stories beget stories

One of the stories on Sarah Toa’s blog made me think of a moment in my own life when I realised just how my mother saw me, a moment that probably set the parameters of our relationship for ever, at least from my perspective.

I was about 10 and my mum, brother and I had been on a day-trip to Garden Island. We were coming back on the old Temeraire ferry (which looked a bit like this one) It was really rough and I mean really, (when we got back the captain said it had been his worst crossing ever) There were seasick passengers everywhere. I loved to go up on the foredeck but it wasn’t as much fun as usual because my feet were sliding around in mixture of ocean and other people’s vomit.

We were all scared - my mum held onto my brother as the boat lurched and yawed. She sat us down, above deck on one of the slatted benches, and looked at us both seriously. She told my brother that if the boat capsized he should hang onto her poncho and not let go (this was the 70s and ponchos were popular). I waited nervously for directions but when they came, they didn’t make me feel any better. She said to me: if the boat goes over, get as far away from it as you can - and swim. That was it. I was the eldest child by only a year but that comment confirmed what I had felt. I had been cut loose. Even at that age I could assess that although I was a really strong swimmer, the roughness of the sea probably wouldn’t give me a chance to test my skill.

As an adult I understand my mother’s dilemma and can forgive her, but that incident hardened something in me, strengthened my survival instincts and made me more self protective. Most of the time that has been a good thing.

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