Years ago now I made a date with Strike to dive Shelly Beach. It was
not to be because on the way down my clutch gave out. This meant that
Strike was kept wondering where I was since, ever since I _had_ to
have one (and don't any more), I've hated mobile (cell) phones. Today
I don't have one, they are not for me.
So on Tuesday I rang Strike and got his answering machine, mentioned
that I'd love to dive Shelly this Saturday, particularly because Krazy
Kiwi would be there, and hung up on his proverbial ear.
Got a phone call back the next day when Strike not only agreed to
another go at this Shelly thing but also graciously invited me to
"Strike's Reef" for a BBQ afterwards with all the rest of the gang.
Details were to meet in the "Top Car Park" at Shelly's no later than
10am, gave me his cell phone number and address.
OK, sounds good.
This morning dawned overcast and damned humid, its what we get at this
time of the year. I left home (about an hour north of Sydney) at 8.20
and arrived in the car park at Shelly Beach at, oh, 9.40, no later
than 9.45. Now I've never been here before. There is, yes, a top and a
bottom car park (they're parallel, metres, and maybe two metres in
altitude, apart), there were several vans in the top one imploring you
to learn to dive and there were a cuppla divers gearing up in the
bottom one so that's where I went.
I took the gear out of the boot. The divers ignored me even though I
was wearing a "Strike's Cards" T Shirt. I started to worry. I put the
gear back, did a circuit of the car park in the car, went back to the
original slot, pulled the gear out, worried some more. Even worried
that you had to pay for this car park and I had no change for a
ticket. Put the gear back, drove to the other end of this no through
road and back again. Parked again. Got back in the car and drove down
to the beach (no parking here, just service access) ... no one apart
from several schools of aspiring divers.
Reflected on the fact that it was probably not so much a matter of
navigation as keeping out of the way of other divers. There seemed to
be a squillion of them and almost all of them learners/newbies.
Drove back up and parked in same slot. Took gear out. Looked towards
top car park and there was Strike leaving. He's got a black shirt on
and he's in a car I haven't seen him in before, also black (how
technical <BG>), very utilitarian, can swallow a _bunch_ of Scuba stuff.
Obviously Strike arrived as I was doing (yet another) 360 of the top
car park. BUMMER.
Throw my gear back into the boot, scream out of car park and ... I've
lost him.
Pull out street map (the latest) and THERE is supposed to be a Public
phone. Now I'm pretty good at this map thingie but it seems that the
Street Map is not very good because this Public phone isn't where its
supposed to be. I console myself with the fact that it wouldn't have
done me any good anyway because I don't have any change.
Once I've realised this. D'oh!
I give up and pay an (unannounced of course) visit to some friends in
Killara, a northern Sydney suburb reasonably close to the way home.
They think enough of my sob story to feed me lunch.
Strike, the Petaluma '93 Cabernet (no, it was certainly NOT for
drinking on the day) goes back to its resting place for, well, another day.
Just don't ever again invite me to dive Shelly Beach, d'yah hear? ;-)
Christian
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