Change In Plans

Kids on Beach

Greetings from Cape Town!

The title of this post is a lame leonine play on words. The fact is that I am bursting with husbandly and paternal pride.

I got back from Istanbul on Friday afternoon.  Right after I landed, India, Tallulah and I piled into her car and drove up the West Coast.  We went about 120 kilometres north of Cape Town to the village of Langebaan. Zola stayed over with a friend back in the city.

The last time we stayed in Langebaan was 1991, when I gave a speech to a Rotary Club there. It has not changed very much.  India and I  had forgotten how beautiful the lagoon and the islands immediately west of the village are.  For dinner, we sat at the same outdoor restaurant that we had eaten at 20 years earlier, watching the sun set over the still water and the low hills.  Magnificent South Africa.

India was out the door before 5 am to catch a bus which took her to the starting line of the West Coast Marathon. The race was supposed to start at 6:30, but there was a big logistical mess.  Only 8 of the scheduled 21 buses showed up, so the organizers announced a one-hour delay. By now, the sun was up, and the temperature was already about 85 degrees. India rallied a group of rebel runners who wanted to start immediately, concerned about cooking in the sun.  The organizers threatened to disqualify her and her little posse.

After much to-ing and fro-ing, India and the rebels were allowed to take off at roughly 6:50. Because the start time was ambiguous, her race time and finishing place were also ambiguous.  As far as I could tell, only one other woman runner crossed the line before her, so I am giving her credit for second.  26 miles in scorching heat, and she practically skipped across the finish line, smiling and giving high fives all around.  Superstar.  Well done! 

It was really hot - nearly 100 degrees and no shade.  A large man in his 50s collapsed in front of me, about 100 meters from completing the half marathon.  His running partner and I put his arms over our shoulders and we dragged him, semi-conscious, toward the medical tent (and finish line).  A race official shouted at me, “Sir, this competitor will be disqualified for having accepted your help!”  I said, “Ma’am, with all due respect, I think being disqualified is the least of his worries at the moment.” 

Many of our South African memories seem to occur at the intersection of drama and officiousness.

Showing no ill effects, India showered, packed our things, and we raced back to Cape Town by 1pm.  Having passed all of the qualification exams only a week earlier, Zola was competing in the two-day Western Province Surf Lifesaving Championships.  We got to Clifton Beach just as the competition was starting.

Surf lifesaving may be the best sport ever.  The athletes (called “nippers” for unknown reasons) compete in running races on the beach - relay races, sprints, flag races, long runs - and swimming races in the open ocean.  There are lots of varieties and combinations (e.g., run-swim-run), and ocean races involving lifesaving equipment like malibu boards.

The nippers get a lot of exercise, they learn skills and learn to respect the ocean, and it is fun.  It also involves spending a lot of time with your opposite-sex team mates while you are all wearing bathing suits.  What’s not to like?  During the competition the nippers have to wear little club-colors skull caps with chin ties, and these don’t look very cool.  Aside from that, though, what’s not to like?

Like all South African sports, surf lifesaving is brutally competitive at provincial (and national) level.  There were about 250 athletes from 10 different clubs.  Zola had never competed before, and he had just squeaked through the qualifying times in the swim, so we hoped for the best.

Zola competed in every single one of the 12 events over the two days.  He was middle of the pack in the running events, which was fine.  His relay team nearly made it into the finals, but were disqualified when one of his team mates dove over the finish line with a flourish.  You may be sensing a theme: South African race officials seem to love disqualifying people.

I was most proud of Zola for his performance in the ocean-swimming events.  In each event he had to sprint into the water: cold and full of jelly fish, but fortunately no big waves on the competition days.  He swam out about 40 meters, turned right at a buoy and swam 60 meters parallel to the beach, turned right again, and swam back to the beach. In some events he paddled a flotation device, a long malibu board or a boogie board, and in others it was just a swim.  Also, some events were relays and some were individual.  There was a lot of swimming.

In the first two individual events, Zola came last in his heat of about 20 boys.  He stumbled out of the surf, frustrated, but sprinted across the finish line as best as he could.  In the malibu race, he was spitting mad because another boy had kicked him in the face and knocked him off the board.  Probably not on purpose.

In the last individual event, Zola was in last place when he turned at the first buoy, and in last place when he turned back towad the beach.  Rather than giving up, though, he swam as hard as he could, and passed two boys before they got to the beach.  He ran across the finish line with a huge smile.

The final event, after two tiring days in the sun (I am completely sunburnt, incidentally) was the famed “Iron Nipper.”  This comprises all of the individual ocean events done back to back.  It takes about 20 minutes of heavy exertion to complete.  Although he was nervous, Zola didn’t hesistate.  He ran and swam, ran and paddled, and ran and paddled, and ran.  He finished second to last in his heat, but tried his hardest every second of the way.

When the competition ended, there was a prize giving.  While the judges tallied scores, and chose the provincial team, and got out the medals and trophies, the civilian adults stood in the Clifton clubhouse and drank beer in the shade.  The kids sat with their clubs on the beach.  The tallying took a long, long time. 

The kids started singing their clubs’ fight songs, loudly and proudly, and without a shred of self-consciousness or irony.  Each club tried to outdo the others.  Soon, kids were dancing arm in arm, and shouting their songs, and laughing and mock-taunting the other clubs in the fading sunlight.

From the clubhouse balcony, I watched Zola in the crowd below, and felt almost weepy with pride and love.  Singing with his team mates and friends, his arm around one of the girls he may have a little crush on, laughing, and feeling blissfully like part of the group.  If he hadn’t qualified and competed, this moment would never have been available to him. 

Zola didn’t win any medals, and he certainly didn’t make the provincial team.  His club came fourth in the province, which seemed like a good result, and he contributed a little to that.  He can practice his swim strokes, and be more physically fit, and understand the technique and the tactics a lot better next year.  He already has the determination and the willingness to try.  Maybe this is my response to the Tiger Mom.

film jumping broom

Note book title and lion in background

Tallulah with Mimsey

Greetings from Cape Town,  and happy Argus Day!

Every year, on the second Sunday in March, a small army (35,000 cyclists) takes over the Cape Peninsula for a day.  The Argus Cycle Tour is 109 kilometres, and is quite an awesome event.  We watched bicycles blaze down the steep hill by our house for about an hour this morning, the riders smiling and laughing, with only 20 kilometers to go.  As every Capetonian will tell you, the Argus is the largest timed cycling race in the world, and may be the most beautiful.  Every year I promise myself, “next year.”  This year I mean it.

The single road leading into our little village is closed for the day.  Instead of 80 surfers in the water there are only 30, some of whom sleep on the beach the night before.  I am still the worst one out there, but I am inconveniencing fewer people.  Kids play in the streets, and families organize “meet your neighbor” parties.  We went to a three-hour brunch followed by a three-hour lunch.  The isolation and the disruption of normal give Argus Day the feeling of a snow day, but without the snow (and without the 10 below). 

Last night we hosted a small dinner party for some visting friends, which somehow ended up having about 30 guests (including about 12 kids).  The evening ended with all of the kids watching “Marmaduke” projected onto the wall of our bedroom, thanks to the cool new movie projector we got for Christmas. 

Tallulah and friends

The big event of the weekend was the daughter-Dad campout at St. Cyprian’s School on Friday evening.  About 120 six-to-eight year old girls, and their Dads (or “Dad-like male adults”) braved a night under the stars on the school’s field-hockey field.  The campout was a special experience for Tallulah and me: I’m not sure who enjoyed it more.  It also provided insight into what the world would be like without the sensible influence of Moms (and the annoyance of brothers).

The beginning of the evening, when teachers and Moms were still around, was extremely well organized.  Swimming for an hour, then songs and games (while Dads put up tents), then a break, then story time.  By the end of story time, though, essentially all female adults had departed.

For dinner, the school provided huge charcoal grills and packs of sausage and lamb chops.  After the Dads burned meat, groups of Dads and girls sat on the grass to eat.  No one seemed to have any salads or side dishes, or even any cutlery.  Everyone ate meat with their hands, and wiped their greasy fingers on the grass.  Soon after, many of the girls were wandering around with big bags of potato chips and cheese doodles, offering them to their friends, and still not quite believing the junk-food license they were being afforded.  Salty snacks and charred meat: the official food groups of the daughter-Dad campout.

By this time, most of the Dads (me included) were sitting in camp chairs, talking to their friends and having a glass of wine or a beer.  The girls roamed from tent to tent, playing flashlight tag and singing school songs and laughing.  Tallulah remembered that we had chocolate for s’mores, and handed out huge chunks to every girl around.  She got me to lead a game of freeze tag with about 20 first graders.  This was fun until I tripped over the guy wire of a tent at full speed, and nearly broke every bone in my body.

Eventually, girls fell asleep on Dads’ laps, or crawled into their tents and collapsed.  Many of the Dads stayed up until very late, telling funny stories and solving the less-pressing problems of the day.

By 6:30 in the morning, it was light out, and the games of tag and the songs had started again.  Tallulah popped out of the tent as if her hair were on fire, and she was back in the mix with her friends.  Watching the sun rise against the broad face of Table Mountain was beautiful.  After coffee (thank goodness), breakfast and another swim, we made our way home. 

We like it here.  Tonight, both kids were asleep before 9pm.