Archive for February, 2009
So I could now sail a boat and take part in races and not come last every time. The problem was that it was still quite scary, particularly the race starts.
At Redhouse Yacht Club, the start lines were a choice of three white poles on the opposite bank of the river. Depending on which line the powers-that-be decided to use, you had to line the pole of choice up with the flag pole of the clubhouse.
You’d get various signals to count you down from 10 minutes to the start. If the wind was howling, you could zig zag back and forth across the narrow river about a bazillion times before the starting gun went off. If it wasn’t, you could end up miles from the start line pointing the wrong direction with your father yelling obscenities at you from the bank.
The trick to a good start is to time it perfectly so that you hit the line at speed as the gun goes. This is tricky. It requires lots of spilling of wind out of the sail. It requires being on the right tack so that you don’t get forced to tack out of the way. It’s all very stressful with lots of boats all buzzing around the line like a swarm of angry bees.
I invariably got it wrong and was either too early and had to go back over the line and start again, or too far back.
But there was one occasion when things changed. It was early into my new high-flying career in the A fleet, still the only girl and therefore a bit of a novelty to all the boys who felt it was their duty to make me feel awkward. On this day there was the usual teasing from the boys. I’d like to say something snapped in me, with the red mist descending, me proving to them all that I was just as good as they were.
That’s not what happened. It was sheer luck. Absolute fluke that I happened to start a race ahead of everyone else. I was stunned by this small victory - and even more put off by all the shouts of abuse coming from behind me - but worst of all, I had no-one to follow. I had no idea what to do, where to go, who to copy.
I manage to hold my lead until the first bend in the river, before the boys started passing me. It was worse than always being at the back. I felt so embarrassed. I could have happily drowned right then. I was just approaching that age where the tiniest thing caused maximum embarrassment, so to be passed by everyone in the fleet was more humiliating than walking onto the stage to collect an Oscar with your dress stuck in your knickers.
But when I got back to shore, those boastful boys all stopped by my boat as I derigged and washed it, and said: ‘Great start.’ I felt as though I’d broken some invisible barrier and had made it. From there on in, I got better.
Tags: boys, sailing, starts
February 27th, 2009
My sailing history part 2 will commence in the near future, but yesterday was a big day and is worthy of a blog of its own.
I knew that this trip was going to be tough emotionally. I just never realised how strongly some people feel about a mother leaving her children for five weeks. I made the mistake of asking for opinions on a parenting forum. Within a few hours there were well over 350 responses. There was clear division between those who think doing this is an amazing opportunity worth grabbing with both hands, and those who think it is dangerous, selfish and unfair on the children.
It started to throw up the age old argument about whether - as a mother - you should always put your children first, that being a mother is about sacrificing your needs for your children’s needs. In opposition there was a strong opinion that ‘mummy martyrs’ who do everything for their children and nothing for themselves aren’t necessarily helping their children either in the longterm.
Reading it all, I felt like a lone sock in the spin cycle. Whizzing and bouncing around, feeling increasingly sick. For the first time since making the decision to do this race I began questionning whether I should. I felt wracked with guilt. I began to lose my sense of direction and spent much of the day in tears.
Thanks to my husband and a few wonderful strangers, I was reminded about why doing this is a good thing.
Ask any mother what they want for their children, and they’ll almost invariably say: I want them to grow up to be happy and fulfilled. I want that for my children and I’m fairly sure that that’s what my parents wanted for me. Yet, the minute you become a mother, it’s as though your own happiness and fulfillment must stop or be put on hold so that you can concentrate on your own child’s happiness and fulfillment. They in turn will face the exact same thing when they have children of their own. This begs the question, does anyone ever become fulfilled in this vicious circle?
Too many mothers do everything for the benefit of their children, only to sacrifice themselves in the process. Does that mean you are actually failing your own parents by not becoming all you could be?
Many people will say that having children is what makes them happy and fulifilled. And yes, I get enormous happiness and fulfillment from my children. I love them so much my heart feels as though it will split it two, even when they’re destroying the furniture or prying my eyes open at 5am.
But being a mother is only one part of me. There’s the part of me that wants to do well in business. There’s the part of me that wants to be involved in our community. There’s the part that wants to be good family member and friend. There’s the part of me that wants to be a good wife. And then there’s the part of me that wants to do something for me, the little girl still clinging onto her own hopes and dreams.
This is the bit that some people might call selfish. But I think doing something for yourself, to challenge yourself, to grab opportunities available to you, to have zest for life, to experience things beyond the day to day norm - this is what living is all about. This is what adds the splashes of colour to the painting of your life.
As one supportive mum in the debate said: “You don’t give up on your dreams once you become a mum you know. How can you encourage your children to grab life head on if you never did? It’s good for your children to see you as something more than just a mum, to see you as a person capable of great things, as an individual in your own right.”
Exactly right. By doing this, I hope to show my children that life is about living. It’s there to enjoy. That you can be a good parent and a fulfilled individual. That’s is ok to take on a challenge, to believe in yourself. They won’t fully understand it now and yes, they will miss me and I will miss them, but I hope that by doing this I can lead by example and show them what life has to offer.
And it’s not just making sure the laundry gets done.
Tags: Children, Emotions, guilt, happiness, life
February 27th, 2009
I grew up on the banks of the Swartkops River in the tiny village of Redhouse, which is just outside Port Elizabeth, South Africa. It is an idyllic place. See for yourself:
(Pic borrowed from River’s Edge guest lodge)
Having a river literally on your doorstep makes sailing a fairly obvious sport to take up. Particularly if you had my father as a father. From a very early age we were in boats. Although the actual year is hazy, I was probably about 7 or 8 when I first started learning how to sail by going to Sailing School at the Redhouse Yacht Club.
Redhouse Yacht Club
I hated Sailing School. I hated it with every fibre of my being. Why? Firstly, I was the only girl. But that was a minor issue and in fact as I grew older, had its merits.
The main issue was the wind. Port Elizabeth is known as ‘the Windy City’ and the title isn’t given erroneously. When the wind blows, you know about it. Great for kite flying, not for the wearing of toupees.
Walking to the yacht club as a small girl, I could hear the noise of all the sails and rigging flapping and jangling about in the wind. An ominous feeling of butterflies flying frantically into my stomach walls would grow and grow until I was finally pushed out onto the water in my good ship ‘Baroness’, more often than not in tears.
I’d then sit on the floor of my boat wailing while getting repeatedly clunked on the head. Let’s break here for some technical sailing lingo:
The sail is attached to something called a boom, the sideways pole that connects to the mast. It’s called a boom because of the noise it makes as it swings across the boats and crashes into your skull. Attached to the boom is a rope (called a sheet) that runs through a big pulley (also known as a block). This block dangles from the boom ready to remove an eyeball at a moment’s notice.
When you don’t know how to sail, you often end up in a position called ’stuck in irons’. This is when you have are basically stuck facing directly into the wind, incapable of filling the sail and generally drifting backwards, usually into other boats, resulting in much swearing from fellow sailors. At the same time the wind is causing the boom - with its eye removing block - to bounce back and forth in a bid to cause maximum head damage.
As a small girl, this wasn’t a pleasant experience. Particularly as I’d invariably have my father standing on the banking yelling instructions at me which I couldn’t hear over the wind and banging sail anyway, which was probably a good thing as the instructions no doubt included several expletives.
Eventually I learned that to steer a boat you need to look where you’re going, rather that stare at the rudder. And I gradually became less crap. I graduated up the Optimist fleet from C class, to B Class and eventually to the lofty heights of the A Class. By the time I reached this dizzying status, I was granted a new fibreglass boat replacing the small wooden tank that had been my training vessel.
It wasn’t a pretty start. It involved much gnashing of teeth (my father and I), cajoling (my father), crying (me). But I had the basics. Now cue the beginning of my competitive streak …
Tags: Port Elizabeth, Redhouse, sailing, yacht club
February 26th, 2009
‘What’s that new fragrance you’re wearing there madam?’
‘Who me? Oh, it’s called Stress. You can buy it in bulk when you sign up to do something ridiculous.’
My to do list at the moment looks like this:
- Run business. Do client work. Keep getting results.
- Look after children. Stop children from fighting. Get children to eat things other than bread and jam/marmite. Help son1 be more creative and sociable.
I had a parent/teacher meeting today. Good news is that he’s ace at maths and is ok with reading, so no extra homework for me there. However, he is very ‘boy-y’ (read pushes people a lot). I know. And still doesn’t like joining in. I know. And is behind in creativity. Actually lacking it altogether. But he does know 20 - 3 = 17 and he’s only just turned five. So he could be a genius but poor artist or he could be a computer programmer and keep me in fabulous shoes in my dotage. I vote the latter.
- Raise funds. The plan is starting to take shape. I have a tentative date for a nearly new sale that I’m hoping will make me millions (ok, thousands, alright, hundreds. Pence. Whatever). I have other plans in the offing. All of them take a LOT of time. Time isn’t something I have much of.
- House. It needs to be cleaned and laundry done. But I feel that stepping over the piles of washing helps with building my leg muscles and forms part of my training programme, so they can just stay where they are.
- Training. Firstly, I’ve still not been able to do anymore physical exercise since overdoing it on Saturday. This won’t do. Secondly, my first sailing training session is on the horizon. I head off for my first taste of life at sea on 5 - 12 April. I was cool with this. That was until I asked for the available dates for the second training session. My options are
a) do it 12 - 19 April (er no, that would be two weeks back to back. I might need a short break while I break myself in).
b) do it 26 April - 3 May (a possibility but doesn’t leave me a massive amount of time in April to do work and it would mean heading out to sea the day after my Nearly New sale so I might be a little pooped and I don’t have any childcare.)
c) 10 - 17 May. My mother arrives from New Zealand on the 13th, stays two days before going to Ireland. I need to be here for this.
d) 24 -31 May. My mother is here all of that week to see me and the boys. And no, she can’t be the one left here to look after them.
I’m in a bit of a pickle aren’t I?
And don’t even get me started on Part C of the training.
This would all be very, very doable if I had a granny living nearby, a fulltime nanny, no job and pots of money. Sadly I have none of the above. Anyone got a spare fairy godmother loitering in the attic?
Clever suggestions on a post it note please. Just don’t say give up. That isn’t going to happen.
Tags: Money, sailing, stress, Training, work
February 24th, 2009
On Saturday I finally had a chance to put the new exercise programme into action. On paper, it looked doable. I donned my finest aerobics gear, dug out my exercise ball, weights and mat and cranked the stereo up.
According to the instructions kindly provided by personal trainer EJ, it was a simple series of exercises alternating between cardio and various muscle groups. Muscles that until now, I didn’t realise were actually there.
After the first set I was streaming sweat, purple in the face with wibbly wobbly legs. After all the sets were completed I was officially a mess. But the glow of self satisfaction buoyed me.
Waking up on Sunday that glow had vanished, being replaced with sheer agony. Stairs became an object of pure evil. And the pain involved in trying to sit down on the loo meant that I pushed my bladder capacity to the brink. Being upright or being in a seated position I could manage, nothing in between.
The only thing for it was to try and work the muscles out, so I went for a gentle walk. Anyone watching me might have thought I’d had an unfortunate meeting of a carrot and my backside given my ungainly stance. All the walk did was result in my calves, butt and knees aching too. I gave up and resolved to stay in the upright or horizontal position for the rest of the day. The children were bemused when I didn’t hop up to get them their million daily requests and said: ‘But I thought exercise was good for you mummy?’ Indeed, as did I.
But my husband needed me to feed garden cuttings into the chipper. As this was a vertical job it sounded doable. It wasn’t. It merely served to remind me that I have no hand or wrist strength as snapping green branches proved impossible. I soldiered on realising just how much bending over there was when it cames to picking up sticks.
I got out of gardening duty that afternoon as I had to take son 1 to a birthday party. It was a fabulous party with lots of party games all set to thumping tunes. My son, always reluctant to join in, wasn’t overly interested in taking part unless I did it too. Once again, my legs made themselves known to me as I danced the hokey cokey and whizzed around playing musical statues.
Having not won a single game, my son was about to stage a revolt when musical bumps kicked off. Fuelled by E-numbers and sugar, he danced like a fiend. By dance, I mean doing star jumps and lots of high bouncing with groovy hand gestures. He did this with incredible energy for a full three songs. It came down to him and a little girl. Despite the little girl hitting the decks before him at the end, the party organiser (bless her cotton socks) recognised the glint of sheer determination in his eyes and announced that my son was the winner. The joy on his face was priceless.
This morning, I hobbled my way downstairs bright and early thanks to shooting leg pains waking me up. While sitting downstairs nursing a cup of coffee, I heard son 1 making his way down the stairs saying:
‘Ow’
‘Ow’
‘Ow’
‘Ow’
with every step.
Upon seeing me he said: ‘Mummy, I think I’ve got what you’ve got….’ and clutching his legs, he stumbled over to the sofa and collapsed. That’s what about 300 star jumps will do to you mate. Glad to know that even fit five year olds aren’t immune to the joys of excess exercise.
Am off to get the heat rub now…
Tags: exercise, muscles, pain, party
February 22nd, 2009
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