"And anyway, who doesn't love bubble wrap?" It was a cheap shot, he knew it, but we couldn't disagree.
Christmas 1987 - Once again the extended family circled the base of a recently harvested and splendidly decorated pine - the stage was set. The ring announcer; a scantily bearded Santa-stand-in, smelling distinctly like my grandfather's Old Spice, determined that I was to receive the first gift - the opening blow, evidently felt hard by my cousin. A battle for the best-gift-received was always hard fought. Previous years had provided yours truly painful losses; A single lion outmatched by a full-set Voltron. He-Man defeated by the GI Joe. Hardest to swallow was the etch-a-sketch and the pogo ball trumped by that formidable, and forever despised, Teddy Ruxpin. The "original animated story telling bear." Damn him and his "grand adventure friends!" This year, present receiving vengeance was mine.
With confidence mounting I tore at shiny wrapping, blow after blow revealing what would surely be the well timed uppercut cleanly knocking my smug looking cousin into the arms of the piano accordion playing uncle. When colourful corners were revealed the family leaned forward, hungry for a result. My cousin feigned disinterest. With a final flourish the onlookers cheered. Being both an educational product and a board game in one, they knew the result. His tucked head extended upward, eyes wide he begun to smile with his realisation - he released an audible sigh. His confidence exploded immediately, countering with precision accuracy, jab after contented jab, forcing me into retreat. Then, on the ropes, I could only spectate as he clinched victory. It was over humiliatingly soon. The "Sega Master System" Vs "Alf!" the board game bout was all but over. The last laugh, I would reminisce years later, belonged to the owner of the least popular "Alf" product of all time.
In his haste to commandeer the TV remote he discarded the curious looking packaging that housed the console. I snatched at it and twisted with anguish. Accordions were silenced and the family delighted at the revelation in gaming technology. I sat transfixed by a plastic sheet spotted with pockets of air. For years I would harbour a guilty desire to purchase the latest electronics. Not for the Compact Disc's triumph over cassette, nor for DVD's over VHS. Having brought immense joy into my childhood...I love bubble wrap...
Jess does too.
When offered a chance for both of us to be surrounded by it, all day, every day, until christmas, we could not refuse. His words hung in the air, "Who doesn't love bubble wrap?" There is every chance you now know two people toiling away in an previously mentioned warehouse, surrounded by mountainous amounts of plastic and the roaring of jet engine's. Dreams are made of this. Our adventure continues... Albeit slower than we had anticipated.
Captain Tim is a nice guy. Though you get the impression he has spent many months at sea, alone, you can't help but be charmed by his attitude to life. Cruising around Miami waterways on a Saturday night, cold beer in hand, I remind myself this is not a typical day in the life of a yacht employee. Tim spends a great deal of time ensuring I catch as much as I can - "You always want to be careful who sees you drinking," and, "Listen to this idiot on the radio." Charitable to a fault, it becomes apparent he appreciates the company more than the help. We form a cautious friendship between the blurry lines of a sole Captain and his, "First mate." Months could pass and I would still be content on a day charter aboard the relatively small, but still phenomenally expensive party boat. Clientele are easygoing, requiring little constant supervision, perhaps the skipper's relaxed personality permeates the vessel, those climbing on deck lulled into an inclination (having been customarily waited upon) to be decidedly self sufficient. I assure them that, should they require anything at all, to let me know. Boats i'm still learning, persuading folks to over indulge in alcohol I can do in my sleep.
Jess's birthday fell on a Tuesday. On the same day in 2009 we were on the mountain in Beaver Creek, Colorado. Lunch was a bottle of champagne and a sour dough chilli bowl. Aware that it could easily overshadow this year's blowout, I had deftly planned a day of surprise and delight...on a smaller budget.
They call it the, "Venice of South!" We had just begun our Water Taxi ride to kick it off. I gestured with a big wide swinging arc of an arm, hoping to over exaggerate the fact that despite what "they" call it we were still on the New River in Ft Lauderdale, in temperatures Colorado-esque. The Captain narrates a tour past some of most expensive property in The South. "That there is the most expensive dog in the USA," he states, signalling towards a terrier perched on the stern of a passing kayak. "With bit parts on hundreds of sitcoms, he is now the face of Milk-Bone treats, and boy, what a treat!" Instantly recognisable, Captain Doug from our training school and his canine companion "Gatsby," offer a wave as they hear the commentary. To confuse further he continues, "That gentleman paddling there is blind, if you can believe it!" I can't. Two weeks prior he was teaching chartwork incredibly well for someone with poor vision. Catching on, Doug is quick to shout, "one bark for port, two to starboard!" Gatsby remains quiet, the tour party unaware of what to believe smile and clap politely, but watch the kayak as we disappear around the river's bend.
Jess knew what she was getting as a gift. Despite my best attempts to pretend I hadn't noticed the hints she had been dropping, the afternoon was spent at a Day Spa. Briefly I tried to convince her, that the taxi ride was her present. I fear I have become predictable. Free Happy Hour followed in a hotel lobby. Food was then the obvious choice after three very happy hours. "Coco's" Serves up the best wonton soup in town and the Philippino server's do a surprisingly good, (though not of the same caliber as the soup) version of Happy Birthday.
I look forward to Jess's birthday often more than mine, I ask, "Colorado one year, Florida the next, where to next year?" She is quick to respond, "On a boat."
Ten, very busy days, and it will be christmas. If asked last year whether we would have been living in Florida, gaining experience in the provisioning industry I would have been sceptical. But alas, look how far we have come. Predictable as my gift giving can be, you are assured that it will be wrapped in an over abundance of everyone's favourite form of plastic - a gift in itself.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Miami Vice, Marina's and Meat.
I have no idea what Haeundae beach in the southeast corner of Korea looks or feels like. If asked, I could not picture it. If asked, I would not be able to adequately provision for an excursion there. If informed it is widely considered to be the finest beach in Korea I would, rather presumptuously, pack quintessential fun-in-the-sun paraphernalia; my well worn budgie smugglers, a towel and a cricket bat - armed only with the knowledge that it's a beach. And beaches are warm.
Ten degrees closer to the equator, a world away, in the southeast corner of the Sunshine State of Florida, is Miami. Unlike attempts to imagine a stay in Korea's holiday hotspots, visions are instantly conjured up in the mind's eye, cultivated through the Don Johnson years and more recently David Caruso's contemplative, yet painful, Horatio. It's a place, you could guess, you'd safely sport the budgie's and drip dry at an art deco bar on Ocean Blvd. Where the population is bred to bolster the USA's chances of a beach volleyball championship. Where the country's plastic elite can go unabashedly disregarding decent exposure laws with, well, less than decent exposures. All. Year. Round. Right?
Maybe as an Queenslander I have a predisposition to the notion that most places, most often, are warm places. Less than temperate climes startle me with their severity. Jess mentions now I assumed Canadian winters, though able to yield more snow, were no less agreeable than a cold night in Port Douglas. Surprised was an understatement - Ice an inch thick formed and sealed our windows closed from the humidity inside our apartment - not to be opened until spring. Knuckles cracked and bled when exposed to the elements for a period greater than the time it took to run to the pub. It gets cold in Canada.
Never did I witness Detective Crockett wearing anything warmer than an Italo-casual cool white sport jacket.
So, past predictions aside, would I ever have considered packing anything warmer, enroute to Miami, than a flouro pink wife beater and a strategically placed sock. No one will tell you - It gets cold in the Sunshine State!
Something that may also surprise you; the illegal immigrant population of the United States in 2008 was estimated by the "Centre for Immigration Studies" to be about 11 million people. Other estimates range from 7 to up to 20 million people. At the top end that is five times the population of New Zealand, living and working illegally in the US. You yourself may know of someone that is working illegally in the United States - In a packing warehouse, in the flight path of a local airport perhaps, cautiously ensuring every box to leave on a pallet is of correct dimension and weight. Debate rages as to whether this type of work should be reserved for the native population - I for one except, that in any economy, there is a small minority of fringe people prepared to work harder for a smaller wage determined by his/her ability to endure below freezing temperatures and the roar of jet engine.
We are informed that there are other avenues to be exhausted outside of the aforementioned line of work. If one was wishing to announce a propensity to be employed aboard private yachts within the US, they would be well advised to do so with a gentle whisper, not a holler, unless you hold a green card. A typical (though not legal), accepted (though not openly discussed) opportunity for those wishing to gain experience within the super yacht community is the ephemeral chance at something seldom offered; "Daywork."
Ribovich Marina is in West Palm Beach. It's heavily fortified. Potential crew scour it's surrounds in the early hours of the morning for a way in. They hope that a day's work will be the key to a door that grants them the key to eventual super-yacht captaincy. Literally, to pass through this door on any given morning, newly employed security chief "Dennis" would have to be completely convinced of your legitimacy for being there.
Ribovich, at present, is home to some of the world's best yachts. Dennis's position would be in jeopardy if he was found to lack diligence in ensuring only the super-yacht-super-elite passed before him. Opportunities abound once you've negated the sophisticated systems Dennis has employed to guard his yard. Those who make it can expect, at worst, a substantial contribution towards next weeks rent. At best, it is a precursory step towards super-yacht-super-stardom. Be assured, you do know someone who is yet to outwit Dennis.
Unaware or unconcerned of the barrage of pretenders, the lobby staff at a local hotel have created the happiest hour in all of Ft Lauderdale. Daily, for two hours in the afternoon, they offer a Cuban's ransom in rum - for free - If you can convince them that you; a) have a room key in your wallet, Or b) have enough money to tip, and even the leanest wallet can provide enough gratuity to ensure they'll suggest some pretzels or fresh popcorn with your beverages. We are told that the breakfast, made-to-order,
is also [small] noteworthy.
Three birthday celebrations kicked off in earnest on Sunday. Jess's was the largest, anticipated by the local population due to an increase of invitations issued the night before - during Happy Hour. Planned all week, the BBQ put the housemates to work in the usual fashion - focused, but not without a headache from the previous night's exploits. We have two chef's (yes, I counted myself) three Deckhands, three Stewardess' and a fellow who seems to be willing to offer services for almost any task, with an inability to complete one. By three PM, nearly all of the 6 kilograms of meat and potato salad were laid out. Four Loko pong made an appearance (ensuring that this post was much later this week than anticipated,) and all of the invitees made an appearance, which was a surprise to everyone, Jess included. Only one guest made it into the pool. It laid to rest the questions of whether it really was as cold as the thermometer suggested, and whether Iphones can swim. "Aaaaarrggh!! F*&K! yes!" And sadly, "no, they cannot."
Ten degrees closer to the equator, a world away, in the southeast corner of the Sunshine State of Florida, is Miami. Unlike attempts to imagine a stay in Korea's holiday hotspots, visions are instantly conjured up in the mind's eye, cultivated through the Don Johnson years and more recently David Caruso's contemplative, yet painful, Horatio. It's a place, you could guess, you'd safely sport the budgie's and drip dry at an art deco bar on Ocean Blvd. Where the population is bred to bolster the USA's chances of a beach volleyball championship. Where the country's plastic elite can go unabashedly disregarding decent exposure laws with, well, less than decent exposures. All. Year. Round. Right?
Maybe as an Queenslander I have a predisposition to the notion that most places, most often, are warm places. Less than temperate climes startle me with their severity. Jess mentions now I assumed Canadian winters, though able to yield more snow, were no less agreeable than a cold night in Port Douglas. Surprised was an understatement - Ice an inch thick formed and sealed our windows closed from the humidity inside our apartment - not to be opened until spring. Knuckles cracked and bled when exposed to the elements for a period greater than the time it took to run to the pub. It gets cold in Canada.
Never did I witness Detective Crockett wearing anything warmer than an Italo-casual cool white sport jacket.
So, past predictions aside, would I ever have considered packing anything warmer, enroute to Miami, than a flouro pink wife beater and a strategically placed sock. No one will tell you - It gets cold in the Sunshine State!
Something that may also surprise you; the illegal immigrant population of the United States in 2008 was estimated by the "Centre for Immigration Studies" to be about 11 million people. Other estimates range from 7 to up to 20 million people. At the top end that is five times the population of New Zealand, living and working illegally in the US. You yourself may know of someone that is working illegally in the United States - In a packing warehouse, in the flight path of a local airport perhaps, cautiously ensuring every box to leave on a pallet is of correct dimension and weight. Debate rages as to whether this type of work should be reserved for the native population - I for one except, that in any economy, there is a small minority of fringe people prepared to work harder for a smaller wage determined by his/her ability to endure below freezing temperatures and the roar of jet engine.
We are informed that there are other avenues to be exhausted outside of the aforementioned line of work. If one was wishing to announce a propensity to be employed aboard private yachts within the US, they would be well advised to do so with a gentle whisper, not a holler, unless you hold a green card. A typical (though not legal), accepted (though not openly discussed) opportunity for those wishing to gain experience within the super yacht community is the ephemeral chance at something seldom offered; "Daywork."
Ribovich Marina is in West Palm Beach. It's heavily fortified. Potential crew scour it's surrounds in the early hours of the morning for a way in. They hope that a day's work will be the key to a door that grants them the key to eventual super-yacht captaincy. Literally, to pass through this door on any given morning, newly employed security chief "Dennis" would have to be completely convinced of your legitimacy for being there.
Ribovich, at present, is home to some of the world's best yachts. Dennis's position would be in jeopardy if he was found to lack diligence in ensuring only the super-yacht-super-elite passed before him. Opportunities abound once you've negated the sophisticated systems Dennis has employed to guard his yard. Those who make it can expect, at worst, a substantial contribution towards next weeks rent. At best, it is a precursory step towards super-yacht-super-stardom. Be assured, you do know someone who is yet to outwit Dennis.
Unaware or unconcerned of the barrage of pretenders, the lobby staff at a local hotel have created the happiest hour in all of Ft Lauderdale. Daily, for two hours in the afternoon, they offer a Cuban's ransom in rum - for free - If you can convince them that you; a) have a room key in your wallet, Or b) have enough money to tip, and even the leanest wallet can provide enough gratuity to ensure they'll suggest some pretzels or fresh popcorn with your beverages. We are told that the breakfast, made-to-order,
is also [small] noteworthy.
Three birthday celebrations kicked off in earnest on Sunday. Jess's was the largest, anticipated by the local population due to an increase of invitations issued the night before - during Happy Hour. Planned all week, the BBQ put the housemates to work in the usual fashion - focused, but not without a headache from the previous night's exploits. We have two chef's (yes, I counted myself) three Deckhands, three Stewardess' and a fellow who seems to be willing to offer services for almost any task, with an inability to complete one. By three PM, nearly all of the 6 kilograms of meat and potato salad were laid out. Four Loko pong made an appearance (ensuring that this post was much later this week than anticipated,) and all of the invitees made an appearance, which was a surprise to everyone, Jess included. Only one guest made it into the pool. It laid to rest the questions of whether it really was as cold as the thermometer suggested, and whether Iphones can swim. "Aaaaarrggh!! F*&K! yes!" And sadly, "no, they cannot."
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