Real Life Sets In

It’s hard to believe how long it’s been since last I wrote. Already, I’m half-way through the first school term, which probably explains the speedy passage of time. The weekly “routine” of our lives consists of school, home, beach, and sleep. (The latter seems quite luxurious now that we’re sleeping in our own bed.) Lately I've been half-hazardly perusing University brochures, reassures me of a reprieve from the world of classroom procedures, discipline, counseling, planning, administration, mediation, and instruction. Still, I try to make the best of it – I’ve volunteered my class to spearhead the school’s organic garden project which involves composting, worm bins, as well as cultivation.
For Brandon, however, school is a reprieve. Before starting work on a home-building project at the end of the month, he is enjoying his role as “maintenance officer” at Pasadena Intermediate. He’s fixed a few doors and benches, hung some photos, supervised Outdoor Ed. week at Milford Beach, and chauffeured children to and from boating lessons at the local sailing club. Her,e we’d call that a “posh” job. So, although he’s eager to get on with building, his work so far hasn’t been too taxing.
The hum-drum of the week is made bearable only by our daily visits to the beach with a coffee or ice cream in hand. We relish our weekends. With our friends, Dale and Amber, we’ve explored the black-sand Karekare Beach, the Polynesian Avondale Market, and nearby Chinatown. We also share one takeaway meal per weekend – usually fish and chips from the Fish King in Howick, but last weekend it was authentic Indian from Sages Indian Restaurant down the street.
We’ve also expanded our horizons by venturing into different social situations. Two weeks ago, we visited a 19th-century Anglican church, St. Columba’s, complete with a meditative labyrinth and community vegetable garden. I enjoyed the sombre atmosphere—incense, wafer-and-wine communion, liturgy—as the ritual and rhythm are so different from the church I grew up in. As well, the reverend’s sermon was relevant and refreshing, and the vicar and members of the small parish were kind and welcoming, so I’m sure we’ll go again.
Last night (3 March), we attended a gathering of social and environmental activists called “Green Drinks” at Degree, a downtown “gastro bar.” We mixed and mingled with all sorts of people. I met Audrey, a former teacher cum legal transcript proofer who edits and writes for numerous local environmental newsletters. She introduced me to Nick, a middle-aged man with a perma-smile, who runs a website called “Fragile Planet” which brings together different environmental and human rights organizations in one space, as well as Robert, a strange fellow with little to say beyond a few repeated loud environmental clichés: “Save the whales!”
Then there was the race. I thought I’d signed up for a relaxing evening of wine and “nibbles” on a yacht. However, when Brandon told me of the plans he’d made with a co-worker, he failed to mention we were going to be in a race. So, around five, we taxied out of the Harbour Marina to join 130 other vessels competing in the course. After enjoying a quick brew, we were set to work. Well, what I did shouldn’t be called work. My job was to act as a counter-weight to the main sail, so each time we would “jib” or “jibe,” I had to crawl across the hull, careful not to be hit by the sail. The rest of the time, I hung my legs off the side of the yacht and enjoyed the rays of setting sun as they swept across the city. Brandon, on the other hand, was responsible for different ropes that would reign in or release another sail. He was kept busy running from one side of the cockpit to the other, adjusting the ropes by tightening the ratchets. Still, his labor earned him the privilege of steering the vessel once the race had ended. And as the seawater sprayed my bare legs and the last sliver of daylight slipped away, I sighed and was grateful for Aotearoa.