Today is the end of the week which, in theory, is our last week on land. We've told ourselves (and anyone else who cares to listen) that we'll be around for Monday night dinner, but after that we'll be gone as soon as the weather allows. These final days find me unsettled, and tetchy. The manufactured pink slick which surrounded Jessica Watson's arrival into Sydney harbour yesterday didn't help. Beyond the large print (that is, headlines containing the phrases 'teen hero' or 'conquers the world'), what exactly is it that she has done, and why does it matter? It's hard to know. From the outset, I've felt queasy about Jessica and her quest to be the youngest person to sail round the world non-stop and "unassisted". In some respects, sailing around the world has become as predictable and routine as taking a guided hike to the top of Mt Everest. Satellite technology takes so much of the mystery and the risk out of crossing oceans, and puts that achievement within the reach of some decidedly unseaman-like people (like me).There's that, plus my feeling that Watson's voyage was managed a bit like an interactive adventure game. Anyone can play! Just point the pretty girl in the right direction and watch her sail! One of my boys compared her to a contestant in Big Brother. Apply the pressure and let's all watch how she responds (there were cameras all over the boat). Either way, she's lasted the distance. She's a winner! Now watch her collect her prize money, cash in her celebrity chips. Perhaps when her sponsors have extracted their dues and she's outgrown her girlpower branding, she'll tell her story in her own words (I don't hold out much hope for the almost-published book being in her own words). Perhaps I'll find what she has to say interesting. Then again, perhaps I'm just a tired old grouch.
We are both tired. Alex is tired of spending money, and I am tired of shopping in supermarkets. No matter that I tell myself as I trudge up and down the aisles that soon I'll be wrangling with awkward, heavy shopping bags and have no easy way of getting them from A to B. I'm tugging at the leash I've clipped around my own neck as Mother Superior. I'm ready to go.
Alex is too, but there's a glitch. He tweaked his back yesterday as he was unloading the car. It pays never to take Alex's spinal health for granted. In the past three months, he's done all manner of incredibly tight work in cramped and confined corners of the boat - look at him, curled up like a yogi in the starboard lazarette, fine-tuning the workings of the watermaker.
I've watched him many times manoeuvre a trolley loaded well beyond capacity down the hill to the marina. But then something as commonplace as lifting a milk crate can undo him. It's all in the twist. On the positive side, he's physically much fitter than ever, thanks to an impressively rigorous (for which read competitive) walking and swimming routine. He and our tall friend Peter, his workout partner, are the odd couple on the early morning circuit. So, fingers crossed, he'll straighten up and we'll get away only a few days later than planned.
A house-keeping matter: the bulk of our canned and dry goods are now stowed on board Kukka, including a Christmas cake and, of course, an interesting selection of bread flours.
Freddy delivered on his promise to buy me a better boat dictionary for my birthday. The unsatisfactory Collins leaves the boat, making way for his gift, the splendid Australian Oxford, fifth edition. Let the Scrabble begin.
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