“I didn’t believe it when I first read it.” Taking a closer look at the newspaper I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. The headline said. 'Man lost overboard.' I read on. 'Yesterday a man was lost overboard from the inter-island ferry and fears are held for his safety. Storm conditions prevailed and the ferry sought shelter in Golden Bay only to be swamped by a rogue wave, which swept Jamieson Arnold McPherson overboard. Search and Rescue are waiting for conditions to improve before sending divers into the area.'
My elderly uncle, Jamieson Arnold McPherson, is married to Aunt Maggie and a shock like this might be enough to send her into her grave. Uncle and Aunt recently celebrated their Golden Wedding with family members arriving from near and far to join in celebrations of a significant anniversary. Childless, but with an abundance of nieces and nephews, their home was a holiday camp for the younger generation who begged to spend a week with their favourite relatives.
Cousin Milly, who lived close to Aunt and Uncle hadn’t mentioned that he was planning a trip to the North Island on the Ferry. That’s what I should do … I would phone Milly. Where was that address book with her phone number? It must be somewhere. I looked in the bookcase, but no luck. Nor was it in the little room I called my office where a computer and desk offered space to work in solitude. Bother! I had seen it just the other day.
I told myself to calm down and think. Getting into a stew and panicking helped no one. I remember … I left it by the telephone when I called home yesterday. My parents had lost the address of a neighbour who had moved town and guessed I would have it written down. Being the family member who writes things down has several drawbacks, the main one being remembering exactly where the relevant written down things are left. This was a prime example.
Poor Aunty. It suddenly struck me just how devastated she must be. The Strait is notorious for rough crossings, and many a time the Ferry sailing had been cancelled at the last minute because the Harbour Master considered conditions too risky. More than thirty years ago a Ferry had run aground with the loss of several lives. That rescue operation was immense. A Governmental inquiry had revealed little as to the cause … other than the weather, which of course, is out of our control. Each year the newspapers remind us of the disaster and annually my heart goes out to the families whose loved ones lost their lives.
Poor Aunty. I wouldn’t bother phoning Milly. It would be more considerate to phone Aunty direct. If she was sitting home alone and waiting on Uncle to return and hadn’t had the radio or TV on, nor read the evening newspaper, then she would be completely unaware of what was happening. Poor Aunty … and even worse, poor Uncle.
Such a lovely old gentleman he was. Over the summer holidays when I was about ten, Uncle taught me to fish. We hunted in the compost to fill our tin with worms, and carrying our rods and a net … to land our catch, we headed to the wharf where adults and children gathered in anticipation, their lines moving gently with the current. When a young boy caught a fish we rushed to watch him haul it in. That fish would have barely fed a cat, but what excitement amongst the fishermen! Those memories would stay with me and I could go and stay with Aunty and we could sit and reminisce. What a shame my holidays were months in the future.
The phone rang and I hurried to answer. It was cousin Milly … she must be psychic! She enquired if I had heard the news. Of course I was anxious to know the latest. She commented how strange the man overboard should have the same name as Uncle … it wasn’t a common name. The missing person was in fact a holidaymaker on a three-week tour of our country. She rushed on to say that as many thought it was Uncle, Aunty was receiving upsetting phone calls. I felt so relieved I forgot to mention I had almost telephoned Aunty myself.
My elderly uncle, Jamieson Arnold McPherson, is married to Aunt Maggie and a shock like this might be enough to send her into her grave. Uncle and Aunt recently celebrated their Golden Wedding with family members arriving from near and far to join in celebrations of a significant anniversary. Childless, but with an abundance of nieces and nephews, their home was a holiday camp for the younger generation who begged to spend a week with their favourite relatives.
Cousin Milly, who lived close to Aunt and Uncle hadn’t mentioned that he was planning a trip to the North Island on the Ferry. That’s what I should do … I would phone Milly. Where was that address book with her phone number? It must be somewhere. I looked in the bookcase, but no luck. Nor was it in the little room I called my office where a computer and desk offered space to work in solitude. Bother! I had seen it just the other day.
I told myself to calm down and think. Getting into a stew and panicking helped no one. I remember … I left it by the telephone when I called home yesterday. My parents had lost the address of a neighbour who had moved town and guessed I would have it written down. Being the family member who writes things down has several drawbacks, the main one being remembering exactly where the relevant written down things are left. This was a prime example.
Poor Aunty. It suddenly struck me just how devastated she must be. The Strait is notorious for rough crossings, and many a time the Ferry sailing had been cancelled at the last minute because the Harbour Master considered conditions too risky. More than thirty years ago a Ferry had run aground with the loss of several lives. That rescue operation was immense. A Governmental inquiry had revealed little as to the cause … other than the weather, which of course, is out of our control. Each year the newspapers remind us of the disaster and annually my heart goes out to the families whose loved ones lost their lives.
Poor Aunty. I wouldn’t bother phoning Milly. It would be more considerate to phone Aunty direct. If she was sitting home alone and waiting on Uncle to return and hadn’t had the radio or TV on, nor read the evening newspaper, then she would be completely unaware of what was happening. Poor Aunty … and even worse, poor Uncle.
Such a lovely old gentleman he was. Over the summer holidays when I was about ten, Uncle taught me to fish. We hunted in the compost to fill our tin with worms, and carrying our rods and a net … to land our catch, we headed to the wharf where adults and children gathered in anticipation, their lines moving gently with the current. When a young boy caught a fish we rushed to watch him haul it in. That fish would have barely fed a cat, but what excitement amongst the fishermen! Those memories would stay with me and I could go and stay with Aunty and we could sit and reminisce. What a shame my holidays were months in the future.
The phone rang and I hurried to answer. It was cousin Milly … she must be psychic! She enquired if I had heard the news. Of course I was anxious to know the latest. She commented how strange the man overboard should have the same name as Uncle … it wasn’t a common name. The missing person was in fact a holidaymaker on a three-week tour of our country. She rushed on to say that as many thought it was Uncle, Aunty was receiving upsetting phone calls. I felt so relieved I forgot to mention I had almost telephoned Aunty myself.
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