My (Early) Life Story
Anecdotes

Anecdotes from throughout my life, up until December 2001, where my China journal takes over.

INDEX
writing | english | close call | hitching | hitching horror | cairns hitch | mariner | bechedemer | shark-bait | pirates | shark fight | gay pirate | wrong tackle | gin | hypothetical | vagrant

Writing
(From: hippy)

In actual fact, I did have one true ambition. At the time, I had wanted to be a writer for some while. I had even set about and completed writing, in first draft, half a novel of approximately 160 standard pages (belonging to Sydney Sheldon or Tom Clancy genre). This half-novel now sits somewhere at the bottom of my cupboard.

One anecdote I love telling, as an English teacher and an aspiring writer, concerns the fact that English was originally my worst subject. For some reason, perhaps because English spelling is a nightmare and its grammar is full of exceptions, I just couldn't seem to get a grasp on it all through school. But I also loved English more than any other subject.

Truth be known, I failed every single year of English until my last year. Partly due to the strength of my other subjects (where I could fail English and still hope to pass my Bursary), and partly due to a few white lies (where I told an unsuspecting teacher that I anticipated a pass for the previous year), I was nevertheless accepted into the final year of English. When my new teacher found out that I had in fact failed the previous year, she threatened to expel me from the class. As it was, my last teacher had predicted that there wasn't a chance that I could pass. Despite this, I told my new teacher that I sincerely wanted to continue with English and that I should rather fail the last year and learn something new, than repeat a year, learn nothing new, and at the same time still miss out on Bursary English. Somehow, it worked. I was allowed to stay on the condition that my attendance remained high, that I didn't disrupt the class, and that I punctually completed all assignments. I worked hard and passed Bursary English; and it is a preferable thing to admit that I failed all years but passed the last, rather than it being the other way round. (To draw an extreme comparison, it is better to become a doctor having performed badly in high-school, than to end up vagrant after being the school valedictorian.) An old weakness now being my strength, I am proud to consider myself a good English teacher, to be internationally employed in this capacity, and now to be capable of writing to a fairly high standard. Return to: hippy



Close Call
(From: aviation)

All in all, aviation is an amazingly safe industry. Statistics show that it's more dangerous to walk across the road than to fly somewhere (relative of course to the time spent doing each per person), and as much as 80 per cent of plane crashes are survivable. Most planes don't explode upon the impact of crashing into the World Trade Center, but when they do it all tends to be more sensational than the thousands of people who die on the roads, and because of this people develop fears despite the facts. Nevertheless, I am sure that most pilots have had their close calls.

My closest call came just after I had gained my Private Pilot's Licence. In other words, I was aviation's equivalent of many teenage drivers who hold licences to die on the roads. My closest call came as a result of many subtle changes to what I was used to: Normally, I flew a plane with around 180 HP; on this day, my plane had about 145HP. Normally, there were two of us - myself and my instructor; on this day, it was Ben, Cheese (AKA: Mathew) and I. This adds extra weight. Normally, there is some wind into which we point the plane so as to reduce the ground speed necessary for takeoff; on this day, no wind. Normally, it was colder at this time of year and the air pressure was higher (better for lift); on this day, it was hot and the pressure was low. Normally, I had a runway long enough for Boeing 747s; on this day, I foolishly chose the shortest runway of overgrown grass at a tiny aerodrome (Rangiora) solely because the half-knot of wind that may have been blowing seemed to be in this direction. Wet behind the ears, I did not consider any of these warning signs until after the fact.

Without even thinking of preparing for a max-climb takeoff, which allows for the shortest runway and the greatest climb gradient, we bounced happily along the pot-holed track as I increased the power and we increased our speed to the speed required for takeoff. With the airspeed indicator bouncing around this number, I began to ease back on the yoke (the thing you steer a plane with), but with perhaps a few too many bounces and other various factors, it happened that my plane didn't want to climb, and with the attempt to do so we began losing speed.

My friends, Ben and Cheese, happily looked out their windows. I, on the other hand, was faced with quite a decision. With the fence and the line of trees at the end of the runway seemingly bearing down upon us with their sharp teeth bared, I could either attempt to stop or attempt once again to get airborne. To stop means to slam back the power, pull up the flaps (which create lift, and therefore air-resistance), pull back completely on the yoke (to the same effect) and slam on the breaks (which are nothing to boast of in light aircraft). I judged it also to be very likely that the plane would not stop in time. I could probably expect for all of us to come out alive, but a crash such as this would have a devastating effect on my career. Crashing planes is a complete no-no in the aviation industry. Who will hire you after such an event? (Selfish, I know.)

To get airborne would either save me from such shame, or result in a crash of the worst kind at the speed I would then be going. It was a snap decision. I went for all or nothing. As the plane again got up to speed (perhaps two seconds after the initial failure to takeoff), the trees lashed their teeth, and my nerves screamed at me to apply the afterburner, launch off and climb vertically as per an F14 Tomcat. Only, my Piper Cherokee wasn't then fitted with a jet, let alone an afterburner. I knew the only choice I had if I wanted to come through this unscathed was to remain cool. Having failed once to takeoff at the required speed, I decided that to risk it again at this speed meant likely failure and no hope of either a third attempt or of slowing down sufficiently to guarantee our lives. Despite my nerves and my Tomcat fantasies, I forced myself to use up all of the available runway so as to gain just another few knots for the takeoff, but this would put me much closer to the second and third obstacles: the metre-high fence and the 10 metre-high trees. By now, around four seconds had probably passed since the initial failure.

The wings of a duck flap. The wings of a plane don't. A plane's wings require that air moves across them at a fairly high speed, from which they derive lift. If you are going too slow, you will not get airborne; or, if you are airborne already, you will stall. You will suddenly drop out of the air. I could have chosen upon liftoff to climb at a max-climb gradient, and thus I could hope to clear the trees by metres rather than by inches. But climbing at the maximum gradient can mean a close balance between flying and stalling; and I had already had problems with this particular plane not responding to the speeds set out in the flight manual for its type. To attempt to clear the trees by metres, only to drop into them, would not be good.

Again I had to repress my natural urges, which were still demanding that I get as far away from the trees as quickly as possible, and therefore threatening to put me into a stall. Instead, I decided to point my plane directly at the tops of the trees, because with a lower climb gradient comes increased speed, and it was speed that I now wanted in order to avoid any risks of dropping down. I knew that once I had this speed, I could safely pull away from the trees (at a relatively steeper climb, as necessary), and this is what I did. As I got to the trees, I aimed so as to just miss the tops of them, but having this hight safely without the worry of stalling meant that I knew I had averted all dangers.

It was sloppy piloting and pilot error to have put myself in such a situation in the first place, and to have ignored all the danger signs. This was my mistake borne of my very little experience. On the other hand, it was the right stuff that I kept a cool head and got out of a situation that truly almost made me shit my pants (and in being honest, I don't mean to be vulgar in saying this). I then climbed to around a thousand feet, and then flew around for ten minutes or so just to reduce my heart-rate. Meanwhile, Ben and Cheese were having a great time peering out of their windows, oblivious to the fact that I had almost cost them their lives. As for Cheese, he took us to these extremes almost every time I went driving with him, and so I feel little guilt in this instance. With Ben, whom I consider my best friend, I think I told him about a year later over a casual beer or two. He took it in his stride. Return to: aviation



Hitching
(From: limbo)

Hitchhiking is an adventure every time; often because it is the most eccentric of people who pick you up. In my life, I have twice hitchhiked over much of the South Island of New Zealand, and I have hiked a hefty chunk of Australia also.

My story concerns one particular day in a two week hiking adventure that I undertook at the beginning of 1998 with a girl whom I once coveted. We started our day at the top of the South Island in a city called Nelson, and our aim was to hike to the port city of Picton. Having positioned ourselves in what I estimated to be our most likely spot for a ride, I began to think that still the conditions were not so favourable and that it might be some while before we could expect any luck.

Anyway, after about fifteen minutes of watching car after car drive past, I began idly looking about, and for no particular reason a discarded piece of paper caught my attention. Perhaps it was because it was neatly rolled and it seemed to be intentionally positioned between the rocks. I picked up the paper, unrolled it, and discovered that it was a neatly presented sign with a crayon picture of a ferry and the words, "Must Catch Ferry in Picton". Some charitable person had obviously hoped that chance might do a stranger a kind turn if they left behind their good work, as was no longer useful to their purpose. Laughing, we held up the sign and immediately caught a ride most of the way to Picton, to the city of Blenheim.

Our next ride from Blenheim to Picton was completely bizarre, and through the tool of introspection it allowed me to glimpse just how I might react in life-threatening situations. My companion and I were sitting next to our driver in the front seat of his medium sized truck. She was on my left, I was in the middle, and he, as the driver, was on my right. He then reached over, opened his glove-box, and to my utter disbelief, pulled out a revolver. It had happened that a young couple of much our own description had only several weeks before gone missing in the area under suspicion of extreme foul play, and so confronting a guy who was now in possession of a gun didn't seem to allow too much time for consideration. I felt myself recoil from head to toe with adrenaline as my body instinctively braced itself to the task of what I had to do. I am absolutely not a violent guy, but guns are life or death, my pride was charged with a young woman to protect, and I understood that immediate, violent action was our greatest chances for survival. I was micro-seconds away from launching at the guy with all my strength and with the objective of sending the truck off the road. I would have done all I could to tear the guy's head off.

So far, I believe my instincts were serving me well. I felt that the longer I left it, the sooner he would collect himself and assert his authority. What I was about to do offered my best chances of taking him by surprise. However, two observations tempered this energy. First, I noticed through all this that he was holding the gun almost backwards. Considering this, I resolved not to give him time to put finger to trigger, but at the same time not to commence a very serious attack until he proceeded to do so. What if somehow this was only a stupid mistake?

It also happened that my companion's thoughts couldn't have been more opposite to my own, and I observed that in expressing her thoughts she somehow diffused the situation:
"Is that a real gun?", she oozed with childish admiration, and to my complete amazement. (How could she not feel threatened in this situation?)
"Err, no. It's just a toy", he replied; and I knew he was lying by his manner. He hadn't reached into the glove-box to pull out a toy gun, and in his voice I detected some satisfaction at the fact that my companion was impressed. I waited for the hand to grip the gun in the very manner that I was resolved to stop at all costs, but instead he placed it behind us. He then provided the pathetic explanation that he had removed the gun from the glove box so as not to scare us in case we came across it. (As if we would go through his glove-box in front of him; and as if his having produced a gun in this way was not already frightening!)

So we learnt during our drive from Blenheim to Picton that he was carrying the gun, which we were now to understand was authentic and loaded after all, in order to kill some thief who had set fire to and burned down his house (which also happened to be completely uninsured). As we completed our short journey, the situation seemed less and less threatening, and we even parted on friendly terms. If the guy had lost all his property, I can possibly empathise with some rather peculiar exhibitionism. Still, this experience showed me what I could not otherwise have known: whether I am to be hysterical or collected in life threatening situations; whether or not I would go down without a fight; whether I am a man or a mouse. Return to: limbo



Cairns Hitch
(From: australia)

The hitchhike and then the job on the boat made for highly interesting times.

The hike itself, lasting around three weeks in the company of a German friend of mine named Claudia, was of approximately the same distance as if I were to hitchhike across America from Mexico to Canada. It involved some very interesting rides with some very interesting people - sometimes truck drivers, sometimes hippies, sometimes lawyers high on cannabis, sometimes male divorcees harbouring extreme grievances against a system that severely prejudiced against them and in favour of their ex-wives - and by the time I finally made it to Cairns I was down to dollars and cents.

Seeing that the backpacker season was in full swing, and surmising it unlikely that I would soon find work anywhere touristy, I decided to try my luck at the wharves. Trawler fishermen with wooden legs and eye patches came out as I called from boat to boat, but no one was looking for unexperienced crew... well, that was until I tried the last boat. A gruff and tough middle aged man asked me if I knew how to scuba dive. I said no. Had I worked on boats before? I said kind of. Would I fancy going out on the barrier reef and diving for Bechedemer? I said, whatever that is, it sounds like fun!

For about a month I lived quite the life of a sea adventurer. We would go out to various parts of the reef for about a week at a time, living within the confines of our mother ship, and during the day searching for Sea Cucumbers - black slugs about the size and shape of slightly squashed rugby balls - from the back of little outboard-motor powered dinghies. After about a week, having lifted enough of these things from the reef, we would head back into a nearby harbour (Cairns, Port Douglas or Cooktown), and hand them over to a fisheries' company.

I have some especially interesting stories to tell from this time. The first one involves simply the manner by which we went about catching the slugs. We would go out in our dinghies and practically mow the reef as one mows a lawn. Taking turns, one of us would steer, whilst the other would dangle in the water from a line at the back of the boat, wearing mask, snorkel and flippers, and searching below for any signs of the black and stationary sea cucumbers. Upon seeing some, the diver would take a breath, dive down and grab them (the depth being between half a metre and ten metres or more, depending on the tide), and then haul them onto the dinghy, where they would often proceed to ooze out their stomachs (I believe because of the sudden change in pressure). Once on the mother ship, we had to cut and gut them, and then fill them with a handful of salt, which acted as a preserver. Some reefs were pretty much level and consistent, but other reefs were as much reef as dark, bottomless holes, and upon being dragged across these holes like bait from a line, one's sense of being food for the sharks did much to stimulate the imagination. (Consider, at this point, the theme-song to Jaws.)

The next yarn involves killing a shark. The boys used to spend their evenings dangling fishing lines off the back of the mother boat. These boys were hard Queenslanders, and I came to think of them as pirates on account of their spending half their on-shore time in police cells for drunk-and-disorderly behaviour. Adding to this impression was the fact that two of these guys made a habit of doodling crude, rough and appallingly random images into their flesh, much as we did at school when I was about eleven years old. Thing was, these guys were using homemade tattoo guns. Their doodles were permanent! Once advising one pirate of a spelling mistake, I watched fascinated as he attempted to discuise the error by manipulating the offending letter into the form of a serpent.

Well, on the night of the shark, they exposed a major inconsistency in my sense of morals. Having declined the honour of killing a rottweiler sized shark that they had dragged onto the mother boat (and considering the teeth on the thing, I'd prefer the bite of any dog any day), on the grounds that I don't like killing animals, they very simply confounded me by asking whether I planned to eat some of it. They made a simple point: if you eat meat, you are killing animals. Surely, a man should be willing to do what he would have others do for him. Cornered, I went out there and put an end to the shark with a hammer. The challenge was appalling, as the shark thrashed about with such vicious energy as I have never otherwise seen (except perhaps on one of my darling mother's bad days), and it took several very heavy thumps to the head even to daze the thing. Not an experience I am ever likely to forget.

In my life, sometimes when the shit hits the fan, it really hits the fan! This next part of my story took me in the space of a day from fending off a pirate's homosexual advances, to fighting to keep myself from being thrown to the crocodiles, to hitching back to Cairns with no money (whereupon I ended up spending time in a night-shelter).

The gay pirate had seemed odd from the start, but we were all pretty odd, so he was not strikingly out of place. Short, bearded, long-haired, hunched, white, weak, and with nipples protruding from odd directions, I had noticed him eyeing me up a couple of times but I hadn't believed it was under such intentions. (The sense of masculinity on the boat was overridden only by the foul body odour of our skipper, and so my guard was quite at its lowest.)

One day, we anchored in Cooktown to avoid a major storm that was blowing through. The pirate and I had been playing pool in a local bar and now we sat overlooking the bay, waiting to be seen by the others on the boat (so that they would come ashore and collect us), and discussing the topic of the female G-spot. I'm not quite sure that I can see the relationship here, but the next thing I knew was that he had plunged his hand straight down into the front of my pants and grabbed hold of my penis. It was so shocking that I could not comprehend the situation for several seconds and it was all that I could do to literally attempt to shoo him away as if shooing away a fly.

Having found me flaccid, he at this point seemed to realise that we were thinking along completely different lines, but having already committed himself I think he saw nothing to lose in trying to persuade me around to his intentions. The next thing he said was, "Can I give you a blow job?", and so for five minutes I had to fight off his arguments ("Are you worried about someone finding out? ... Don't worry; I won't tell anyone! ... Do you believe God will punish you?", etc), until he eventually went off alone into the bushes to relieve himself of his obvious frustrations.

Back on the mother ship, it was only the smelly skipper, an unknown stranger, a Gin, the gay pirate (whose frequent glances implored me to say nothing), and I. The other pirates were off partying on a nearby fishing trawler. The Gin (an aboriginal term for an aboriginal woman) lay comatose on the floor as a result of a lot of alcohol and (as I was told) marijuana. She had been invited on the boat by a now absentee pirate, and, as it was now necessary to find her a place to sleep, she was much the topic of conversation.

Now it is to be understood that I was not feeling particularly composed after what I had just experienced on shore, and it is to be inferred that the pirates and their skipper were not much in the intellectual stakes, and so what followed was probably as a result of this unfortunate blend. With it being necessary for someone to give up their sleeping space as a display of hospitality to the Gin, the skipper was making the point that this person should be the pirate who had brought her onto the boat. With this, I quite agreed, but I was perhaps being more than a little pretentious (considering my company) when I somehow used the word hypothetical in my attempt to express that I agreed with the skipper...

"Don't call me bloody-HYPER-bloody-PATHETIC!", the smelly skipper roared at me, as he then came flying at me with hay-bail punches. (Naturally, I had called him nothing of the sort.) I then had to fight back just to keep him from succeeding in his attempt to throw me to the crocodiles (who were not to be seen, but may have been around).

With the main story told, I will cut the rest of it short. I have said that all these experience were part of working for a month on a diving boat off the Great Barrier Reef in Northern Queensland, Australia. I have also said that both the gay pirate and the skipper came on to me in very different ways on the very same night. Out of fear for my personal safety and the safety of my belongings - some of which had already found themselves thrown overboard at the skipper's hand - I said goodbye to the others that night. They all felt terrible about what had happened. The next day, I hitchhiked all the way from Cooktown down to Cairns, and for three weeks I roughed it in a night-shelter without a penny to my name - there are no pennies in Australia anyway! - until I eventually found work in the kebab shop that I have already mentioned. Return to: australia


Jonny B Harman. 29 Feb 2004, 02 Sept 2004

From here, either return to my Bio, or go directly to my Journal on China. Photos from this time can be found under Life in my photo albums, as can further links to other various Journal pages and the countries in which I have since taught.