tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-355847762024-03-05T12:00:13.278-08:00Tell Him He's Dreamin'Just because I'm looking out of the window doesn't mean I'm not working!Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-22139705259326063242011-09-23T14:05:00.000-07:002011-09-23T14:05:48.785-07:00Writing in rhyme for kidsIf you want to write children's stories in rhyme I've published a post on Hubpages which gives you a few ideas - <a href="http://johnnyparker.hubpages.com/hub/Writing-in-rhyme-for-childrens-picture-books">http://johnnyparker.hubpages.com/hub/Writing-in-rhyme-for-childrens-picture-books</a><br />
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The story for The Lazy Seagull was written in rhyme because I think it adds extra interest to the story and helps the narrative to flow. Kids like words that have a sing song quality. Plus I like rhyme and I get a buzz out of making it work. It's not as difficult as you might think and there are online dictionaries which will find a rhyme for you. Job done!Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-18677340620258287052010-12-31T02:03:00.000-08:002010-12-31T02:05:11.944-08:00Sydney to Hobart Day 1<a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/Sydney-to-Hobart-Yacht-Race-for-Dummies">Sydney to Hobart - Ocean Racing for Dummies - Day 1</a>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-864126722985449912010-12-17T08:07:00.000-08:002010-12-17T08:08:49.875-08:00How to find time for a second job?How to find time for a second job?<br /><br />Wouldn’t it be great to have a ‘Back to the Future’ time machine to make time stand still so you could catch up.. You work thirty seven hours a week or more, you are exhausted in the evenings, the family need you at the weekend, your folks complain you never visit, the leaky tap needs fixing, the cat has to go to the vet. No way you say. I’ve barely time for one job, never mind two.<br /><br />Read it all at - <a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/How-to-find-time-for-a-second-job">http://hubpages.com/hub/How-to-find-time-for-a-second-job</a>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-51303717467481717682010-12-17T08:05:00.001-08:002010-12-17T08:05:55.322-08:00Where is liberation for the wage slave?Where is liberation for the wage slave? 'Work for yourself' people say, 'you'll never get rich working for someone else', is the cry. Hey, not so easy chum. Isn't starting a business a risky business.<br /><br /><a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/From-Eden-to-Ebay">http://hubpages.com/hub/From-Eden-to-Ebay</a>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-78661941298825659912010-12-17T08:03:00.000-08:002010-12-17T08:04:13.109-08:00So how do you deal with a job you hate? Where is the hope?So how do you deal with a job you hate? Where is the hope?<br /><br /><a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/Back-to-the-Future-to-Escape-the-Bad-Job-Blues">http://hubpages.com/hub/Back-to-the-Future-to-Escape-the-Bad-Job-Blues</a>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com58tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-33220669715933752452010-12-17T08:00:00.001-08:002010-12-17T08:01:40.117-08:00Train ToiletteHubnugget winning blog - <a href="http://hubpages.com/hub/Train-Toilette">http://hubpages.com/hub/Train-Toilette</a><br /><br />Covers the strange practice of people moving their bathroom practices onto the train.Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-90666103993124266952009-06-23T00:47:00.000-07:002009-06-23T00:50:40.600-07:00Trumping<p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-family:Helvetica, sans-serif;">Its so hard sometimes just sitting down to write. I feel a bit dim today. But it will pass. What do I want to do???</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-family:Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am sitting on a sheltered old tramp rack (bench) by the river. Its just coming up to 7am. There is a high tide, because of the New Moon perhaps. Its very still and quiet. A blackbird is serenading me from the gutter of the shuttered office building behind me. There is a musty sort of smell in the air and the air is very still. Not a breath. The smell is a bit like sweaty feet. It seems to be coming from the cowslip type plant which is all around be and on the river bank too. I've got a great view of the Humber Bridge and my alarm has just gone off in my pocket, shattering the peace and scaring the shit out of me. I'm supposed to get up now. Little does the alarm know I've been up since 4:30. Its summer time for the body clock!</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-family:Helvetica, sans-serif;">I wanted to write some of my Australia book. But its hard just to launch into it. You have to have things running around in your head first. Little snatches of story. Grains of creative sand upon which to build a pearl of literature...lol. My grains of sand are more lumps of clay, dull and resistant to moulding.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-family:Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having said that, I'm picking up direction and focus once more. Now that I've come out of my 'permanent job' delusion and got back to being the real me, I can feel a plan coming on. Yesterday I told Gill in work that from now on I'd be working 3 weeks and taking 1 week off. Not much she can say other than 'Well I suppose we can't stop you'. Whenever I drop something on her like that I can see the grey matter running over all the permutations, like working out what card to play next in life's game of Bridge. This time I feel like I'm holding a few good trumps. Makes a change from having a few good trumps. Perhaps its not the cowslips after all.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-family:Helvetica, sans-serif;">Have also returned to eyeing up old vans. Part of me quite fancies a caravan. The gypsy part perhaps? If I can't make it as a writer I can always sell a few pegs or tarmac the odd drive. The marketing girls get the local paper every day so will start perusing the 'Vans for Sale' bit and see what's out there in van land. Van Land... didn't he play for Ajax?</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span style="font-family:Helvetica, sans-serif;">Time for a bacon butty. My arse is going numb. How do the tramps put up with it???</span></p>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-75585297699748681632008-10-06T10:27:00.000-07:002008-10-06T11:02:17.134-07:00Beauty and the Butcher<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Fz0dxARMzUE&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Fz0dxARMzUE&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Beauty and the Butcher<br /><br />Written and Directed by Johnny Parker<br /><br />Beautiful Beautician loves Hunky Butcher… but can she overcome her shyness, her loathing of meat, competition from the cocky Estate Agent and a mountain of cruel obstacles to get to the man she adores?<br /><br /><br />The piece began life as a short story. A patchwork of real-life anecdotes and experiences, stitched together into a tale of modern love. Julie is a Beautician: gorgeous on the outside, meticulous and fussy about her appearance but shy, nervous and lacking inner confidence. She desperately fancies the High Street Butcher but can’t pluck-up the courage to ask him out. The local Estate Agent has no such trouble and confidently stalks the object of Julie’s desires. It doesn’t help that she hates the sight of meat and can’t bring herself to go into the shop. But she has a plan – an idea that will overcome all her self imposed obstacles – or so she thinks!<br /><br />Beauty and the Butcher is Johnny Parker’s debut as a writer and director. He was ably supported by Belinda Greensmith on Camera and Make-Up. Belinda has worked on productions with $1million budgets and was able to put her considerable experience, and supply of fake blood, to full use in the film.<br /><br />Amy Watkins, as Julie, is also making her debut in short films, having started her career in Theatre and Dance including a range of Shakespeare Productions with the MOPS Theatre Company. Amy took to the part straight away with an instinctive awareness of the comic and tragic feelings of the character. <br /><br />Sam Hudson, as the Butcher, is a very experienced actor, who has starred in Brookside, Born and Bred, and Holby City. His wife Natasha Symms was the Pregnant Woman. The ‘lump’ is now a bouncing baby boy! Natasha is not only a new mum but also an accomplished actress having starred in Hollyoaks, Crossroads and Casualty.<br /><br />Hayley Taylor-Jones, as the Estate Agent, like all the above, lives on the Wirral and has been in award winning drama, ‘A Mind of Her Own’ and is another up and coming local actress.<br /><br />Rowe David McLelland, as The Doctor, has been in ‘Corrie’ and Emmerdale and kept us in stitches the whole time.<br /><br />Music courtesy of The Great Northwestern Hoboes, a fabulous up and coming Liverpool Band. Check out more of their music <a href="http://www.greatnorthwesternhoboes.com/">here</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br />Thanks also to the wonderful shopkeepers of Bebington; Roy and Les Whieldon, who patiently allowed us to take over their Butcher’s Shop for the morning, while still serving customers. Also Dot Jones of Pinks Cards and Gifts who allowed us to film in the shop and Cathy Behan who allowed us to use her doorway.Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-81950715189094766582008-03-18T05:09:00.000-07:002008-03-26T03:47:39.244-07:00Highway Illitterati<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b style=""><span style="" lang="EN-US">Published in Liverpool Daily Post Letters - Fri 21st March 2008<br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><b style=""><span style="" lang="EN-US"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;" align="center"><b style=""><span style="" lang="EN-US">Highway Illitterati<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">March is the last month of winter, ‘Natures’ waiting room’, CS Lewis called it. But while the countryside in general clings to hibernation, the nation’s verges are blooming with perennial colour. The skimpy undergrowth and skeletal trees provide a perfect canvas for that most disgraceful display of modern art… roadside litter.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">After the high winds of recent weeks, the plastic bag trees are heavy with their discarded fruit. The roadside margins and central reservations reveal blooming herbaceous borders of multi-coloured crisp bags, ever-yellow burger boxes and brown rimmed designer coffee cartons. The cornucopia of detritus is a lingering colourful collage, carelessly tossed by passing tossers. A veritable chavarrhoea of slowly bleaching waste.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Councils do their best to preserve the cleanliness of the urban space and individuals will often avoid polluting their own back-yards, but the open road is a landfill free-for-all. Aliens alighting on the A50 between Stoke and <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Derby</st1:city></st1:place> would have no difficulty in discovering the life artifacts of our modern ‘civilization’. Even the backwaters are not immune; a short stroll along a quiet Welsh highway reveals not Sparrows nesting in the hedgerows but nappies, fag packets and quietly fermenting, urine filled, plastic milk bottles.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-US">Nature however, will soon spring into life and wrap this indigestible human compost with long grass, nettles and bramble, leaving consciences quiet in the winter of our litter-bugging discontent.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-55353278888151769502008-01-24T08:41:00.000-08:002008-01-24T08:44:44.721-08:00Bad Handbag Day - Short Film Script<div align="center">Bad Handbag Day<br /><br />By<br /><br />John Parker<br /><br />1. Int. Kitchen. Day.<br /><br />Julie and Mother drinking tea.<br /><br />Julie<br />Have you got a stamp Mum? I’ve got a Valentines card for that hunky Butcher!<br /><br />Mother<br />Here you are love. I’ve only got second class.<br /><br />Julie<br />That’s okay. I’ll write it out later and stick it in the post. I’m a bit too embarrassed to just give it to him.<br />Drops stamp in handbag. Mother glances at red circled day on calendar.<br /><br />Mother<br />Have you got an appointment today?<br /><br />Julie<br />Smear test. Letter’s here somewhere.<br /><br />Rummages in pile of letters and bills behind the bread bin. Mother squirms uncomfortably and pulls a face.</div><div align="center"><br />Mother<br />I always hated that done to you. You feel like nothing more than a piece of meat.<br /><br />Julie<br />It can’t be that bad… can it? This is my first time and I am a little bit worried.<br /><br />Mother<br />Of course its bad. Having to flash your…’bits’ at a stranger… having cold metal thrust into you… well I can’t stand the indignity of it all. But I suppose its better than going under the knife for you know what and having you hair fall out and all that.<br /><br />Julie finds letter and looks horrified.<br />Julie<br />Oh my God, the appointment is in an hour. Sorry Mum but I’ll have to jump in the shower.<br /><br />Mother<br />That’s all right love, you’d better get yourself sorted: and don’t worry it’ll be alright. I’ll see myself out… Oh are your Dad and I still coming for tea tonight.<br /><br />Julie<br />Oh yeh.. its sausage and mash…excuse for me to see the butcher!!</div><div align="center"><br />CUT TO:</div><div align="center"><br />2. Ext. Front door. Day<br /><br />Julie rushes out of house and slams door. Cut to shot of her running down the road/drive with skirt tucked in knickers.<br /><br />3. Ext. On high Street outside Butchers. Day<br /><br />Julie is bustling down the street but stops just short of the Butchers. She can see the hunky Butcher inside and she roots in her bag for her mirror. As she looks in mirror to check hair and lippy, the second class stamp is stuck to the middle of the mirror. She brushes it off back into the bag, puts the mirror back and walks seductively into the shop.<br /><br />4. Int. Butchers shop. Day.<br /><br />Julie approaches counter. Hunky Butcher walks into shop with meat carcass and throws it onto the block. He reaches to a line of knives and cleavers and picks up a large cleaver, raises it above his head for a mighty blow then notices Julie. Smiles, puts the cleaver down, approaches counter and asks provocatively…<br /><br />Butcher<br />What can I do for you?<br /><br />Julie<br />Pound of sausages please.<br /><br />Butcher weighs and wraps sausages while eyeing Julie’s legs and spotting skirt still in knickers. Takes money and asks…<br />Butcher<br />In a rush today are we?<br /><br />Julie<br />I am actually – running a bit late for my… er my er… appointment. How did you know I was in a rush?<br /><br />Butcher looks down at Julie’s legs and leers at bare arse. Julie lets out embarrassed exclamation, pulls skirt down and runs out of shop. Butcher still holding sausages.<br /><br />Butcher<br />Oi… you forgot your sausages.<br />CUT TO:<br /><br />5. Ext. Clinic doorway. Day.<br /><br />Julie rushes through doorway. Clinic sign on wall.<br />CUT TO:<br /><br />6. Int. Clinic. Day.<br /><br />View of door with Ladies Toilet sign. Julie goes into toilet. Cut to head and shoulders of her sitting – sound effects! Cut to view of empty toilet roll.<br />(CONTINUED)<br />6. CONTINUED:<br />Julie<br />Just my luck!<br /><br />Roots in handbag. Cut to internal shot of handbag full of stuff. Pulls out all manner of objects, eventually finds crumpled Christmas napkin and makes use of it! Sound of Julie’s name being called outside. Flushes toilet and runs out stuffing things back in handbag, dropping a few things and stooping to pick them up. Checks knickers not tucked in again.<br /><br />7.Int. Consulting Room. Day.<br /><br />Julie barges through the door, sees Doctor in white coat and has flashback to Butcher in white coat covered in blood.<br />Doctor<br />If you would like to undress behind the curtain and put on the gown. Call me when you are ready.<br /><br />Julie pulls back curtain to reveal table. Flashback to meat being thrown onto Butcher’s block. She shivers. She undresses, gets on table wearing gown. Looks across to see line of instruments on table. Flashback to line of knives and cleavers in Butcher’s. Calls ok to doctor in half choked way.<br /><br />Doctor<br />If you would like to open wide this won’t take long.<br /><br />Doctor sits between legs – only see her feet – and lets out an exclamation. Reaches out to table and picks up forceps then bends down between legs.<br /><br />Doctor<br />What have we got here then?<br /><br />Places something in kidney bowl with forceps. Then picks up metal speculum. Julie has flashback of Butcher whacking carcass between legs with cleaver and appears to swoon.<br /><br />Doctor<br />All done now. Wasn’t as bad as you thought eh? You can get dressed.<br /><br />Julie dresses in a daze and is just about to leave when she turns to see what the doctor put in the kidney bowl. To her horror it is the second class stamp. Appears to fill-up and rushes out of door.<br /><br />9. Ext. High Street. Day<br /><br />Julie is just about to walk hurriedly past the Butcher’s when hunky Butcher sees her coming and dashes out of shop and stops her in her tracks.<br /><br />Butcher<br />How was the appointment then.<br /><br />Julie<br />I don’t want to talk about it. (Huffily)<br /><br />Butcher pulls packet of sausages from behind his back and hands them to her.<br />(CONTINUED)<br />9. CONTINUED:<br /><br />Butcher<br />Perhaps a nice sausage would cheer you up. (Winks)<br /><br />Julie<br />Don’t be so cheeky.<br /><br />Grabs sausages and storms off.<br /><br />10. Int. Kitchen. Night<br /><br />Julie crying and peeling spuds then moodily slams pan of spuds onto cooker. Pulls out grill pan with a clatter and get sausages from fridge. Unwraps package to find hunky Butcher’s phone number written on inside of wrapping. Julie smiles, blows nose on tea towel, then picks up phone.<br /><br />Julie<br />Perhaps I won’t need that stamp after all.<br /><br /><br /> </div>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-58883990137949553952007-11-01T06:21:00.000-07:002007-11-01T07:56:50.210-07:00First PublicationWoo hoo.... I'm a writer!!!<br /><br />First article published today in Australia and New Zealand Magazine - Issue 20 December 2007. Published by <a href="http://www.merricksmedia.co.uk/">Merricks Media</a><br /><br />I've finally lost my writing virginity.<br /><br />The piece is about being in the 2006 Sydney Hobart race. Here it is -<br /><br /><br />“Streuth, you know six people died in that race only the other year mate,” said Brian nearly dropping his ice cold stubby.<br /><br />“Well I haven’t come half way round the world just to get a winter sun tan and a souvenir kangaroo testicle money bag,” I replied, slightly peeved at having the wind taken out of my ambitiously optimistic sails.<br /><br />“Why can’t you just go for a ride on the Manley Ferry, like everyone else?” chipped in Janet.<br /><br />I had expected a little more adventurism from my third generation Aussie cousins on breaking the news that I’d at last been able to fulfil a lifetime ambition, by sailing in the 2006 Rolex Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race. One of the top ocean racing events in the world; six hundred and thirty miles of sheer endurance; crossing the wild and tempestuous Bass Strait where the mighty Southern Ocean surges through the shallow gap between mainland Australia and Tasmania, thumping into the deep Pacific currents, churning up steep and violent seas. Their reaction wasn’t altogether unusual. A lot of people think that once on the downhill side of fifty, a weekend visit to the garden centre is a more appropriate challenge than selling your flat, travelling the world and taking on life-threatening adventures usually left to the young, the rich and the foolhardy.<br /><br />“I’ll have two weeks training in Sydney Harbour, including a sea survival course and night sailing. On top of that, the skipper, navigator and owner have more than fifteen Hobart’s between them,” I explained enthusiastically.<br /><br />Finding a berth had been difficult. The maxi yachts have professional crews and the local amateurs pick their teams well in advance. Searching the net only six weeks before the race, I found a British company who make ocean racing available to those who can pay their own way, irrespective of experience. They had one place left. Should I gamble the equivalent of a couple of months salary on a dangerous and potentially life changing challenge? I snapped it up!<br /><br />Sailing boot camp presented a learning curve of Everest proportions, and plunged me headlong into the uncharted depths of my discomfort zone. Yachting seems romantically tranquil when viewed from a cliff top. But zoom into the deck and there is more activity than an ants nest kicked by a twelve year old. The skipper fires orders like a machine gun. Everyone has to know their job and do it safely; ropes and winches can bite off fingers in the blink of an eye. Its all a carefully choreographed marine ballet and I seemed to be playing Bambi on ice. But we worked as a team and learned our drills. After ten days I have forearms like Popeye and can haul down a spinnaker the size of a small cloud and stuff it in a duffel bag while riding a rodeo bull.<br /><br />Boxing Day dawned in true Aussie fashion warm and sunny with a breeze to make the pennants flap and the halyards slap. The C.Y.C.A. was a hive of activity, buzzing with excited crews, family, friends and the ubiquitous media. In the marina, long ranks of shining masts gleamed like the spears of an army waiting for battle. My daughter was there to wave me off before boarding a friend’s yacht to watch the start. Every man and his dog in Sydney has a boat, from canoes to cruisers they packed each nautical square inch of the harbour. Landlubbers thronged the headlands and promontories which form a natural amphitheatre. Helicopters buzzed overhead supplying TV to the masses. We circled and tacked, jostling for position like pensioners at a jumble sale. With seconds to go all the yachts lined up like iron filings to a magnet. The starting gun fired and we were off. Seventy-two boats hammering towards the Heads and the open ocean. There can be no finer spectacle in sailing and I could feel my hair standing up with the thrill of it.<br /><br /><br />Once settled on course we started our watch routine; half the crew on deck and the rest below, for periods of four hours in the day and three hours at night. Being on-watch was physically and mentally gruelling. A 38 foot racing yacht in the open ocean, with a four metre swell, has all the stability of a tightrope walker on acid. You sit on the high side of the boat, exposed to wind that wants to tear your clothes off and waves determined to soak your thermals; your body jack knifed and wedged between the stainless steel wires of the safety rail; you hang on tight, burning energy like a lumberjack while the lightweight boat runs up and over truck sized waves with the alacrity of a teenage skateboarder. Your eyes wear the hands off your wrist watch checking for the moment of release to the cosy sanctuary of your bunk.<br /><br />However, the start and finish of a watch brought another trauma – dressing and undressing. To keep the cabin as dry as possible, wet gear was hung up in the forward compartment. I would be the bean in this fibreglass maraca, staggering like a drunken toddler, peeling onion like layers of salt encrusted clothing. Nature somehow sensed when I had two hands on a recalcitrant sea boot and chose that moment to nudge my dripping cloakroom off the top of a watery double-decker bus; leaving me temporarily weightless, suspended in mid air until the solid concrete bottom of the trough brought the deck above me into intimate and painful contact with my already battered noggin.<br /><br />Below deck, the smallest everyday thing became a mammoth chore. Dressing took ten minutes instead of two. Answering the call of nature was almost unthinkable on a loo with no hand rails that was perpetually coming up to meet you. Bets were taken on who could hold on to it all the way to Hobart: no corks allowed. The boys had the luxury of a communal bottle! You just had to remember which way the wind was blowing when tipping it over the side, or lose friends very quickly. Eventually you could slip into a cosy sleeping bag and be rocked to dreamland in the cradle of the waves. Until a cold, cruel, salty hand shook you from your reverie; “On watch in 15 minutes mate,” groan.<br /><br />Our first night out was the worst. You can never relax on a small boat, and when the wind suddenly rose from a jaunty 15 knots to a 35 knot screaming gale, it maliciously ripped our biggest headsail as a rebuke for not paying attention. But others were much worse off. Maximus and ABN Amro, two of the favourites, were dismasted and had crew injured. Koomooloo fell off one too many big waves, split her hull and sank. Luckily the sturdy, steel hulled Adventurer, manned by the British Army, were close enough to pick up the crew safely. A vivid reminder of how, in naval dramas, unexpected danger is always lurking in the wings.<br /><br />Next day the winds moderated; tedium replaced excitement: time to contemplate and reflect as the hypnotic inky depths swept inches beneath salt stained boots. As the hours ticked slowly by, nature would unexpectedly pop a champagne moment; a graceful solitary albatross skimming waves; shooting stars like tracer bullets and best of all the ghost dolphins - phosphorescent torpedos trailing sparkles through the moonlit sea.<br /><br />On days three and four we tracked steadily along the rugged Tasmanian coast. Rounding the towering organ pipe cliffs of Tasman Island we powered into Storm Bay with the wind behind us, the spinnaker up and just 44 miles to Hobart, nestling in the distance. Enthusiastic crowds lined the wharfs of Hobart as the loud P.A. system announced our arrival to cheers and applause. A reception accorded all the competitors whatever time of day they finish. Tying up to Constitution Dock was a tearful moment. Everyone hugged and shook hands. Strong bonds are formed when you rely on one another. I’d never been in a situation before when my life and safety depended so much on other people for such a long time. This kind of sailing is a far cry from sipping G & T’s in the sunshine; more a cocktail of double hard graft with a small measure of sleep mixed with a slice of danger and a dash of excitement to leave you shaken but stirred.<br /><br />A week later, in a snug suburban kitchen, cousin Brian handed me an arctic stubby. “Proud of yer mate. Always knew you could do it.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Breakout<br /><br />The 2006 handicap winner was ‘Love and War’ with ‘Wild Oats X1’ first across the line in just under two and a half days. We came 45th out of 78 starters taking four days and fifteen minutes. 69 finished.<br /><br />‘Ranii’ was the first winner in 1945 with only ten competitors. 62 years later, improvements in yacht design means that ‘Ranii’ would tie up in Hobart a full four days after today’s leaders.<br /><br />1998 was the worst race, when a southerly cyclone in the Bass Strait produced 90 mph winds and 80 foot waves. Out of 115 starters only 44 finished, 55 people were winched to safety, 5 yachts sank and sadly 6 yachtsmen died.<br /><br />Unless you are a local, companies such as Global Yacht Racing are the best way to find a crew place. See www.globalyachtracing.com for details. Includes training, sea survival qualification and major bragging rights in the bar.<br /><br />The Cruising Yacht Club of Australia (C.Y.C.A) in Rushcutters Bay are the race organisers and their web site is www.cyca.com.au<br />The official race website is http://rolexsydneyhobart.com<br /><br />Family and friends can track each boat on the race website and also on Google Earth. They will know where you are before you do!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Biog<br /><br />John Parker lives in Birkenhead, Merseyside. Last year he gave up his job in IT and sold his flat to take a mid-life career break and travel to Asia, Australia, New Zealand and Canada. Along the way he started blogging and is currently writing a book about his experiences.<br /><br />Being in the Hobart race not only provided enough memories to bore dozens of future grandchildren, but also helped to push himself beyond imagined mental and physical limits; learning that an ordinary person can be extraordinary and inspiring him to start afresh on the bottom rung of a new career in writing.Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-32561924991815377492007-03-15T12:34:00.001-07:002007-03-15T12:35:09.999-07:00Blog 35 - Movie Clips<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/MovieClips"><img src="http://lh6.google.com/image/johnp17/RflRq7-KSmE/AAAAAAAAAhk/ExJJcMgmpVo/s160-c/MovieClips.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/MovieClips" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Movie Clips</a></td></tr></table>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-70207598548128587512007-03-15T05:35:00.000-07:002007-03-15T05:42:26.534-07:00Blog 34 - Canada and the end of the RoadCanada Rules<br /><br /><br />New Zealand was a blast. It was the first place I’d come across that I felt as if I could live in. Oz is pretty cool and they have a great ‘beach and barby’ lifestyle. But I suppose NZ is the closest place to home in terms of climate, seasons and attitude. Being in the southern hemisphere from October through to January was sooo strange. Your body gets used to the seasons over the years. Winter means dark, grey, cold, rain. A time to get cosy. In a sort of pseudo hibernation. Going from autumn back to summer seemed all wrong. Which was really nothing compared to going from mid summer to mid winter in the space of twelve hours and losing a day in the process. You start the day in sandals and t-shirt (nothing else) and wind up in boots and bobble hat (nothing else… well gloves, perhaps). <br /><br />The time thing is a real mind bender. It was all fairly plain sailing to begin with. England to Thailand, gained five hours. Thailand to Perth gained another two hours. Perth to Sydney gained four hours again. Sydney to NZ, plus two hours. So now I’m thirteen hours ahead of England. Then flying across the Pacific Ocean to L.A. and on to Vancouver, in real time you gain another three hours but lose a day! To complicate matters, I’m now eight hours behind UK time. I’ve got math’s O’Level but I had had to get a piece of paper and a pencil to work it all out. <br /><br />LA was just a couple of hours waiting to get a connecting flight. It was enough to get a flavour of the place. After a while you get used to killing time in airports. That’s one thing I’ve learned to cope with on this trip. I have the naïve idea that any form of public transport should be like getting on a bus.. you just walk on and pay the conductor, stick your bag in a rack and you are sorted. Air travel is so diametrically opposite to this utopia. The way airport security is headed, you will soon have to strip down to just the boots and bobble hat, except the boots would have to come off. Where does the line get drawn? There are only so many places to hide contraband. Will all guys have to be circumcised? Ooh, can’t go there, my eyes are watering at the thought.<br /><br />How brilliant it would be to stand by the runway and hold your hand out to make the plane stop. “Does this plane stop at the beach?”. “No you need the No. 89”. “Oh, sorry”. Can you imagine. Instead of all the business types at the front there would be massed ranks of grannies with shopping bags on wheels. Until that day arrives, then killing time in airports will still be a compulsory aspect of travelling. Most terminals have huge windows where closet train spotters (me) can watch the planes taking off. I think that’s what all these people with laptops are doing. They would like to give the impression that their sorry workaholic asses are busy catching up on vital reports and emails. But the truth is they are secretly jotting down plane numbers and then bragging to their fellow saddo’s over MSN. If the planes get boring then there are the baggage handlers to watch. In L.A. they all appeared to be either gansta rappers or latino gang kids. “You seem to have mislaid my bag, but that’s ok, no worries, it was only cheap, I can get another. I’m sure you’re not pleased to see me and that really is a pistol in your pocket.”<br /><br />Book shops/Newsagents are another good time filler. Its amazing how many magazines you can get through in a couple of hours and it doesn’t matter which part of the world, there is always a car mag with Jeremy Clarkson on the cover. There is no getting away from him. LAX was also the first public space I’ve been in where they had a wall mounted heart defibrillator. I noticed this as I was munching a cheese Danish. <br /><br />Then, if you’re a lower paid train spotter and can’t afford the laptop; most terminals have some internet stations. These are a sort of bullet proof computer made to survive a nuclear holocaust. The versions in LA had been the victims of people who hit the keyboard with the momentum of twenty five stone of lard. No coincidence that the defibrillator was on the next wall. Its amazing how you can get used to keys where the letters have been rubbed off by thousands of itinerant typists. These pay as you go internet kiosks gobble money like crazy. You can get about half the BBC home page loaded before your dollar runs out. Its like an information bridle path.<br /><br />People watching is a good old standby and never fails. As usual, fellow passenger paranoia sets in when you are in the check-in queue. Getting sandwiched between Mr. Bean and the Al-Quaida works outing doesn’t bode well for a ten hour high altitude incarceration. But still better than the Jehovas Witness disguised as a beauty queen.<br /><br />Arriving in Canada signalled the last part of the trip. The initial plan to stop-off in Fiji and Hawaii and end up in the Caribbean as the final stop, had to be dropped. Doing the Sydney-Hobart just cost too much money. Which wasn’t a problem. Everything just came together at the right time for me to do the race and I have no regrets. If you are going to attempt something that big then you can’t be worrying about the money. There is no way you can relate the experience to any sort of balance sheet. I cut short my time in New Zealand. Still have the North Island to explore. But I knew that I would go back. Its such a wonderful place it deserves a trip all of its own. I’d kept enough money to go skiing in Canada, which had been one of my big goals of the trip. I’d carried a mangled newspaper clipping about Whistler halfway round the globe and was determined not to miss out.<br /><br />In a sheep station on the Tropic of Capricorn I had had a camp fire conversation with two young Aussie lads, there for the shearing (why couldn’t they go to the barber’s like everyone else). They were working on the farm for a month to get the money to go snow boarding in Big White and gave the place a great recommendation. They weren’t wrong. Big White is a six hour trip on the Greyhound from Vancouver to Kalona then another hour to the resort. The bus was an experience. They run a very uncomplicated service. When you buy a ticket you can travel anytime. Seats are first come first served. So it pays to get there early. It also pays to stock-up on food and drink for overnight bus trips, as non of the Greyhound stops were open at night and I hadn’t brought enough water. Nibbling on my salty beef jerky hadn’t helped (no, that’s not a euphemism). You could see vending machines inside the locked stations, which turned me into a window licker for a bit of condensation. Not a good practice in midwinter Canada. I nearly had to leave my tongue on the window and get back on the bus. I don’t think the woman next to me objected to me melting some snow in my boot. I probably shouldn’t have used the end of her coat to dry it though.<br /><br />Big White is a terrific resort. Not too much in the way of night life, which was fine by me. The skiing was excellent. I’m pretty much a beginner and there were easy runs off the top of every lift. Soft powder snow. No queues. You could take you time and not get run over by boarders as you do in the Alps. They even have Snow Hosts – volunteers who take you on a tour of the mountain for free. I stayed in a hostel which was fine and comfortable, with my own room with a small kitchen. Even had pot noodles left by the previous occupant (a last resort). <br /><br />Travelling on your own can get a bit lonely at times and it forces you to make an effort to speak to strangers. Its amazing how often this bears fruit. Ski lifts offer a gilt edged opportunity to practice your small talk. I had really good chats with all sorts of people. I’ve always admired how girls can swap life stories in a flash. Supermarket checkout conversations. Its surprising how willing people are to talk if you give them an opening. “How is your day going?” is all it takes. I’ve always been a bit shy about this sort of stuff but the small effort can be very rewarding. I suppose the fact that there is no chance of being trapped for hours by a complete bore, encourages people to speak. Once the lift spits you out, you might never see them again. Wrapped-up in anonymising hats, goggles and scarves also helps people to open up. It’s the fancy dress factor. There is an old saying that ‘Strangers are just family you have yet to meet’. The media would have us believe that ‘Strangers are just rapists, psychopaths and paedophiles you have yet to meet’… which is a pity.<br /><br />After having looked forward so much to Whistler, it was a big disappointment. As a resort it was much bigger and more spread out than Big White. Not much opportunity to ski-in ski-out. I had to get the bus from the Hostel to the lift. Fortunately the friendly Irish lads at the ski hire place in Creekside let me stow my ski’s and boots in the back of the shop. Shopping trolleys on a bus are one thing but me and a pair of skis would have been lethal. I can’t imagine how many eyeballs would have been hanging off them by the time I got home, what with misted-up glasses and big mittens and ski boots reducing you to the mobility and dexterity of a Dalek.<br /><br />It hadn’t snowed for over two weeks and most of the time I was there it rained! This made the trails really icy at the tops and the flat light made it really hard to see bumps and drops. There were masses of kids cutting you up. It just wasn’t fun. On top of that I was staying in a hostel run by a neo-fascist golf club secretary. Me and golf clubs don’t get on. Anyone that asks you to leave because you are wearing a round neck sweater is going to be first against the wall come the revolution.<br /><br />I accept that hostels need some rules. Otherwise the great unwashed would run riot. But this place really pissed me off. On the surface it looked like an idyllic log cabin in the woods but inside it was Stalag Luft XVII with leather sofas. Scratch my surface and inside is a grumpy old man waiting to burst out. It feels good to complain though. I must admit I’m beginning to get addicted to it. I left them a lovely long letter in the suggestion box implying that Guantanamo Bay was more homely.<br /><br />I think probably that this was just the thin end of the travel weariness wedge setting in. I’d been away four and a half months and was getting a bit fed-up of living out of a suitcase and looking at a different ceiling every night. I knew it was time to come home. Vancouver airport gave me another opportunity to practice complaining. I’ve never seen such a one sided arrangement for travellers. If you were going to the USA then there were more shops, bars and eating places than you could poke a stick at. On the European destination side of the divide there was only a bunch of boarded-up clothes shops, one dingy café serving dried-up, salmonella ridden Chinese food. Couldn’t even get a beer. Such blatant favouritism and inequality makes my blood boil. To make it worse, you could see all the stuff you were missing through floor to ceiling glass partitions. Reduced to window licking once more.<br /><br />I didn't make it to 80 blogs - this trip! - but I had had a brilliant time. Four months was just enough. A year would have been overdose. Travelling is a great thing for the youngsters. It opens their eyes to new worlds and opportunities. It makes them resourceful and independent. For the not so youngsters it does exactly the same. You come back with a bag full of dirty washing and a clean window with which to view the world and your life from a new perspective. Don’t think about it, just do it.Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-72558647409882837512007-03-15T05:32:00.000-07:002007-03-15T05:35:36.980-07:00Blog 33 - Canada Pics<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/Canada"><img src="http://lh4.google.com/image/johnp17/RfV5Pb-KR8E/AAAAAAAAAak/Lir6WvHM_Qg/s160-c/Canada.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/Canada" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Canada</a></td></tr></table>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-19935832917863534012007-03-15T05:24:00.000-07:002007-03-15T05:32:28.626-07:00Blog 32 - New Zealand Pics<table style="width:194px;"><tr><td align="center" style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/NewZealand"><img src="http://lh6.google.com/image/johnp17/RfV337-KRWE/AAAAAAAAAVU/yLP2pFMLcs8/s160-c/NewZealand.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="margin:1px 0 0 4px;"></a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align:center;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:11px"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/NewZealand" style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">New Zealand</a></td></tr></table>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-31842134352251544202007-02-04T15:53:00.000-08:002007-02-04T17:58:14.949-08:00Blog 31 - Round New Zealand in a Van<span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">When you buy a round the world ticket, you have to say where you want to fly to and from and on what dates. Well that just about summed up the full extent of my trip planning. What I would do when I got to those places and where I would stay was completely in the lap of the gods. Or to be more precise, a local taxi driver. Which is a bit risky to say the least. I'm not too worried about getting ripped off. I mean most <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">cabby's</span> I think will have at some time or other gone via the scenic route. But its not like the fare, instead of being $20 is suddenly $200. I can cope with ten bucks more or less. You can always ask how much into town and you will be roughly there. The problem is that being a naive <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Englishman</span>, brought up on the notion of <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">cabby's</span> being the proud possessors of 'the knowledge', you automatically assume they are 'local lads' who are street wise in the broadest sense. Therefore, if one was to assume in ones' <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">innocence</span> that they will be able to guide you to the object of your desire without the necessity to engage your own brain... then one is in for a big disappointment. I should have learnt my lesson from Sydney. I can't remember how many times I had jumped in a cab saying take me to Cuba only for the driver to say, 'where is that'. On more than one occasion the bloke had the street map open on his lap as he was driving!!!<br /><br />Now don't get the wrong idea now with what I'm about to say. This is just a scientific or sociological observation. There is no racist implication here whatsoever. But you never,ever get what you might call a 'local' driver. Or to be more precise a 'native of the region'. So far I've found Korean, Italian, <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Portuguese</span>, French, Indian, Mexican, Chinese, Hungarian would you believe and others who couldn't tell me where they were from because they couldn't speak <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">English</span>. I let them off with that one in Thailand. But Australia, New Zealand and now Canada (I've got a bit behind), you expect a bit of <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">English</span>.<br /><br />Anyway, the Indian guy in New Zealand obviously thought the question, 'can you take me to a cheapish hotel in the town centre', was too much and had to phone a friend. Well I don't suppose he wanted to lose a life :-) The friend came through with the goods. So I suppose my philosophy of winging it was still intact. My travelling roll of the dice came up trumps once more. He found me a half decent hotel right in the middle of town and it was certainly cheap. I seemed to be the only non-<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Chinese</span> person staying so that probably explains the reasonable price.<br /><br />I know it sounds like I'm totally averse to planning of any sort. But when you think about it. Planning to stay somewhere usually starts with a serendipitous shot in the dark. If you do a web search or ask at a tourist information counter, look at a brochure or 'phone a friend', the chances of hitting the jackpot or ending up with the booby prize are still evens at best. The place I'm staying in now is a classy hostel in a good part of town with friendly helpful staff, but there was still dried snot on the <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">bed sheet</span>. I'd slept there two nights before I noticed. Sods law it wasn't at the feet end either...<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">lol</span> I don't <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">thiiiink</span> it was mine. I'm a pick and flick sort of guy more than the poke and stroke variety. All I can say is that you get used to taking the rough with the smooth. Not knowing how things will turn out is part of the adventure.<br /><br /><span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Sooooo</span>... New Zealand. Well I can honestly say, at the risk of offending my Aussie mates and family, that NZ is just the best place I've been so far. You have to take this in the context of my own personal likes and dislikes. No snakes or killer spiders for starters. <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Sand flies</span> though, <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">that's</span> a black mark, more on them later. If you like mountains wall to wall, grass (the soft green variety and not the pan scrubber stuff they have in Oz), rivers, lakes, lovely eccentric, friendly people, the smell of wood fires even in the city, good food, wine and beer (well the beer is okay - am a bit fussy about my pint)... then New Zealand is definitely the place to go. Its everything the Lord of the Rings promises it to be, without the <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">orcs</span>. Just a wonderful place really. Its too hard to describe it. You will have to go there for yourselves.<br /><br />After being cooped up on the boat for so long I was gagging to get out in the country. Do a bit of hill walking or tramping as the Kiwi's call it. Camping and all that. Get away from hostels and the city for a while. So I hired a camper van. Or should I say a little palace on wheels. It even had a DVD player, microwave and luxury of luxuries..... a toaster. You did have to be hooked up to an external power supply for all the fancy stuff though. I wasn't too bothered about them. I mixed it up a bit. Sometimes just pulling off the road at a quiet spot or staying at a campground. It usually depended on how much I needed a shower. That cleanliness thing is over rated don't you think?<br /><br />Camp sites do have the added advantage of providing a little amusement. I was in the shower block cleaning my teeth one night at a lovely site in Te <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Anau</span>, when this middle aged sensible looking guy comes in to pee in pale blue pyjamas covered in teddy bears!! I nearly choked on my toothpaste. He shot me a dirty look. I think he may have been German. Hilarious. Do the boys down the <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Hofbrauhaus</span> know <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">that's</span> what he wears for bed. I'm assuming he was wearing them to bed. He could have been heading out on the town for all I knew. There are all sorts of weirdo's about.<br /><br />Guys on their own are generally thrown into this classification <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">whether</span> they deserve it or not. At least in NZ I didn't get refused entry to any camp grounds on the grounds of being a middle aged guy on his own. It happened to me in Cornwall once. You can see the woman at the reservations counter <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">surreptitiously</span> eyeballing the list of undesirables who shall be denied admission - Rapist, Child <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Molester</span>, Peeping Tom, Flasher, Drug Addict, Potential Suicide - all of the above can be encapsulated into one entry... middle aged guy on his own. <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Haven't</span> these people heard of mid life crises. They are completely ubiquitous among the male population. <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Okay</span> I'm making mine last until I'm good and done. But we all have the need to escape now and again. You know, get a little cave time to mull over life's imponderables in a damp field somewhere. I did manage to persuade the said keeper of the list that I was just a normal geezer and no threat to the wider population. Not without feeling as if I had somehow 'got away with it' and that my place should have been on that list somewhere. I remember the stay well. There was a family at the bottom of the pretty empty field. Loads of noisy kids and a loud wife. The man of this canvas house had trudged <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">disconsolately</span> past my tent a few times as I was lounging <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">lugubriously</span> with mug of tea and good book (not 'The' good book - or I definitely would have been on the list... forgot that one '<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Religious</span> Maniac'). Finally he plucked up the courage to speak, '<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">You're</span> on your own <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">aren't</span> you?'. 'Yes' I replied. 'Lucky Bastard'.... that was all he said as he plodded back to his corner of marital bliss. Being on your own sometimes isn't all that bad.<br /><br />All sorts of self revelations make themselves apparent on a trip like this. For instance, I've discovered that I can only go so long without <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Scouse</span>. That may make me a walking Liverpudlian cliche but its true. I had to make it for the family in Australia and now I was getting the urge again. You can't beat it really. Cooking in the open air just makes it all the better. I do admit though that by the third day of warmed up <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Scouse</span> I'm ready for a cheese butty. Just typing this is <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">beginning</span> to make me slobber on the keyboard. I must be due another 'fix'.<br /><br />Cooking implies washing-up of course. But its amazing how quickly you drop into 'can't be arsed mode' when camping solo. After licking the plate and the pan the out of <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">tongue</span>-reach bits can be sorted with some bog paper. Its a bit of a problem though with this sanitized stuff that seems compulsory these days. The dishes were taking on a sort of urinal block flavour after a couple of days. Why <span style="font-style: italic;">do </span>they have to infuse bog roll with that fucking <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">awful</span> 'you won't be able to smell the shit because this smells worse' stuff. I'm not an advocate of the terrible austere, sadomasochistic (you get more hits if you include words like that) <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Izal</span>, <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">greaseproof</span> paper that haunted the toilets of my youth. This particular roll had a lovely pattern of sea shells painted on it! <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">That's</span> got to be a <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Friday</span> afternoon marketing department <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">committee</span> idea. 'What can we print on the paper to give it the subliminal impression of being soft and <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">absorbent</span>?'..... 'Well how about sea shells?'....Brilliant.<br /><br />I can't make a blog entry without some sort of mention of toilets or the lack thereof in this case. You know you are getting back to nature when the only facilities are a nearby bush. I had hoped to avoid too many expeditions into quiet corners armed only with a bog roll. Some of the Department of Conservation camp grounds are pretty basic though. Staying on one such place outside <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Queenstown</span>, there were only a few camper vans dotted around this huge scrubby, wasteland sort of site. So I didn't expect a queue for the one corrugated iron <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">dunny</span>. Getting impatient I decided to try my luck <span style="font-style: italic;"><span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">au</span> <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">naturel</span></span>. To be honest there were some massive Maori Bluebottles staking out the bog, with very <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">aggressive</span> buzzing. I had a mental image of them performing the Hakka as I dropped my <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">kecks</span>. Sticking out their three foot long <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">tongues</span> and rolling their sixteen eyes. No, the bushes were a much better option. That is of course until you nudge the branch that a moment before had seemed such a convenient loo roll holder and witness it disappearing down the slope back into open ground in full view of the rest of the site. Or for that matter the swarms of rapacious Sand Flies that had been lurking under the bush just waiting for me. I think the Bluebottles tipped them off. The nasty little bastards bite like crazy. What was evolution thinking of when it came up with these useless tormentors. I mean the countryside is largely devoid of any prey for them. What do they eat when they can't get tasty human. My shins looked like the raw beef I'd used in the <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">scouse</span>.<br /><br />You can't visit New Zealand without checking out the adventure/adrenaline stuff. Even if you only get as far as gazing idly over the brochures that inhabit every shop, hotel and pub. I wimped out on the bungee jump having seen the place where they leap into the abyss. That reminds me of a joke - How does a blind person know when they have got to the bottom of a bungee jump? The lead on their guide dog goes slack.... Sorry. Where was I? Yes. Jet <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">Boating</span>. That was what I wanted. They go up the <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Shotover</span> River to do this. I was in for a surprise when I got there. The river goes through a canyon you could just about squeeze a kayak through never mind a four and a half ton, 540<span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">bhp</span>, twin V6 Buick powered jet boat that would give Jeremy <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">Clarckson</span> a hard-on. Woo <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">Hoo</span> what a ride. The drivers <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">deliberately</span> aim for the rocks that stick out of the canyon walls and up from the river bed. I was sure he was going to run it aground but apparently it only has a four and a half inch draft. Big 360 degree spins, all getting wet, screaming (that was just me). Fabulous. They should do that up the Leeds Liverpool Canal for Capital of Culture year. Dodge the shopping <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">trolleys</span> and skim the fishermen... cool. I want to be a Jet Boat driver. <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">Giz</span> a job, I could do <span onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">tha</span>.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-33497857799486310842007-01-15T15:03:00.000-08:002007-01-15T16:54:52.163-08:00Blog 30 - Delivery or DeliveranceAs you might expect, getting to the finish was a mighty relief. Especially for those still to remove the cork! First night in Hobart was one big piss-up. And why not, we deserved it. Can't remember too much about the evening. Jugs of rum, scallop pies and staggering down the dock (after five days at sea you walk like you are pissed anyway). I seem to remember stepping over Andy in the middle of the night. He never quite made it to the cabin and lay face down on a sail bag as if a passing <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">seagull</span> had dropped him off after deciding he was too big to swallow. I don't know how he resurrected himself for his early morning flight. All that was left to say he'd been there was a flattened spinnaker, some loose change and his <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Alice</span> band. Eye witness reports had him barging <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">through</span> airport check-in shouting 'Hobart hero coming through'.. only he could get away with it.<br /><br />We kicked our heels for a few days in Hobart. New year was good and so was the food and drink festival. After feeling like I would never go to sea again at several times on the way down, I was itching to get back on the water. Chris Townsend, the new skipper for the delivery back to Sydney, had arrived. There was just Jim and I from the trip down and Alistair, Chris' mate for the trip back. Bit short handed really. Then providence stepped in and provided us with Jean-Michelle, Etienne and Jo-Annie. Three French-Canadian backpackers looking to hitch a ride to Sydney. They had never sailed before but the extra pair of hands would be more than welcome. I was only one page ahead of them in the sailing experience book anyway.<br /><br />The weather for the return trip wasn't looking quite so friendly as the way down. We set off on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Wednesday</span> the 3rd but as we were looking to round Tasman Island at the end of Storm Bay we felt the full force of the northerly blowing at nearly forty knots. As it was getting late in the day, discretion was the better part of valour and we headed to Port Arthur for the night. At 4am we slipped out to try again. Much calmer now as we headed back to Tasman Island. The island is at the end of a long rugged peninsula, separated from the mainland by only three or four hundred yards. Chris decided to sail through the gap as he had done it before. As we got closer the two <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">hundred</span> metre high cliffs towered over us on both sides. It was still only an hour after dawn and the sea was a dark blue black against the slate grey cliffs. Bullets of wind battered down from the headland and whipped the surface off the water. As we pulled under Cathedral rock it was like that bit in the Lord of the Rings where they paddle through the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Argonath</span> with the stone kings looking down on them. Only this time it was the open sea with a gale blowing. We were moving with the tide until the flow met the incoming swell and made great standing waves. Water was breaking over the boat as it took all the sail and motor power we had to batter through. I think the Canadians were wondering what the hell they had signed up for. I could have guessed what it would be like as the headland had names like Hurricane Cove and Tornado Ridge.<br /><br />Once through, the sea settled down a bit, although we were still beating against the wind. Progress was slow and rather than face a rough night on the water we <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">headed</span> for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Triabunna</span> to lay up for a bit. Boating has a habit of keeping you on your toes. Just when you relax it hits you with another problem. The entrance to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Triabunna</span> is a shallow river estuary and as we were ferrying the crew off another returning yacht, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Kioni</span> - too big to get to the jetty - we ran into the mud. It wasn't going to shift. So to tilt the keel enough to lift out of the mud we swung the boom out and got some heavy bodies on the end of it (yes <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">that's</span> me!). It worked but then we grounded again. This time a passing kelp fisherman gave us a tow-in after unloading all the surplus bodies (me again). No problem, I was four rounds ahead of the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">lighter weights</span> by the time they got to shore.<br /><br />The wind was still blowing hard from the north so we laid up until <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Sunday</span> when a southerly change was forecast. We couldn't wait for the weather <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">forever</span>. Jim had a flight booked back to New Zealand to get back to work and my visa was due to run out in a week and also had a flight booked to NZ on the following <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Saturday</span>. Chris was playing it cautious with a rookie crew and quite rightly so. But the prospect of getting a decent wind behind us and making a few good miles was too much to turn down, so we headed off again.<br /><br />The barometer had been dropping rapidly as the low came through from the south. We could see great black clouds forming behind us and there was thunder in the air. The wind steadily picked up. I was off watch in the early evening, getting some kip in my Harry Potter cupboard. The HF radio was right by my head and I awoke to Chris getting the weather forecast. He didn't look that amused when I asked him how bad forty knot winds and four to six metre swell would be. I didn't get back to sleep.<br /><br />Its amazing how much the sea changes when it gets a big wind driving it. It wasn't just choppy any more. The wave period had expanded so that you could fit a couple of football <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">pitches</span> in the valley between the peaks. The waves were breaking as the wind whipped the tops off them and blew great lines of spume. By now we were in a ten metre sea and the wind was up to fifty knots, storm force ten. There was only Chris and Jim who could steer the boat and Jim hadn't been out in a blow this big before. We had been knocked down three times by huge waves coming at us from an unexpected angle. The boat goes right over and the sails practically touch the water. Everything below falls out if its not secure. The two Canadian lads had turned green. The noise is frightening as the wind whips through the rigging and a house sized chunk of water drops on the deck. At this point Chris decided it was too dangerous to try and out-run the storm and we hove-to. Just the storm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">tri</span>-sail set and the helm tied-off to balance the sail. Its an old sailing trick, but not many of the modern racers know it. The change was amazing. Instead of battling against everything we just bobbed along, side-on to the waves as they slipped underneath us. We had two on deck to watch for shipping, one hour on, two off. Everybody got some rest and was safe.<br /><br />We were the lucky ones. Two other yachts put out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Mayday's</span> that night. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Berrimilla</span>, a tough yacht with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">several</span> circumnavigations behind her was rolled and lost her rigging - see <a href="http://www.sail-world.com/australia/index.cfm?nid=30210">here </a>for a description. Another vessel lost her steering.<br /><br />At dawn the wind was beginning to die and later in the day had almost dropped altogether. The seas were still big though. I was steering for a bit until I accidentally gybed twice. Bit like scoring two own goals on the trot. It wasn't a big surprise to get substituted then. I was quite happy to spend a few hours on the bench.<br /><br />Still no favourable wind so we motor-sailed the rest of the Bass Straight. When the wind did eventually pick up it was from the north and bang on the nose again so progress, still slow. We decided to stop in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Ulladullah</span> for a few hours to top up on water and food. We pulled up alongside a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">trawler</span> to tie up and a wiry, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">weather beaten</span> fisherman popped up, stoned off his head, and more or less told us to piss off - 'we don't want <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">yachties</span> here'. He changed his tune when we said we were too deep to moor by the other small boats and that we had just done the Hobart. Its like a magic word in these parts. He changed completely and gave us some bread and invited us in for a beer. This was when he revealed he was going to jail tomorrow for manslaughter for 6 years!!! We were getting a bit edgy now and it <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">didn't</span> help when he <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">disappeared</span> only to reappear with a rifle!!!!! Would you like to see my gun..... er no thanks, actually we must be going now, if <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">that's</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">OK</span>. You expect to meet some colourful characters in some of these small Aussie towns, but crocodile <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">dundee</span> with a gun was the last thing I could have imagined. Anyway, we escaped and headed on.<br /><br />No wind meant more motoring, meant another stop. Port <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Kembla</span> this time for diesel. Stopping for a short while gave Jimmy the chance to cook his fish. No, not a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">euphemism</span>. He had brought some fishing lures on the trip and had them trailing from the back of the boat from day one. It only took five days to catch one. A lovely silvery tuna about a foot long. He butchered it and bagged it in no time with the equivalent of a pen knife.. what a guy.<br /><br />We eventually got in to Sydney <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">Thursday</span> night, eight days after <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">setting</span> off from Hobart. Ellie and Kathryn were on the dock with beer and pizza to meet us, what saints. It had been a trip and a half. The Canadians had gotten over their sea sickness after a few days and I think in the end, enjoyed the experience. I for one would be happy not to see a boat for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">loooong</span> time. Its like when your parents catch you with a cigarette and make you smoke the whole packet in one go. Talking of smoking the guys on the boat enjoyed a fag (not me!). Don't want people to get the wrong idea, what with Chris being an ex public school boy. Its a awesome thing to watch someone light a smoke in a gale with water spraying everywhere. Like Chris says, with sailing the first twenty years are the hardest. You have to serve your apprenticeship to be able to light up in those conditions. Its a wonderful paradox of the human condition that the smokers would happily poison their own bodies with tar and nicotine but still not pollute the ocean by saving their fag ends in a jar.<br /><br />I can't not mention the perennial personal deprivations that happen on board. Toilet time as usual, is a complete mission. This time it was a bit better. The head had been jammed with something unmentionable, which caused all the problems on the way down. So it was performing a little better, if occasionally regurgitating its contents onto the deck. I assumed Kathryn's roll as chief lavatory <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">attendant</span>, in charge of the rubber gloves. Well some one had to. The three experienced lads were getting the boat home in one piece, the two <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Canadian</span> lads were just about holding onto their lunch and Jo-Annie was a semi-permanent <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">galley</span> slave. We all have our place!!!!! At least the infamous pee bottle was dispensed with on the trip back. When it was calm enough, the back of the boat was a prime spot for the boys to do the necessary. When I asked Jim one day if the water was cold, he said it was... and deep too.<br /><br />I'd like to finish by giving a big vote of thanks to Chris. His vast experience and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">permanently</span> optimistic attitude got us home safe. I also need to thank Alistair and Jim who did the bulk of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">helming</span>. Thanks guys.<br /><br />I'm writing this up in Christchurch, New Zealand. Just off in a camper van to explore the south island. What next? Will it be leaping off a 200 foot bridge with my ankles tied to a rubber band or a nice cup of char in a little tea room?? Its all going to be an anticlimax for a while, but I can take a bit of that......Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-25023651690757787082007-01-12T06:01:00.000-08:002007-01-12T06:08:16.461-08:00Blog 29 - Pics 19 - Family Christmas Dinner<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><div style="text-align:center;width:194px;font-family:arial,sans-serif;font-size:83%"><div style="height:194px;background:url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat left"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/FamilyChristmasDinner"><img src="http://lh4.google.com/image/johnp17/Rad4CGFRj_E/AAAAAAAAAEw/0a-6jE-h8WQ/s160-c/FamilyChristmasDinner.jpg" width="160" height="160" style="border:none;padding:0px;margin-top:16px;" /></a></div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/FamilyChristmasDinner"><div style="color:#4D4D4D;font-weight:bold;text-decoration:none;">Family Christmas Dinner</div></a><div style="color:#808080"></div></div></span>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-49751923891658436252007-01-12T06:00:00.000-08:002007-01-12T06:07:28.883-08:00Blog 28 - Pics 18 - Sydney Hobart 2006 - Crew Christmas Dinner<div style="text-align: center; width: 194px; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 83%;"><div style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006CrewChristmasDinner"><img src="http://lh3.google.com/image/johnp17/Rad3U2FRj3E/AAAAAAAAAEE/X9p5ZLsevD8/s160-c/SydneyHobart2006CrewChristmasDinner.jpg" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0px; margin-top: 16px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006CrewChristmasDinner"><div style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Sydney Hobart 2006 Crew Christmas Dinner</div></a><div style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"></div></div>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-79650549683282933202007-01-12T05:59:00.000-08:002007-01-12T06:07:02.167-08:00Blog 27 - Pics 17 - Sydney Hobart 2006 - Return to Sydney<div style="text-align: center; width: 194px; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 83%;"><div style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006ComingHome"><img src="http://lh5.google.com/image/johnp17/Rad9JWFRk2E/AAAAAAAAAOo/iaUaaideBy8/s160-c/SydneyHobart2006ComingHome.jpg" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0px; margin-top: 16px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006ComingHome"><div style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Sydney Hobart 2006 Coming Home</div></a><div style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"></div></div>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-83564193229419525862007-01-12T05:57:00.000-08:002007-01-12T06:06:39.111-08:00Blog 26 - Pics 16 - Sydney Hobart 2006 - The Race<div style="text-align: center; width: 194px; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 83%;"><div style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006TheRace"><img src="http://lh6.google.com/image/johnp17/Rad5FmFRkFE/AAAAAAAAAK0/iAVHPE_jG-c/s160-c/SydneyHobart2006TheRace.jpg" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0px; margin-top: 16px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006TheRace"><div style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Sydney Hobart 2006 The Race</div></a><div style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"></div></div>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-43285991877921515402007-01-12T05:56:00.000-08:002007-01-12T06:06:14.944-08:00Blog 25 - Pics 15 - Sydney Hobart 2006 - More Training<div style="text-align: center; width: 194px; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 83%;"><div style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006PreRaceTraining?authkey=ibAt9FsCtYM"><img src="http://lh3.google.com/image/johnp17/Rad2A2FRjgE/AAAAAAAAADI/zi6KInTcdL8/s160-c/SydneyHobart2006PreRaceTraining.jpg" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0px; margin-top: 16px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobart2006PreRaceTraining?authkey=ibAt9FsCtYM"><div style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Sydney Hobart 2006 Pre Race Training</div></a><div style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"></div></div>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-21119211740334537132006-12-31T16:53:00.000-08:002007-01-01T17:45:12.769-08:00Blog 24 - Sydney Hobart 2006 - The Story<span style="font-family:verdana;">They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Well the same can be said for no knowledge at all. People often have a go at trying new things. But they usually start with some kind of taster; an entree to see if it whets their appetite. But to be honest, there are a lot of things to do, see and experience in life and the clock never stops ticking. If you are going to try something why not go for the biggest, hardest, most dangerous and most challenging for man and machine. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">When you get on a boat and set sail there is no opportunity to say 'well actually its not quite what I imagined and I'd like to get off now....please'. If you run a marathon, you can walk or stop when it gets tough. If you are up a mountain and it <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">get's</span> a but nippy, you can come down. But when you are one hundred miles or more out to sea and mother nature is '<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">biggin</span> it large', there is no getting off, there is no turning back, you can't stick your bottom lip out and take your ball home in a huff. All you can do is tough it out, say your prayers and hope your shipmates know what they are doing.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">The first night out from Sydney was just such an occasion. The start had been a big adrenaline rush. Seventy eight yachts of all shapes and sizes blasting down the harbour. Sunshine, crowds, helicopters, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">wooooo</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">hooo</span>. Out past the Heads the fleet headed out to catch the offshore current. Our tactics were to stay inshore and as close to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">rhum line</span> as possible. It worked. For a while 'Global Yacht Racing Next' was leading the Sydney 38 class. There was a good steady south easterly of fifteen knots and the boat was slicing nicely through the swell. I went off watch at midnight and everything was working well. Two hours later I'm awake with a start. The boat was hammering into a heavy swell and the wind strength had doubled intensity with gusts over thirty knots. Feet were thudding on the deck inches above my head. The on-watch were shouting to be heard over the din of the wind and waves. Water was spraying down the hatch. The whole boat was shuddering and shaking. A shout came down for another hand to come on deck. Dave went up. I got into my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">foulies</span> and waited to be called if needed.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Next minute the number one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">headsail</span> was dumped into the cabin on top of me. I struggled to get it folded, too big and soaking wet to manage in a space not much bigger than your average broom cupboard. You couldn't stand up as you needed all your grip to hold on as the boat pitched and heaved. I had to sit on the floor and shove it into the forward compartment out of the way. Dressed in full foul weather gear and life jacket it was so hot. When you really exert yourself it brings on the sea sickness nausea, as if you didn't have enough to cope with.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">I had the cushy job! Jim was on the foredeck trying to drop the number one and get the smaller number three <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">headsail</span> up. At one point he was hanging onto the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">forestay</span> horizontal as the boat fell off a wave and dropped five metres with a crash, throwing him back onto the deck. He was lucky to escape with bruises. Jim's wasn't the only damage. A big gust and a heavy wave breaking over the foredeck combined to rip a metre long gash in the number one <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">headdie</span> as it came down. Not being able to use that sail again cost us our lead. The knot and a half extra speed the bigger sail gives you means that the other boats in the class can pull a big lead over four days. They slowly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">disappear</span> over the horizon in front of you and there is nothing you can do about it. No, starting the engine <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">isn't</span> allowed...</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">That first night was a real bruiser. We had it good compared to some. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Koomooloo</span>, a beautiful classic wooden yacht, fell off two big waves in succession and split the hull. The British Army Royal Corps of Signals yacht, Adventure, turned back to help. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Koomooloo</span> couldn't have picked a better craft to come to their assistance. Adventure is a big steel boat and the crew were specially trained in man-overboard and survival at sea. Everyone was picked up safely. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Maximus</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">ABN</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Amro</span> two of the race favourites lost their rigging. The mast of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Maximus</span> falling on deck and injuring five crew. These are Volvo Ocean racers, the best there is. An indication of just how tough the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Sydney</span> Hobart is.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">After the first night the weather slowly moderated. The big swell persisted through the Bass straight but the wind eased and the sailing became a little easier. By the time we got to the turn into the final run to Hobart at dawn on the fifth day, the sun was out and it was a pleasure to be on deck. We hadn't finished racing though. Kinetic was close on our heels and three more boats were in sight ahead. There were still places at stake. We were reeling in the boats ahead, with our spinnaker up for the first time in the race and we were pulling away from Kinetic. Then in the middle of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Derwent</span> estuary, within sight of Hobart we hit a dead calm. The boat started to go backwards as the tide pushed us along. Kinetic had chosen to stay close to the North shore and were able to keep some wind in their sails. By the time we picked up some puff they were past us and too far ahead to catch. After five days and over 625 miles, I was amazed our race went right to the line.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It wasn't all nightmarish by any means. There are some great moments along the way. At night there are fabulous bright stars, luminescent water, dolphins that glow in the dark (I kid you not) and leave trails of phosphorescence. More dolphins in the day, strutting their stuff like they own the place; seals, sharks, Albatross, Stormy Petril on a stick; not everyday experiences by any means.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:Verdana;">In a big race like this the start and finish are brilliant. The bit in the middle.... sheer endurance. We were lucky to have some experienced guys on board. Shane <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Kearns</span> was completing his 11<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">th</span> race and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Richo</span> Holstein the boat's owner his 9<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">th</span>. Andy Middleton, the Skipper and Director of Global Yacht Racing, has done nearly all the big ocean and offshore races; is a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">yachtmaster</span> and sea survival instructor. These guys are an object lesson in how to stay calm in a crisis. When the shit hits the fan they are there to get you through. The other guys on the boat were all pretty experienced too with years of sailing and racing experience between them. I was the complete rookie. A weekend <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Lazer</span> dingy sailor twenty five years ago and a handful of races with the local yacht club on the M<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">ersey</span>. But that's the great thing about Andy's company. They give everyday blokes like me a chance to do something amazing. I had good training with them for two weeks prior to the race and they helped me feel confident I could do my bit and not let the rest of the team down.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">We split the nine crew into two watches. Four-hour watches in the daytime and three at night. After a few sleepless off-watches where all you can do is wear the polish off your rosary beads as you listen to the boat pounding through the waves; shuddering, creaking and groaning: you get so tired you can sleep through anything. Then, when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">you have</span> to go on watch, more personal shuddering, creaking and groaning as you squeeze out of your Harry Potter like bunk under the cockpit stairs to go and retrieve your wet gear from the forward compartment. 'I like getting dressed at sea ..... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">naart'</span>. The sharp end of the boat is where all the violent action happens. One foot braced against the bog (sorry, heads), the other jammed under a sail bag, arse wedged under the sink. Sifting through a line of dripping jackets, trousers and boots looking for your own stuff in the near dark. You can feel the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">boat lifting</span>-up sharply and you just know its coming. Some sixth sense tells you that this is not a wave you will be slipping over elegantly. There is a subtle difference in the motion but you know its coming and try to brace. When the bow falls off the top of the wave its like being in an elevator when someone has cut the cable. A <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">bungy</span> jump with rope instead of elastic.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">I learnt my lesson eventually. Drag the gear as quick as you can onto the cabin floor and sit down while you pull everything on. You get your arse wet sometimes but its better than trying to pop rivet the mast with your forehead. The next challenge is to get it all on as fast as possible and get out on deck. Some other poor soul has been hanging over a rail getting soaked for four hours and wants to get below and sleep. Again the exertion/nausea/sweating thing kicks in. I lost count of the different number of ways I discovered to put on a life jacket the wrong way. The same counts for getting everything off. I was getting slick with it by the end of the fourth day! The old hands stay in their wet gear pretty much the whole time. Some of the bunks were designated as wet so that people could sleep in their wet gear and be available to be on deck fast if needed. It would take me a good twenty minutes to pack my sleeping bag; get dressed; get a drink of water, find gloves, hat, glasses; then there was going to the loo........</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">There is relief and light relief. More often than not, having to answer natures call combined both. The Sydney 38 has been described by others as a toilet with a mast. Now I know why. The two girls on board <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">definitely</span> got the worst deal. A bit of last minute shopping on Christmas Eve yielded a nice flexible bucket with handles, clasping between the legs for the use of. Not easy when all this action takes place in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">afore</span> mentioned forward compartment from hell. The boys had a clinical looking pee bottle freshly purchased with the luxury of a lid. I wasn't completely overjoyed at the prospect of dipping my wick in the same bottle as all the other boys. A fear justifiably confirmed at the end of the race when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Richo</span> confessed to having developed a boil on his <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">todger</span> - visually confirmed by another crew member (who shall be nameless to preserve the innocent ;-) - another nausea inducing experience.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">As luck would have it the lid off the pee bottle was the first overboard casualty. The first of a list of jetsam inadvertently trailed across the Bass Straight, from pee bottle tops to sail bags, even the washing up bucket. The bottle filling method consisted of wedging yourself in somewhere and doing the blissful necessary. The emptying method involved teetering across the cabin sole like Bambi on Ice with the now open top container, climbing a few steps up and leaning out to the leeward side and tipping into the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Briny</span>. Avoiding any <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">blowback</span>. Occasionally you would be taken pity on by someone on deck and they would assist in the final tipping. Possibly just because they wanted their hands warming momentarily! <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Unfortunately</span> the lid was followed by the whole bottle the next day. Big groans all round the boys. I won't say who the culprit was.... Andy. My boy scout experience and many hours watching Ray <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">Mears</span> was at last justified as I produced a beautiful hand crafted replacement. Well actually, I just cut the top off a water bottle. The nice new sharp edge did wonders for improving peeing accuracy and concentration. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Number two's brought a deep depression at the thought. Jim fell at the first fence when allowing the head to jettison his efforts all over the compartment from hell and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">several</span> sets of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" onclick="BLOG_clickHandler(this)">foulies</span>... how aptly named. He must have been sitting on the rail beforehand thinking, now what could I do to make that compartment a nicer place to be. He owes Kathryn several slabs of beer for cleaning it up. There was considerable betting activity on who would be able to put a cork in it for the whole trip. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">Unfortunately</span> I <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">succumbed</span> on the fourth day ( a personal record ;-) and resorted to the bucket. The emptying of which over the back was unmercifully captured on film for posterity by the skipper. I'll be keeping a close eye on You Tube for any unwanted personal celebrity - key word search; bucket, sea, blind mole, scouser.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">In the early days of the trip I just couldn't imagine how I'd got myself into such a tough position AND paid for the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">privilege</span>. I had no idea how people could subject themselves to such torture year after year and keep coming back for more. When I asked the old hands why they did it, they couldn't give an answer. Now its all over, I think I know. there is a terrific sense of achievement from having come through it. You test yourself more than you can imagine and the feeling of having endured and survived makes you know for sure that you are truly alive.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">I would like to thank my family and friends for their support. In the wee small hours of the night, when you are dead tired and you are hanging on to the rail, cold and wet, all your muscles aching from sitting on a hard deck littered with ropes and cleats, you think about your loved ones and the knowledge that they are willing you on gets you through it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Now I've got the knowledge, would I do it again...... <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">definitely</span>.</span>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-4155426329748224392006-12-25T13:39:00.000-08:002006-12-31T16:52:39.432-08:00Blog 23 - Sydney Hobart Start<span style="font-family:verdana;">Hi Folks </span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Just managed to slip into the media centre at the C.Y.C.A marina and leave a quick message.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Its all mayhem here; 8:30am Boxing Day, its bright and sunny with a medium breeze to make all the flags flutter. Extra coffee stalls, news cameras, lots of nervous looking people with deep tans and wrap around sunnies, carrying sail bags, foul weather kit and last minute provisions.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">The boat is ready to go. I've already gone ;-) .... its important to get your pre race dump in! Sorry if thats too much info but if you saw the bog on board you would understand why!! The astronaughts had it easy with their bathroom stuff compared to sailors in a small pitching and rocking boat with no hand holds.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Have had my seas sickness tablet and am raring to go. The start will be great as its a lovely sunny day but a bit chilly for the time of year and the forecast to get colder as we go south. Will be glad of the two layers of thermals. Weather forecast is good, with a deep low over Tazzy moving away east and a high pressure system coming in behind with southerly breeze. Means we will be beating against the wind and waves for most of the way. This will slow us down and make the boat bounce a lot (not good - see above!!) so expect at least four days to Hobart maybe five. Hope the food and water last if its the latter.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">You can follow the boat - 'Global Yacht Racing Next' on the official web site <a href="http://rolexsydneyhobart.com/default.asp">here</a>.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Will update when I get back. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">A big thank you to all my friends and family who support me with their love and good wishes.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">Merry Christmas to everyone and a very happy and exciting New Year.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Verdana;">John xxxx</span>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35584776.post-68848026199079086652006-12-19T22:23:00.000-08:002007-01-12T06:05:18.183-08:00Blog 22 - Pics 14 - Sydney Hobart Training<div style="text-align: center; width: 194px; font-family: arial,sans-serif; font-size: 83%;"><div style="background: transparent url(http://picasaweb.google.com/f/img/transparent_album_background.gif) no-repeat scroll left center; height: 194px; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;"><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobartTraining?authkey=eRoKamKPBvU"><img src="http://lh4.google.com/image/johnp17/RYi3RLK4ryE/AAAAAAAABaI/WyxcciHOuwo/s160-c/SydneyHobartTraining.jpg" style="border: medium none ; padding: 0px; margin-top: 16px;" height="160" width="160" /></a></div><a href="http://picasaweb.google.com/johnp17/SydneyHobartTraining?authkey=eRoKamKPBvU"><div style="color: rgb(77, 77, 77); font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Sydney Hobart Training</div></a><div style="color: rgb(128, 128, 128);"></div></div>Phileas Bloghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02602325174616448790noreply@blogger.com0