In bed with Tony

Last night, I slept with Tony for the first time since 15 April, 2012, yes, 2012.

     I mean I slept with Tony in the same bed for the first time in almost sixteen months.

     The reason: renovations to our home.  And in true TI Time fashion, the renos are taking forever.

     If you are not a government department with a hefty purse, any building work is difficult to pull off. 

     First, it’s almost impossible to find a builder who will perform work at reasonable rates. 

     “Why would we do work for a private resident,” a builder said to me ten years ago, “when we can do the same work for the government and charge five times as much?”

     Bugger!  In year 12 modern history I was fascinated by the theory of communism, but I decided it could not work in practice because it is the inalienable right of every worker to charge according to the wonderful free-market forces of our Australian economy.  I am not so sure about that anymore.  Surely the ACCC has the power to cap prices, or something similar, at least on TI to make local home ownership and maintenance achievable.

     Secondly, on the off-chance the planets align and Aries is on the cusp of the ascendant, you may find a compassionate builder.  We found a wonderful builder who literally works 24/7.  You’ve heard the phrase, If you want something done, ask a busy person.  Well, that’s what JB is.  I don’t think he sleeps and he's a great builder.  Anyway, the deal was that JB would work on our place, subject to his other work commitments. 

     That was fine with us.  We could only have work done when we had money and that wasn’t often.  We did have money in February, 2012 which explains why we bought fibro sheeting and lengths of wood I believe are called battens.

     We were ready to start in April, after the school holidays when our full house had become less full (we had 9 – 14 children each day).

Before the renos: There were many children, always on mattresses.

They were on mattresses, day and night.

Or they dragged bedding out to the loungeroom.

I had no idea the children spent so much time on mattresses before the renos. You know, we always had tables and chairs. Four tables, in fact and lots of chairs.

     So, on 16 April, work started.  Forty year old masonite sheets that were walls and ceilings went flying over the veranda and shattered on impact.  Dustpan load of dustpan load of dirt, fur of some sort, electrical casing tidbits, cockroaches, rat droppings and the odd rat bone or skull filled the wheelie bin.

     When Tony and his mates tried to move our futon bed base (supported by four masonry blocks and held together with occy straps) it all fell apart. Tony and I could cope without a bed, especially since it wasn’t going to be for long.  JB said the fibro would be up in less than a day plus a day for painting and Bob’s your uncle!

     That’s as far as things got for eight months.  The rooms were naked; exposed beams and ceilings straight through to the aluminium roof. 

During the renos: These were our rooms for eight months.

On a positive note, there was great ventiliation!

     I started sleeping on a swag.  I loved laying in bed listening to a mysterious and soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that lulled me to sleep.  After three months I gave up trying to work out what it was and asked Tony.  It was the whirly bird that was audible without the ceiling.

     Very soon after the rooms were stripped, people dropped in to stay, as they do on TI.  Family stopping over, visitors to the island, friends of friends visiting the island who needed a bed.  People even slept on swags on the veranda when space got tight.

     So one night, during the June school holidays, I was ready for sleep when I found someone in MY swag, fast asleep. I needed to find something else.  The only thing was our former king bed mattress protector which, on a wooden floor, was surprisingly comfy. And that’s what I slept on for the next six months.

During the renos:  Gina Rose beat me to my mattress protector.

     My favourite Christmas present, actually only Christmas present was walls and ceilings.  But I did miss the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the whirly bird now the ceiling was up, including insulation.

     Walls and ceilings didn’t solve the problem of bedding.  We lost some mattresses when visiting dogs, including one we rescued ripped them to pieces or pissed on them too often that even Spray and Wipe lost its magic power. I am sure some mattresses fell apart or simply disappeared.

After the renos:  Everyone had a mattress or swag, well, most of the time.

Sometimes they had to share.  That's my mattress protector, by the way.

     Tony and I made do, him sleeping on a swag or directly on the wooden floor (when we had guests) and me on my mattress protector.  

Gina Rose loves that we have mattresses and swags instead of beds.  She is so fat, she simply cannot jump up on beds.

     Now I have a bed at Mum’s place, a double bed.  It’s a bit squishy and the surface is lumpy.  And it doesn't smell of Gina Rose! I miss my mattress protector.

     The first night Tony was down, I started the night in the bed with him then moved onto a swag, keen to spread out and not have to share space … as I have done for sixteen months.  

     The second night, last night, I started the night in bed with Tony and for some reason, stayed.  What surprised me is how hot it can be sleeping with a human.  I am used to sleeping with Gina Rose and she provides just enough warmth, probably due to her excessive adipose tissue! 

     Before I knew it, I had lasted the whole night, the first since 15 April, 2012, in bed with my darling.

     It wasn’t bad.  I think I might try it for a second night, even a third. 
     (Mental note to buy a double swag and freight it to TI before I fly home in August!)

Crumbed fish!

Last night, Mum crumbed steak for dinner.

     “This fish is really tough,” said Kibby as he tore the meat into chunks.

     We adults looked at each other. I am sure we were thinking the same thing; if he finds out steak can also be crumbed, he may refuse to eat it.  After all, in his world, only fish had ever been crumbed, thanks to his father.

     “It’s tuna,” I said, “you know that bloody tuna Dad sometimes catches.”

     “Yeah.” His eyes were back on Home and Away, as Heath pushed Zac in a jealous rage. “Tastes good.”

     It tasted good enough for him to ask for seconds which he wasn’t going to get because leftovers go in lunchboxes.  It’s the lazy mother’s way of simplifying the lunchbox process.

     So I asked Kibby and Seffy if they’d like some crumbed fish for big lunch (otherwise they'd have to make Vegemite sandwiches).

     “Yeah,” said Kibby.

     “Kibbim,” snapped Seffy.  “It’s crumbed steak.  It’s not fish.”

     “Shut up, Seffy.  You know nothing.”  Kibby turned to me.  “Mum, it akshally tastes like chicken.”

Killing two birds with one stone

It was my birthday yesterday.  

     Tony and I were married on my birthday 18 years ago.

     We were in Cairns when we decided to marry and where else to buy wedding rings than Rusty’s Markets.  This was before the big reno, when it was dark and the ceiling was the aluminium of the roof and the floor was cement and dirt.  The rings were $22 each and the vendor, barefoot and wearing an open vest and billowing cheesecloth pants which complemented his long grey ponytail, was so chuffed we were buying wedding rings, he gave us both for $40.  A great deal for a couple who were broke.  Not only were we broke, but we had only two assets, a one-tonne Mazda truck and that had ‘broke’ and our seven metre, three-eighths, steel fishing vessel was as good as ‘broke’,

     Anyway, we decided to get married straight away and made the announcement to Mum and Dad at the farm (back'o'Cairns) as we showed off our supposedly sterling silver wedding bands that looked more like stainless steel parts from the tractor’s engine.

     “You’re mother and I are going to Darwin for a week,” said Dad.  “We’re back Thursday. Can you hold off?”

     “Sure,” I said and turned to my beloved, “we can tie the knot on Friday, honey, my birthday so you only need to remember one day for two special days.”

     So we wed at the Atherton Courthouse on my birthday and the roses bloomed for the special occasion (they are behind me and Tony).

     I didn't hear Tony say his vows because he started laughing and laughing. And so did all the guests … all seven of them which included two children.

     Nor did I hear him mutter something about shirking any responsibility to remember significant dates.

     BECAUSE YESTERDAY HE FORGOT MY BIRTHDAY AND OUR 18^TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY!

     On the other 17 July 21sts, he has always remembered by dinner time.      

     He rang today to talk about his next fishing charter.

     “Happy anniversary, honey,” I said.

     Silence.  I hoped it was a chilling silence for him, the sort of silence one feels when they realise they have made a fatal error.

     “Oh, happy birthday,” he said, eventually and too cheerfully. "I was out fishing yesterday and the reception wasn't great.  And did I tell you I'm taking Chris and his wife fishing next Sunday?"

Missing!

Missing!

Single, left, black school shoe.

Life partner of single, right, black school shoe (pictured above). 

 Said shoe was last seen on 18 July, 2013 in the jaws of Billy, the black and tan TI dog (pictured above).

Anyone with information as to the whereabouts of the said shoe is urged to contact Seffy at Comments below.

Investigations are continuing.

A long weekend on the farm

We headed to my dad’s farm for the Cairns Show long weekend.  Kibbim and Seffy have no idea about real city shows.  They only know Frog Gully, the TI equivalent of the Cairns Show held in the last week of July on a small plot of land opposite the sewerage plant, called Frog Gully.  We always know when Frog Gully (the show) is about to start because the council slash the metre high grass at Frog Gully (the location).

     I love Frog Gully because of its simplicity. There are usually a couple of rides, a stall where you shoot things to win stuffed toys, a stall where you knock down ducks down to win stuffed toys and a jumping castle.  There are a few food stalls selling the Dagwood Dogs, Fairy Floss and bucket of hot chips.  One night is enough for the kids and for our wallets.

     I wasn’t entertaining even an hour at the Cairns Show. 

     Holy Cross school had a pupil free day on the Thursday which gave us a four-day weekend.  Where else to spend four days than my dad’s farm at Minbum, half way between Millaa Milla and Malanda on the Atherton Tablelands.  

     First, we stopped at Atherton to buy some warm clothes from Vinnies.

     Then we headed to the farm: 125 acres of rolling paddocks and 2.5 km of the meandering Dirran Creek full of platypus and lined with rainforest.  My challenge is always to spot tree kangaroos which were plentiful before Cyclone Larry.  In June this year, I saw my first three since Larry. 

     The farm in July is freezing and often wet and muddy.  I call this region the Atherton Scarflands because a scarf is necessary to keep out the biting wind. 

I think polar fleece and a parka would also help.

The weather doesn’t worry Seffy and Kibby who seem immune to the icy clime. 

As soon as we arrived, they rushed to the cattle yards. 

     They were desperate to see their friend, Coco, a brindle Brahman cow.  She was destined for the abattoir in November last year until Kibby and Seffy visited.  Coco started following them around.  Naturally, they patted and fed her and eventually gave her a name. The advantage of being given a name is that you must die a natural death on the farm (this means you don't end up as mince or T-bone).

Making dinner: Some headway on the shoe issue.  Lost some ground on the shirt even though it’s freesing inside at night on the farm.

     I slept till eight each morning, pinned to the bed by five layers of blankets.  I woke to a babble of voices in the kitchen as breakfast was being prepared.

       There is a lot a lot to do on the farm, even when it is raining.

A win on the shirt and shoes.  

     The heavy cloud strips the landscape of vibrant colour and there is ‘mizzle’, a cross between mist and drizzle for which this area is famous. Sometimes the rain at Minbun can become a little overwhelming.  That’s when we whack the bikes in brother, Stephen’s ute and drive to hopefully drier and slightly warmer climes, the Atherton mountain bike track. 

"Shoo, cows.  Off the track."

     We rode the 6.8km Ridgy Didge track, 3.4 km of which was up hill.  Naturally, Kibbim and Sutchy took off, hungry for speed and the challenge of not falling down a steep ravine while negotiating rocks, tree trunks and mud.  Seffy found it a bit tough at times on the uphill bit. 

     We had a few tears and declarations of ‘never riding again.’  It was a good thing we were 1 km from the summit because promises of financial treats along with fish and chips and pies on the way home got her going and then it was downhill all the way.

     On the way home, I made the mistake of driving past the Majestic Theatre in Malanda and Seffy spotted the poster advertising Despicable Me 2 on at 5 pm in an hour.  I was not armed with an arsenal of excuses to get out of driving back to town.

     Sitting through 1.5 hours of animated characters performing superhuman feats and talking in silly voices was the most tortuous experience of my life. The best bits were catching Seffy’s giant grin in the glow of the screen and the Barry White and Village People numbers. I spent a lot of time admiring the old theatre with a tongue and groove ceiling and wooden archways.  I especially loved the canvas deck chairs.  It was the best value - $28 for an adult, a student and a child!

     Driving back to the farm along the highway past the massive B-Doubles (at 7 pm!) in the dark and the mizzle (which reflected the headlights) constituted my most terrifying experience. I managed it at 70 km/hour.  I've never done 70 km/hour on TI.  Should have gone to the Cairns Show.  Tomorrow, I'll need a day off driving to recover. 

A sign!

After pontificating on signs and whether I should stay in Cairns, within hours of posting The Omens I found this:

     It was imprinted with the contours of the adjacent bitumen road and brittle as if it had weathered the seasons.  It lay on the grass by the path (the path!) as if begging me to notice.

     What does it mean?

     Just before I left TI I was chatting to my dear friend, D who is most familiar with Buddhism.  I declared that I am not sufficiently evolved spiritually to dabble in Buddhism because I have made endless attempts to explore the religion, but nothing resonates.  I have wondered whether it is a dislike of maroon clothing that is subconsciously preventing me from embracing what should be a fulfilling and enlightening spiritual path.  

     Why can’t I be a Buddhist and wear blue robes and have long hair? But robes aren't the answer.  The card says so.
     Yep. Forget prayer beads. I’ve lost every set of rosaries I’ve had since my first when I started school in 1974. They were exquisite.  Real pearls and silver.  Or so I thought at that tender age.

     So I have interpreted finding this card as a sign.  I need to serve others.  Not that I haven’t been serving Tony and the kids since I stopped full-time work in 2006 and turned down offers of work since, 'to be a mum.'   

     Maybe I need to serve other others.

     I am starting in Kibbim’s class as a parent helper this week.  That’s a start.

     I am helping Mum with the foster dogs she is caring for even though one of them urinated on Kibbim’s homework last Tuesday night. 

     “Sorry, Miss, the dog widdled on my homework.”

     Somehow I don't think trying to rehabilitate neglected dogs from the Torres Strait is 'the path'.
     I really am trying really hard to be a better mother, that is, trying to mother 'with awareness' (see, I can do Buddhism) which means engaging with the kids and not just being physically present when the kids are home from school.  

     Maybe this card has some other significance.  
     It might be a sign.  Of what, though?

     I recall an incident over a decade ago.  I had done a painting of a scene from a property D (my Buddhist friend) had owned, but had reluctantly sold.  The scene was the sun breaking through the canopy of the rainforest and reflecting on the babbling waters of the creek.  It had been her favourite place on the property where she meditated.  I wanted D to have something to remind her of that special place.

     She was teary eyed when I delivered the framed painting.  She couldn’t wait to hang it and engaged a tradesman fix a special hook to ensure it was secure.

Not long after, the hook dislodged from its casing, the painting fell and the glass smashed into a thousand pieces.

What did this mean?

     A mutual friend was discussing the significance of the fall.  It was a metaphor for her not wanting to sell, or for making a bad decision to sell or she was resisting the sale and needed to let go.  Many other theories of spiritual significance were brainstormed.

     “Or,” said this friend, “it could mean what my wife reckons?”

     “What’s that?” asked D and I, certain to learn the one true reason for the painting’s damage.

     “Absolutely nothing,” said the friend, “except the painting was too heavy for the hook.”  

The Omens

The kids have been at school in Cairns for a week and shoes are still a problem.  A big problem.

     I should have known.  There were signs.

     Had I been living in Ancient Rome, I would have engaged a professional omen reader to advise me about moving to Cairns.  He (they were only men) would have disembowelled a fish since other animals are in short supply on TI (actually, he could have used a roaming dog), interpreted the entrails and divined against the move.

     The signs were:

     First sign: Kibby despises wearing shoes and Seffy will, under duress.

     Second sign: Late last year, Kibbim, Seffy and I were returning to TI after three weeks on the Gold Coast and Atherton Tablelands.  We had left the Horn Island airport on the McDonald’s bus and were heading for the wharf. 

     “What is it you most like about coming back to TI?” I asked the kids.

     “I can’t wait to cuddle Ziggy and Gina Rose,” said Seffy.  Ten year old girls are delightful!

     I turned to Kibby. “I don’t have to use shoes.” 

     Third sign: Kibby refused to participate in his school’s cross-country race in May because, “Mum, we gotta wear shoes.  We can’t use bare feet … white kids can run (in shoes).  But us black kids, we can’t run in shoes.”

     Fourth sign: Every time we have ever been to the Federal Hotel for dinner, we walk out the front door and when Tony or I first notice Kibby is in his Sunday best complete with bare feet, we go through the routine, Kibbim you need shoes – I don’t have any – Just get some thongs – I don’t have any – You’re not coming and so on and so on till he finds one left thong from a black pair and one right brown Croc.

     None of these signs augured well.

On the first day at their new school, Holy Cross, Seffy hated her shoes.  The were too big and too tight.  I know.  The National Curriculum should teach ten year olds about contradiction.

     Kibby’s shoes were too big. 

     “Get the inner soles we bought with them.”

     “I chucked them out.”

     Stay calm, I told myself.  I went through the kitchen bin.  No insoles.  I went through the wheelie bin, combing the kitchen waste like slimy dog bones, yesterday morning’s uneaten Weat-bix, last night’s dinner scraps and so on.  Twice, because the insoles had apparently vanished.  Another sign?

     The minutes were ticking away.  I didn’t want to them to be late on their first day.

     “I want to go back to TI,” said Kibby. “I hate Cairns.”

     Stay calm, I told myself.  The insoles were here yesterday.  They have to be here today. That’s when I went through the wheelie bin a second time, including the recycling bin.  People have two wheelie bins in Cairns! One for recycling which I am still trying to fathom.

     I had to consider Plan B.  Murder.

     “Kibbim, listen to me very carefully.” I even got down on his level which is what the parenting and teaching literature says when addressing children and spoke like my friend, Julia who is a Montessori teacher.  “I need to get you to school on time.  Which means you need those insoles.  If you don’t find them, I am going to …” Actually, Julia wouldn’t say that last bit.  She’d say “I will help you find them,” but I would be busy wringing Kibbim’s neck if he didn’t find his frigging insoles.  And checking his scalp for a 666 mark.

     “They’re on the lounge in the sunroom,” he said, with a faint smirk.

     Stay calm, I told myself. 

     The insoles were on the lounge in the sunroom.

     “But I hate shoes.  I’ll wear thongs.”

     Apart from a few mild swear words, the kids got to school on time and in shoes.

     After a week, Seffy is no trouble, but every morning, Kibbim and I go through the charade, Kibbim, where are your shoes – I hate wearing shoes – you’re going to wear shoes – I’m not going to school – I need you to put on your shoes …

     The signs are still there.

     I want to go home to TI.

     Since I am ‘between careers’ at the moment and am struggling with my new life in the fast lane, I have been thinking seriously about returning to TI and reinventing myself as an omen reader.  Of course, I would call myself a Presage Consultant.  Omen reader sounds a bit pedestrian in the way Accountant does versus Financial Controller and Sea Freight does compared to Marine Logisitics.  Women can do blokes’ work these days and I already have an ABN.  

     And it would be an effective way of dealing with the dog problem on TI. 

     Hell, this is auguring really well. 

Oh, TI, my beautiful home

Last Saturday, 6 July, Seffy, Kibbim and I flew to Cairns … on a one-way ticket.

     Tony has been keen to move to the mainland for over five years.  I have refused, saying I’d think about it down the track and it's a long track.

The sun is not setting on my TI adventure.

     I have known the move to a regional centre was inevitable, for the children.  If you want what the city offers (sport, singing lessons, more challenging academic pursuits), you need to live in a city.  It’s unreasonable to complain about not having access to extra-curricular activities in a small, remote community like TI. There are so many rewarding aspects to life on TI such as a slow pace of life, the freedom of a small, safer community and fresh air, but Tony and I want our kids to be able to cope with city life and not shy away from crowds and traffic, self-service checkouts, footwear, being able to drive at the speed limit and remembering to lock the car, which are the reasons I DON'T want to move.

     I’ve won the battle to stay long enough and earlier this year, Tony and I decided we would head south in January, 2014.

     However, a recent visit to Cairns reminded me my mum needs some support, a fact she heavily disputes!  So, I’ve come down for just a few months, hopefully.  The kids and I have found ourselves living with Mum in a three-bedroom, masonry block abode in the suburbs.  
     Mmm.  Not what I have ever experienced, considering my family travelled much and moved house often when I was growing up. In fact, I spent a fair bit of my childhood in PNG in a little community very much like TI.

     After five days of this new life in Cairns, I am longing to go home. Strangely, I have never  thought of TI as my home.  It’s Tony and Ina’s home, it’s the kids home, but for me, it’s always been a temporary residence.  

     Why?

     First reason, I grew up abroad and tremble with fear at the thought of a mainland, mainstream existence, wholly alien.  Four years at uni and three years in Cairns did nothing to assauge my culture shock. Arriving at the TI wharf in January, 1994 was like arriving in PNG where I spent many years of my youth and it wasn’t home. Merceneries, missionaries and misfits are said to be the only non-Indigenous residents of the tropics.  I happily embrace the misfit category.  
     So at the TI wharf, I was met by a white guy, with a fag hanging from his lips and the waistband of his Stubbies exposing half a white arse.  He reminded of one of the many characters I recall from PNG that didn’t quite fit in to general Australian society, but found a niche in a community far away, generally where it was hot, humid and had lots of palm trees and there was a slowness to the way people moved and spoke.

     “Hey, love,” said this white guy as the minutes passed, “you the girl coming to work at the Federal?”

     Second reason.  TI is an Indigenous community.  I am white.  Europeans, overwhelmingly transient public servants, are often referred to as markay, white spirits which I have thought of as apt as most of them are there and then they are not there (Just some white woman).  I assumed I didn’t have the right to call TI home for this reason. 

     Last reason (this is reading like a persuasive text), because of my background, I have a big mouth and loud voice and am happy to challenge irrational decisions and behaviour by anyone in the Torres Strait (and anywhere).  This is, while not strictly culturally inappropriate, not the done thing.  I suspect it may be one of the very few negatives about living in a small community where most people are related and can’t say anything that contradicts someone who is seen as their elder or in a position of power.

     Therefore, TI wasn’t home until I left the island.  Temporarily.

     I've had lots of time to think about the concept of home, because I have had lots of time driving in the @#$%& car on the @#$%& highway.  
     Now I realise, home is where I feel most settled and that is TI.  I have raised my kids, I have bought property, worked, volunteered, run businesses, walked the length and breadth of the island, traversed the ocean, painted the equivalent of acres of landscapes and have lived there a few months shy of twenty years.  I married the man I love and settled with him in his family home on his island home.  Just because I am white doesn’t mean I can’t call TI home. Oh, TI, my beautiful home.

     So there.  I am only leaving temporarily.  Anyway, I have a return ticket for a week’s stay in August.  You didn’t think I’d get on the plane on Saturday without knowing for certain I was returning home?

The sun always rises the next day ... and it has, thus far, been entertaining being with two island kids as they stuggle to come to terms with life in the big smoke. Shoes have been a big problem.  Stay tuned.

Little boys!

Last Thursday, I managed to catch a few moments of Life Matters.  A guy was talking about boys and how their fathers can have good relationships with them.  Tony rang me during the program as he heard a bit of it while in the car and wanted me to get the guy’s name, keen to listen to the full interview.  Of course, one is never in a car for long on TI!

This guy was saying, essentially, that dads can have great relationships with their boys if they spend quality time with them. 

I was interested because I have three boys and I need Tony to have good relationships with them.  This means if I need them to do something I know they won’t do if I ask them, I can get Tony to ask them and they’ll do exactly what I wanted them to do in the first place from simple things such as hang out the wet towel and stop teasing your little sister to serious stuff like, stop mucking around and start studying and don't go to Sydney for the screening of your first ever film at the Sydney Film Festival (because it is in the middle of exam week).

What I did hear affirmed that Tony does exactly what this guy was saying, that is, he has quality time with his boys, fishing, hunting, camping, working on the boat, fixing their bows, making arrows, yarning, playing chess, sometimes just sitting at the kitchen table and not yarning.  He’s a great dad, Tony. 

Then this guy said something to the effect that women make the mistake of thinking that men are just little boys in big boys’ bodies.  My ears really pricked up at this.  What a completely preposterous statement!  For millennia, women have founded their relationships with men on the knowledge that men are little boys in big boys’ bodies, whether those men are their husbands, sons, brothers, friends, colleagues etc. That knowledge has enabled relationships with men to work!

When I heard this I coughed and spluttered.  Then I realised I was being unreasonable.

I am open-minded enough to consider any absurd assertion with fresh eyes.

And so I did.  For 33 hours. 

Until moments after I saw this photo. 

He is my firstborn, TK and he was in the emergency room at TI hospital after dislocating his shoulder, for the second time.  He was in a lot of pain, but safe. 

Tony showed me the photo just after he returned from checking on TK and minutes later, I received a panicked text from a friend, L. She’d just seen a photo of TK in hospital and wanted to know if everything was okay.

I asked Tony what was going on.

“Stop worrying,” he said.  “TK put a photo of himself on Instagram.”

While I typed out my reply to L – He dislocated his shoulder.  He damn well Instagrammed it.  He is ok.  I will dislocate the other shoulder when he gets home – I started to say to Tony, sounding nothing at all like a fishwife, "your son is so irresponsible posting a photo up without explanation and what did he think people would think apart from some terrible accident and honestly, he’s carried on like a little boy and what are you going to say to him about this, Tony, you know, you’ve got to pull him into line sometimes, like now would be a good  …

But Tony wasn’t listening.  He was tapping at his phone, probably organising a fishing trip.

Within a minute, I received another text from a friend, P, panicked about seeing a photo on Instagram of TK in hospital.

I turned to Tony and said, sounding nothing at all like a fishwife, “That was P.  She’s just seen the photo of TK.  Can you believe he posted that up?  Again! You need to get down there and take his phone off him and tell him this is just not on, posting photos of himself when it looks like …

“Stop worrying,” said Tony.  “I just Instagrammed it.”

Little boys in big boys’ bodies!  It took me 33 hours to be reminded.

Spring tide time

TI in 2B:  Pearl luggers in for the spring tide, c. 1930s to 1940s.  

One of these luggers might be the Cessa (registration number A22), the Mills' family vessel of the thirties and forties.  Or one might be the Waikato, a Bowden Pearl Company lugger skippered by my late father-in-law, Henry Titasey in the forties and early fifties.  Henry came to the Torres Strait to work first as a pearl diver until he worked his way to skipper.  He was then quarantined in 1952 for several years at Waiben when he contracted TB.

     In her memoir, Ina’s Story, my mother-in-law, Ina Titasey (nee Mills) told how she courted Henry, during spring tide time.  How else could lovers in the Torres Strait meet when life was navigated around the tides?

     Spring tide is full or new moon when the current is extra fast and so stirs up the sediment on the sea floor.  This means poor visibility and often the sheer speed made it impossible for divers to reach the bottom to collect shell.

     So, in spring tide time when it was not possible to dive, the luggers came to TI to unload shell at the shell store and load up with supplies.  It was also time for some R and R for the crew.

     It is clear from the waves in the above sketch, the sager, the south-easterly tradewind, is blowing.  Of course, pearling was suspended during the wet season when the kooki or north-west wind blew, often unpredictably.

     I asked Mum (Ina), former Mills Sister, if she and the girls sang songs about luggers.

     She shook her head and was silent for a long time.

     “No,” she said, slowly, “not about luggers.  No.”  I knew from her expression there was a gem coming.  “But Uncle Wrench wrote this one song on Naghir. It’s a Naghir song.  There aren’t many Naghir songs.”

     Uncle Wrench is Mum’s brother, younger by two years and living in Cairns.  Naghir is the Mills family's island.

A lugger passes Naghir Island c. early 1930s. St Pauls is in the background.

     “Which way the song?” I asked.

     She started humming, gazing into nothing.  The words came to her slowly and I wrote like hell, humming with her.  It had a catchy melody.

     The song is about the family pearl lugger, Cessa, a big A22 painted on her sides.  Uncle Wrench sings as if he is the A22, slicing through the ocean, homeward bound, which is what the luggers did at spring tide.

(Excuse my poor spelling on the translations.  I did my best with Mum’s help.)

In angau nakee A22 nai Sara urik Malu dadiar-ai-ay Sager a boey bal Aril malu ad-tha mika gar-ay paganu-ay Malu ah nakee U-su poidthanu, sik thanurema-ay Nga kedth mai-a matha padal nith-thunu Malu da diya ay lagakagar-ay

Look at me, only me here go Me, A22 Seagull flying In the middle of the ocean The sager is blowing When the sea breaks it is like rain The waves make the sea filled with foam, Foam behind The boat runs With me sailing in the middle of the ocean, heading home.

     Sadly, the pearling industry collapsed with the introduction of plastic buttons in the early fifties.  Many Torres Strait Islanders, including the Mills family, turned to diving for kabar, trochus shell. 

     Uncle Wrench then worked in the fifties as a kabar diver on the Songton, a lugger operated by Johnny Witts company and skippered by Uncle Alfie, Mum and Uncle Wrench’s oldest brother who passed away in early 2005. Also on the Songton was the youngest Mills boy, Benny who died tragically on 25 July, 1956 while diving for kabar.      

     The following is the opening paragraph of Uncle Wrench’s chapter, No luxuries on this boat, in Ina’s Story.

“This here day, 25 July, 1956, we dive for kabar in reef, four or five hours from Bowen. I nearly 27 year old. Each day e same, but get up time different, depending on the tide. This day we sleep in till dawn and eat breakfast, damper and syrup and black tea with sugar. No luxuries on this boat, the Songton, a lugger. But we gad engine. Gardiner diesel engine. Good one that engine. Them other engine lotta trouble. Songton boat blong Johnny Witts. Em got other lugger, Briton, Triton and Winston. Before we been dive pearlshell, but plastic buttons take over so now dive for kabar.”

Uncle Wrench (left) on the Songton.

Torres Strait Islanders continue to derive their income from the sea, although the industries have changed to accommodate new demands.  What hasn’t changed is the tide; fishermen lay up on the spring tide and work on the slow neap tide of the first and third quarter moons.  And members of the Mills family continue the seafaring tradition, not in luggers, but big-engined crayfishing vessels or, in the case of my darling, a six metre fibreglass vessel with a 90 hp outboard, the Madam Dugong, working his dream job; a fishing guide.

Tony with a couple of happy clients (and a sad mackerel) 

Piggy in the middle ... of the arrow's path!

By Kibbim

Me and Dad and Sutchy went camping on one island and took our bows to go hunting.

 We unpacked and had a cup of tea.

Then we put the bait out which is scraps Mum puts in an icecream container when she does cooking.  We digged a big hole and made it a clear place so we can have a clear shot at the pig.

We went to bed really early then Sutchy went for a look at about 7 o’clock then he came back to tell us there’s a pig eating the bait.  Then me and Sutchy grabbed our bows and stalked up to it and the pig kind of heard us cos I was pretty loud.  The pig stopped eating and looked at us. 

Sutchy and me stand quietly then the pig started eating again. Then Sutchy shot the pig. It was Sutchy's first pig to shoot.  When Sutchy hitted it I jogged back next to Dad who was standing next to the shack. I was shaking cos I was pretty scared cos I thought the boar was gonna run to me, but it ran past me and away.

Sutchy was so happy he keeps smiling.

It was dark and we couldn’t really see so we went to bed and we’d look for it in the morning.

Then we found it in the morning.

But I then got belisore and vomited and we had to come home. We brought the pig home in the esky.

And we had to clean the pig.  Sutchy and Dad are cleaning it cos we are having it for lunch and dinner. Sutchy is still smiling.

Mum wants to know if anyone knows how to rotate this picture.

I am still vomiting.

TI? Where's that?

TI has some ripping yarns.  My favourites are those involving people who have no idea this gorgeous island exists or even assume it is overseas.

     Here is what I reckon is the ripperest of TI yarns (apart from the untimely death) and is the reason for this sleek memorial on the waterfront.

TI in 2B: Memorial to Dr Joseph Wassell, much loved and respected doctor and quarantine officer who died on TI in 1915.

     Dr Joseph Leathom Wassell was a civilian and military doctor and quarantine officer who arrived on TI in 1900 at the age of 27.  He was so well respected that when he died in 1915 from stonefish poisoning, a memorial was erected in his honour.

     However, the headstone ordered for his grave never turned up, well, not for 90 years.  In that period, the location of his grave was lost due to limited record keeping at the time.

     Fast forward to 1996.  A quarantine officer, Ian, on Torrens Island, a quarantine station near Adelaide and known to locals as TI, was cleaning out a ramshackle boatshed.  He came across a headstone dedicated to Dr Joseph Leathom Wassell of Thursday Island.

Ian correctly figured that the headstone was mistakenly sent to TI (Torrens Island) instead of TI (Thursday Island).  It was confirmed when he rang the Torres Shire Council.

     In July, 2005, Ian drove from Adelaide to Seisia with the headstone and boated over to TI.  A commemoration was held with the shire council, elders and church reps to honour Dr Wassell’s dedication to the people of the Torres Strait.

Amazing!

     My TI-Where’s-that? experience happened a few years ago when I was working full time.  I received a phone call from a woman (with an Australian accent) from A1 Medical Insurance (or some such medical insurance company name) trying to sell me a policy.  I assumed it was private health insurance and I told her I wasn't interested.

     She persisted with the tenacity of a telco salesperson.

     “But what happens if you get sick?”

     “I’ll go to the hospital.”

     “That’ll cost you.  With medical insurance, the insurance covers your costs.”

     “No, the hospital pays their staff who treat me.  I’m pretty sure that’s how it works so I don’t need your medical insurance.”

     “What happens if you have to be evacuated to a larger hospital for specialist treatment?”

      "Well, I suppose the hospital covers that, too.  I’m not …”

     I wanted to tell her to bugger off, but I simply cannot be rude to unsolicited callers.  I knew students who paid their way through uni making calls for charities or companies doing surveys or selling products.  She could be one such student. I’d shake her off eventually.  If I could get a word in. 

     “Exactly, you’re not sure, are you?  You may be out of pocket thousands and thousands of dollars.”

     “Look,” I said, politely, “I am not interested in medical insurance.  I just don’t need it.”

     “You’ve already said you THINK the hospital will cover you, but that is an unusual arrangement.  If you are not living near large hospitals, you’ll bear the cost of getting there and having the treatment.”

     She had me worried.  Perhaps Queensland Health had limits to its generosity.  I hadn’t had the need for a medi-vac, so I wasn’t sure how things worked.

     “You see,” continued the woman, “With A1 Medical Insurance, you pay a monthly premium and in the event of serious illness or injury, we fly you out to a specialist hospital.”

     Naah, I thought, something’s not right if this is not regular health insurance like MBF or NIB.

     “Seriously,” I said, “if I am really sick, the local hospital will fly me to one of the major hospitals.  I know.  I hear the helicopters going all the time.  We live near the hospital.  The chopper picks up the patient from the hospital, flies to Horn Island and meets the flying doctor.  The patient is flown to either Cairns or Townsville.”

     Her tone became flat.  “Are you in Australia?”

     “Yes.”

     “Well, you won’t be needing medical insurance, then.” She slammed the phone down.