Heaving to and from Fremantle

I like traveling by sea. Weather systems march briskly by – if it’s raining over there, it’s undoubtedly sunny a little farther on and you can appreciate both states within minutes of one another (for Laura’s science unit, we’re learning change of state; we’re investigating the many many meanings of the phrase). Seafaring also lends unparalleled views of clouds. So much variety in color, form, size, contrast, rate of change, etc. – they go by as if they’re stuck on fast forward.

It was very rough after we left Adelaide for two days at sea. Crossing the Great Australian Bight has been as expected for southwestern Oz: stormy, damp, howling, bleak, etc. I now see it was dumb to bring only one long-sleeved shirt and I might have to throw it away when the weather warms for good. On our last trip across the North Pacific in winter, we experienced similar rough conditions and had to anchor our glasses to the table, take care not to fall out of bed and so on. Then, we had the dining room to ourselves since most passengers were busily worshipping the porcelain god, driving the porcelain bus, doing the Technicolor yawn, tossing cookies, whatever your preferred euphemism. Not so this sturdy bunch, many of whom are Australian. I suppose the seasickness gene has been bred out of their stock – those who were susceptible died long ago on the endless voyages from England. I might not be so happy with the high seas if I were traveling in a smaller boat. It’s an odd sensation as it is. One second you might lift right off your feet and the next you weigh several tons. It’s entertaining to watch people lurch by, bouncing off walls, staggering from side to side, waving their arms for balance, etc.

We visited Fremantle yesterday, late into port by 4 hours due to the bad weather the previous two days. Unfortunately, this meant we couldn’t go to Rottnest Island as planned. Rottnest is an 11 km-long island with gorgeous beaches, coral, fish, cycling, and to top off the experience, adorable little furry creatures that approach visitors for tidbits. In sum, just our kind of island. Oh well. We went to Cottlesloe Beach near Perth instead (we skipped Perth proper, since we had tired of big cities, dried up botanical gardens and traffic). The day was clear and sparkling and the water, though cold, was the same. We did some snorkeling right off shore and saw a surprising variety, even though the guard had warned us we might see hammerheads. Then the heavy equipment arrived: a three-week long art exhibit was being… hung? Planted? Uh, I guess, installed that day. Thirty sculptures were to be strung along the strand, and they ran the gamut: a group of larger than life emus made of recycled tires, a 20-foot-high pyramid glazed in glittering green and emitting a (probably unplanned) chemical odor under the hot sun, a clear orb anchored about 100 feet offshore that would glow after the sun went down, a group of candy lifesavers about the size of truck tires. Apparently, there had been a wildly popular sculpture installation pioneered at Bondi Beach that positioned sculpture as an accessible art that meshes with life instead of being separate from it. It had grabbed the public’s fancy and opened opportunities for sculptors across the country, so the idea was being adapted to other beaches.

I approached one guy wandering around inside a burned out shipping container, planning to ask why he thought that ugly hulk was art. Glad I held my tongue, since he was the artist. Would you like to see pictures? Go to www.garo.com.au. Anyway, he affably told me that the view from inside the container across the beach and water toward the many shipping vessels was meant to make us reflect on whether we really needed so many consumer items. He was also trying for a shipwrecked container ethos, hoping that one day shipping containers would be obsolete, and that beachcombers would “discover” his work like Charlton Heston in Planet of the Apes discovered the Statue of Liberty (only they’d be happy, unlike Charlton). “Oh, you mean we used to have those on our planet?” From his tone of voice, burning out the container was the most fun he had creating the sculpture. I’m taking a vote: are there any men who aren’t secret pyros? I didn’t think so. He asked where we were from, were those my kids, etc., and like most others, asked if our kids had school holidays right now. Nope, we just took them along anyway. He said, “Now I feel pretty stupid. I didn’t bring my 7-year-old to see my first publicly exhibited sculpture because I didn’t think he could miss a day of school.” I told him Mark Twain’s quote: “I never let my schooling get in the way of my education.” No offense to those teachers out there…

Before I close on this short note, I have to apologize for not replying to emails. Our internet connection via satellite is very unreliable. One of the most challenging requests for our tenuous connection is replying to emails. Often I think a reply has been sent, only to be asked, “Are you sure you want to close this window? Your last action may not have been completed.” WHY NOT?? You’ve had PLENTY of time at 75 cents a minute!!

Travel: one large exercise in discovering what I can and can’t control. I can either be upset or sanguine that something didn’t go as planned and the outward results are identical; the only real cost is to myself. It reveals the dichotomy between what I expect/want and what is really necessary. It develops patience – though I’m beginning to think that I’ll never be patient, ever (on my deathbed, I’ll wonder WHY I’M NOT DEAD ALREADY!!) because one spends so much time getting someplace instead of being there. I can hope for one thing and get another: I stand on deck waiting to depart, feeling impatient that nothing is happening, then have my ears shattered by the ship’s horn right over my head. Oh, yeah, I guess waiting wasn’t so bad. I like being reminded of these things, but I can see why some people hate to travel.

We did eventually leave Fremantle and what an event it proved to be. Hundreds of cars lined the jetties waiting to see the ship leave, and people crowded every space along the wharf. They all screamed and hollered and flashed their lights and whistled. I guess not much happens in western Australia on a Tuesday night.