Anything that sinks.

So, we decided to enter the 'Anything that floats' competition during the Sedgefield Slowfest.  It sounded like a relatively easy deal.  Actually I would call it a no-brainer.  After all, there are a lot of things that float  and the only stipulation was that the craft was not allowed to be a manufactured boat and it had to carry four or more people….

Also, I believed our team was a dead-cert to win, because we had a secret weapon  - my brother-in-law the builder!  What better person could you think of to assemble a craft par excellence?  Having built  towering mansions on Thesen Isle… surely a furiously fast floating device would be chicken feed!

Of course I mentioned the race to him some weeks beforehand,  to sort of sow the seed as such. You know one of those calls that might seem like a pretty mild suggestion on the outside:-
 “Hey bro, I've entered the 'Anything That Floats' competition in a month's time. Wanna be on my team?” … but actually you know it's enough to stimulate the Must Win - Heart of a Lion spirit deep within him.

 And that once he's triggered, he will undoubtedly spend every waking hour mentally designing, redesigning and finalizing a craft that will amaze the mizzen-masts out of even master boat-builders.

In fact when I phoned him a week later, I knew he was onto the task at hand. I could just sense it. It was so exciting to think he was probably already tweaking the final keel lines, rubberizing the rudder and jibbing the mainstay of Mach 4, just to make it a few nano seconds faster than Mach 3 had been. Obviously he didn't say as much, but I could tell by the way he pretended to have forgotten about it, and casually added that he had 'Four plastic barrels somewhere on the farm'  I knew.  Oh yes, I knew.

Of course I had numerous chuckles when, over the next twenty one days, I met with captains of some of the other teams.  Whilst they stressed their little hearts out and racked their bricked-in brains for innovative floating device designs, I could sit back and relax.  My man was onto it.  And boy was he going to deliver!

And two days before the event, he did deliver!  Well, he brought the barrels round at least.  Once Mrs Ed had off-loaded them (I have to watch my sciatic nerve) I circled the van a few times, wondering where he had hidden the rest of the boat.
“Perhaps he's strapped it underneath,” I thought, somewhat irrationally.  (I was a little stressed because I had forgotten to tell him about the name.  I particularly wanted our ship to be christened 'The EDGE of Adventure', or something along those lines, and I was worried that he may have come up with his own name and perhaps wasted a few good working hours painting it onto the hull in Olde English Calligraphy - I told you he was exceptionally talented. For obvious reasons I really didn't want to upset him, after all he had done. )

But I needn't have worried.  It seemed that there was no sleek craft duct-taped to the nether regions of his old Ford Transit.  No sign of any boat whatsoever..  Then it suddenly dawned on me.

Of course! The entry form clearly stated that all boats had to be assembled on the shores of the lagoon in the few hours leading up to the race.  So obviously my 'First Mate' had it all planned in his head, and no doubt had the precision-cut parts of our beautiful speedboat stacked amongst the flotsam and jetsam in the back of the van! 

Not wanting to appear untrusting I didn't even bother pushing the matter further, but invited him in for a beer.
He, his wife (Mrs Ed's sister) and their kids were staying for the weekend - both to enjoy the festival and so that Mrs Ed and her sibling could spend a bit of quality cauldron time together.

We men sat outside talking about everything except boats, but I wasn't worried.  I was convinced that once my Main Man had relaxed for a while (I gather boat-engineering is quite an exhausting past-time, both mentally and physically) the conversation would shift to his plans for the launch and race tactics. 
Actually it didn't.  In fact the subject didn't come up until late the following night - that is approximately nine hours before we  were due to start building.

“This race….” he said.
“Aha!” I thought, but merely raised my eyebrows quizzically.  (I felt it more manly to appear calm, and knew that anything I said under such exciting circumstances may come out in a rather girly squeal.)
He continued.
“Would you mind if I skipped it?  Got some work to do back at the farm, so I thought I'd leave my son with you and…..”
“YOU CAN'T!” I demanded, scaring the parrot into a frenzy (unfortunately I had been right about the squeal)  “..sorry… but I  er…need you to… er …. help build the boat!”

It was only then that I realized, to my abject horror, that My Main Man had no plan!  And to be honest, I think he was equally surprised to discover that I hadn't either.

It being too late to start anything that night, we decided to have a few more pints of Amber Nectar whilst we discussed the boat and how we might build it. 

The team would be he and I,  our two older sons, and his youngest (a poor unsuspecting lad of 12) as the cabin boy.  It may have been the brain-inspiring protein in the beer, but in almost no time we came up with a master plan.  Miraculously it appeared that we had all the makings of a speed-orientated vessel right at our finger tips:- I had two wooden pallets lying in the garden, plus the four drums he had brought, then there was the washing line to tie it all together, and of course (a must for every sea-faring craft) 1 x garden bench. Green.

The plan was simple.  Tie two drums under each pallet. Strap the bench to the top of one  pallet so that the captain (me) and my First Mate (bro in law) could sit comfortably and shout orders at the able-bodied (so we thought) seamen (two older teens) whilst they sat on the other pallet in front and paddled us on to sure victory. The cabin boy would be in charge of refreshments and, on our instruction, dish out the occasional whack to any shirking paddler. 
 The two pallets would be tied together with what was left of the washing line, after the drums had been fastened in place.  “You see the added flexibility of being tied together rather than nailed will prevent the craft disintegrating should the waters get a bit turbulent,” one of us said whilst the other nodded wisely and opened fresh bottle of beer.

To be honest the boat turned out perfectly.  Just as we had planned.  Indeed we were very proud as we sat posing on it at the lagoonside, waiting for launch time and watching lesser mortals' vain attempts to match our prowess.  We did have to put up with  casual visits from every engineer in the Western Cape who each mentioned, just in passing,  that perhaps our boat might be a tad too top heavy.  Of course this did nothing to take the wind out of our sails (ha!).

So there ends my tale and I must sa….. Oh the race?  What happened in the race? Aaaah. Yes I can see you might want me to get to that.  Well to cut a long , long, long swim short, it didn't go exactly as we had envisaged.  A little differently indeed.  The boat (renamed “The EDGE of Insanity”) looked splendid as we got her onto the water, and floated rather well, towering above all the lesser boats..  It was when we…. er…. climbed on board that the problems came.  Just a couple of glitches.  Like the whole thing collapsing into a floating pile of tied-together-debris.

I blame it on the wind, myself.

Chaos ensued. The First Mate was first in the lagoon, ending up in a flurry of foam at the back (his beer had got sea-water in it)  Seconds later I somehow found my self cowering under the garden bench,  which would have been less terrifying if the thing had still been above the water.  The two Able Seamen were totally disabled trying to control the larger pallet, which had developed  a  life of its own and kept rolling over and over, flinging them and their paddles in all directions.  And the cabin boy simply disappeared under the water - intentionally, we later discovered, to hide his embarrassment.

In fact the only thing that actually proved its worth was the washing line, which somehow miraculously kept all the bits loosely together in a sort of water-churning huddle.

The EDGE of Insanity, (bless her cotton keels) eventually made it round the full course.  All of us pushing and pulling from different sides and the cabin boy (who suddenly realized that there is no such thing as bad publicity) standing on the top of the heap waving a paddle at the guffawing crowd.
 
No we didn't win, either.  Though we were only half an hour behind the leaders’ time of three and a half minutes.

But all is not lost.  We have already started planning next year's craft, and though I don't wish to give any design hints away, my First Mate has already earmarked the wheel barrow, an old deepfreeze, our ironing board and The REE's grade one bicycle…. 

See you on the water next year.

Educating REE, ta!

Ok, so my teenage son - The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) has been quite happily settled in Cape Town for the last couple of months, though I am not sure that Cape Town is equally happy about that arrangement.  I did send the mayor (Alderman Patricia de Lille) a memo regarding his arrival, a sort of list of his most er… unconventional habits, but have heard nothing in reply.

Actually I was quite shocked about that. I thought such community mindedness on my side would at least garner some sort of appreciation from her offices (I even included a suggested 'gift list' to make the job easier for her) But no - not a dicky bird from even her secretary.  Perhaps she thought my letter a bit strange - I'm not sure if she has ever had teenage children herself, so I can understand if she doesn’t quite grasp the implications of  '30 day Cheesy Sock' in an urban community (something similar to Koeberg?) or  indeed how a pile of  two months' dirty dishes may affect the skyline.

But I am glad to announce that for the next few weeks the lad is returning to his old stomping grounds, here in Sedgefield. Yes, there was much excitement when we learned he was coming, especially when we heard, via the grapevine, that he has acquired an education whilst there in the Mother City!  In only two months - isn't that absolutely amazing?

Of course I am not referring to his formal education - my goodness no.  Updating that to acceptable levels will surely take dozens of years, and perhaps some sort of electric shock therapy….. (I long for the day that I hear him talk about“Borrowing some money from so and so” instead of Lending it from them.  - Not only because of the correct English  but also because my name isn't 'So and so'.)

No, his newfound education is apparently that of a domestic nature.  You see, shacking up in a small, not particularly well ventilated flat with a friend of his of the same age (HRRRRNNN-GGGGHHH!  Sorry - that was a chill making it's way down my spine) has rather accentuated some of their old habits. Daily behaviour which previously hovered around the 'Socially Unacceptable' mark - according to Dian Fossey's Study on Central African Gorilla Behavior that is - has now tipped the scale to 'Downright Dangerous, Potentially Fatal. Culling Should Be Considered'. 

For the sake of any squeamish readers I won't go into too much detail, suffice to say that the two young men apparently discovered that plates and other eating implements not only refuse to wash themselves, but also start smelling rather baaaaad when left in a pile for weeks at a time.  Different, though equal in intensity, is the rank odour of worn underwear (that's 'worn' in both senses of the word), running vests, and of course, the infamous 30 day cheesy sock.

  At first this did not stress them in the slightest. Indeed it was not a problem at all when kept in the confines of their own home, especially when they were under the impression that they were the only two affected by the resultant ‘Aromanoxious Maximus’ (they honestly had no idea about the petition circulating the neighborhood). But when it started cramping their style on a social level, they realized something had to be done.  You see it wasn't just a case of both of them arriving at their respective colleges with egg on their faces… and melted cheese on their shirts… and old, hardened, two-fortnight noodles on their shoes…, there was also the problem of 'having mates round'.

Let me explain.  If you cast your memories back to when you first got your own place, you will probably agree that one of the greatest new-found freedoms was the fact that you could nonchalantly 'have mates round', whenever you wanted… EVEN ON WEEK NIGHTS. 
“Hey, just come round  anytime, whenever, even after you've been to the pub….”  you would offer.

Yes, admit it! You would flippantly invite anyone and everyone.  In fact, talking of pubs, I remember one of my favourite 'things to do after 16 beers' when I was that age was to announce “Ok everyone  let's go back to my place…. for a PARTY!”

But such generous hospitality will only have the desired effect once or twice when you have a fungal jungle growing out of your kitchen sink, your clothes are playing a rather sweaty rugby match by themselves in the lounge, and your bathroom has simply erupted. 

And if the crowd of 'Mates Coming Round' includes members of the OS (Opposite Sex), then your style will rapidly join your two metre square bedsit in being totally and irreparably cramped.

So as the story goes, The REE and his flatmate - let’s call him 'Friend X' (that's the name the investigating scientists have given him) have recently started doing something previously deemed impossible….. cleaning up. Yes, according to the report-back information we have acquired from various spies brave enough to enter the Vrot Flat, there has been a marked improvement.

Not being a gullible man, I first thought that some sort of natural 'self cleaning' phenomenon had occured. (I once read that if human hair is not washed for some weeks, it starts producing its own oils which somehow make it clean again, so I thought that this may be the case with my son's clothing, dishes and the flat itself -  which you must admit is a far more easy-to-believe theory than the boys actually doing their own housework).  But no, I have been proven wrong.   Indeed a real adult actually caught them mopping the bathroom floor recently - though she could not give me exact details having sworn an oath of secrecy to both lads, in exchange for the borrowing of a student card.

Which leads me to another odd part of this story.  On hearing of her son's pending arrival, Mrs Ed has been behaving like a woman possessed.  Not only is she totally and unreasonably cheerful 36 hours a day, but she is cleaning.  CLEANING ….. for a teenager?  Does it make sense?  I thought that was like hunting for a vegetarian? 

Now please understand, I'm not talking about the usual bit of half -hearted dusting-with-the-occasional-spitting-on-a-cloth- and-wiping.  No, I mean the real, crazy-woman, mother-in-law-is-visiting sort of cleaning.  Every spare minute she can find she's vacuuming the bread bin, or toothbrushing the light bulbs, or ear-budding the key-holes. And that constant cheery humming of “Mother and Child Reunion” in Z flat major is scaring the birdlife away, honestly!

So I am living in a house that you would think the Prince of Wales himself was about to….. Hang on….  Wow!  Sorry I have to go - I just received an email from the Mayor de Lille's office.  Apparently after researching the 30 Day Cheesy Sock theorem in depth, she wants to set up a commission to investigate ways of harnessing that phenomenal chemical / heat energy for the creation of electrical power! And they plan to add it to the national grid.…

Considering they have The REE and Friend X for at least another 36 months…
They'd be mad if they didn't!