My Father the Handyman

My father was an enthusiastic but somewhat unfortunate handyman. Leaving a hammer on top of a step-ladder and getting clunked on the head with it when he moved the ladder was not an infrequent occurrence.

Dad and his Helper

I normally played the part of his assistant, but on this memorable occasion, I’d gone to the beach leaving Dad to do some painting around the house.

I returned from the beach and was chatting to Mum in the kitchen when, from the side of the house came an almighty rattling crash.

When I raced outside, the extension ladder was lying on the ground alongside a great blotch of spilled paint. I looked up and there was Dad dangling from the peak of the roof, legs thrashing around as if trying to gain purchase from the air.

I couldn’t help myself—I doubled over with laughter. “Get the bloody ladder up here you little bastard,” Dad yelled at me. (In times of stress he regularly questioned my legitimacy). I managed to compose myself long enough to resurrect the ladder.

For many years after, the paint splotch on the side path served as a reminder of this little incident.

Another time was equally memorable: A previous owner of our house had erected a fibrous cement extension on the back of it. At this time, cheap houses in Australia were sometimes constructed entirely from this material—it was not pleasing to the eye.

So Dad decided to parge the extension in order to render it more in keeping with the rest of the place.

While I mixed buckets of cement to the Pater’s consistency instructions, he carefully trowelled it on to the wall. After a full day’s toil, we finished around five in the evening and Dad stood back to admire his work.

He then poked his head through the back door to call Mum outside to feast her eyes upon the masterpiece.

Upon exiting the house, Mother closed the door a trifle too hard. Dad and I watched in fascination as, in slow motion, the cement slid from the wall…every last bit of it, coming to rest in a tidy heap on the ground.

Edited by Davina

Anyone for Tennis?

What with Andy Murray’s spectacular win at Wimbledon I thought I’d post a couple of highlights from my own tennis career.

Both of these occurred at the property of friends in Miami, Florida—Rod and Carol Mandelstam. Rod was quite well known in tennis circles, having been on a winning doubles team at Wimbledon at some stage in his career:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCMPy4O4EUw

The Mandelstams had a large property in South Miami with two tennis courts and a bunch of exotic birds roaming around the place. (I was reading in the garden one day when the wretched ostrich snuck up behind me, pecked my head and grabbed a bunch of my hair—and one of the stupid peacocks crippled itself when it saw its reflection in the chrome hub-cap of a car and kicked furiously at its perceived rival).

I haven’t seen Rod for years, but he was kind of conservative in nature when I knew him. But his friend Patrick—another tennis player—was, like me, rather partial to a glass or two of beer.

One afternoon, Patrick and I were quaffing a few ales when the subject of tennis came up. At the time I believe Patrick was ranked around 100^th in the world, but he claimed to have a serve faster than that of Bjorn Borg (who belted his serves over the net at around 120 MPH).

Patrick—aware of my limited prowess on the court— avowed that I couldn’t even touch one of his serves. Of course, after a few beers, I was not about to allow such a claim to go uncontested. And never mind the simply touching bit—idiot here bet him fifty dollars that out of twenty serves, I’d return two.

Well, I didn’t even see eighteen of them—they flew past me like bullets. I did however manage to make contact with the final two, but they almost knocked the racquet out of my hand.

Bye-bye fifty dollars!

The other memorable incident occurred with, instead of a racquet, a pistol in my hand. But it sort of had to do with tennis. It came about during a New Year’s Eve celebration at the Mandelstam's. There were only seven of us: Rod and Carol, Arthur Ashe and his wife Jeanne, Patrick, Yours Truly and wife Judy.

The evening went without a hitch until midnight, when Patrick pulled out a pistol and began firing into the air (a not uncommon practice down there on New Year's Eve). This seemed like wonderful sport to me. I knew where Rod kept his pistol so I borrowed it and joined Patrick. But rather than firing into the air, I threw a couple of beer cans into the swimming pool and the two of us began blasting away at them.

I noticed Arthur hiding behind a tree at one point and during a lull in the firing, he darted into the house to join Rod and the ladies.

Next morning when I phoned to thank Rod for the evening, he made a point of mentioning that he’d spent the last hour diving to remove spent bullets from the pool.

Edited by Davina

Metamorphosing Yacht and Rob gets Hammered

A couple of weeks ago I told the tale of Harold’s metamorphosing suit—which went from a size 44 to 40 during a rainstorm.

Well, not to be outdone, let me tell you about my metamorphosing sailing vessel—the ‘Bevan’. According to her certificate of registry she had an overall length of fifty-six feet. But this length proved in fact, to be rather elastic.

The Elastic 'Bevan'

Allow me to explain: When it came to dealing with a boatyard for haulage or slippage (they charge by the foot and most don’t look at papers), the ‘Bevan’ would shrink to around fifty feet. But for a girl in a bar the vessel would miraculously extend to around sixty feet. An exceptionally pretty girl might get it up to sixty-five!

However this week’s blog is not about my metamorphosing yacht, it involves my two great pals Rob and Willie when we were living in Gibraltar.

Rob was always the steadying influence. While Willie and I tended to become somewhat ‘rollicky’ at whatever bar we happened to be slurping at, Rob would exhibit extraordinary restraint.

But on this one particular occasion he threw caution to the wind.

We were at the Black Swan. And for whatever reason—somebody’s birthday perhaps—John Holland, our landlord and friend, did an after-hours thing for us regulars. The end result was that Rob managed to get hammered.

He had recently purchased a motor-scooter. It was kind of beaten up but for some reason, he was extremely proud of it. He wouldn’t even allow me to ride the damn thing because I was considered ‘too irresponsible’.

Fair enough.

When we left the trough at around three in the morning, ‘Rob the Righteous’ heaved responsibility out the door. The three of us piled onto the scooter—Rob, Willie sandwiched in the middle, and me at the rear (with the family jewels perilously close to the spinning back wheel).

I don’t recall the exact circumstance as to why I had taken a bugle to the bar, but I had—and as we roared down the main street at three in the morning, I blew on it with gusto.

Surprise, surprise! The police were roused from their slumber by my brilliant rendition of ‘Abdul The Wanker’ and a roadblock was hastily assembled on the main street. This our fearless commander Rob deftly avoided by ducking up a cobbled lane.

In those days, the police communicated with each other by blowing on whistles. From all around us now came the shrill piping of these instruments.

But they didn’t really need them to telegraph our position because between our uproarious laughter and my strangling of the bugle there could be no doubt as to our location.

Me, Rob, Willie

Gibraltar is a maze of tangled alleyways and passages and Rob swooped through these without a care in the world. At one point we went flying down a set of shallow steps and somehow managed to remain upright.

Eventually though, we were cornered and our romp was curtailed.

At the police station, the sergeant asked us, “What on earth did you think you were doing?” I don’t believe it was a rhetorical question, I think our actions were simply beyond the scope of his understanding. He probably had a very orderly mind.

The three of us were a trifle bewildered by the question. Do you have to have a reason for doing something stupid? After a long moment‘s silence Rob summed it up with, “I’m not sure.”

“Just get out of here!” said the sergeant. Cops in those days were neat guys.

Edited by Davina

To Pee or not to Pee, that is the question…

My other half has insisted that this particular story be told. Needless to say it is at my expense. I didn’t find it particularly humorous, but Davina did, so I hand the keyboard over to her:

At the time of this incident we were living in Kitchener, Ontario. Peter’s pal Rob had invited us over to his place to watch an important football game. Although Peter has little interest in football, the event provided a wonderful opportunity for the boys to consume vast amounts of beer.

Playing the role of dutiful ‘wife’ I endured the afternoon whilst the two members of the opposite sex cheered, groaned and guffawed depending upon what was occurring on the screen.

Davina--my saviour

When it came time to leave, I paid a visit to the washroom. I’d had two beers myself. Peter must have sloshed down around ten or twelve, but when I suggested he might care to visit the can, would he listen? Of course not. He’s a bloke. And an Australian to boot. Why would he heed the advice of a mere Sheila? He’d be fine until we got home—about a twenty minute walk.

Well, off we go. Ten minutes into the walk, our hero begins anxiously looking around for somewhere to sneak behind to relieve himself. But there’s nowhere. We’re on a main street with nothing but stores. “Why didn’t you go back at Rob’s?” I inquire.

“I didn’t need to then,” he says.

Duh! Why anyone who’d just knocked back almost a gallon of beer wouldn’t realize it would have to come out—quite soon—is beyond me. I can only assume that the alcohol had dulled his reasoning—or, more likely, removed it entirely.

Anyway, my lord then informs me that we might have to pick up our pace a little. So now a pleasant afternoon stroll turns into something just short of an Olympic event.

But after a couple of minutes Peter makes another proclamation. Looking a trifle desperate now and not a little green around the gills, he announces. “I’ll have to run”.

So off he goes…..full tilt up the street and around the distant corner.

A few minutes later I round the corner – no sign of our desperado. I’m walking past a park that’s fringed with bushes when I hear a hissed, “Dee”. I look around. I see nothing but shrubbery. Then again, more urgently, “Dee!”

Finally I spot a rather sheepish-looking face all but invisible within the foliage. A hand issues forth holding the house key. “I’ve had a bit of an accident,” he announces. “Can you bring me back some pants?”

At this point I catch a glimpse of his two-tone Levis and double up with laughter.

“Dee, this is not funny,” he rebukes me sternly.

Au contraire, I think. Anyway, off I go—grinning from ear to ear. I return shortly to our stricken hero with trousers, a towel and a plastic bag.

I no longer have to remind him of the incident—a knowing look is all it takes to prompt an après beer drinking visit to the washroom.

Harold’s Amazing Metamorphosing Suit

Harold’s suit was tailored in the Dominican Republic where I lived for a number of years.

But before I relate the saga of this amazing garment, I must mention something concerning De Toekomst, the Dutch fishing boat. It was this vessel that took John Morris and me to the Dominican Republic in the first place.

If you happened to read last week’s blog, you might recall that I devoted most of it to lambasting Nigel, our supposed engineer aboard Toekomst. He remained with us for only a short portion of the voyage from Holland to the D.R.

Well, I received an e-mail (not from Nigel) reminding me of something rather stupid that I perpetrated after Nigel had been given the boot and when we were out in the middle of the Atlantic.

It was a hot day so I figured it would be rather nice to take a dip. But rather than pause our voyage, I came up with what I considered to be a brilliant idea. I rigged up a boom that stuck out over the side, attached a rope to its outboard point and tied a loop at the end of the rope.

Big game fishing

Being the creator of the device, I tested it out by slipping into the loop and leaping over the side.

It worked beautifully!

When I'd finished my little splash, John had a go. As I watched him cavorting around at the end of the rope, four points flashed through my mind:

(1) This is a fishing boat.

(2) We appear to be fishing.

(3) The only creatures out here are likely to be rather large and toothy.

(4) We could easily lose the bait without the slightest chance of catching anything.    
     Idiot here had completely forgotten to include a hook.

Anyway, as it turned out, they weren't biting that day and the mighty Toekomst took us safely to the D.R. And it was there that I witnessed, in person, the wonders of Harold’s amazing suit:

I was living in Puerto Plata. A couple of British Navy ships were in the area and scheduled to dock there in a few days. The British consulate thought it would be a grand idea to round up a few expats for cocktails aboard one of these vessels. At the time there was only a handful of Brits around so I was invited as well. Harold, who was British and about sixty at the time, was also one of the invitees.

The ‘do’ was to be semi-formal and Harold was not in possession of suitable threads. So with only a couple of days to go before the ships arrived, he took himself into Santiago where there were a bunch of inexpensive tailors. He selected one, chose his cloth and a day later he had his suit.

A few of us—including Harold in his new suit—went for a pre-party drink at a local bar. Harold regaled us with the virtues of his garment. “Perfect fit,” he announced proudly, turning this way and that to allow us to admire it. “And only forty dollars!” We were all suitably (pardon the pun) impressed. After a couple of drinks we headed to the docks, a ten minute walk away.

Well, about half way there it began to rain, and that’s when Harold’s suit became ‘an amazing suit’. In no time at all it had transformed itself from a size 44 to a 40. The retreat of the cuffs up his legs could actually be observed.

By the time we arrived at the ship Harold had to fight to keep his arms at his sides. Robin Hood in tights had nothing on him. But the tailor had obviously not skimped on the thread for, much to our astonishment and against all odds, the seams held.

Edited by Davina Chapman

An Insufferable Clown and Smudged Lipstick

I felt lazy last week so didn’t do a blog. Only two people complained!

Like it or not, here’s another tale of De Toekomst, the Dutch shrimper that John Morris and I sailed from Holland to the Dominican Republic.

I can’t recall how or where John managed to come up with Nigel—our supposed engineer—but we would have been better off if he hadn't bothered. Nigel was from England and modeled himself on John Lennon—long hair and wire rimmed glasses (which I suspect had plain lenses). He also used the term 'Brahma' to express approval of something.

   

It wasn’t long before both John and I were thoroughly fed up with the clown. The thought of his long hair becoming entangled in the moving parts of the engine didn’t unduly perturb either of us.

   

One of Nigel’s pet themes was the importance of being able to adapt readily to adversity and hardship. But when our cooking gas ran out, he fell short of the mark.

While John and I contented ourselves with cold food and drink, Nigel became desperate--he had to have his hot food and cups of tea. I suspect he would have held matches under a saucepan or kettle had the vessel not been equipped with a diesel heater in the galley.

De Toekomst

John and I were in the wheelhouse quaffing a couple of beers as we steamed down the coast of Portugal on a calm sunny morning. We could see the top of Nigel’s head through the forward hatch as he held a pot of baked beans on top of the heater—a device obviously designed to warm a room rather than cook food. You could rest your hand on top of the thing for a few seconds without being burned, so the process was destined to be a time-consuming.

The temptation was too great for me to resist: I padded forward on bare feet, stuffed a rag into the belching chimney then snuck back to the wheelhouse to observe the results.

It was not long before black smoke began billowing from the hatchway. I’ve got to hand it to Nigel though, he was no quitter. Every few seconds his head would come thrusting out through the smoke, eyes watering as he gulped air like a beached fish. It obviously never occurred to him that something might be amiss with the chimney. Perhaps he’d been emulating his hero a trifle over-zealously in terms of hallucinogenic substances and damaged his brain.

Oh…I almost forgot. Another Nigel story. One that almost ended in disaster. This could be the only recorded incident of lives being saved due to someone having to take a leak.

We were heading down the English Channel, pounding into a head-sea on a black night with the wind approaching gale force. Our hero was at the wheel while John slept below and I was curled up on the small wheelhouse bunk. I awoke around three in the morning and went aft for a pee.

From day one, Nigel had been obsessed with the radar—drawn to it like a moth to flame. On a number of occasions I’d cautioned him not to use the device as a substitute for a proper visual lookout, but he remained unconvinced.

Upon finishing my business, I returned to the wheelhouse where Nigel had his eyes glued to the radar. “There’s something funny going on,” he announced. There was a solid line bisecting the screen.

Shoving him aside, I spun the wheel hard. His ‘something funny’ was the towering side of an oil tanker. We missed it by no more than a hundred feet. I was tempted to throw the idiot over the side that night, but managed to restrain myself.

John gave Nigel the boot when we reached Gibraltar.

We remained at the ‘Rock’ for a month or so, painting the boat and installing an automatic pilot for the Atlantic crossing. Because of a previous run-in with certain Gibraltarian authorities, I was not permitted ashore. As long as I stayed aboard the vessel I was okay—it was considered to be Dutch territory. But if I set foot on the dock I’d be arrested and thrown in the clink for three months. The authorities stationed a twenty-four hour guard by the boat.

But I had a bunch of friends in Gibraltar and some of them would drop around for a drink of an evening. Hidden below decks, the girls would dress me as one of them—with wig, lipstick and mascara—and we’d toddle off to the Black Swan pub.

All went well until one night when a brawl broke out and five coppers came swarming into the ‘Swan’. I must have been spotted darting out the back door without my wig because when I attempted to sneak back aboard the boat, there were two officers waiting on the dock beside it.

I was forced to backtrack around to another pier and swim to the vessel. At that time, the water by the docks was a cesspool—choked with oil and all kinds of horrible stuff. I emerged from the water on the far side of the boat like the creature from the swamp.

   

Worst of all though, my lippy was smudged.

Edited by Davina Chapman

.

Konrad's Final Run

I met John Morris in Gibraltar. He’d flown there intending to buy my friend Konrad’s seventy-foot steel fishing boat which he’d found advertised in a magazine.

Well, almost everyone with a boat in Gibraltar at that time was involved in some sort of mischief and Konrad was no exception. He’d spoken to John on the phone and the latter had agreed to purchase the vessel if all was as advertised (which, knowing Konrad, was highly unlikely).

Anyway, my Dutch friend figured that since his boat was probably about to go chugging off into the sunset, he would make a last run to Tangier in order to sell a couple of pallets of cameras that had ‘fallen off’ a freighter and found their way into his hold.

The final run was not a roaring success however. I heard the full story much later after Konrad had been released from a Spanish jail. Apparently he’d had a disagreement with his Moroccan ‘agent’ over the price of the goods, and their parting was far from amicable. The ‘agent’ put a call through to someone in Spain.

As Konrad approached the Spanish coast (where he had arranged to meet another ‘agent’), a patrol boat loomed up and ordered him to heave-to. He then made a rather foolish decision. Being close to Gibraltar, he attempted to make a run for it.

But his vessel was way under-powered. The maximum speed he could hope to eke out of her was around seven knots—the patrol boat was capable of around thirty-five. Konrad was forced to hit the floor when a burst of machine-gun fire shattered his wheelhouse windows.

Kalinka in Gibraltar

The Spanish seized the vessel and Konrad was thrown into the clink.

John—a Kiwi living in Haiti—somehow discovered that I was a friend of Konrad’s and sought me out. I was at the dock aboard my old tub ‘Kalinka’. I advised him that from what I’d heard, he’d better start looking for another vessel.

He then asked me if I was capable of navigating a boat across the Atlantic to the Caribbean. My eyes lit up with pictures of clear waters, white sand, palm trees and bikini-clad damsels. Having recently had a bit of a run-in with the Gibraltar authorities, I’d been planning to leave for the Caribbean anyway.

“No problem,” I lied. This was before electronic navigation devices, but I felt I could learn how to use a sextant along the way. So I left the ‘Kalinka’ in the care of a friend while John and I headed for Holland in search of another fishing boat. We flew to London, then on to Paris where we were to catch a train to Amsterdam.

Our search for a boat almost fizzled out there and then: Just as the train was about to depart the station, a startled look came over John’s face. “Where’s the money?” he blurted. The money was in an overnight bag—thirty-five thousand US dollars in cash.

“I thought you had it!” I said, frantically looking around. The bag was nowhere to be seen.

Shrimping off Holland

Against the wall in Brest, France

We darted off the train literally as the doors were closing, caught a taxi back to the airport where, by some miracle, we located the bus that had taken us to the train station. Again, by some miracle, we found the bag of money under a seat!

A couple of weeks later John was the owner of the sixty-five foot shrimper De Toekomst.

After he’d bought the boat, he informed the previous owner, Gerard, of our plan to sail her to the Caribbean. With no prompting from us Gerard had his crew strip the engine down completely and replace any worn parts—all at his own expense.

They did a fine job as the engine—a thumping old Deutz diesel with a maximum RPM of 800—didn’t miss a beat all the way across the Atlantic.

Edited by Davina Chapman