We were traveling on the Interisland Ferry over to Wellington the other day. It was pitch black and I got bored. Hence the blog entry.
The Privateer
The Black water churned as the ferry steamed along through the dark overcast night, brightly illuminated in contrast to the nearly starless sky. A lonely moth, lost in the middle of a vast ocean, and being drawn to the light, finds refuge on the deck, under the salty mist whilst the bright spotlight shone down around. The spots, shining brilliantly like a light saber piercing the inky blackness, searching for obstacles - ghostly white icebergs, wayward fishing vessels, submerged reefs, or other objects that would be detrimental to the whole ship's safety record. 21 years without so much as a stubbed toe, the Arahura was the pride of the "Interisland" line.
"Rise to periscope level" said the captain calmly, commanding a respect that wasn't developed by shouting. It was a good time to be a privateer, - a modern day Sir Francis Drake. Good crew were easily acquired with enough moolah to silence the conscience - his financier had plenty of that. Obtaining "equipment" was a little harder, but then, that's what bribery was invented for......
Slowly, the great steel husk named "AH12" in it's previous incarnation, began to surface. Stopping a few meters short of breaking the surface, the now renamed "pomegranate" - a nuclear "capable" submarine, surplus from the cold war spotted her target...
We went to a Basketball game the other day (Go the Breakers..), and were waiting a while out in the cold. I was in the process of writing this one, but got too busy. In case you were wondering, New Zealand is not a communist country (yet)
The Game
The icy wind blasted across the stark grey square, buffeting the small gathering that was beginning to congregate. Cold air from the subantarctic swirled in gusts, one second wafting through the razor wire atop the pale smooth concrete walls surrounding the square, then suddenly blowing yesterday's newspaper in a mini vortex around the car park.
"Be there at 1900 hours sharp" was the instructions, be at the western packet arena. "something must have happened" muttered Nathivich, his eyes scanning the area most likely to be the approach of the organizational party who were coming in from the eastern part of the city. "they've still got 5 minutes" mentioned Johnofski, glancing at his digital watch, "They'll be here soon....."
Across the sprawl somewhere in Bloc F - a suburb that once housed the "oppressive class", but now housed mainly CDHB, ECAN, or CCC employees, Andropov stumbled back to his car, fumbling with the keys in the frigid air. A wheelie bin salesman since he returned from doing his service for Mother Aotearoa in the Navy (the Airforce would have been his first choice, but it never really recovered from the sale of all its fighter planes way back at the turn of the century).
The Game
The icy wind blasted across the stark grey square, buffeting the small gathering that was beginning to congregate. Cold air from the subantarctic swirled in gusts, one second wafting through the razor wire atop the pale smooth concrete walls surrounding the square, then suddenly blowing yesterday's newspaper in a mini vortex around the car park.
"Be there at 1900 hours sharp" was the instructions, be at the western packet arena. "something must have happened" muttered Nathivich, his eyes scanning the area most likely to be the approach of the organizational party who were coming in from the eastern part of the city. "they've still got 5 minutes" mentioned Johnofski, glancing at his digital watch, "They'll be here soon....."
Across the sprawl somewhere in Bloc F - a suburb that once housed the "oppressive class", but now housed mainly CDHB, ECAN, or CCC employees, Andropov stumbled back to his car, fumbling with the keys in the frigid air. A wheelie bin salesman since he returned from doing his service for Mother Aotearoa in the Navy (the Airforce would have been his first choice, but it never really recovered from the sale of all its fighter planes way back at the turn of the century).
On the last night of camping, it started to rain. Wet tents had to be packed the next day. We had fun......
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
The Monsoon
Precipitation. That's what they called it. Molecules of H2O bound together by a common cohesiveness to form rogue droplets around an airborne particle of earth/dust/pollen/exhaust/ash, surrounding it like the protective detail around a VIP in a hostile mob, or maybe more like the thin crust of an aircraft, piloted as a kamikaze bomb, hurtling toward the earth at a frightening pace. Whichever similitude you think is more appropriate, the "rain came down"
At first the droplets land on the dry dusty ground, making miniature craters in the dust, quenching the thirst of the drought stricken land. The hot wind blows the damp air making everyone sticky and uncomfortable, as if they had been suddenly teleported to some unnamed equatorial location prior to the arrival of the monsoon rains that come to drench the landscape of terraced rice paddies, filling the drainage trenches with water. Deja Vu?
Mud, the most likely result from the conglomeration of dust and water was inevitable. The dusty paths that had been trod were transformed into a murky, muddy, grimy, wet, brown muck making movement outside in the rain difficult at best. Unfortunately, it was necessary to traverse the bog between the cluster of shelters.
Muddy feet were epidemic
I wrote this one while I was camping on the shores of lake Hawea.
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
The Photographer
The wind was blowing the tent, billowing the fly like a sail ship - strangely rare in these parts...
As he lies there, John tries to ignore it - why is it so hot? Why is there a fishing rod in the middle of the tent? Hallucinations of that sort plague his subconscious as he drifts between a fitfull wakefulness and a dreary unconsciousness. Frustrated, he tries a different position, in a futile effort to sleep.
The blue tent glowed behind his head - an ethereal halo of light diffusing through the fabric of the shelter that was barely protecting him from the elements. "Heck..... That's the Moon" the insomniacal Camper breathed, making sure that his fellow camper, there on the stretcher beside him wasn't about to be extradited from the land of Nod.
Although sometimes seemingly spontaneous, impulsiveness was not a trait that was generally attributed to John, but occasionally it would pop up. This was one of those moments. He pulled on a pair of shorts and carefully unzipped the tent sliding out onto the dusty ground. He felt the warm wind on his skin and turned to see the moon reflected brilliantly like a clone of itself on the water, chopped up haphazardly by the appropriately named "choppy waves".
The landscape was lit by a ghostly blue light, the black and green shrubs by day, were now black and blue-grey. "I must remember to find out the name of those bizarre plants" he thought as he turned from looking at the shrubbery to see the silhouette of the hills on the other side of the lake. The hills were black, like the inside of the camera that he retrieved to permanently capture this melancholic spectacle of the crusty lunar surface, reflecting the radiance of she sun onto a lake somewhere in middle earth. "I wish this had more features...." He murmured, steadying the camera to get a sharp pic. "CLICK".
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