You Never Know What Will Be Difficult

Friends, I'm irked. This post is the cumulative result of six weeks of steady annoyance. So if you are looking for positivity today, I must sadly suggest you look elsewhere. I am going to be cross and crotchety, and I won't have a good word to say about anyone or anything. Okay? Okay. Let's get started.

Every country has its quirks. As a traveller, most of those quirks fall in the "good" column - different food, pace of life, community rhythms. But some quirks are simply irritating. Remember the mysterious liquor sale laws of New Caledonia?

And somehow, I still always tried to buy cider on a Wednesday afternoon.

In Germany, we had to return our milk bottles to a separate facility than all of our other glass bottles. I couldn't make collect calls from New Zealand. And so the list goes. You never know what a place will do differently than everyone else on the planet.

But I admit, I never expected to find that one can't ship personal goods from Malaysia to Canada.

Moving the boat, part 1: Noumea

It was tough to choose the first photo for this post. On the one hand, most of our time in Noumea looked like this:

Not a holiday.

The Papillon Question

I spent the day confirming plane tickets and stuffing underwear into a bag. Why? Because it is time, people. Time to return to Papillon. Our good old Papioni-pepperoni.

Not permanently. No, that would be too much to ask. Erik is still firmly in the grip of his work addiction, so we'll have to ride out the land life for a few months longer. However, the good people of Nouvelle-Calédonie are ready to be rid of our fine vessel, so it is time to jump aboard and sail the boat to Brisbane.

Accounting For My Time While Waiting For A Visa

Waiting for our visas to Papua New Guinea is taking forever.  So, what have we been doing in the meantime?

1. Swimming.

Dealing With Bureaucracy, French-Style

It is a strange truth that, the longer you stay in a country, the more irritating their bureaucracy becomes. Maybe the French are just tired of me and want to speed me on my way.  Maybe I'm just burnt out on doing taxes and taking ever-more-hideous passport photos for visa applications.  Or maybe I just don't see eye to eye with these upholders of the Napoleonic Code.

A few weeks ago, I found a notice in my mailbox that a registered letter was waiting for me at the post office. I was bound to need some iron-clad identification, so I scooped up my passport and carte de sejour, waited for the designated pick-up time, and wandered over.

I eventually found my way to special guichet 15, where, as all the world knows, registered letters reside.  I handed over my notice and my ID, and waited to be sent home.

Do You Want To Build A Snowman?

My girls love the movie Frozen. They sing the catchy songs. They play dress up. They act out their own fanfic. But, when they play, are they Elsa and Anna? They are not. They are Elsa and Olaf. Because Indy has become obsessed with snow.

The last time Indy experienced a real winter, she was a year and a half old.  Stylish remembers building snow forts and sledding, but Indy was too little that year to do much more than get toted around in a fluffy pink snowsuit.  And she resents it.

"Mom, the next time we visit Canada, can we see snow?" Indy posed the question over breakfast.
I swallowed a bite of toast to stall.  "We can try," I said.  "We'll definitely be home for winter sometime. Just probably not this year."
"Because there was no snow when we went there last time," she said accusingly. "It was hot."
"It was June," I said for what felt like the thousandth time.  "That's summertime in Canada.  I told you before we went there wouldn't be snow - you just didn't want to believe me."
"I wanted snow," she grumbled into her cornflakes.

Communication Breakdown: Helping Family Let Go

Around about now, I expect I am somewhere on the East coast, dining out with friends.  Worried about exactly where I am? I'm used to that. Back in the day, some well-meaning family members got a little nervous about our whereabouts, too.

Originally posted as Calling All Worrywarts, or, Next Stop, 1996! on December 15, 2010
As this little blog has grown, I have gotten the odd bit of mail from you, my dear readers.  Most of it is kind.  Some of it is mystifying.  But much of it comes from landlubberly types.  With that in mind, it is time for the educational (or, as Stylish, age 3, would have put it, edumacational) portion of our blog.  This will take the form of a Q&A with concerned readers Heckle and Jeckle.  Today's topic is:

When do we call the Coast Guard?

 

"I'm concerned about this sailing business, old bean!"

Working the Priority List

 

Every sailor knows the true story behind the Odyssey.  It didn't take Odysseus ten years to get home after the Trojan War because the gods were annoyed with him and he got blown off-course: he was late because his boat kept breaking and he had to fix it.  Heck, if I had ten years of repair delays to explain, I'd tell my spouse the same thing.  "Sorry, honey, I was fighting a cyclops."  It sounds so much cooler than, "Sorry, honey, that hole in the bilge just kept opening up."

There is no such thing as a boat in perfect condition.  There is always work to be done.  Always.  The goal is to make it just a little further down the priority list.  Our holy grail, like that of many sailors, is to redo the teak.  When we have fixed and maintained the boat to the point that teak makes it to the top of the list,I'll know that our boat is pretty mint.  (Either that, or we'll be trying to sell it.)

I've been doing my best to keep Papillon in good repair while the captain is away.  I run the engine, watch the battery bank like a hawk, and generally try to keep us above water while still making sure the young ladies are educated, fed, clothed and otherwise presentable.

Some weeks it is easier than others.

As Everyone Else Heads Out to Sea

Cyclone season is officially over in the South Pacific.  The weather has shifted from "unbearably hot" to"uncomfortably hot". I am no longer glued to my gribs. We made it through cyclone season in one piece.

Time to sit back and relax a little. But, a couple of days ago, something strange started happening. People started leaving. I knew that some of my neighbours were only in the marina for cyclone season, but I didn't realize just how many were going to be booted out come May 1st. Here we are, on the Fête du Travail, and the boats are leaving in a steady stream.

Empty docks, waiting for new arrivals.

Cookie Overload

I haven't eaten a healthy thing in four days now.  I am going to have to go on a vegetable IV drip if this keeps up.  Since Erik started on his Christmas Baking Frenzy, we have switched our four food groups to sugar, flour, butter and chocolate.  So much deadly deliciousness in such a small package.

It is hard to say how this came about.  Perhaps Erik was feeling lonely.  This has been our first Christmas without family since 2010, and only our second ever as a foursome.  Perhaps he just missed his mother's Christmas baking, which is understandable, as the woman is a champion.  But, whatever the reason, Erik got in a baking mood.

Just in case it has somehow escaped your attention, Erik only has two modes: full out, or full stop.*  And, like his mother, he mentally takes the number of people he is ostensibly cooking for and multiplies it by ten.

I found Erik at the computer, merrily typing away.
"I thought you were going to bake cookies," I said.
"I am."
I looked over his shoulder.  "That's Excel."
"Well, I have to make a shopping list, don't I?"
"One point two kilos of butter?  A kilo and a half of sugar?"  I shook my head.  "I have the basics here, you know.  Can't you just make some cookies from what we have?"
"You don't have everything I need," said Erik.  "Not the specialty ingredients.  This way we can plan to have these items in stock every December.  You know, if you'd just let me set up a Kanban system for you..."
But I had already fled to safety.  I know better than to stick around when the Kanban talk flares up.

Cyclone Choices: Making the Decision

Over the past few months, I have sent a lot of emails with a line that looked like this: “Our current and almost definite plan is to head to Tasmania for cyclone season.  We’ll check in at Newcastle or Sydney, and wait for the weather to be right early in January to make the last hop to Hobart.”

Now, because you have been paying attention, you know that cruisers are totally unreliable when it comes to reporting their own plans.  And so it was with us.  Erik and I were 98% sure we were going to Tas.  We were keen on Tas. We had heard nothing but great things about the place: not many boats make the trip down, the cruising is spectacular, the people are great.  They understand cruisers there, which has not always been our experience in Australia.  In short, it sounded perfect.

But we’re not in Tasmania.  We’re not even in Australia.  We are still in Noumea, with a cyclone-secure berth waiting at the marina and the kids enrolled in school.  What happened?  In a phrase, the cruising life happened.

Beer Tomorrow, Beer Yesterday, But Never Beer Today

We've got company coming - it's time to buy some food.  (Didn't we just go grocery shopping a month ago?  My goodness, these chores are relentless.)  Off to the store!

We trundled the cart up and down the aisle, restocking cookies and corn, pasta and peppers, while the girls tested how far they could slide on the tile floors without hitting anybody.

Erik stopped short and started cursing.
"What's wrong?"
He looked at his watch and swore again.  "It's after twelve o'clock.  And today is Wednesday."
I swore, too.  Because everyone knows you can't buy alcohol after noon on a Wednesday in New Caledonia.  Or after noon on Friday, Saturday or public holidays.  Or the day before or after public holidays.  But, good news!  Monday, Tuesday and Thursday?  No problem.  Get your drink on.  And as for Sunday?  Well, my friend.  You aren't just out of luck for alcohol on Sunday.  You're out of luck on everything.  The whole city is closed.

Sending Missives From the Front

As a kid, I was a mail hound.  I loved getting letters.  I had pen pals all over the place, and a good chunk of my allowance went into buying fancy paper so I could write them back and get more mail in return.  I still think getting mail is fun.  And now that we are in a warm place again, Mom has been on a Postcard Mission.

The girls and I sat down and made a list.  Some friends, some family, some school - anyone we thought might smile to get a colourful picture in their mailbox some misty, moisty morning a few weeks from now.  Then off to the Tabac.

The shopkeeper stared at our stack of cards.  "Vingt-cinq?  You want twenty-five cards?"
"Yes.  No.  Stylish, I forgot someone - go grab another card.  Vingt-six, s'il vous plait."

When Two Become Five

Since we arrived at anchor, the girls have lived outside.  They have swung from the halyards and splashed noisily in the water.  They eat on deck, read on deck, and generally spent every moment they can in the open air.

Why?  Not because we are finally somewhere warm(ish).  Not to escape Dad pulling up the floorboards (which only happened twice.)  No.  Their loud, obvious presence was a beacon, a signal fire: We're Here.  Come Play With Us.

Day 5, Passage to Noumea: Slow Boat to Nowhere

 August 23, 2013 01:00 UTC
Somewhere along the way

Erik read my last post and made a face. "Why did you say where we are?"
I looked up from my book. "Why?"
"Because we are making lousy time."
"So?"
Erik gave me his patented incredulous, isn't-it-obvious look. I returned fire with my what-are-you-talking-about-you-crazy-person stare. (I won, because I have better eyebrows. Never underestimate the power of a shaggy brow in an adversarial situation.)

But I knew out what he was talking about. We are becalmed. And there is nothing worse for troop morale.

How Many Dinghies Do We Need?

Yesterday, Indy was on a math-related treasure hunt.  She had to look around the boat and the yard, and find something we only had one of, two of, and on up to ten.  One: she chose herself.  One Indy.  Two boogie boards.  Three dinghies.

You might have noticed I'm not keen on having stuff.  It was a happy day in my world when we were able to go from owning two cars to just one. So how the Sam Hill did we end up with 1-2-3 dinghies?

I Got The Longtime Boatyard Blues

There comes a time in every repair cycle when I think we are never going to get out.  No matter how much we have accomplished - rebuilding the fridge, putting in a new mizzen step, writing a unified field theory - there always seems to be more to do.  The skies look dark  Birds don't sing.  Some guy with a Tennessee twang and a guitar starts hanging around the boat, singing about our hard luck.  As friends update their blogs with cheery pictures of potlucks in sunny anchorages, we sit in the cockpit, swaddled in all our sweaters, sanding the roller furler foil and wondering if it is ever going to stop raining long enough to put primer on the boom.  Then paint the boom.  Then reassemble the outhaul.