Gulls with the Wind

There were a few others in the bow of the ferry as Mark and I sat down, panting and sweaty.   They were doing just what we intended, sitting and staring.  The boat left the dock at 10:15 sharp.  Thankful that we were on board, we eased back into our bench seat and embraced the slight chill generated by the boat’s motion.  Halfway through our ride, when my senses “came to,” I heard sounds coming from the side of the boat; seagull sounds.  Oh seagulls, the rats of the sea, I know.  Every animal, land or sea, always has a friend in me though.  I stood up and leaned over the railing to get a better view of what I heard.  There were probably 20 or more gulls cruising along with the boat in the middle of the harbor.  They rode the boat’s momentum, swooping and gliding.  I can’t see a seagull without thinking of “Finding Nemo” and their movie-sound squawk.  So, the seagulls were screeching, “mine,” as they escorted the ferry to Manly.  I liked to think they were “adolescent” gulls out for a joy ride, having snuck-out to seek a thrill.  They barely flapped their wings to keep up with the ferry; they just rode the wind.  Every once in a while they would do a feverish flap, but only, as I liked to imagine, to lap their mate at the helm.  Then one of the teenage gulls would make a slight turn and be thrown back with the wind only to land awkwardly in the water, bounce off its surface, and anxiously beat with all its might to regain its position with the pack.  Funny how something as simple as seagulls soaring next to the ferry thrills me – what a thrill seeker I am.  It made my night though.

 

But to quote Julie Andrews, or Maria, let’s start at the very beginning.  It was date night in the city.  I’ve needed a break, we both have, and what better way to focus on what’s truly important in life than a night out.  Thank goodness for Bec the babysitter, or as Mark and I call her, Mary Poppins.  She’s amazing!  An adorable soft-spoken, 20-something redhead working on her Masters Degree who doesn’t take any BS, which is surprising given her gentle nature.  The boys shriek in delight when the bell rings knowing it’s her.  They barely acknowledge our exit, waving over their shoulders as Bec is making flowers and trees out of pipe cleaners.  We couldn’t be more thrilled to have found this treasure. 

I left the house with no extra appendage of a pram, diaper bag, or child, just my feet placed sweetly in my grey Toms wedges and my purse, where my book was secretly placed for the ferry ride; why do I always feel reading is a guilty pleasure?  I walked lightly to the wharf and hopped on the fast ferry that only takes 18 minutes; not long enough for the reading I was hoping to accomplish. 

I disembarked the ferry at Circular Quay to find Mark waiting for me.  We walked across the street for a drink at Café Sydney, a well-known, elegant restaurant with spectacular views of the Harbour Bridge on the 5^th floor of the Customs House.  We intended to pop in for a drink before heading to our booking at Malaya, a Malaysian restaurant near Darling Harbour, but inquired whether they had any openings for dinner.  They looked truly insulted that we even presumed there could be an opening.  So we stayed for a glass of wine and an appetizer. 

We made it to Malaya, which instantly reminded us both of The Slanted Door in San Francisco, one of our favorites.  It was a large, rectangular, open space, on the water of Darling Harbour, with the open-aired kitchen spanning the dining room.  To tickle our reminiscing senses our waiter was as gay as Christmas.  He was a short and delicate man in his 40’s, with tidily coifed brown hair, and big round glasses.  As he welcomed us he brought his hands daintily together in an almost Namaste.  He found and made light humor in the minor exchanges we had.  At one point he asked us where we were from, as Darling Harbour is a touristy area.  It’s bizarre explaining to people that we’re from San Francisco, but we live here now, because even I find it strange that we live in Australia.  In fact, saying it aloud still makes me giggle.  As we told him where we hailed he said, “Oh, I’ve been to San Francisco, but only in my dreams…” He trailed away in speech and motion as if he was in fact dreaming of the gay Mecca of San Francisco.  We loved him. 

We had a prix fix menu that included fried prawns, barbequed white fish, Szechuan eggplant, and beef curry.  Everything was tremendous and we enjoyed it all paired with a tasty local Shiraz and some Pellegrino, of course.  We even got to meet our flowery waiter’s roommate, also a waiter there, who was as equally flamboyant; I wanted to hug them both.  He said we could crash at his pad anytime, but no kids allowed.

We said our goodbyes to our new friends at Malaya and headed out on foot with 30 minutes to spare before our 10:15pm ferry back to Manly.  We setout to the streets of Sydney, in our old stopping ground so-to-speak; the restaurant was close to our temp apartment where we stayed on our arrival to Oz.  Mark and I, separately, ran this route several times - from our apartment, along Darling Harbour, to the Harbour Bridge, underneath the Bridge and to Circular Quay and back.  Round trip was about 4.5 miles.  With this knowledge under our belts we assumed we had about 2 miles to walk in about 30 minutes.  We picked up the pace.  It was a clear, warm evening, and the last day of summer.  We were looking for a romantic meander to the ferry, but it turned into a slightly anxious speed-walk.  I even had to remove my Toms as I could feel the blisters from the previous walk to the restaurant starting to scream.  When in Rome, right?  Shoes are optional in Australia, especially in Manly.  So I decided to be a native.  We rounded the head, passing under the Harbour Bridge and we could see Circular Quay, but still, we knew we had at least a 15-minute walk – we had 7 minutes until our ferry left.  Mark and I being the runners we are, put our toes to work and ran.  I’m a toe-runner, and I’ve toyed with getting the Vibram five-finger toe shoes, but I haven’t entertained the art or act of barefoot running.  I wasn’t going to run in my Toms, so the alternative was to run barefoot.  We made the ferry.

As we boarded the nearly deserted “slow” ferry I again felt like I was missing an appendage.  All of my previous ferry excursions have been with the boys.  There is no sitting and enjoying the ride; it’s chasing the boys from bow to stern multiple times in the 30-minute ride.  This time Mark took my hand, led me to the front of the boat where we sat and let the wind flow over us and didn’t move until the ferry reached its destination.  I move all day long, I never stop, and at this moment I took a deep breath and realized I wasn’t going to move, I was going to sit and stare, and just take in the sights, sounds, and fresh air – what a gift, so simple, but truly a gift.  It was only the squawking seagulls that drove me from my seat before docking.  I imagine they docked too and waited for the ferry to return to Sydney, then resumed their thrill seeking by riding the ferry back to the city, letting the wind take them for a joy-ride.