Quite a few people seem to think we're crazy, that lovely Zimbabwean and I, for encouraging the boykaloiks to participate in sports that involve leaving the island we live on.
The other night rugby training finished at 6pm, and the Sydney air was a rather fresh 9 degrees C. It took me 45 minutes to drive the little boys through the national park to the ferry wharf. I woke up a sleepy 4-year-old, rugged up both boys with jumpers, coats, beenies, and gloves; loaded myself up like a donkey, walked 400 metres, and on to the ferry we shuffled. Ahhhh... 5 minutes to take a breath.
Just after the ferry set sail, Noah-the-wise said: "Mama!! We're on the wrong ferry!"
Well yes my dahling... You seem to be right. Mama-the-tired didn't bother to check which ferry she was getting on, and we were on the last ferry, to the wrong wharf.
Chin up though, tribe! Mama always keeps a head-torch in her backpack (I was an excellently prepared Girl Guide. That's why I need to live on an island. My resourcefulness would be wasted on the mainland) so we disembarked, at the wrong wharf, loaded up again, had a chuckle (I was trying to keep all spirits high and dry) and I emphasised how exciting it was to be on a bushwalk at night. And we were off! Climbing stairs, trudging along dirt tracks, enjoying the moon through the treetops. We had lovely conversations and enjoyed finding all the bits on each backpack which glowed in the dark. Those little boys were adventurous and strong. Their eyes were wide as they looked out for possums, and anything else that might be the cause of that rustling. They didn't complain once. When I let out, after 40 minutes, how pleased I was to be nearly there - as my arms were about to fall off from carrying my heavy bags - Chooch turned around and asked which one he could carry. Lovely boys.
When we finally made it home, the fire was going and the Zimbo had hot chocolate simmering gently, waiting for his family to return (and vaguely wondering why we were so late).
Such an adventure is one of the benefits of not having your own driveway (or indeed, "boat only access" to your home!).
The other night rugby training finished at 6pm, and the Sydney air was a rather fresh 9 degrees C. It took me 45 minutes to drive the little boys through the national park to the ferry wharf. I woke up a sleepy 4-year-old, rugged up both boys with jumpers, coats, beenies, and gloves; loaded myself up like a donkey, walked 400 metres, and on to the ferry we shuffled. Ahhhh... 5 minutes to take a breath.
Just after the ferry set sail, Noah-the-wise said: "Mama!! We're on the wrong ferry!"
Well yes my dahling... You seem to be right. Mama-the-tired didn't bother to check which ferry she was getting on, and we were on the last ferry, to the wrong wharf.
Chin up though, tribe! Mama always keeps a head-torch in her backpack (I was an excellently prepared Girl Guide. That's why I need to live on an island. My resourcefulness would be wasted on the mainland) so we disembarked, at the wrong wharf, loaded up again, had a chuckle (I was trying to keep all spirits high and dry) and I emphasised how exciting it was to be on a bushwalk at night. And we were off! Climbing stairs, trudging along dirt tracks, enjoying the moon through the treetops. We had lovely conversations and enjoyed finding all the bits on each backpack which glowed in the dark. Those little boys were adventurous and strong. Their eyes were wide as they looked out for possums, and anything else that might be the cause of that rustling. They didn't complain once. When I let out, after 40 minutes, how pleased I was to be nearly there - as my arms were about to fall off from carrying my heavy bags - Chooch turned around and asked which one he could carry. Lovely boys.
When we finally made it home, the fire was going and the Zimbo had hot chocolate simmering gently, waiting for his family to return (and vaguely wondering why we were so late).
Such an adventure is one of the benefits of not having your own driveway (or indeed, "boat only access" to your home!).
No comments:
Post a Comment