I’m no Chevy Chase.
February 6, 2008
Filed under:"H" for "Toy"
While I am typically never one to turn something BIG and FREE down when offered, my time being married with children has taught me a little bit about restraint. I’m still weak though, and when a man like my father-in-law, who is as afflicted as I perhaps worse, turned down his neighbour’s offer of a pop-up caravan for whomever would tow it away, I knew that this was a quality opportunity.
I wasn’t sure it would fly with the Wife though, so I went in thinking that there was a solid likelihood that it wouldn’t happen, as there just isn’t enough space on our property, too much work, it’ll eat up all my “projecty” time, etc. I was prepared for any of these, so my heart pretty much leapt when she got as excited as I did and said something along the lines of, “Now we can tour the coast all Grey Nomad style!”
Even though I’m not ready to retire yet, we were stoked, and I towed the rotting and rusted hulk of mildew-smelling canvas home. It hadn’t been treated with the tenderest care of the past few years and, even though it was free to begin with, my ears immediately drowned out the excited cries of my children with the cha-chinging of a cash register.
Despite the cash needed to simply raise the beast’s societal rating from slightly above Gut-Churning Eyesore to Functional-Yet-WhyWouldYouDoThat, there was a buttload of manual labour involved too, and my back, knees, shoulders, even my upper spleen, were all crying out for a long holiday by the time the hulking monstrosity was ready for any attempt at accommodation.
Plus, it still smelled really bad.
Backbreaking efforts, combined with raw pains in the ass, combined with an almost militaristic strategic plan, had us ready to hit the road first thing on a Friday morning. Food was loaded, beds were made, we’d even fashioned a keep-baby-in area, and the kids had tested the structural integrity of every square inch of the inside through vigorous Climb-On-Bloody-Everything-While-Yelling tests.
As the sun set on the day, I sipped my beer and revelled in the idea that not more than a month ago, somebody said, “Hey, want a free caravan?” and I said, “That’s a real hunk of shit isn’t it?
I thought about when Wife were still in the midst of trying to pull off Christmas Miracles and, being armed with this weapon of relaxation, we felt compelled to plan a date and take that bad boy a-motorin. It was almost as if we simply had to by virtue of the fact that we were in possession of this… thing.
Morning came, kids happily and wonderfully chipped in with whatever task I could set them to, loading such necessities as the baby’s favourite toy, Giraffalopolous, and Jackie Chan DVDs (I told ‘em that the laptop could function as entertainment in the car ONLY as the 3-hour drive was quite daunting). Wife and I prepped children and each other, and we rolled out of the driveway.
32 feet later, I realised that when I bought a new jockey wheel (that little fella in the front of trailers that you can wind down and push the gooseneck up off your hitch with and then roll the trailer around) I had installed it according to where the old one had been. Since I am known for getting the cheapest item I can find and “making it work” I had missed the fact that two different sized wheels shouldn’t be installed in exactly the same way. I was alerted to this fact by the clunking and grinding noises, and by the fact that the entire car was shaking like an old dog shitting a peach pit.
One minute later, a wrench, a few curious yet forgiving neighbours cruising by, some cursing and then a smile, and we were on our way. Our jockey wheel’s pride was stinging a bit, not being able to show off as the only shiny new thing on the entire outside of the caravan any more, but he was game. We smoothly made our way to Nanny and Poppy’s to drop off the dog. Wife’s mum tends to overdo things a bit, but her intentions are good. She hooked us up with some interestingly well-suited cookware and we were off.
8 feet later, with the help of my father-in-law, we realised that none of the lights or signals were working. Driving may be a bit more of an adventure than we’d planned if we can’t actually tell others which way we’re turning, or that we’re stopping and that they may not wish to blend their car with our gigantic ass-end in an instantaneous fashion.
2 hours later, we were going to bop to the auto parts store and fork out some of the Holiday Cash on tail lights and indicators, when Poppy goes to turn the key in the ignition and says, “Hey!You can use those!” pointing to his dilapidated old 2-wheel trailer’s set of ugly, yet functional, lights.
1 hour later, slightly gunky from rotted worms that were once electric wires, and we were on our way for real.
Our destination was Jurien Bay, ~200 km North of Perth on the coast, and despite that there’s a highway about 30 km off the coast that goes straight there, we wanted to follow the coastline up, a la Route 66, and scout out some of the touristy hotspots.
This is WA though, and nothing ever seems to be as I expect it should be in my rational and logical little mind, so even the “coastal” route wasn’t really on the coast, and the multiple turnoffs for the beachside towns were too far for us to determine if those spots were indeed hot. By the time we reached Lancelin and went all the way into the town for gas and some directions (uh yeah, I managed to leave the map at home), we found out that there actually is no road that follows the coast between Lancelin and Jurien.
“You’ll hafta head back out past the construction and make for the Highway” I was told. After I asked if they sold maps, I was presented with a photocopied and hand-drawn sketch of the area with the twists and shimmies that would get me North in the most expeditious fashion.
“So, after the construction eh?”
“Yep, then onto KV and then Sappers, Orange Grove, SomeOtherRoad, MoreTurns, and then RULostYet. ”
“Sheezus. I don’t suppose ‘the construction’ is for a road that actually connects us is it?”
A shrug and an empty-gazed smile told me that the bit of scrap paper was as good as it was going to get.
The kids were road-weary, the trailer was heavy, everyone including the car was tired, and my stress levels were rising as fast as I could witness the gas gauge dropping as Ex-mobile laboured with our portable house.
We rolled into Jurien ~6 minutes before the caravan park closed and checked in. The assurance that I was being given a prime spot was just short of a wink and a nudge, and I felt like we were getting a bit of a hookup, even if I had no idea what a “Bouncy Pillow” was. The children left little cartoon clouds of vapour the second we’d pulled to a stop, leading me to believe that at least they knew what it was.
Happily clambering about and setting up our bulky, awkward, and somewhat ridiculous-looking caravan, I realised that we’d paid for a site with electricity, yet I had… wait for it… forgot the extension cord. A quick trip to the IGA, ~6 minutes before THEY closed, a stop at the liquor store for something to wash away 3 and a half hours in our car, and we were all set to spend the night soothed by the easy sounds of late 70’s/early 80’s bogantastic rock from our neighbours and the intermittent screeching of yet another child bullied and bounced off of the infamous “Bouncy Pillow” (our boy made 3 trips to the caravan with reports of unfairness before I wandered over, flexed, and stated my preferences for his safety loudly and Americanly to several of the 20-odd children there).
4 hours later, it’s just past midnight and we (Wife and I) are awakened by the whoop-whooping of some happy-go-lucky teens, out for a late evening stroll and surely not up to trouble. At all.
3 hours later, in the wee hours of the AM, and our cleverly-dubbed “Magic Ship” has apparently hit some choppy waves. To keep worries down and excitement up, Wife has told the children that we’re setting sail at bedtime and will wake up somewhere after an exciting, if not bumpy, sleep-filled ride. Her promise did not disappoint, and the coastal winds have certainly made me feel like a genuine pirate alright.
2 and three-quarter hours later, and the poorly-compressioned V8 engine cranks to life, needing only constant revving and grinding gear changes to stay in idle. It stops, and in it’s place is a conversation between two gravelly inconsiderate men regarding certain personality traits of a mutual acquaintance. Not one for rash behaviour, I stayed in bed and simply fumed sleepily with Wife. The clincher, as it seems to be with me, is when the kids and the baby stir.
I popped my head out of the caravan like it was an audition for the show about meerkats on Channel Ten, with a terse and pointed, “You fellas gonna be long?”
If you’ll allow yourself to follow your instincts at this moment, then when I describe the fat and aging angler, you’ll see him perfectly as you have 100 times before. Balding, with the remaining more-salt-than-pepper hair close-cropped, thick glasses mounted on a bulging and veiny nose, ruddy and sunburned neck disappearing under a polo shirt embroidered with either a fishing company’s logo, HIS company’s logo, or the tavern where he plays darts, drinks too much, and thinks the waitress is adroitly hiding her secret and burning passion for him. Mount this on a distended belly that only beer can create, twist on a pair of khaki shorts, and plug in a couple of whitened and wiry sticklegs, fit for carrying this swollen caricature around.
There you go, you’ve got it. Multiply it by two, add a touch of facial hair and a hat, and subtract about 15 pounds and some shoulders, and you’ve got a couple of fellas that couldn’t have looked more matter-of-fact about disturbing me than if I had just been hit by their retardedly combusting bushbasher of a truck while standing in the middle of the road.
The intensity of my gaze lent seriousness to the situation, and they were cautious when the said, “Wazzat?”
“Oh,” I began again ever-so-politely, “I was just wondering how long you’re going to be, out here, so I can plan my day accordingly. ”
The matter-of-factness circles their heads until they almost become puzzled when the fat one says to me, “It’s quarter of mate, all the boats are going out. “The latter half of his sentence was lilted towards the condescending end of the spectrum.
I mean, how could I NOT know that the boats went out at 5:45 AM?
“Okay super,” the bite in my voice was back in force, “well I’ve got two kids and a baby here trying to sleep. Should I just get ‘em up now?”I delivered this last bit quite sincerely, as if quarter-of-six boat-leavers were just part of The Experience, and I wouldn’t want to deprive my children of a second of it.
“No, no, mate, you’re alright!” he said, almost relieved that I wasn’t going to make too much of a fuss.
I nodded vigorously, gave him a hearty thumbs up (nearly swapping one digit for another, more convenient, one) and shut the door. Wife grumbled a bit about “fishing azzholes” and told me that I’d handled the situation well, if not bitingly smartassedly, and the fact that I can be quite imposing was a real turn-on, which was exactly what I needed to hear.
My undoubtedly subtle message was apparently received, and it was somehow managed that the boat was hooked up and hauled away without another word of conversation. Interestingly enough, even the shoddy V8 revving was slightly subdued.
12 minutes later, in one of those instances that leads you to believe that you just aren’t going to catch a break, the instant “the boats” left the seagulls came. The warm streaks in the sky, signalling dawn of a spectacular new day, were apparently too much for these majestic creatures to behold. They simply had to squawk about it. Loudly.
1 hour later, by the time that the morning activities were cleared to begin for all, or maybe possibly an hour before they were cleared, they began. Things like sleep and food were once again secondary for our 5 and nearly 7 year olds, for the Bouncy Pillow beckoned. Things like sleep and quiet were mere ghosts in our small world, and a slightly scowly baby and a giant cup of coffee were the new realities.
By the time we’d packed it all back up, chastised the ADD 5-year old for constantly wandering away and into strangers camping areas, released the excess pressure from our oldest’s Yippee Valve, and bid goodbye to the whitest trashiest of our neighbours, we were seriously looking forward to the beach.
While checking out, I contemplated how much to divulge about our nocturnal disturbances to the desk staff, instead deciding to simply keep my opinions to myself and rant about later. Here. On Teh Intraweb. Where I can tell everyone our experience with the Jurien Bay Caravan Park*.
*Watch out for how long it takes me to hit #3 in Google for that phrase. Hey, it’s what I DO fora living.
40 feet later, we’d reached the beachside carpark and docked our hideous beast, ready to venture out into what promised to be the first of many picturesque and idyllic beaches. After our rough night and our limited time to enjoy Jurien Bay before heading south to the Pinnacles, we had figured that we wouldn’t need more than a brief “fix” of the white sandy beach there, as there were surely a plethora more awaiting us.
As it turns out…
We were wrong.
I think we’ve well established that I am a slackass, so some of you will notice this same post on my other site.
It’s called two birds with one update bitches, and there’s pictures over there. Feel special.
Tell others how much I fkn ROCK:
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |