If Noah lived in the Garden Route today....

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And so The Lord found Noah retired in Sedgefield and spaketh unto him.

“Noah, I am tired of the evil ways of the people of the Earth. In one year I am going to maketh it rain for forty days and forty nights and, lo, shall the whole world be covered in water until all flesh is destroyed.

"But harken this, Noah, I needeth thee to save the righteous people, and two of every kind of living thing that roameth on and flyeth above the Earth. Therefore I am commanding thee to build an ark.”

In a flash of lightening God delivered the specifications for the ark and, trembling in fear, Noah took up those measurements and vowed to commence the process.
“Remember,” spaketh the Lord, “Thou must complete the task in one year, upon which time I shall return.”

And verily, one year did pass. And, as the storm clouds didst gather above the Earth, God called upon Sedgefield to find Noah.

But lo and behold, there was no ark in site.
“Noah! Where is the ark?” boomed the voice of The Lord from on high.

Noah looked downcast and spaketh unto the Lord.
“ I'm afraid there isn't one. You see it isn't that simple. Making an ark I mean. Believe me Lord, I have tried and tried but….. Perhaps I should explain.

“I mentioned to a neighbour that I might need to borrow his saw for a project, and he asked me what it was. Foolishly I told him about the ark and next thing I knew I had a letter from him and the neighbours on the other side, stating that I had to submit plans to the municipality for a structure that size. So I submitted the plans you gave me but I’m sorry to say they were rejected. Apparently a cubit isn't a recognised measurement.

So then I got a draughtsman to redraw the plans and resubmitted.

“ Of course because I was then seen as a boat builder, it meant my garden had to be rezoned by the municipality as 'Light Industrial' and both neighbours objected. I asked what the problem was and they said the structure would block the sunlight. I told them they wouldn't have to be worried about the sunlight once the rain started – but this didn't help my case.

“Meanwhile I was having HUGE problems trying to source Gopher wood. It had been deemed an illegal alien so no-one would grow it. I tried to harvest some Gum trees locally but the Egrets were nesting again, so Cape Nature said I had to hold back until the chicks were big enough to fly. Then the Sedgefield Tree Committee refused permission anyway.

“When I finally did locate a source of timber (Sorry Lord but it is SA Pine) and started the process of cutting it into planks, Eskom started loadshedding, so I had to send all the carpenters home. The power was back on the next day but by then the carpenters had formed a union and went on strike. Whilst negotiating I employed some foreign nationals, but that only lasted until the Mossel Bay immigration officials came to Sedgefield and arrested them.

“Then the Sedgefield Flood Committee sent me an angry letter saying that instead of building an ark I should be campaigning to SANParks for the Swartvlei Rivermouth to be opened earlier because then there wouldn't be a flood. Then SANParks sent a ranger round to tell me I couldn't launch the ark until the estuary level had reached two metres.

Furthermore they said that according to their new tariffs a craft the size I was attempting to build would cost R4 000 000 to license, and that I would need at least 300 life jackets and 228 fire extinguishers on board.

“I started rounding up the animals but even that became a real circus. The entrance to my property was barricaded by protest groups who insisted it was wrong to keep animals in captivity for ANY length of time, and how did I know if I was taking the correct two of each species with me. It didn’t help matters when some American dentist shot one of my lions - that was all over Sedgefield Locals facebook page and soon there was an anti-ark petition started.

“By then the Department of Environmental Affairs had set the 'Green Scorpions' on me because they had got wind of what they called my ‘Proposed Flood’. They gave me a court order demanding I conduct an Environmental Impact Assessment so that Interested and Affected Parties could have the opportunity to object to the Proposed Flood if they felt so inclined.

“I employed an environmental consultant and, on her advice, a series of public meetings was held. It's probably a good thing you didn't attend any of them Lord, because chances are you might well have smote at least a dozen people there and then.

"They refused to accept that, as Creator of the Universe, you had total jurisdiction, and they demanded that, even if it did rain for forty days and forty nights, they would still have the right to walk their dogs on the beach.

“Obviously I couldn't give them any such guarantee, so they insisted the Municipality's Town Planning Department get involved again. I was asked to submit a detailed plan of the proposed new flood plain, so I gave them a globe. This did not go down well, Lord - apparently it should have been in at least three of South Africa's 11 national languages.

“As if this was not enough, the Ratepayers asked for written proof that the flood would not lower the market value of any properties; Tourism insisted that I put everything on hold until a marketing campaign be initiated to launch the brand 'KnysFlood'; and attorneys from both the DA and the ANC accused me of initiating a flood campaign to swing the demarcation process in favour of the other party (I must say I'm finding it very hard to cope with this).

“Furthermore SAARP asked for a 10% discount for any of their members wishing to buy what they called a 'cruise' ticket, and when I pointed out that it was only my family and their spouses who could come aboard, someone leaked it to the Sports Commission who demanded I implement a quota system so that the people saved would be a true reflection of South Africa's rainbow demography.
“And then someone started a Whatsapp group called Ark Lark and suddenly a huge argument broke out between some of the members and….”

“STOP!” Commanded The Lord. “I am losing my patience. Ist thou telling me that The Ark is not even complete?”

Noah sighed.

“Actually, Lord, I did manage to finish it last week but, well, I’m afraid that before I could get any of the animals on board…. something happened,”

“WHAT?” asked The Lord, and the whole world did shake with his frustration.
“One of the George taxi associations saw it as ‘passenger carrying competition, and, well, they held a protest march and burnt the ark."

“I think I am going to lie down,” said The Lord.

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Leaving home

So she has gone. Our youngest child. Our baby. She has flown the coop. Left the nest. Spread her wings and taken to the skies.

I can't believe it! Imagine someone so young (it seems it was only yesterday she started at Sedge Primary) getting on a plane all by herself, and jetting off to see the world?

Actually it's probably a good thing that 'spreading her wings' is just a metaphor, because the amount of clothing she packed in her suitcase - or ‘The Bag’ as it became known - would have necessitated the pectoral muscles of a pre-historic dragon. I do hope British Airways has the common sense to stow The Bag in the exact centre of the plane's underside storage.

Leading up to her departure has been highly emotional to say the least. There has been numerous times that I have sat cringing downstairs, with hands over ears, trying to block out the heartbreaking wails and sobs emanating from her bedroom. Mrs Ed is braver than I – she actually sat upstairs, clutching our daughter to her ample bosom in an attempt to somehow ease the agonising pain the girl had to go through each time she realised that ANOTHER pair of shoes would have to stay behind.

Not that we are a jet-setting sort of family (for years I had my kids convinced that driving over the White Bridge to Knysna was 'going overseas') but I do know that if you are travelling by plane, fitting everything into your luggage is quite stressful at the best of times, especially when the trip is a six-month long working holiday.

And that stress can be multiplied by 400 for our daughter, who had only one bag. One VERY BIG bag. The Bag.

You see, as I may have mentioned before, Fear Factor (that's a nickname we have given her since she started learning to drive) (it comes from the look on other drivers' and pedestrians' and cyclists' and dogs' faces as she drives past, putting on her mascara, drinking coffee, answering her cell phone and taking a selfie as she goes) is not just fond of her clothes, she's not just attached to them…

She IS them.

And they are her.

Seriously, at twenty years old, Fear Factor has never, ever thrown out a piece of clothing. Why? Because she considers her clothes an all important, life-giving part of her soul. And you can't just casually throw away your soul, can you?

That would be like… like… going on holiday without it....
“No Mom! Not this shirt. You can't ask me to leave this shirt behind – it's my Grade 8 school shirt. It's what I wore for my FIRST YEAR IN HIGH SCHOOL MOM!”
So we finally got The Bag closed with minutes to spare. It wasn't easy, and eventually we had to ask Mrs Ed to sit on it WITH HER DINNER PLATE, just so we could close the zip and fasten the buckles. I'm not claiming to have ever seen what a puff adder looks like after it has just consumed a Brahman Bull, but I imagine it would be something similar.

Even then another pair of shoes and some extra clothes were stuffed into the side pouches, just in case.

Fortunately seventeen of Fear Factor's friends had come to say good bye, so with their help along with a rather nifty pulley system and the steel elastic from Mrs Ed's drawers, we could swing The Bag out the window and lower it down into the unsuspecting car's boot. (I swear I heard it say “Ow! My back!” in fluent Toyota.)

Then, after waiting until we would be predictably late, we sped off for the airport with the poor car's front wheels only intermittently making contact with the tar. It looked like the old Camry was attempting to take to the skies herself.

Swinging into the car park with seconds to spare, we had to pull up and consider our methodology of getting The Bag onto the plane. Obviously we didn't want to pay for excess luggage, so we couldn't use a forklift or camel to carry it in from the car because that would surely give the game away to the eagle eyed checker-inners. (Apart from that, I thought they were both splendid options, and certainly not worth the disdainful glare I got from Mrs Ed's good eye when I had the wisdom to suggest them).

And the security officers swiftly kyboshed my attempts to reverse the car through the automatic sliding doors. (I did think diving onto my bonnet with a tazer pointed towards my forehead and shouting 'FREEZE! AIRPORT SECURITY' was a bit melodramatic) .

So, we had to grit out teeth and let Mrs Ed carry the thing.

Hoping that by some miracle, the young check-in man would look the other way when The Bag went onto the scale, I suggested that Fear Factor bat her eyelashes and flash a smile at him as she handed over her ticket. She did this particularly well, (if I hadn't known better I might have thought she had done it before) , and in her most husky, little girl voice she offered.
“I'm afraid I'm a little overweight.”

In knee-jerk reaction I added “I think she looks just fine, don't you?” (One never knows when one may be looking at a potential spouse for one's child… and apparently airport staff get discounted flights for the whole family!).

I don't know who kicked which shin the hardest, but I have no doubt that Mrs Ed has been giving Fear Factor lessons on the quiet. Eventually the pain subsided enough to get back on my feet whilst Mrs Ed and Fear Factor, under instruction from the non-plussed check-in man, emptied the side pouches of The Bag, just to make it a little lighter.

And so, a few minutes later, as our darling daughter strode through the departure gate, she stopped, turned around and gave a final wave good bye.

And then something strange happened. It was as if, in that moment, she’d had a sudden realisation.
“I love you. Both of you,” she mewed, seemingly avoiding eye contact so we wouldn't see the tears welling up. My heart warmed and, with my own eyes wet and a lump in my throat, I turned around to share this special moment with her mother….

And then I realised.

Fear Factor wasn't talking to us at all.

In fact she was looking directly at the shoes Mrs Ed was holding, the pair she had taken from the side pouch in an effort to lighten The Bag.
“I'll miss you guys,” Fear Factor sobbed at them. Then she turned around and was gone.

I think I'm going to rent out her bedroom sooner rather than later.