Sara note # 5

This is out of Order..Sara #5

AUSTRALIA UPDATE NO. 5

Greetings from Hobart!
Again, I present to you my week from Saturday to shining Saturday. This week, however, I will have to give you backwards, as it is the best way for me to guide you through my own memories.
Yesterday after breakfast, Mom rushed away to her conferences, while Dad, Nick, and I got information from the concierge about how to take the bus downtown. As it happens, there was a bus coming directly to the Casino doors at ten a.m. We all scrambled upstairs to don our long-johns and winter hats (for it is fairly cold here. Something like a Minnesota mid-November) and rushed down stairs to wait by the bus stop shelter. Having only just tossed on my Minnesota Duluth Bulldogs sweatshirt, by the time we got downstairs, I was still struggling into a polar vest my dad had loaned me. The doorman stopped us to help me into the polar, read my sweatshirt, and happily introduced us to Robbie, his fellow doorman, who just so happened to have grown up in Alexandria, Minnesota. Robbie has been living in Hobart for seven years now, having moved here with his Australian wife. We gave him news and updates from our shared state, and he shared with us several memories from home.
Our bus driver was a wiry man, with watery blue eyes that seemed to slosh when he looked at us. After some struggle over our tickets, all three of us finally ended up with bus day passes. We found our seats near the back of the bus and watched in wonder as the bus rolled from our quiet, modern harbor into a wild urban area bedecked with towering colonial constructions painted brightly in pinks, yellows, and blues. The thick stone walls and spiraling columns leaned toward the sea, which had also changed: where our Sandy Bay wharf is dotted with white, fiberglass yachts and common gulls; the ancient, scarred planks of the Hobart harbor extended far into the water, roped into creaking place by seventh generation sailing ships, rusted fishing boats, and floating restaurants.
After exploring the dock to get our bearings, the first place we visited was the maritime museum. It was seven dollars each for Adults, with a sixteen-dollar A Family rate. The woman at the door greeted was warmly and comedically. In her bouncing Australian accent she explained to us that she couldn’t figure out how to get that troublesome cash register to work, oh, it had been giving her trouble all morning, these things act up you know, she was a volunteer, apologies, apologies, it would be just a moment, were we Adults or A Family? Which was cheaper, naturally (she smiled, laughing at herself), so we were A Family then? – hammering out key after key and growing a vine of receipt paper that wrapped halfway around the machine. Finally, a co-volunteer came out to assist her, and we entered the museum as A Family.
The exhibits were sweet and local, ranging from Hobart navy operations to the first lighthouses built on that shore. Nick spent a good time in the exhibit that explored the bloody horrors of the nineteenth century whaling industry, while Dad gathered details on the innumerable types of cargo ships that had sailed into Hobart’s harbors. In my strange and morbid fascination for ship wrecks (which dates back to my fourth grade obsession with the sinking of the Titanic), I read each plaque and examined every piece of wreckage found at various wreck sights. At risk of transforming into Herman Melville (without, of course, his compelling literary skills or superb language usage), a few of the tails I found most fascinating were those of the Svenor and the Waterwitch (the name of the latter may be incorrectly remembered. If so, I apologies to the ghosts of those who may or may not have died on that ship? Especially the ones who may not have). The Waterwitch got caught along an uncharted reef during a mild storm. The captain – who was an overconfident man that had already skipped their last scheduled stop for rations and repairs in an attempt to beat a deadline – assumed that the ship would free itself when the tide rose again. As the storm worsened and the tide rose, however, the ship began to fill with water very rapidly, as the entire bottom of the boat had been left behind on the reef. In their panic, the ship’s crew and passengers (consisting mostly of 200 plus English convicts who had already been starving and dying of scurvy in the hold) bungled the evacuation, losing many of the shore-boats and even managing to set the ship on fire. In the end, only nine of the people aboard survived by floating ashore on the debris of their lost ship. The captain was not one of them. He drowned while unsuccessfully clinging to a spool of chicken wire for support. The nine survivors lived on a nearby island for almost five months, eating the canned rations that floated ashore, and digging mass graves for the bodies that floated ashore with them. Finally, they were discovered and rescued by a passing whaler.

The Svenor is interesting as a ship in it of itself. This boat struck an uncharted rock, and began sinking very slowly. The crew and passengers were all safely evacuated and moved to a different cargo ship. The captain tried to have the ship towed to shore a few days later, so that it could be torn down into lumber. Unfortunately, the ship was damaged enough that it could not be towed – it would not steer in a straight line, and was threatening the ship that it was tied to. Giving up on the lumber, the captain had the ship set on fire. This was to prevent it from floating freely over the ocean – a ghost ship menace – and endangering other ships that might not see it by night. Thus, the ship was left to burn and sink.
But it didn’t. Almost half a year later, the charred, water-bellied ship floated into one of the most difficult, rocky shores in Tazmania. It had somehow managed not only to stay afloat, but to maneuver itself through one hundred miles of treacherous reef and rock territory that was considered virtually unmanageably even for some of the most skillful navigators. The ship finally beached itself the edge of a small fishing village. Imagine the surprise for the villagers. The figurehead – a charred woman in Greek robes – was still intact, holding her torch out as if lighting the way for this abandoned ghost ship to find safe harbor.

After some time in the gift shop (I was particularly not amused by the plagues for “Why Ships are Called ‘She,’” look it up sometime) we did some more exploring around the harbor, and then stopped in at the main museum and art gallery. Here, under various dusky lights and dim colors, we learned about the history of the aboriginal peoples in Tasmania, saw taxidermied native animals in artificial versions of their natural environments, examined paintings, watched 3D videos about the Antarctic exploration missions, and dinosaur bones. We also learned a bit more about the handsome, swashbuckling Errol Flynn, whose hometown we were visiting.
From there we spent some time wandering about the mall, and had lunch at a fantastic little Indian restaurant at the food court. The owner was a jolly fellow who ran two small restaurants with his sons. He had moved from India to Germany, and from German to Australia, all to be with various members of his family. He was such a kind and enthusiastic man that he gave us all extra food, just because there were things we hadn’t tried before. There are some people in this world that – with only a smile – can restore one’s entire faith in humanity.
After a few more hours of shop wandering (Nick bought a pair of jeans at the Salvo, I found more post cards, et cetera), we snacked on some honey and toffee roasted almonds, then caught a bus back to our hotel. The evening was quiet, with each of us reading or watching films in our own right. The sun sets very early, here in Tasmania. By 3:30 the sun is low in the sky, and by 5:00 it is completely dark. The view from our hotel window looks out on the houses that scatter up the mountainside. I love to watch the mist curl over the mountains – so low to the ground that it looks like the smoke from a bushfire. As the sun sets, the houselights flicker on one at a time. At first, they are only very bright, sharp pinpricks of light against the mountainside. Then, as the sunlight fades, the pinpricks grow into whole glowing rooms, which in turn become glowing houses and glittering neighborhoods. But we are on the 15th floor of our hotel, so the general affect is like looking out over a thousand jars of fireflies that have been set against a hill. Car lights glide from house to house, as if some fireflies have broken out for a tiptoeing escape. And alongside all of it – the reflection in the harbor.
Thursday was our first full day in Hobart. Mom attended conferences, while Dad, Nick, and I explored the neighborhood. Without taking a bus down to the main part of Hobart, we are in a fairly modern residential area. Dad is a fan of LaBella Pizza, where we have now eaten three times, and the German Bakery down the street. Nick fell in love with their Almond Bretzel, while the Hazelnut Horn and Apple Streusel won the hearts of my father and me. We attempted to access internet at the McDonald’s, but my computer was suffering some major malfunctions (all fixed now, due to some updates I installed), so we just enjoyed our stroll around the neighborhood. We picked out a church to attend on Sunday (more about that later), found a grocery store, and had a good time spotting unique shops and businesses in the area. (My personal favorite was the holistic health veterinary clinic, which offered acupuncture, herbal remedies, and massage for house pets.)
Thursday evening, I snuck into Mom’s conference to listen to a convocation speech given by the great Australian author, Richard Flannagan. He had a great deal of inspiring quotes about the importance of reading and writing, emphasizing the idea that in a world as cut throat and busy as ours, books remind us that we are all capable of the same sins and accomplishments – that we are all indomitably human – and that no one can be reduced from the complex status of the individual. I wrote down several notes and quotes. Just make a request if you would like to hear more about this speech. After the speeches, I found myself rushed down into a crowd of teachers, with a pate cracker and a glass of wine. Let me say that the wine was the most bitter, wretched thing I have ever tasted, and my wine days were over after that.
Wednesday was a busy day, as we were once more in transit. Nick and I went for a final stroll to the beach to say goodbye to Wollongong. On our way back, we stopped at the grocery store and bought a box of cream puff finger cakes, which we gorged ourselves on, laughing and covered in sugar, on the park bench just outside of the store. The seagulls enjoyed us, too. There is one seagull with a broken leg that makes its survival by hanging outside of the grocery store and feeding on the pity breads that people throw to it. It has a funny little bodyguard – a second seagull that both steals its food and defends it from being robbed by other seagulls. We fed both of them, and the four of us bonded as well as any seagull-human-quad could over that box of cream puff finger cakes.
We left almost immediately after Nick and I got back, but let me tell you… we left in style. Mom had arranged our ride with a bus and limousine company out of Sydney. But we never suspected that they would actually send one of the limousines. With a tall, quite driver in a sweater vest and over-polished shoes, we loaded our bags into the trunk and settled into the sleek leather interior. On each of the mahogany armrests were crystal glasses and bottle holders for wines and champagnes. However, the ride was given a strangely Hollywood air, as the driver played dance-techno music loudly on the radio for most of the trip. I thought that we would have been better suited for the trip had we all be dressed in purple sequins, or brought along a few tall blondes to wave excitedly out of the sunroof. Our driver accidentally dropped us off at the wrong door, so our sense of glamour was quickly diminished by the need to rush wildly with our suitcases to catch a bus that smelled suspiciously of lemon Lysol. We did make our plane, though, and in no time we were unexpectedly boarding a scam hotel shuttle that would rip us off shamelessly before delivering us to the lively and somewhat gaudy Wrest Point Casino Hotel. (More about that later, too.) I say lively and somewhat gaudy, as, like every good Casino, every surface in the place was plated with gold-colored mirrors, teal bird-of-paradise carpeting, red wallpaper, and absolute mountains of fruit and flowers. The rooms were just as showy – both painted in an orange-gold that Nick and I agreed was the exact color of cold macaroni and cheese. This affect was only reinforced by the deeply textured ceiling, which actually did look exactly like cold macaroni and cheese, and would start to rearrange itself if you stared at it long enough.
I think my favorite thing about the Wrest Point Hotel, though, was the breakfast buffet. Try not to be jealous, but I can’t help myself: picture steaming platters of hash browns, poached eggs, scrambled eggs, and (for you meat eaters out there) fat slabs of sizzling ham and bacon. Mountains of fresh kiwis, watermelon, apricots, peaches, pears, dried fruits of every shape and color; bowls of fruit yoghurt, granolas, six different kinds of cereal, stacks of hot toast, butter still melting on the bread; tumbling stacks of hot blueberry muffins, pancakes, French toast, pitchers of real syrup, and a variety of juices ranging from the traditional orange and apple to the thick and pulpy tomato and pineapple juices. Hot coffee and tea were served to our places while we were selecting our food, and while we ate, we looked out through a wall of windows that overlooked the bay. We watched the sailing ships move out of moor to the sea beyond, and watched the thick rolls of fog rise from the sea to the mountains. The sun rising through the mist glinted back off of the water, shimmering below the blurred horizon.
Monday and Tuesday back in Wollongong were delightfully dull. We spent some more time at the beach, explored the exotic Wollongong Botanical Gardens (we all got locked in at the end of the day and had to crawl through a hole in the rusted fence, but ultimately had a good time), and went skydiving. Right. Did I say delightfully dull? Well, on a whim Monday afternoon, Dad sent an email to the Sydney Skydiving operation on the North Wollongong beach. We’d been watching them do beach landings all week, and I kept teasing him about taking us skydiving, too. While it is something that I’ve always wanted to do, I really didn’t expect him to take me seriously. But he did, and I helped with the booking. The company emailed us back right away to let us know that they had an opening on Tuesday – would we take it? We would.
Mom was sad that she couldn’t tag along to watch (especially because, in her motherly fears, she figured she might have been watching us fall to our deaths), but she had to present a paper at the university during the same time that we would be plummeting 14,000 feet at 120 miles per hour out of an airplane.
We arrived early and had to spend some time sitting on a picnic bench contemplating our fates and the clouds. Eventually, they dressed us in blue and yellow polar suits and strapped us into harness gear. After a quick lesson on the take-off and landing (keep your feet up on the landing! Cross your arms and keep your head back when you fall out of the plane!), we were left outside to watch another crew jump, and to chat with our coconspirators. Jumping with us were a father and son pair – Chad, who had also just turned 18, and Nonu, who had reportedly been skydiving once before, unintentionally. Apparently a friend had picked him up, “to go for a drive,” and an hour later they were both strapped in tandem harnesses dangling into the sky.
Well, we watched the others jump. The plane flew overhead, and then they appeared, one by one: white raindrops falling far above the birds. After a minute or so, the parachutes blossomed open – not the way that flowers blossom into petal, but the way that fire blossoms into flame. One quick burst of color, then the swinging, fluttering fall down to Earth.
In less than twenty minutes, our sky diving experts were back on the lot with packed chutes. Apparently these guys do five jumps a day on a rainy winter Tuesday. They’ll do up to 15 a day in the summer time, maybe even 20 on a weekend. The fellow I was attached to – Rob – had done over 10,000 jumps. I imagine that they rack up pretty quickly at the rate listed above.
The fellows we jumped with were all lively and rough – permanent bachelors with a thirst for thrill – as Dad called them, “Adrenaline Jockeys.” I was attached to a squat Irishman named Rob, who was very quiet but had a sharp sense of humor. Dad was traveling with an old expert – a muscular, shave-headed man named Kevin who was powering down Red Bull in the plane. Kev had been jumping for twenty-five years to the day, and he was the one who led our crew into the sky. Nick’s fellow was a tall, skinny lightning rod of a human being, with a thin moustache and a tuft of wiry grey hair that looked like it had been sticking straight up ever since his first jump. He had a thick Australian accent and never stopped talking, even when they jumped out of the plane. Everything was a joke or a rib or a thrill – he was a nonstop comic, and, for those of you who have seen it, he reminded me exactly of the airplane expert, Gyro, from the Mad Max movies.
We took a bus shuttle to an airport that was coincidentally, if not ironically, not far from the Nan Tien Buddhist temple. I thought about the opposites of these events: a meditation retreat day, and a skydiving jump. I wondered what our nuns would think of us now.
The plane we took was a rattling old beast, with the windows duct taped into place, and the seat padding ripped up on the slides. They said that, if the water had been calmer, we would have been able to sight whales off the coast, as our plane climbed. As Wollongong diminished below us, my stomach started to fly. Were we really going to fall all the way back down THERE? When we reached the cloud break, Rob leaned over and told me, “This is the blue room! I painted it myself. But not the floor.” I responded, “Yeah – nice cloud carpeting.” The banter continued from there, to the point that the red three mile light popped on. He joked, “The red light means three minutes to jump. The yellow light means one minute. The green light means we’ve run out of gas.”
When the green light popped on, my dad was the first one out of the plane. Kevin had him dangling his legs out for almost a full minute, a stunt that would have had me doing mental cartwheels. I don’t think I believed that we were really jumping until I saw them somersault out. Nick went next, and then it was me.
You’d expect that, having so much gibberish to say about fruit plates and shipwrecks, I’d type another six pages about skydiving. But I can’t. There is no way that I can capture that feeling of falling, but not falling. The overwhelming joy of falling through a cloud, thinking, “I’ve always wondered about this,” collecting dew on my clothing. The cold of the wind, but the strange solidity of being in the sky, almost like I had planted my feet on all that blue and was just taking an elevator down. The vertigo of spinning, of not knowing up from down. The relaxation and peace of being completely out of control.
The chute popped quickly and then we were floating. The joy of freefall moments before was replaced by the calm of floating. It was the stuff of dreams, to see everything so far below, but not to be safe in a plane seat. Not to be looking at pictures. He asked me what I thought. I said, “DaVinci would be envious.” He let me steer, turning left, turning right. I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
And then we were on the ground. Nick, Dad, and Chad had landed before me. We all hugged and high fived, trading our thoughts from the fall, laughing about our anxiety from before. We got on the bus back to the base, got out of our harnesses, and continued to replay our falls by mouth and by mind.
While we waited for our pictures to process, Nick, Dad, and I stopped by our old burger joint for some shakes and fries. I’d be lying if I said everything looked brighter or more beautiful – I am fortunate in that, to me, everything is always bright and beautiful – but I had a new feeling within myself, that strange joy of falling, falling, falling, that bizarre sense of security even before the chute opened.
By then, then day had faded. We went back to our apartments and shared our stores and DVDs with Mom. Then we had dinner and finished packing. I wish I had a better conclusion to this story, but there are some stories that simply can’t be concluded.
Last Sunday, we went to the Wesley Church on the Mall again. Having discovered that Dad was also a preacher, the very friendly Pastor Gordon asked him to read and reflect on the scripture lesson. Afterward, we tagged along on the church bus, delivering a group of very sweet elderly women back to their various Independent Living Villages. I enjoyed listening to each of them describe the changes that they had seen in Wollongong over the years. Many of them had lived in the area for fifty or sixty years, one woman even moved here from London during WWII. After we dropped them all off, the driver told us about all of the amazing street ministry projects that Gordon has helped organize through the Church on the Mall. They not only run a daily soup kitchen, but also organize several other local aid facilities, and Gordon also spearheaded a suicide help hotline that is available 24/7. It’s a great, lively church doing great, life-giving things.
Well, that’s all for this week! More on the next week very, very soon. Again, please excuse all of the typos above, I don’t have much time to edit so I’m very plainly not going to. Love to all. Happy summer!