The Kiwis Have Landed

On Wednesday last week, Dallas's parents and another couple they've know for ages arrived from New Zealand. And I don't think that I've had an entirely sober existence since.

Actually, that's not true. There might have been a few bad moments in the wee hours of Saturday morning but since then, things have stopped spinning steadied to a more even keel. Following along with the whole nautical theme, I'd like to relay a story we heard this past weekend.

Lloyd and his wife, Leslie, have been long time friends of Anne and Bruce's. They decided to make the trip for our wedding and it's been wonderful getting to know them a bit better. Besides being two of the kindest folks on the planet, the one thing that they do really well is spin a hilarious tale.

For instance, there is this beauty:

Lloyd's mum (Mama D) was a heavy smoker. Lloyd's dad (Papa D) was a lousy sailor. Under normal circumstances, neither one of these characteristics would be particularly noteworthy but one lovely summer morning, they came together in a South Pacific version of the perfect storm.

It all started when Mama D broke her arm after a nasty fall while retrieving mail from the letter box (all colloquialisms remain for maximum Kiwi authenticity). Her arm was casted. Then somehow (memory fails me), the other wrist or arm was compromised which resulted in a second cast. Picture this poor woman with both arms in right angle casts. Clearly, this affected her ability to get her nicotine fix as she could bring neither hand anywhere near her mouth.

Being a smart and empathetic man, Papa D employed the services of a local glass maker, who fashioned a halo with a curved tube that extended down over her nose and ended in a "T". When wearing the halo on her head, she was able to stick a cigarette in one end of the "T" and puff on the other end, thus eliminating the need for hands. Everyone was happy. Mum got her fag and dad got some peace.

Until they decided that some fresh sea air might be in order.

The day was beautiful; sunny and cloudless with a good, stiff breeze. Perfect sailing weather. Leslie, Lloyd and his parents climbed aboard the sloop and set out into the Hauraki Gulf. As previously mentioned, Papa D knew the basic mechanics of sailing but he was unable to put them all together with any proficiency. Depth perception was most definitely not his strong suit.

Early in the voyage, Papa D made a trip to the head for his morning ritual. The loo was one of those old fashioned numbers. There was a handle that had to be pumped up and down to create a vacuum. Once the business was done, a lever was pulled up and everything was sucked out of the system. It worked a bit like an airplane bathroom except the vacuum was done through manual means.

In any case, Papa D finished, pulled the lever and failed to notice that there were a few treats left behind. Mama D, on the other hand, was feeling a bit crook in the belly as she was sometimes prone to be and decided to go below deck to lay down until her seasickness passed. On her way to the forward berth, she stopped at the toilet. After maneuvering her halo encapsulated torso through the door, she sat down and lit a cigarette.

Things were quickly unraveling above deck. Papa D was having a hard time navigating. Lloyd was urgently telling him that he should bear to port as his dad appeared to be sailing directly into the path of the only other boat in the vastness of the gulf.

"Dad! You are going to run into that boat!" Lloyd exclaimed.

"Never you mind," said Papa D dismissively.

Lloyd and Leslie watched in horror as the gap between the two crafts narrowed to an uncomfortable margin. As foretold, Papa D crashed their boat into the only other vessel within twenty miles. Their sloop heaved and then listed badly to port. The anchor from the other boat was somehow lodged onto the bow of Papa D's and thus, they found themselves dragged along, unable to right the mast.

And then they heard it. A strident, high pitched keening from below deck.

"MUM!" Lloyd called.

"Mama D!" Papa D lamented.

They all three scrambled down the hatch to find Mama D, pants around her ankles lying on the floor below. Apparently during the crash, she had been pitched off the loo, along with its contents.

She was covered in a thin film of shit.

But her halo and cigarette survived and she was puffing furiously, blowing smoke out of her mouth between four lettered epitaphs.

I believe that Papa D gave up sailing that day for a less demanding pastime, like lion taming.