Moving the Boat, Part 3: Midnight Encounters

It has been said that women let the memory of childbirth fade very quickly; if they didn't they would never have another baby. So too with this passage. Although I know very well the whole thing was a pain in the neck, a short month later and the sharp edges are fading. I'm still not in a hurry to do another passage any time soon, but the months will go by and soon I will only remember the good parts. By then it will be time to hop aboard once more.

So let's review the highlights before they fade completely, shall we?

Fire Dance

I'm building quite a backlog, aren't I? Add the Mask Festival to the list of things I need to write about this month.

Banana Shopping

I told you all a giant fib. I won't be writing my next hotly-anticipated Moving the Boat segment this week. We're off to the PNG Mask Festival, so the thrilling tale of our wavy trip from Noumea to Brisbane will just have to wait a little bit longer.

In the meantime, I present the following educational piece:

How to Buy Bananas in the Tropics

Step 1: Look off the porch. Notice bananas growing behind your house are ripe.

Step 2: Grab a machete.

Notes From the Peanut Gallery

Dissatisfied Reader writes:

           How blase we have become. That title is not up to your usual high standards. If you do not
           want to call it Passage to Oz (parts I, II etc.) you can still do better than "Moving the Boat".
           You crossed the Coral Sea, [...] for the love of Pete.

I realize this was a friendly, joking note. I do. But I think this topic is worth explaining, so I am going to pretend this was a serious criticism. And it's nice to know that people aren't shy about expressing themselves around here. Don't let the quality slip, people! Keep me honest!

Moving the boat, part 2: First attempt

Ahh, peaceful Baie Maa. A lovely little bay just north of Noumea, and a perfect place to stop when everything is going to hell around you. Soak in this lovely photo of the girls, because it took some major excitement to get to that point.

It was a misty moisty morning when we pulled out of Port Moselle for the last time. As we filled the diesel tanks at the nearby fuel dock, the winds howled louder and the rain came harder. I shielded the diesel inlet while Erik filled, trying desperately to avoid taking on a tankful of water, and we exchanged a grim look. It was a rotten day to depart. But what could we do? Normally we would never go anywhere in weather like that, but we had already checked out of the country and Erik was due back at work. All of the typical excuses. You have heard me say for years that sailing to a schedule is both foolish and dangerous. And here we were, ignoring our own rules and sailing under time pressure. 

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.

Home Again

I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. It has been a busy month of picnicking on the beach, troubleshooting leaks, painting antifouling and moving hither and yon. And I'll tell you all about it, I will. Just give me a day or two to recover.

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.

Peanut, Peanut Butter

This morning I fulfilled the usual family breakfast orders. A bowl of Sultana Bran for Indy (Raisin Bran to those of you ten time zones away), cheesy scrambled eggs for Stylish, and a slice of peanut butter toast for me. I noticed the peanut butter was getting pretty low, so I looked in the pantry for another jar. No peanut butter. I started to hyperventilate, then I had a heart attack and died.

Not really. But I could have. This is a disaster; I was sure I had one more jar. In fact, I'm going to go check again right now.

I'm back. No peanut butter. "Amy," I hear you saying, "stop being so dramatic. Get off your keister and go buy some more." Well, smarty pants, I can't. Because there isn't any. There is no more peanut butter on this island. And who knows when more will arrive?

When Everyone Else Is Nicer Than You

I have a problem. My neighbours are too nice. Specifically, they are too nice to my girls. Why is that an issue? They are making me look bad, that's why. I have enough trouble meeting minimum congeniality standards without having to fend off heavy competition from next door.

Our neighbours have been travelling lately. And when they come home, they bring things for the kids. They bring things for me, for crying out loud. When Erik travels, what does he bring home? Nuffink. If I were to travel on my own (dream the dream)? Double nuffink. We love our ladies dearly, but buying presents just because Daddy has a few days of meetings somewhere else? Dream on. When Erik comes home, any extra carry-on room is reserved for new flip flops and packets of EasiYo. Practical things. Impossible-to-get-here things. Not fun things.

And then Mr and Mrs Santa Claus - who do not share our Scrooge-y philosophy - come home, and look at the result. Look at those faces.

Things I've Learned This Week

1. Nothing makes a child happier than a new tool kit...

...especially when she gets to decorate it herself.

Get Crackin'

I've never been a huge fan of eggs. I don't have a "bad egg" story from my youth; they were just never my favourite thing. My siblings ate scrambled eggs, but I stuck to peanut butter toast, thank you very much. And I still do.

But I make an exception for Easter. (No, not an egg-ception - you will have to indulge in your ovo-related punnery elsewhere.) My family's Easter egg traditions were strictly of the chocolate variety, but Erik and his parents make fancy hard boiled eggs each year. Cut in half, pop out the yolk, add balsamic vinegar, a little olive oil, mustard and pepper, and eat with the aforementioned yolk. I'm sure it took no end of coaxing to persuade me to try this the first time, but I agree these eggs are delicious.

Once Erik and I had kids, we started dyeing our Easter eggs, too. This was clever thinking on Erik's part; eggs aren't always at the top of my mental grocery list unless I am baking something. Turning eggs into a craft not only ensured they would be in the house for Easter, but also that there would be a lot of them.