A Hop, a Skip, a Bang and a Bump!

Pete silenced the massive engine of the SS Thimble, Jo dropped the anchor, and we settled down to wait for midnight. The kids had been well prepped to lie down on the boats' floor in order to avoid catching the ever watchful eye of the maritime police for the vessel was overloaded by one person. Jo, surprise, surprise, did have an argument ready in that the total weight of all passengers combined was well under the legal limit. Luckily for the maritime policeman, he was too busy sorting out drunks in twin engined monsters to have to worry about us.

It was a quiet wait too after a bumpy voyage across the heads from Roseville. The SS Thimble had a bucket for a toilet, which dampened any desire to drink beer. The kids fell asleep, followed closely by Sara, again no surprises there. Midnight came around quickly though, with a bang as it were, and we were smack in the middle of it. Fireworks, oohs and ahhs, but the countdown and Kylie got washed away somewhere. In spite of that, it was a great show. As soon as the "waterfall" over the bridge had finished the anchor was up and Pete steered the SS Thimble through the black water and the chop of everyone else who was racing to get back to the boat ramp. A long night, but a night to remember.

It wasn't what we'd expected either, having come off a very relaxing few days on Uncle Alan and Auntie Helens' farm south of Port Macquarie. There we'd been flat out drinking cups of tea, browsing through the book shop (shed), eating cake, and introducing the kids to white Christmas slice. Luckily Alans' helicopter was having repairs thus keeping their sugar highs under control as now they had to do all the mustering on foot. The Austin 7 and the Triumph Stag were working well, and I got to drive both. As I thundered into town in the Stag to pick up the paper, I was thankful to Alan for ensuring he'd left his Sinatra tape in the car providing a perfect sound track. All I lacked was a pork pie hat. Santa, I know what I want next year.

Leaving the farm with full bellies and clean clothes, Sara proved yet again to be a worthwhile navigator, guiding Kimmy into Sydney and the suburb of Davidson where we would be staying with Pete, Jo, Summer, and Ciara. We saw all the sights, got drenched on the Manly ferry, payed outrageous sums just to park the car in a region similar to the one we actually wanted to visit, and got dragged by Pete behind the SS Thimble all over Pittwater in a bombie. Marcos, Raegan and their 4 girls were in town from NYC, so we had an afternoon of fish and chips and catching up with them on Balmoral beach.

Sydney struck me as a very "look at me, look at me" sort of a place. There was none of  Melbournes' reticence to flaunt your wealth here. Massive, lonely yachts floating at their moorings, waiting for a chance to do more than just bob; I wonder if they ever do? Mansions stretching up the cliffs, straining for a glimpse of blue water whilst others sprawled possessively over their patch of beach. Lots of tatts, lots of surf wear, and lots of glitz. However, every so often, in the middle of all of that nonsense, there'd be a classic old dark brown brick block of flats just quietly watching ferries chug by, and I'd think, "that'd do us... just as long as it had it's own private jetty and boat house!"

With the kids throwing up every possible reason to stay, we reluctantly left the Leonards, Fudge the cat, Stormy the dog, Boo Boo the guinea pig, Chick and Chook (guess), the fish, the nerf guns and the pool just as the last of its' algae died. We had to leave, because it was rodeo time in Picton, 83 kilometres south of Sydney. Travelled 45,000+, and finally found a rodeo 800k's from home!

The friendly man at the information centre told us about a disused carpark we could stay in overnight. He didn't mention that the carpark was next to a graveyard, and that the graveyard was haunted. We found out the former ourselves, but a tattooed bloke in a blue singlet with a decided slur to his diction told us the latter. He also said that Picton began life as a jail town; it's quite possible he knew more than he let on.

The rodeo was hot, stinking hot. No shade, and grumpy old blokes in ten gallon hats stopping us from putting up a sun shelter to sit under. We found a spot by the fence next to a lonely looking fellow in a big chair. I'll call this bloke Hoppin Skippin, because that's all he seemed to say, apart from a diatribe I received on the unsatisfactory telecasting of rodeo events by OneHD. The fascinating thing about Hoppin Skippin, was that he had a different cap for every event. One for the steer wrestling that said "STEER WRESTLING". Another for the barrel races that said "BARREL RACING". Another for the bull riding that said, well if you don't get the picture by now, forget it.

The event itself was a lot of fun. Oli wants to be a bull rider now too. We gave him a go on the mechanical one, and he did last longer than 8 seconds so he might be a show. The riders had some amazing skills, we saw a cowboy bootscooting, and a cowgirl doing the worm. Big Al the rodeo clown controlled things pretty well, and no one got hurt, although one horse almost crashed through the barrier onto us. Didn't faze Hoppin Skippin though. He just put his "BARE BACK BRONC" cap back into its' hermetically sealed plastic bag, and pulled out the one that said "SEE YOU NEXT WEEK".

H

PS Trying to get photos in but "Blogger" not being helpful. Will post photos later.