THE SINKING OF THE WAHINE
How I
love our
Saturday Writing Group, featuring Beatriz and her incredible tales
of
pollinators – wasps, ants, bees, birds – that all come alive in
her hand. We
also have Barbara Custer, the Balloon Lady, who is working on a
novel,
featuring characters, including Zombies; Linda Barrett, who
invents extraordinary
creatures and characters who have unbelievable adventures. And,
yes, she has read
the late Ray Bradbury of Fahrenheit 451, the temperature that
books burn in one
of his dysphoric stories. Ken Ivins is either a listener who
offers helpful
comments, or he comes up with stories that may take place on a
train – perhaps he
has read Hercule Poirot, with that slender, fastidious moustache –
or in the
back of a limousine, ooh la la!
Habits
die hard.
Before I write something and submit it to our group, nicknamed
“The Beehive”
after our Beatriz, I often watch a disaster film. Why, I’m not
sure. Perhaps to
cleanse my mind. The video “The Wahine” popped up for me. “The
Wahine” was an
enormous ferry in New Zealand. On April 10, 1968, the Wahine sunk.
Nothing
could stop it. I cowered on my Red Couch where I was watching and
drinking a
12-ounce can of V-8, through a straw.
I
marveled at the
snap of the attached can opener.
Snap!
Pop! Open!
Drink!
Ah!
What could be
more satisfying?
Getting
out of the
storm, that’s what.
Storm
was the
wrong word. It was a cyclone. No one aboard was aware of what was
going on.
Folks were interviewed in color in 2020. The ship’s captain, Jim
Mason, had
been asleep, when he was awoken. He called for a cup of tea, which
arrived,
boiling hot tea, which was tossed across the back wall.
A
policeman and
his family were watching from dry land and called 111, the
disaster line. He
viewed roofs being blown off. Driving down the road, so many
obstacles kept the
officer from rescuing The Wahine in his tugboat. The ferry began
transporting
passengers for day and overnight trips between New Zealand’s
inter-island route
between the ports of Wellington and Lyttelton, in 1966. A maximum
of 1,100
passengers were allowed on.
What
they did not
know was they were heading directly into Tropical Cyclone Giselle.
Not to be
confused with the lovely ballet, Giselle, which had been performed
by the
Australian Ballet Theatre. Ironically, like the ferry, Giselle, a
trusting
peasant girl, was sacrificed for love.
Barrett’s
Reef
approached at fantastic speeds. The waters churned and churned
like the
Niagara. Finally, the passengers heard a deafening roar: Abandon
ship! Abandon
ship!
“Stop!”
A man in
authority yelled. “Leave your pocketbook behind.”
“Had
we not,” said
an elderly woman with blonde hair, “we would be dead.”
Fifty-one
people
lost their lives.
But
not me. I was
sipping on my V-8 for dear life. Sucking and sucking, till it ran
out. Quickly,
I ran into the kitchen. I tripped over something and fell onto the
carpet.
“How
could I do that?”
I thought, as I continued into the kitchen with the cold white
linoleum and
refilled the V-8 with cold tap water.
When
I returned to
the film, I “liked” it. YouTube would remember me and notify me
for the next
disaster film. They knew my taste better than I did.
....
Walking down the street around 4 pm, I encountered Kevin Carr, the son of Carol Carr and her late husband Bill. Bill had put up my jeweled mezuzah on my front door. Have wanted to stop by for ages and finally did. I wore my mask. Carol is quite the talker - she is 87, I believe - and we talked about The Basement Steps, her difficulty seeing since she has macular degeneration, like my late Aunt Selma did - we thought Selma would never die - her son Bruce who lives at a group home. He did come 'home' however several times and she got a great big hug from him.
He is getting pudgy though as they feed him a lot of junk food. Something called TINY BYTES. I stood up and looked at all their photos and their old Philco Radio.
Kevin was cutting the lawn and spraying weed killer all over. Inside, we looked at all the puffs floating through the air. Amazing. Dandelion puffs.
In their back yard, I saw humongous WISTARIA BUSHES, like at my late friend what's his name in Hatboro, PA. I'd like to write a poem for Carol, which I will do right now.
Don't wait up for me.
POEM FOR THE ONE AND ONLY, CAROL CARR
WHAT A LIFE YOU'VE LIVED, CAROL CARR, 86, if a day
A SIMPLE NAME, BUT NOT A SIMPLE LIFE
YOUR YOUNGEST BRUCE, WENT OFF TO A GROUP HOME
AND LOVES IT THERE, THOUGH HE MISSES HIS MOM
AND WHO WOULDN'T!
SHE'S A LADY WITH A SPLENDID PERSONALITY
IF SHE STOPS TALKING SHE MIGHT AS WELL BE DEAD
FLOWERS GROW ALL ALONG THE STEPS
FRAGRANT RED TULIPS, YELLOW ONES AND MAROON
I HOPE TO CLIMB UP THE STAIRS TO HER LIVING ROOM
AGAIN AND AGAIN, OVER THE COMING YEARS.
LOVE, RUTH Z DEMING
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