Mind the Gap: The forgotten tale of 19 friends on a houseboat.

To the best of my knowledge I have never experienced any memory loss! Maybe I’ve forgotten that I’ve forgotten, but if this were the case there would be gaps and someone reciting last nights dramas that apparently occurred. Maybe I’m just like one of those people who can’t be hypnotised; the mind never suspends far enough for reality to be lost. It’s a shame really, but on the other hand it allows me to be that person who recites last nights dramas, or in the case of this tale, a whole mother-fucking weekend packed full of drama!

We arrived Friday afternoon at the marina. Traffic was a bitch and we were pushing time to get our trusty steeds out of anchorage and onto the open water before nightfall. To speed things along I put my hand up to sign one of the contracts while the boys loaded on our excessive mountains of booze and gear. “What was I thinking?” my bewildered husband later questioned. “You signed a contract to insure the safety of this vessel with this crew aboard. Are you insane?” In hindsight maybe my husband was right.

The crew in question were all known associates of the bar that housed my youth. They were big bingers back then and like a leopard and its spots, nothing much had changed. Having rushed through the operating instruction, our friendly boat owner decided it would be better if we were not parked in the marina and against his better judgment he parked us meters downstream.

With boat detached we all settled into our first round of poison. We were super excited to be celebrating our close friends 30th. She was appointed ships captain and given a weekend-long non-removals captains hat. A hat that would command us naked later that weekend, but for now we were content to fish, feed and generally frolic.

As the night rolled on and the tide turned directions, so too did the nature of our celebratory cheer. Like reality, we were slipping… towards our second boat. The anchor had unhooked itself with the changing tide. What to do, the group was polorised by two options; a) to illegally drive in the pitch dark in a very intoxicated state or b) to allow the boat to drift into its sister. All I could hear was the heightened screaming and in the end, as with most group decisions, it was the loudest group that won. The boat powered down the river with confused left from right instructions being relayed from a torch-lit bow.

Then BANG… we hit a navigational beacon.” Where did that thing come from?” Then there was more screaming, then more driving and like a comedy film unfolding, cypress hill’s ‘hits from the bong’ started blaring from our on board sound system. Hoping to hell the water police were not anywhere in our vicinity, I climbed into bed to lay low for a few hours, just in case. 

Sunrise dawned and I crawl out of bed to discover two wired-up non-sleeping crew members trying to wrestle each other over board the second storey. They were vacant eyed and our ship’s captain was doing her best to tame the savage beasts. I distracted the smaller one with the promise of something very special downstairs. “My husband is cooking the best pancakes in the world” I said and the little bull calf took the bait, leaving the larger bull to ponder his existence and consequently throw himself over board into the fast flowing current. Hands, brooms and various objects were hurried towards him by the little bull turned ‘BoneHoff’ who was now on the lower deck. But it was our captain who would act swiftly and pull her bull in with a lifering.  In one fowl swoop the big bull was both saved from drowning and returned to reality (queue a few hours of memory from here).    

Saturday pasted relatively unscathed with the exception of a momentary bog in the unsuspected shallows of a shadowy bend. We found an isolated idealic spot to park for the night and keys were confiscated so as not to have a repeat of the previous evenings midnight motoring. 

The late afternoon winter sun danced across the water and over the rainforest island which was our view. In our blissful state we lay in the deck chairs and watched as our second boat, which had been sent to run some errands, approached slowly in the distance. As the boat drew nearer, the sunbathing ladies noticed their returning men were no longer clothed. “We should give them a show” our captain said and no one argued the captains orders.      

Feeling emancipated, the afternoon took off again. We were serenaded by each crew members party tracks, submitted anonymously the week before. As we guessed whose tracks were whose and danced and drank and fished and ate and hauled in crab pots and got fingers caught in crabs claws and danced and drank some more, the party tracks built to a crescendo and a party track winner was set to be born. A quick recap of songs and score cards were marked for the most correct song titles + artists + person who submitted each track. The prize was announced… a slow dance with said naked male crew member. Shyness emerged just for a minute before a brave winner stepped forward to receive what was rightfully hers. The dance was a smashing spectacle for all to behold, but it was not long before the couple were joined by their mates and as far as I can recall, we all danced happily ever after. 

The end.