5 years ago I did not know anything about sailing, if there were 100 possible things to know about sailing in order to be the complete practical and theoretical sailor, I knew comfortably less than 0.1%


Now, there is a chance I’ve come all the way up to a percent, it’s been a big 5 years. Nearly all 1 percent of my sailing knowledge is about what teenagers from the north shore of Sydney do when they are put into one specific type of boat and asked to sail between Balmain and Greenwich. This, I know about.


Something I learnt about recently is 18ft Skiff racing in the Sydney Harbour. On a bright Sunday afternoon, with a strong breeze, Chris took us out into the middle of a race fleet. It’s the kind of thing that doesn’t seem like it should be allowed. Yet there we were, amidst a very fast Skiff race.


The way this particular sailing craft works requires all 3 sailors to attach harnesses and “stand” on the very outer edge of the frame. I say “stand” because whilst they are in a standing posture, they’re also completely horizontal, literally parallel with the water. Observe the image attached. Spectacular!


My main learning though from the race was beyond the physical courage and skill required to sail these boats, I drifted on to other broader ideas. Each 18ft Skiff seemed to take a slightly different line around the course as they looked for more wind, tried to block the wind of their competitors or tacked around the harbour. From our vantage point in the middle of it all there were times when the race leader seemed to be behind the boats chasing and vice versa.


The nature of the open race course; with multiple avenues to round each mark, the shifting nature of the wind and tide and the quite large distances they were travelling, combined to create moments of complete uncertainty about relative positions.


It felt totally reflective of life and the uncertainty of forces that shape the race and our relative position. It’s confusing and deceptive when you look around the harbour and see that everyone is charging off on their own adventure, looking for their version of the best course. It can be hard to judge where you’re at and the best way to chase the goal.


Sometimes it feels like you’ve got space and time to look around and read the conditions, other times you’ve just got to trust the harness, lean out over the water and hold on.


There we go, I might be up to 1.1% of all possible sailing wisdom. All the best to the people in a ex-cyclone right now.


Thanks for the cruise and the lessons Chris.

I stayed up too late on Saturday night, not the responsible thing to do. We were up the coast at a beach house. Both families had successfully gotten to kids to bed. There was a bit of red wine, some chocolate. Then a bit of whisky.


Anyway, at about 10pm it was just me and Pete left charging - sedately on the couch to be honest. It was the decision point of the night, where either you, sensibly, pack it up and get a good nights rest, or you kick on and wake up tired at 5:30am with beach ready kids knocking on your temple.


We were talking about frisbee, an upcoming tournament and how the draw would be best worked. 8 teams, 5 games each, 3 fields, a showcase game at lunch. You know how it is, exciting possibilities. The tipping point of the night, we tipped. Out came the spreadsheet, laptop keys flying; columns, colours, formulas. At midnight I succumbed; enough fun! It’s good.


The draw though, chefs kiss. It’s going to be a top tournament. Worth the big night.

Most mornings I wake up to the sound of claws on the floor. Clickity clack, clickity clack, clicky clack. Evie the dachshund is 17 years old now. She doesn’t walk around too much anymore, but when she does, I hear it.


The floor upstairs is timber, downstairs - timber. The stairs, yes mam - timber.


Clickety clack, clickity clack, clickity clack. I hear it more with my feelings than with my ears. It’s loaded, we’ve a lot of history.


On Sunday I tried to read while the kids made Lego. Somewhere in the back of my consciousness I heard Evie shuffle down the stairs and clickity clack across the room. Heading out to the bathroom 5% of my brain thought.


Except that Evie wasn’t in the house. She was away with Jacqui for the weekend. It’s a funny old existence sometimes.


Clickity clack, clickity clack.

Pino was an Italian teenager when his family moved to Sydney in the 1960s. They immigrated to Leichhardt along with thousands of other Italians, it was the ‘Italian’ suburb. Pino was a musician; guitar and piano. As he learned English and tried to adjust, music allowed him to communicate and work. He was successful to a point, and even describes playing on a stage inside the Opera House 50 years ago.


He also recalls walking down the street in our country and people saying to him “speak English you fucking wog.” He relates the story with an extremely grating nasal accent, I can hear the vitriol and associated pain every time he recreates the episode, which were presumably repeated episodes. Pino loves Italy, he returns to visit every other year. There are postcards all around his barber shop from Firenze, Bari, Venezia, Positano and Roma - it’s his main decor. He smokes, speaks with his hands pulsing in front of his heart, calls me Michele when I arrive for a haircut and offers me a Limoncello which his wife has made from their lemon tree at home. It’s the best I’ve ever had.


Pino also loves Australia. It’s his country, his 3 daughters grew up here and have had excellent starts to life. He knows it’s an amazing place to be and he jealously guards the Australia he knows, even from Australians to think it should change.


Making a living as a musician wasn’t a strong option so Pino became a hairdresser in Leichhardt 35 years ago. For 35 years he cut and styled hair in the neighbourhood. At one stage a longstanding client was the NSW Governors wife. When Queen Elizabeth toured, the Governor, and his wife hosted them around Sydney, including a trip to the Opera house. Pino was invited to go along to help keep Mrs. Governor’s hair on point during the day. On the tour with the Queen.


When Dani and I immigrated to Leichhardt 10 years ago. I needed to get a hair cut, so I walked into Pino’s single-chair barbershop on the main street. He cut my hair and told me about all the things Italians invented. Include the telephone, Alexander Graham Bell ‘stole’ the idea, took credit and the American patent from Antonio Meucci.


Pino has some views on society that I found outdated and belligerent. He is also a fascinating character and a part of Australia’s story. It’s a great story and has deeply shameful elements.


Pino is gone. This month he shut his shop and left. After 35 ears, Leichhardt changed a little bit. A different man, a young man is cutting hair in the same single-chair room now.


Time moves slowly and change comes in increments. Sometimes though stories takes a leap and suddenly things are visibly different. Like the wrinkles around a person’s eyes, or the height of a tree, it can be hard to notice the way everything slowly shifts. Occasionally, the relentless change of time is brought into sharp focus with a major shift.


We’ve got to change, that is how stories go. It’s always happening.

Grazie Mille Pino. Perfezione.

At 6am most of the team was beginning to stir in their beds in Sydney. We had to be up the mountain before 8:30 to start the walk on time. It’s a long walk: 19km with 2 big descents and 2 big climbs.


At 6am in Adelaide 2 members of the team were taking off. Their flight the night before was delayed then cancelled. They’d trudged home late, rebooked, and gotten up in the dark with the dream of catching the team. We were going on a team building walk up Mount Solitary. If we made the summit through the rain and messy track we’d discuss our values, elect our captains and come off the mountains as a team.

It had been windy, cold and wet. The mist was low and the track damp when the 20 person group started walking. A few minutes later the Adelaide boys stepped off their flight. In the 1.5 hour taxi between the airport and the dirt road trail head, they read the hike plan and prepared for a struggle.


They would need to complete the 9km outbound leg, along a tight single file trail, without perfect directions, one and a half hours faster than the main group in order to join in the important team moments.


We knew they were coming. At obvious places the team build arrows out of sticks. Coach Dani hung her hat on tree and a spare red whistle on a fallen log as the trail became obscured by fallen leaves and branches. We walked on wondering if they could do it.


Back in the woods they surged on. With minimal food they took no stops and settled into their chase. A system developed, they took turns in the lead; scanning the trail to stay on track and setting the pace while the other just had to keep up.


There is a tricky section when the track dumps out into an open creek bed, the water was flowing happily in the creek and raining gently at times. The trail disappears and the way is to cross a giant fallen tree and rediscover the path as it climbs up the opposite bank.


From there it’s all up on the way to the summit, a long steady climb from the water to the sky. The final steep section had slowed the big group down. We stopped for breaks, muscles tightened and called out at the continued stepping up and up. The track hits rocky sections and is hard to follow in places, particularly given the leaf and stick debris which had fallen over the last few days.


There is a scramble section to a false summit, back on the chase, they continued to wonder if they were on the correct path and how far they have to go. They’d already made 3 mistakes and backtracked, correctly, to save the attempt and not get too lost. It was hot and humid, everything wet, they were shirts off and charging. The marks were working, they’d already found the hat and the red whistle. The boys continued, pushing up the steepest section, blowing the whistle and hoping.


On the summit the team had eaten lunch, shared some stories and stood around in the drizzle for a while. Dani headed back down the trail to find our last teammates. Stalling for time before we started the important team discussions we broke for 10 minutes. We all wondered if they’d be able to make it.


Slow heavy drips gathered on leaves and fell sporadically, all around a wall of dense white cloud surrounded our clearing and muffled the sound.


Then a tree rustled, the sound of thumping feet and heavy breathing. Dan and Oscar burst around a corner and into a circle of team. Greeted by cheers and 20 happy faces, they folded into the group. Handshakes and hugs, questions, congratulations and heavy breathing. They were blowing from the climb, wet with sweat, mist and rain. Triumphant from a chase completed and relieved to not be lost on the side of a mountain.


It was a legitimate struggle: from the late night decision to book the early flight, through reduced sleep, fatigued decision making and physical strain, fast along the trail. The reward was significant. Both for the 2 chargers, and for the team. It was a statement loud and clear. The team is worth your best effort. Just to be part of the group warrants sacrifice and powerful persistence.


The team building walk was a success, the sun even came out so the captains could talk in brilliant warm light. It was probably always going to be a great way to begin forging our team. Due to the slightly mythic effort of 2 young men, and the respect and deference offered by the team, it was enhanced on all measures.


All morning my mind was playing scenes from this movie. As the chase through the beautiful landscape was on. “No matter how long, no matter how far, I will find you.” The Last of the South Australians.

Commodore George Anson was on a mission to challenge and defeat a Spanish fleet and capture their treasure galleon. He was a flag captain on H.M.S. Centurion in 1740.


He set off with 2000 British sailors and marines in 6 ships to round the Horn of Africa and take the European war into the pacific.


In 2 years of sailing and struggling, including shipwrecks, scurvy, chaos, shocking storms and accidents, the fleet was reduced down to 1 ship and 250 men. From 2000!


To save the whole endeavour he sought the Spanish treasure ship, Covadonga in waters near the Philippines. If the English found her, it would be a desperate battle of floating timber fortresses in the wild of the ocean. “Prepare or perish” he stated as the Centurion patrolled the far side of the world. His crew did.

It’s a sensational line; prepare or perish. A central theme, a value to guide their efforts. A mantra to live and strive by. Prepare or perish.


There is a popular theme in Australian Frisbee teams at the moment. Each team identifies a trio of words to guide their campaign, behaviour and play. 3 Values. Everyone does it, the senior teams, the men, the women, the U24s, probably the U20s as well. Less so the Masters age, it’s a different vibe with the over age types.

The first time I ever heard of a triumvirate of values was from the undisputed champions of 2009-2013 San Fransisco Revolver. Everyone knew Revolver and everyone had heard their Intensity, Humility, Discipline values set.

The first time I experienced anything like that myself was in my last Aussie Dingoes team in 2016. We built an Excellence, Passion, Community framework and measured ourselves against it at every evening meeting. In the same year the Women’s team had a Form, Fire, Focus shorthand for their team dynamic.


It’s taken as a given these days with most National frisbee teams, that you’ve got to choose your version of core values, and craft your frisbee business on those pillars. I have a gnawing fear that as a community we’re straying dangerously close to cliché territory.


I do believe it is critical that a team has a shared vision, a united purpose and accessible language to guide and measure their culture. I also think this could take a number of forms. Three values could be the answer, but so could a slogan or a statement, perhaps a code of conduct, a ‘no dickheads policy’ even. It’s actually not the words that matter so much as the actions that happen in the small quiet moments at training, in the kitchen and in the down time with teammates. As well as at 10-all in your elimination quarter final when you’ve got to get a block and a goal. What you do matters then too.


Culture is impactful, values are important. Teams and groups looking at each other and saying what is expected and what they’ll each do for the team is critical. The best form for that agreement should suit the team and suit the message.


Prepare or perish.

The name Whale shark doesn’t make sense. The animal is not a whale. It’s also barely a shark. Rhincodon typus, it’s a filter feeding giant. The biggest fish there is, eating tiny, filterable organisms. Shark? Whale? Fish.


It doesn’t make sense.


Something else that doesn’t make sense is Bondi Beach. It’s globally famous, is massively crowded, fairly expensive, not simple to get to and kind of a scene. It has a massive reputation to live up to - it feels to me that in a survey of people from overseas, asking them to name 1 place in Australia, Bondi would be the most often selected location. The hype level for that place is enormous.


What doesn’t make sense is that despite all that, sometimes it actually fills its own shoes, lives up to its billing and truely is a lovely part of the Sydney. Epic and magnificent really.


Today the parking was quick and free all morning. The traffic in was fine. The kids ocean pool was fun and safe, the rock shelf was not too spikey, the ocean water was clear and bracing without being cold. The waves were fun sized, there was space in the shade at the picnic table and the foot paths weren’t too hot.


It was the most excellent morning at the beach. On a hot Sunday in January at Bondi. In the end it all made perfect sense. Did even see any sharks.

The shoe guy said “do you want to wear those home?”
The boy nodded gleefully, jumped and said “yes”. When the old, tired and much loved running shoes hit the fresh crinkly paper of the new shoe box I felt a flood of nostalgia. I have clear childhood memories of what it was like to get a brand new pair of speed shoes.


I can picture the bright orange puffy tongue of a pair of LYNX brand tennis shoes I got as a 10 year old. I can feel the corrugated rubber ‘grip’ on the sole of a black and white pair of 80s high tops. I remember craving new shoes at times as a child; the bounce and life, the precise unpicked stitching down the upper, the bright space-shuttle white leather panels and the sharp new box they came in.

I know I wanted nice new shoes, I also remember not realising how beaten up and dodgy my old shoes were until they were placed inside that glorious new shoe box. The contrast suddenly revealed how decrepit the olds had become and how nice and fresh the new wheels were going to be. I thought about these visceral memories as my boy literally sprinted through the shopping centre in his brand new speedies.


I’ve been away from home for 10 days, travelling around, staying with Christmas friends and Christmas family. I’ve been in other people’s lives and homes and will be back in my little world tomorrow. It makes me think about my routines and habits. The systems and patterns of my life and which ones look a bit shabby and frayed. I recon there are some things that could be put into the shoe box of an upgraded option. Maybe only then I’ll be able to see how dated they’ve become. It’s easy to make a choice or have a reaction because it’s the way you’ve been doing it.


It might be great to try on some fresh new shoes and feel how they grip.

We’re standing in line at a local thrift shop, it is a strange place to teach a boy about irony. Now, irony is hard to explain to anyone, anywhere. It’s particularly difficult in a shop full of cheep stuff to a 7 year old.


Perhaps you’re trying now, in your head, to explain the concept of irony. What would you say?


“It’s like when you mean one thing, but you say the opposite.” “Irony is when there is a humorous or irreverent twist on the truth.” “It could be one thing but it’s not, it’s something else, but the particular something else is specific in comparison to all the other somethings that it could have been.” How ironic.


It’s like rain on your wedding day.
It’s the free ride when you’re already there.
It’s the good advice which you just didn’t take.


You know, it was hard for Alanis too.


Anyway, the boy had chosen a toy for $5, it was called Charade and came in a square box. This isn’t charades, but some other game of tricks and subterfuge. As we were standing in line to buy the game he started to gently shake the box. It’s a second hand store, this is good policy. After a gentle shake, I watched his brow furrow, then he shook it harder.


The rattle was wrong. Not enough action. I watched him pry the corner and peek. The furrow deepened. The box was empty. Charade was missing some kind of square toy inside. The box was a trick, a gambit. This game of Charade was actually a charade itself. A classic case of irony. We put the empty box back and walked out a little richer in understanding.


Probably.

I like the idea of being quite honest as a parent, to our kids. We don’t try to hide too much of the reality from them. We use the anatomical names to describe bodies, in fact I’m ready to go on the sex Ed. talk whenever they are.


It’s 1 week from Christmas and the whole of society (children’s society) is in love with the Santa Claus fantasy. With our first, we went pretty early on the joyful, magical, fictional story of Christmas. A great story, like Harry Potter, not real though. I don’t know if it took any of the fun away from it for him, he’s certainly always been pumped about the toys under the tree and talks about Santa flying his slay in a similar way to other children.


He did though break the basic rule and told some other kid about the Santa myth. Big mistake. I had asked him not to do that, but he was 4. A parent at his daycare that December referred to him as a ‘dream wrecker’, presumably after their son came home talking “Paterson says Santa doesn’t…”


Sorry.


We’re back in the fun of Christmas again as the three year old is spotting Santa all over town and is super pumped about it. “IT’S SANTA CLAWS” is hollered delightfully from the back seat on virtually every drive at the moment.


I keep meaning to re-brief the dream wrecker on the situation this year, however a strange thing seems to be happening. It seems like he’s sliding further towards believing the story, rather than further away. I think having a little sister who is all the way bought in, or perhaps the fundamental joy of such a magic and personally profitable story is reeling him back in.


It is a great story and a real fun part of Christmas with kids. All that anticipation and then the overnight magic of presents under the tree. For the boy it feels like a perfect outcome to me. Deep down he knows it’s a fictional story, but now he’s able to leap into it and enjoy the excitement and tension of waiting for Santa.