The long distance forecast was shaping up for a perfect fit for the weekend on Moreton. The white and marshmallow yellow zones of little to no wind on the BOM marine site were staying put as Saturday came closer. It was shaping up for a difficult decision as what to do with an elderly Abbysinian cat who shares his home with us.
If owners are like their pets, I am not too sure what this says about me. Mistakenly called Rimsky (Sir Scrapalot would have been more apt) he is a peculiar and opinionated feline. While he portrays the epitome of cool calm indifference, the reality could not further from the truth. He is a control freak and does not tolerate changes to his routine, last weekend being a case in
point. Instead of taking him several suburbs away for his usual cat spa with Mark's aunt (for which they both have the rules of engagement well sorted), for the first time we left him in the
care of our neighbours. You would think he would be happy, in his
own home being looked after by kids who simply adore him. He is their Claytons cat, a bit like they have been our Claytons kids. Despite their frequent visits, heaps of fuss and attention, he was listless, refused to eat, came running everytime the side gate opened and spent most of his time siting forlornly looking
in through the backdoor. He was really upset and there was nothing they could do to console him. He even lost weight. Life only got better when we turned into the driveway. One 400g tin of cat food, 200g of chicken were wolfed down (then puked). He would never let us out of his sight. He was truly rattled. He was on his best behaviour with no more screaming demands for a
feed at 2am (this new rule of engagement was the reason he was
not taken back to the cat spa).
It was with mixed feelings that we watched the BOM marshmallow yellow spread, it was as fluid as the dominant ginger male. Sprawled in the sun he monitored all household activities for any aberrant or suspicious behaviour. But the BOM prevailed. We waited until Friday night to put the sleeping bags out on the spare bed in an attempt to minimise the time for accelerated anxiety. A large plate of fresh chicken was proffered as an apology on Saturday morning and we ran out the door.
However, turns out there was no need. This is a smart cat. Once Aliki came over he knew the score. It was home alone feline style and he lived life to his pleasing. Brian pulled up as our company to paddle from Wynnum Creek to Moreton. Seems like Rimsky had gifted any anxiety about the
start of the weekend to Brian. Yet there was no rush for this crew.
The tide slowly crept over the mud while the open waters sparkled under the caress of a slight SW. The new set up for the wheels worked a charm and the lightly laden boats were soon adrift.
It was perfect as promised. A bit more wind and it would have been heavenly sailing. Instead the sails provided an effective sunvisor, that was until the sun got too high. The breeze was fickle leaving us to thud and scud across a myriad of jellies that pimpled the surface. An occasional loggerhead, several clearly ancient and at little risk of selecting a plastic bag for the plethora of jellies that now swam in platoons 10 feet below the surface. We made for the NE lagoon of Mud Island for AM tea and a leg stretch. For the first time the seagrass floor of the lagoon was clearly visible but these was no
time for a casual exploration. A jet skier was fishing in the entrance to the lagoon. Seemed like an odd juxtaposition but not unusual according to the rider who agreed to having his picture taken.
As we glided towards the white sandy beacon the water became limpid. It was oily with a mesmerising frequency that makes mountains out of ripples and sways Mark with an invisible rhythm towards nausea. A mangled dorsal fin of a solitary dolphin and
jelly pimples were the only breeches of the surface. The colour was deep emerald, strikingly clear with the suggestion of golden sandy wrinkles across a barren sea floor.
Our timing was impeccable. We landed within 200m of camp. Brian had to wait to see why we were so pleased. He had not been here before. The kayak wheels which had been so
successful were about to become a crashing failure. Farmers knots
and wet rope set the scene for one half to let go with smashing results. Mark's laden boat (fortunately the kayak built to take such punishment) slammed into the sand and the stainless steel ring critical to the way the design worked was flung to be
swallowed by the sand. Bugger. I was looking forward to "showing off" how great the set up is. Talk about pride
before your fall. Time to swallow some puff, do a jury rig or
gratefully accept the offer of a trolley.
The rest of the crew were well set up, although there was some
surprising proximity of tents - I guess that could happen when you go for prime real estate with water views. To my amazement no one had watched the sunset from the sandhills last night. Is this not the very reason for coming here ? It was too cold, they were too tired and 19:30 too late for that kind of caper.
Tonight everyone was filled with energy, and chatter as a great array of nibbles did the circle, to which I added a bowl of innocuous looking peas. Maybe I should have said something, but there was no time for Peter had just downed generous sample of these wasabe numbers and blew an expletive that brought the group to immediate attention. Oops, I hadn't thought that such little green things
could split a group asunder and create so much mirth. They were so potent that some people simply refused to pass them on, too bad because others in the group really liked them.
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