). Worst after sail beer: Emu Bitter. We called it Emu Extract. (It was cheap. We were in W.A.) Best crapping on venue: The sea wall at north Ricketts. Many a tall tale told - if only that bluestone could talk. Followed by the sea wall at Middle Park. Anyone who tells you windsurfing isn't half about the crapping on afterwards isn't a windsurfer. Just like sitting in the surf lineup isn't actually about surfing (but that's a secret)... Happiest memory (pre-sail log); walking out the back gate of my Nana's block of units to sail at Aspendale beach, then after 30 minutes looking back and seeing her sitting on the sand, alone, just watching in awe. She had barely been to the beach in years as she was too old and frail. That effort almost teared me up... She cooked the meanest scones. (Our daughter Sarah's middle name is in her memory) Number of sharks seen: 0 (Had to include that; non-windsurfers always ask...) Best times: Any time sailing with friends. I love youse all.
New Years Eve 2011 saw us boarding a big ole jet airliner and taking us too far away - well, not all that far away really - across the ditch/Tasman to New Zealand, or Aotearoa as the Maori called it. (Someone told me that Ao = big, tea = white, roa = cloud, but then they might have been pulling my proverbial - comments welcome.)
The plan for the two week stay was largely based around, well, no plan. Except to go camping for five days. And I had no idea where that camping was going to be... (Only realised this when I arrived and the taxi man said "where ya going" and i said... "Err... no idea - somewhere in a tent - wife's plan..." Pathetic really.)
The night of our arrival coincided with our hosts - Pandora's sister Finda and hubby Steve - holding a NYE party/barbie, and hence we met a few others as well. Apart from saying "the WHAT?" when told the beers were in the "chully-bun" (a.k.a 'chilly-bin' = esky), everything went great guns, arguably aided by the fact that timezones were on our side and hence midnight really did equal 10pm for us Aussies. Oh, and the fact they'd beaten us in a recent test match for the first time since pussy was a cat.
Eastern Beach fish and chips picnic, Auckland
After settling into our UnZud-HQ in Otahuhu (myself and Steve being the only middle class white guys in a 5km radius - which was tre' cool, cos so were the Pacific Islander locals), the first cupla days were spent celebrating Katrina's (our hosts mum, and our kids 'third grandma') birthday, travelling to the museum to soak in a little Maori culture, travelling up to Wenderholm Regional Park for a brilliant picnic and a bushwalk through the forest in thongs (woohoo -- no snakes!!), a trip to the Weiwera Hot Springs water park (water ranging from 30degC [kiddies pool] to 48degC [lava pool - you dared only touch a hand in] where the kids had a goddamn hoot on slides and tubes and even watching a movie in the movie pool; we all ended up like shrivelled prunes), and catching up with 'Grandad Jack', who in actual fact is the kids great-grandad - kinda weird if you think about the fact that they don't have any genetic grandfathers left but do a great-grandad... Grandad Jack is pushing on for the ton, but still swimming at Bucklands Beach daily (when the chop doesn't get too high) and walking the 1km through the golf course to Musick Point. Dude...
Respect.
Grandad Jack, Tanya, Mike, Pandora, Sarah; Musick Point
Then it was pack the kids in the people mover and off to the Coromandel Peninsula for a few days. The Coromandel is a place of high hills, lush forest, huge Kauri trees, pockets of actual kiwi birds (we didn't see or hear one) and magnificent NZ beaches.
One we visited was 'Hot Water Beach' which, as the name implies, has hot (i.e., geothermal) water flowing underneath. 'Bring a shovel and dig out your own hot tub' they say. Pity we arrived at high tide, so just had to imagine it... but it was a stunning spot regardless. We crossed from Whitianga to Coromandel Towne via the 309 Rd, so named because it used to take the old horse and carts 3hours 9minutes to do the trip. The GPS reckoned it'd take us an hour fifty, which seemed ridiculous for a 30km gravel road in the home of Possum Bourne, and while we did cut that down to around the one hour mark, it wasn't surprising given how narrow the road was (a constant fear was coming across one of those goddamn Britz campers on a blind corner), the scenery you wanted to see - absolutely magnificent with sheer mountains and lush forest and ferns - and the one way bridges that seem to dot rural UnZud and which took me several goes to understand what the hell the 'big arrow/small arrow' sign meant; "Pandora - is it me or him?!?!?!"
Walking to the Kauri Trees, 309 Rd
We only had to reverse out once...
To a bit of staring.
Near the end of the road we visited the Waterworks, which can best be described as the Heath Robinson-like creations of a mad plumber. If it could shoot water or involve a pump, they had it. Drenching other people was fair game, as were a plethora of 'Dad jokes'.
You know what I mean...
Kids were like pigs in poo.
Several kilometres down the same road the kids were liking pigs in poo. A somewhat bizarre gentleman (sans shoes but strangely wearing a very muddied Pierre Cardin jacket) was looking after his pigs and chickens on the side of the road. We stopped, he let our kids cuddle piglets, dad swatted a tick off his own arm, we spent the rest of the day paranoidily and periodically checking every inch of the kids skin. I asked him about all these pigs and he delightedly told me that he wasn't farming them but they were all his pets. Which took him from kindly man tending the land to feed his fellow countryman to 'crazed lady with cats'-equivalent status in my mind.
Pigs to you young Sarah
Still 'Stuart' is enough of a local celebrity to be in the local "highlights of the 309", possibly only to keep the local GP in profitable business to remove parasites.
The following day was spent tootling back to Auckland via the Coromandel Coast Rd, which arguably is the carsick capital of the free world (we did actually see a person prone on a blanket by the side of the road surrounded by family waiting patiently...), but at least that meant we had a couple of impromptu stops which allowed us to fully soak in the amazing scenery that we would have otherwise missed.
Dad's daydreaming as others tummy churned did mean he devised a measure of Coromandel driving skill; Drive Skill Score = {time to drive from Coromandel to Thames} + {30/(1+number of passenger spews)}
The faster you go, the more you risk have a time penalty through passenger vomits.
Lowest score wins.
Coromandel Coast
After a brief overnight stop in Auckland to collect our rented camping gear (absolutely brilliant tent, completely crap chairs) we were headed off to Awhitu Regional Park.
In the rain.
Which got heavier as we headed closer.
We arrived to find Finda and Steve already set up but about to mop the water out of their tent.
We sat and waited for the rain to clear.
It got heavier.
We waited some more.
It got more piss-istant.
We waited some more.
Till one of us genius meteorologists said "come on, you know this is eight-eighths anti-cyclonic nimbostratus" (translation -- we both knew full well it wasn't going away any time soon), so we set up the tent.
Apparently to the great amusement of some fellow (under cover and hence dry) campers from across the way, who even cracked a beer to kick back and watch the show.
Kiddies being minded by the commune, obviously...
Four seemingly intelligent people (inc. at least two PhDs) vs Mother Nature, a tent no-one had even seen or knew existed less than 24 hours before, and a set of instructions about blue, grey and black poles, but no mention of the yellow ones that (also) emerged from the packet.
Oh goodie.
Somewhat amazingly, no ANZACs were drowned in the making of the camping taj mahal, and all slept dry that night.
To the sound of even heavier rain.
By the end of the first 24 hours of piss-ipitation we'd all started to get the irrits with the rain gods, not to mention that being a summer beach holiday none of us skippies had packed gumboots. The locals, however, were all happily trotting about in shorts and boots a-la Wal from Footrot Flats. We had to contend with thongs (no, I will not call them 'jandals') until the mud became too thick and sticky and hence we risked pulling a thong plug [i.e., thong death], in which case footwear was abandoned altogether and hence for the first three days we pretty much went barefoot.
I'm sure there are Toorak ladies who pay shedloads for a 30minute foot mud massage.
For us a 72hour footjob was just $NZ10 per night.
Manukau Heads
Still, 'Brookes' campsite proved to be the clear highlight of the entire trip. The mob included the four of us, Mistress P's sister Shoni and sig.other Pierre, our hosts Finda and Steve, Finda's mum Katrina, Steve's sister Kim and hubby Chris plus their kids Sinead and Liam, and Gordon the Scotsman, his wife Tracey and kids Jamie and Cameron, the latter who was a minor UnZud TV celebrity after falling off a cliff and appearing on a reality program about people who fell off stuff and were subsequently rescued by chopper.
"It meant I didn't have to go to school for weeks!"
Also meant he had multiple fractures, has permanently more bend in his elbow than Muttiah Muralitharan, and was freakishly lucky he didn't shuffle off this mortal coil altogether.
But ya gotta love the glass half full attitude...
The Dining Tent
[If not his amazing culinary ability - watch out next time there is a junior masterchef tryouts - and hence his fascination with everything put near a stove. I felt somewhat pathetic plonking in my Alfredo packet pasta and adding a few mushies/capsicum/tinned tuna, but he watched every action like a hawk...]
The rain and mud all meant we were confined for long periods in Steve and Finda's "Kathmandu Compass Retreat" dining tent, as well as the gazebo which Steve rushed off and bought to pop over the cooking and cleaning area. (It vaguely amused me that some stuff I read about area said it was remote. He drove off, bought a gazebo, got slightly lost, and returned in 90 minutes...)This idea - of communal tents to shelter under - seemed quite popular/common with the NZ campers all around us, and indeed for us it meant many a tall story, bongo/guitar playing, newspaper reading, slap up feed and even the odd 9am (yes, sorry mum; AM) shot of Glenfiddich 12 yo Scotch, was had in complete dryness.
Brilliant.
Still in the breaks in the weather gave us plenty of time to explore near and far.
The (Octonaut) Island
Nearby was "The Island" - a dot of rock with a little dirt on top on which a Norfolk pine, a few shrubs and a bit of grass clung ferociously, if not precariously - about 300 metres offshore. At low tide you could walk out to it, dodging the razor sharp oyster shells as you go (I didn't do this successfully for all the days, and hence sport a slashed first toe for my efforts). Unfortunately in an attempt to coax the Boy away from my mobile phone and its downloaded movies (hell, it was wet - can't blame him) we told him it was Octonaut Island.
He didn't believe me.
Someone else told him it was.
About half a day later he abandoned camp and took dad on a mission... to find the Octonauts; which I only realised about halfway out to The Island as he started to get a bit concerned he been told a load of bollocks.
"Errr... they may be under the sea octonauting..."
Geez - how are we going to feel when he realises Santa is a dud?
[As an aside, The Island was also one of the last landmarks of NZ we saw as we flew off home - bizarrely appearing through a break in the clouds almost directly under our flightpath - magic sendoff; must have cost a bit to organise that one guys.]
Away from camp we visited the lighthouse which guards the entrance to Manukau Harbour, high on the southern headland of (in)famous Manukau Heads.
Cuppas in the rain and the famous gazebo; Finda, Pandora
"Geez, what a pathetically short lighthouse... its in danger of being trod on by a dwarf" {a Spinal Tap reference there if you don't know it} I moaned at first, until we arrived at the top of the short hill and looked over the other side to a near 240 metre sheer drop to the water below.
Wow.
What a view.
Sadly, this was also where the boy started to wail.
Inconsolably.
Dad got shitty. Mum showed teeth gritted patience. Katrina was a saint.
In the end we drove down to Waiuku (about 30km away) and forked out the "$70 non-NZ'ers" fee to see a doctor.
Tonsil infection, prolly viral.
Hamiltons Gap black sand beach
Take some kiddies panadol and iboprofen if needed and plonk him on the anti-biotics if he doesnt improve by day-after-tomorrow morning.
Meant a couple of semi-difficult nights, added to a truckload of snot and goober-related nose blowing.
And lots more video watching in the tent.
Poor sod.
The other great adventure was to the incredibly black sands beaches (even the white bits were black) of the wild west coast. We spent an hour or two at Hamiltons Gap, where a stream enters the ocean, rolling green terraced (some by stock, but most by ancient Maori farming) hills surround the inland views, and steep sand-dunes rising about 150m up from the sands below. Both dad and mum climbed the dunes in lieu of having to go on a run, while Little Miss Sarah ran around screaming in horror at the black of the sand on the soles of her feet.
Seriously. Freaked. Out.
(Though she seemed quite happy to wade back up the stream despite the very same black sand being under the water.)
Sarah, flowers, Auckland
Before we knew it our six days in a leaky tent (ok, five days and the tent didn't leak a drop, but I had to get a [vague] Split Enz reference in this blog somehow) were over and it was time to leave the campsite, cars packed to the rafters (two cars had left the scene in search of greener, or at least less muddy, pastures earlier) but about 30 kg lighter in terms of food, somewhat discounted by the extra kilos on peoples torsos.
Drive home highlight was a real live (and wild) pheasant trying to embed itself in our bumper.
Half expected some beaters and English gentry to emerge directly behind him.
The final full day was a bit more catchin' up and checkin' out the sites, including the summit of Mt Eden whose distance marker almost brought Pierre to tears (Paris: 18500km away; or maybe it was looking down on Eden Park, where France lost the Rugby World Cup by a solitary point to the All Blacks - either way he got all misty eyed...), lots of packing and washing (both clothes and seemingly permanently muddied feet), getting our dose of UnZud culture watching Bro Town epsiodes and finally a big slap up traditional NZ feed of... burritos! (Brilliant by the way - thanks Finda.) Little Miss Sarah supplied the entertainment with renditions of Baa Baa Black Sheep with backup singing from her Aunty Shoni and accompanied by Steve on the guitar (see video below) who'd even googled the chords for the occasion, followed up with the freakshow of Master Mike and Finda having a nostril licking competition - a clear genetic link to the Hope clan. (He'll make someone a very happy girl.)
Pandora, Steve, Shoni, Pierre. Andrew, Mike, Finda, Katrina, Aaron, Sarah
Next day it was back on the plane, after two very tired kids (going to sleep on Australian time for the entire trip, which would be fine, only they were still waking with the sun, i.e., NZ time) created an embarrassingly large detritus heap in the QANTAS club.
All up - what a trip. Nearly 1200km of driving despite only travelling 180km from Auckland at the most (we wont mention the swinging gate hitting the hire car if you dont...)
A new set of friends to keep in touch with and welcome when they head over the ditch.
And a most wonderful set of people who took our kids into their hearts which meant that mum and dad managed an awful lot of easy and (almost) guilt-free parenting. Special mention to "Uncle Steve", "Aunty Finda" and Katrina, who all have the patience of saints and the open arms of nuns (sorry Steve - but you know what we mean; though I am sure there's a fetish website for habit-wearing big bearded men...).
And we were only bagged about the underarm incident once.
(Oh ok; twice...)
Notch one more up in the "experiences I'll never forget".
After many years of watching helicopters swish up and down the bay, and of course living with them clattering overhead doing their resupplies when on boats in Antarctica, I'd often said "that must be an incredible thing to do."
And now I can say it is.
Fathers day 2010, someone must have raided an awfully large piggy-bank, cos my present was not just a ride in one, but an actual one-on-one with an instructor and a go at the controls. Suffice to say, it now makes driving a (manual) car seem a doddle.
The initial briefing last about 25 minutes, after which I was so confused by "cyclics" (the joystick between your legs which can make you dive or bank and turn), "collectives" (the 'handbrake-like thing' that you lift to change the pitch of the blades and go up, as well as twist to increase revs - though you generally keep this quite steady), and "anti-torque pedals" (that control the rudder so you can turn from side to side) that I clean forgot the instructors name (Cathy. Sorry.)
I hoped this wouldn't be a problem.
After buckling up and headsets on, about a zillion switches were flicked and the thing burst into life. The thing being aSchweizer 300 CBi , a neat little sports coupe' two seater. Hence I was somewhat surprised it sounded like a truck. And didn't have a Ride of the Valkyries soundtrack.
Cathy called the tower and we were off.
Straight towards a flock of seagulls.
This, apparently, is a hazard, so we crept up on them until they'd all been scared off and not been sliced and diced, bamix style. Birds dispatched, we headed east, climbing up to 1000ft and heading off over Breaside park and the green wedge between Dandenong South and Chelsea Heights.
Just as we did, Cathy said... "Ok, we're level - you take the cyclic".
After remembering what the cyclic was (the big stick between my legs; no jokes please), I had it in hand. Or rather, perched delicately in my fingers, as this thing is sensitive (no jokes, please) and really only requires finger pressure to get a response (oh come on...).
"I'm in control" I said.
And I was. Even though my taking control coincided with us bouncing up and down a little as we passed under a cloud, and hence for a moment I wondered what in the wide wide world of sports I'd done. To god. Or Stephen Hawking. Or whoever is in charge these days.
I thought I was vaguely flying straight and level, judging by me lining up the horizon with the compass glued to the windscreen (hey, that's what you're told to do), though apparently I was climbing. Which I only realised when Cathy pointed out the altimeter heading north.
Levelled it out; only levelling it out (i.e., dropping the nose) felt like you pitching yourself into a kamikaze dive - it took a little getting used to - and we were off again.
"Ok, you're doing great. Now, take over the collective".
(Quick thought - collective is the handbrake thing.)
"I have control" I replied.
Now there wasn't a lot to do here, as this is basically set and forget for level flight (i.e, you don't lift or drop the handle, just leave it at about 30degrees), though occasionally I'd twist the throttle a little as the revs dropped slightly.
We did a bit of a bank and headed a little more south, then over the intercom comes "Ok, take over the pedals."
Even I could work out what that meant.
Unlike a car, you have two pedals that if you push one in, the other pushes out. Also unlike a car you have a little dial that's a bit like a spirit level, and hence I was constantly checking that and if "the ball is left, push down left" to keep us going straight.
I was in control.
At first I must admit this was quite daunting, as cars were like ants below us, and only an hour before I didn't know a collective from a noun, and here I was in an inherently unstable physics-defying single engined coupe' tottering across the sky. At 75 knots.
"Do a circuit around here" Cathy suggested, somewhere over Western Port Hwy/Thompsons Rd/Sandhurst . A gentle push on my thumb (i.e., towards the right on the cyclic) and we started banking over and turning. Around we went, no problems. Lots of ant cars below, amazing views of Western Port, the Dandenongs, Port Phillip and... rain clouds.
"MMmmm... we might get a bit wet" mumbled Cathy.
After the circuit we aimed our nose at the bay - or rather, 1000ft above the bay - and headed west, crossing the coast somewhere between Seaford and Carrum, with the dirty gunk of a flooding Patterson River just to our north.
"I'll take over for a tick" said Cathy, and I wasn't one to argue with the boss. Though she did kindly say "You're doing great - you haven't scared me." {brief pause} "Yet."
We banked over and dropped down to 700ft as we crossed the river heading north, while Cathy spoke to the tower at Moorabbin letting them know we'd entered into their space again. (Apparently Patterson River is some sort of contact/way point.)
"Ok, follow the coast at 700ft" she said.
"I'm in control" I replied.
And up the coast we flew, scaring the dogs/dog walkers on the beach and marvelling at having a seagulls eye view of the bay. We'd soon whisked over Gnotuk Avenue carpark and I was looking out for houses of people we knew (errr... while being conscious of the controls of course) and noticing we were headed for aforementioned big rain cloud.
"I'll take over" said the boss, and with that we banked inland and lined up Moorabbin Airport (which is actually in Mentone; if it was really in Moorabbin I'd have asked her to set me down in my backyard, being that not too long ago Hampton East was known as Moorabbin West).
Though when I say lined up, I mean "took a stab in the grey where it was", cos by now we were in the rain and you could see bugger all. And like a good little two seater coupe', it started to drip inside, just missing my leg. (An inch to the right and it would have left a wet patch on my pants somewhat difficult to explain...)
I just looked out for the lights of all the other planes trying to land at the airport in the grey, cos I could hear the control tower talking to them out there in the gloom, somewhere... hunting us...
Then there it was, the little H for us to land on, only rather than land on the H, we swivelled in place about 3 ft off the ground, and inched forward until we were about 10m from the hangar.
"Beats pushing it all the way in in the rain" said the boss.
A quick debrief as we sat and idled the engine to let things cool down (fixed wing planes do this as they taxi...) and we were done.
Click clack, off with the belts, fumble with the door release, get my foot caught on the cyclic, and... 35 minutes after takeoff, Terra Firma once more.
What a goddamn amazing fathers day hoot.
(Only made better by an excited little boy yelling "Daddy" as I walked in the hangar.)
The old X6 Neil Pryde boom broke bits more often than a Melbourne train in a summer heatwave. (For those from out-of-town, that's a lot.)
Whether it was too much cost cutting, a lack of attention to detail, or all of the above, bits just simply fell off 'em all too often.
It was for this reason that I was about to chuck mine in the crusher and start again, cos I'd had a ($600) gutful. (Must be said, Pryde did supply free new bits without hesitation...)
"Try the '010 version" he insisted. "Its all new - you'll love it. Trust me..." {imagine a glint of pearly white light off his teeth/bald head.}
There and then he (and Mr Pryde) swapped over my old X6 for a brand spanker 2010 140-190cm jobbie, no questions asked. (Now that's service!)
And its all new. And I love it.
I've sailed the '010 X6 for a few months now, in everything from big Bay waves to flat water Sandy Point blasting. Its been jumped, gybed, crashed, smeared and, due to the wonders of climate change, cooked in my shed before summer even arrived. Hence surely time for a review.
First things first. The shape is different. Stand 'em side by side and you'll immediately notice that the new boom has way more S-bend in the arms than the old one (see above pic; 2010 X6 lying ontop of a 2008 - with any luck they're breeding me a 2011right now). I gather that having that bigger curve nearer the front is kinda like the physics of an egg; the tighter bend actually gives the thing strength. (Go on, tap on the tighter-bend end of an egg. Doesn't break as easily as whacking its bum does it?) I reckon it works.
The grip is good and arguably feels slightly narrower, even if the stats say it shouldn't be much difference. On the downside, I don't know if its the new grip, but even though my hands feel super secure and there's never a problem grabbing back on in a duck gybe, my goddamn harness lines seem impossible to stop sliding. Maybe I just need some decent lines - adjustable ones (that I never adjust) are the jack of all trades/master of none, and should be drowned at birth.
Speaking of feel, the new X6 also feels lighter, both on the beach and more importantly, out sailing. As I often say with good sailing kit, it's when you don't notice it that you know its doing a great job. And in a gybe, I'm not noticing this boom. (Well, cept the time a Sandy Point end-of-speed-strip duck duck gybe went horribly wrong; boom clipped the water and I was ejected forward at something akin to the speed of sound; or was that sonic boom just the sound of my back whacking the water?)
The boom head certainly looks a lot different. Still the same general clamping action as before but clearly made of different stuff in a different shape and with lots more air/less plastic. Not that the lighter weight design means its less efficient - you can certainly put a lot of force on it when closing around a mast. In fact I'd say be careful, cos I have indeed heard the odd "geez dude you're hurting me" whinge from the carbon fibre as the clamping gave way to crushing, at which point I've loosened things off in self preservation. What this means, of course, is that you're unlikely to have the thing slip when used in anger - not that that ever happened with the old X6 - plus good to know when you're trying to clamp on extra hard to unstick a mast using the old two boom trick.
Finally, and what everyone really wants to know: AB - how stiff is it??
Well we're not quite into the "schoolboy's first read of Penthouse" stiffness category here, but I'd still rate it above "Sports Illustrated Elle McPherson issue" at the very least, and well above the "National Geographic Tahitian Special" of most alumimium jobbies.
And that's bloody good for a non full-carbon boom.
The new-alloy S-bend arms are clearly stiffer than the old model even at maximum extension, and that's definitely saying something; the one piece front and back ends certainly do their job. The carbon extensions also slide more easily into the arms of the boom than ever before, even after a run in the ludicrously fine Sandy Point sand. (Hey, they don't call it Sandy for nothing.) If they can still be smooth after that, they'll be smooth after anything. The clips are also strong, firm, and appear to be made of something different than before. Or at least they're white. And thank Ford for that.
I've used them dozens of times now and they haven't broken, which would have been a canonising miracle for the old X6. This is despite them having the seams down all the old places, which was clearly a weak point. Still, the new plastics appear to be making up for the old design, cross fingers. Likewise the tail piece is still from the previous mould, where the seam goes straight through the hey diddle diddle of the rivet, a.k.a, through the highest stress point.
Which brings us to the rivet itself; mines already showing signs of rust (see pic). How much does a full galv/stainless rivet cost? Come on Neil - splurge on a freakin' rivet dude; you're killing me.
All up? I like it.
Its stiff. Its firm. Its comfy. Its barely noticeable. Its held together in original form so far and that's so good.
The 2010 X6 140-190cm boom Overall rating: 8 "woohoo's!" out of 10. Likes: Stiff, light, strong, forgettable; all the good stuff for a boom Dislikes: The rusty rivet (Neil Pryde's personal fault). The slidy harness lines (Maybe my fault). Some decals falling off already. Summary: In the words of Dr Suess "Green Eggs and Ham", surely in at least partial reference to NP X6 booms:
"You do not like them. So you say. Try them! Try them! And you may. Try them and you may, I say."
A meteorologist, a windsurf nut, a mountain biker, a skier, a golfer, a runner, a walker, a couch potato, a dad (x2), a hubby and a common or garden variety Australian bloke. That about sums it up. Now, wheres the wind?
