The Dangers of Gecko Poo

In Asia the Gecko is ubiquitous and everywhere. In every land in the Orient the sound of a “Geckow !" is heard as it sits stuck on ceiling, on walls, and under floors waiting for its next meal of mosquito, or cockroach, or Ribena to happen along. In the steaming, humid heat that is Asia it is almost a comfort to see these little bug eyed, big-fingered, saurians running around your home; you would think helping to keep down and control the hordes of blood-sucking, bacteria-carrying, toe-nipping insectoids and arachnoids that can blight your life here

And the geckos’ in the east vary in size massively, from the inch long beige babies of HK, to the long striped leopard-like leapers of Thailand, to gecko’s as big as a rat - eying up your infant - in Bali. And they are carnivores - with a capital C - eating anything that moves, is powered by blood, emits CO2, and can fit into their mouth. The Nav often wonders what it would have been like if the dog breeders of old had started their genetic experimentations not with the wolf, but with the friendly little gecko. Many a suburbanite of today probably would have disappeared without a trace on their way to collect their morning newspapers from their mailbox – the blame swiftly apportioned to the next-door neighbours new 8 foot long pet named ‘Gordon’

(Nav Ed Note – Gecko is any of numerous small, mostly nocturnal tropical lizards of the family Gekkonidae, usually having toe pads that can cling to smooth surfaces. The largest species, Gekko gecko, is sometimes kept as a pet)

But far from being a benign helper in health, gecko’s poo – alot – and it can be both a danger to your home and deadly to the little gecko. On many an occasion, The Nav has awoken in the morning and stumbled out to his wider apartment to see in the blink of an eye or hear in the buzz of an ear one of these miniscule dinosauric monsters scuttling around his home - following an age-old instinct to avoid being caught, skewered, and barbequed by a human that looks to them like Godzilla

Initially all has been well, The Nav smiling to these friendly little fellas, talking to them the way you talk to your pet puppy – until The Nav sees the poo ! And boy, given the scale size of these little beasts, what poo it is ! Long, brown, sticky smears along The Nav’s walls; somehow defying gravity as these slicks are invariably oriented upwards towards the sky. These offerings the little beige buggers’ assistance to keeping our planet green, the acid content burning long brown marks into The Nav’s beige walls, difficult to explain to a potential new apartment buyer, the smears so high up they represent a cleaning challenge requiring mountain climbing crampons and belaying ropes to reach and delete

But this relatively minor indiscretion to you or The Nav is nothing compared to the risk to the poor little gecko of slipping on his own poo. You or The Nav would merely raise our foot, issue a similarly meaning expletive, and wipe the ooze off. But for the little gecko it invariably means muerta, dood, and death. Imagine yourself hanging to the side of the Empire State Building, at once moving at speed across its external glass and granite walls, detaching and lifting feet in tandem, thereby at any one time only attached by two appendages. And what if these two momentarily connected appendages happened to hit a brown slick at speed – decoupling you from your secure situation over a thousand feet above the earth – you then cartwheeling downwards the relative equivalent of over 100 stories towards a bone-crushing death on your bathroom floor. Many a time The Nav has tried to give cardiopulmonary resuscitation to a poor little gecko found in convulsions on The Nav’s floor – but never with any success. The Nav’s roof pot plants now littered with many little wooden crosses, his domestic saurian friends sent to the big roof in the sky, to be judged in front of the ‘Big Gecko’ above

And the Ribena ? Gecko’s love Ribena. On many an occasion a gecko has been caught taking his morning bath in The Nav’s drink detritus – the little lizard licking all parts of this delicious drink from lense, and sucker, and tail. Rather than being angry, The Nav encourages his little mates to joyously experience this the nectar of the supermarket fruit world, knowing that it could well be the poor little guy’s last supper – a dead gecko walking – and The Nav would want his little saurian mate to enjoy his last meal in ecstacy

This is the challenge of the little gecko in Asia as it negotiates your ceiling at speed. And imagine if they had vocal chords as they hurtled headlong towards the floor. You wouldn’t get much sleep

This is The Nav. Wiping his feet

Why do men date women in Asia ? A blokes view

This is a question that has perplexed The Nav for 8 long years. Lets face it, finding a partner in Asia for the night can be like brushing your teeth, or clipping your toe nails, or changing channels – mindless. But deep down what we all truly deeply want is love. Not puppy love, or lust, or infatuation; but complete, heart-wrenching, gut-sucking, mind-altering love. Where you own someone and yet you are the property of your partner. The kind of love that makes you breathless, asks you to ignore buses and other on-coming traffic, where you are so totally immune to everything around you that you don’t know what day it is. But the problem with this kind of love is that to get it you need to plan and execute a mission more physically difficult than Everest, more technically infeasible at the outset than putting the LEM lunar module onto the moon, and longer in length than Tolstoy’s War & Peace

It is this scenario that The Nav faces. How to win total love in Asia. Recently a mission presented itself which The Nav shares with you now

THE PURSUIT

Scene - A Bar in Wanchai Hong Kong

The Occasion - Post theatrical play drinks

Act 1 Scene 1 - Friends introduce The Nav to an absolutely georgeous individual, here-named Ms X. Several hours of jokes, stories, and anecdotes from The Nav later – no laughter, nor smiles, nor glistening eyes - Ms X is dragged back to the New Territories by her great friend and confidante. Again downtrodden with loss, The Nav buys another Guinness then calls it a night

Act 1 Scene 2 - Months later. Another theatre. Another show. This absolute beauty walks in with her friend. The Nav, busily blogging on his Blackberry, tries not to drop it in shock, and swallows – hard. Heart fluttering, eyes glistening, mouth dry – all the while talking to himself – he MUST find some away to say ‘Hi’, be totally casual and disinterested, but just stand next to this glorious thing all night – ogling. After several hours of buying drinks, trying to hold this divine creatures gaze, throwing every joke in his ‘play book’ at her, he wins it. Her phone number. Mission 1 of 28 accomplished

THE CIRCLING

Act 2 Scene 1 – mid-week following, The Nav at home, at once walking towards, then away from, then towards, then away from – his phone. Long minutes of hand-wringing, angst, doubt, and uncertainty. Decision made. Phone lifted, number rung, ringing, Son “Hello ?” Nav “Yes, hi, is your Mum there please?” Son “No she’s not.” Nav “Oh, ok thanks, I’ll call back later.” Son “Who is this ?!” Nav “A friend.” Son “Who ?!!” Phone quickly placed in its cradle by The Nav. Hmmm he reflected, Ms X’s got a 7 year young human Rotweiller protecting his domain. Switch to Steve McQueen in ‘The Great Escape’ mode to try to fly over the carefully laid barbed wire and also to ‘Phone Plan B’. Stay cool. Leave it for a few hours until just after bed-time and then phone back nonchalantly

Act 2 Scene 2 – “Hi, X?” Helper “No, sir, just hold the line please.” Ms X “Hello?” Nav “X, hi, it’s The Nav.” Ms X “Oh hi Nav. Look can I call you back, I’m just finishing a bed-time story for my son.” Nav “Oh, ok, sure.” Many minutes pass. Nothing. The Nav walking up the wall. Suddenly ‘Rrrrrring’. Stay cool, walk slowly to the phone, count the rings, must not sound keen, must sound cool, right. Nav “Hello?” Ms X “Hi Nav it’s X.” Nav “Oh hi X, how are you?” Ms X securely in one on one conversation with The Nav. Mission 2 of 28 accomplished

Act 2 Scene 3 – The phone conversation. Nav “So X, re the restaurant, do you have any specific food issues ? Vegan? Vegetarian? Are you immune to hotpot ?” Ms X “No no. I’m none of those. I eat anything. But come to think of it, I don’t do seafood. Oh I like shrimp, but not shell-fish. Fish is ok. But not squid. And I don’t do fried food. Love curries, anything spicy, but not into too much dairy. I’m a carnivore of course, any kind of meat – but not beef. No no, I love all food.” The Nav busily writing down many notes, rapidly mentally crossing off all but about 2 restaurants in Sai Kung Town. Restaurant Plans A and B discarded, he quickly switches to Plan C. With no Plan D in place, God help The Nav if he can’t get a booking at Plan C. He hopes and prays Mission 3 has been accomplished

Act 2 Scene 4 - Directions to her home. Ms X “Number X Sing So Wan Road. You can’t miss me. Right next to the big Sai Wai construction site.” The Nav, not sure where Sai Wai was, pushed on with his pen - again mentally cursing himself for not buying that hand-held GPS for the Targa Tasmania. Ms X again “You head up the main hill road, turn sharp left, past the ‘Glorious Gold Villa’ Estate, another 50 metres till you come to a big roundabout, and mine’s the off-white village house past the road roundabout and on the right.” Taking a breath, again writing furiously, The Nav considered his options, aware of only two things – there are virtually hundreds of road roundabouts in the New Territories in HK, and there are literally thousands of off-white village houses there as well. Nay matter. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Now how to physically locate the locale of this maiden, in the time allotted, and still make Sai Kung Town before the kitchens there close. God Bless Google Map dot com ! Directions to her home obtained, Mission 4 completed

THE EXPEDITION

Act 3 Scene 1 – Saturday afternoon, a quick call to ‘The Quarry’, The Nav stressing a wee-bit, telling the divine Ms X that he has maps, a printout from Google Map, a compass, night vision goggles, and a magnetic rock floating on a model junk in a small tub of water in the middle of his car - care of the Cantonese sea Goddess Tin Hau - to assist him in his expedition to locate the domicile of the maiden; and that The Nav plans to get on his way to the divine Ms X’s place hours before designated pick-up time. Showing her care and appreciation for his days of research and preparation, Ms X chats back “Oh I’m sure you’ll be ok. See you then. Bye!” Staring at his now silent phone, drumming index finger on thigh, The Nav’s starts to really appreciate how much work you have to do to find true love. Maiden vehicular pick-up completely confirmed, Mission 5 completed

Act 3 Scene 2 – Leaving home hours before ‘Time over target’ deadline, The Nav’s car ‘Monty’ clattering not from bad shock absorbers but from all the navigational aids sliding throughout its vehicular cabin, the expedition to find Sai Wai began. Through the HK cross-harbour tunnel, on through Kowloon, another tunnel to Shatin Town, one eye on the road and one eye on the navigational aids – The Nav snailed his way though Sha Tin, and Fo Tan – whoops, wrong way, U turn, right ear assailed by local taxi blaring horns – and finally Sai Wai. Phone calls in transit made to Ms X checking on weather conditions, wind speeds, and visibility over the target area, The Nav navigated a HK Government road construction project so big it would make the Road Authority of Thailand envious. Finally target road spotted, 'Monty' drops effortlessly into 2nd, up the hill at the speed of a yak, following pace notes provided by ‘The Quarry’, and there it was – the roundabout and a big white village house. Parking Monty and hopping out, The Nav admired a local HK driver in a big Volvo 4WD SUV negotiate her way round the inches high roundabout, completing a 14 point turn to circle it, no thought of just driving over the thing in her rough, tough, high profile, 4WD – designed specifically to conquer such places as Ben Nevis and Mount Snowdon with ease – confirming The Nav’s notion of not attempting to reach the South Pole with anyone from Canton. Target address achieved, Mission 6 completed

Act 3 Scene 3 – The stunning Ms X safely strapped up and stowed in 'Monty' who was gurgling and rumbling and chomping to scream on though the slippery streets of Shatin, The Nav locked himself in and ignited the ‘Careening British Racing Green Mini Cooper’ and then he was away. Hebe Haven Town reached in the blink of an eye. In for dinner, 'Monty' gleaming proudly in the car park, Ms X safely tucked away in a corner of the restaurant under the admiring eye of The Nav. There followed 6 hours of fine food, fine wine, and fiddlesticks. Later, after being thrown out of the restaurant to the verandah, and then banished from the verandah to the tent, the Nav commissioned 'Monty' to deliver the divine Ms X to her abode, and then go on auto-pilot to seek, search for, and successfully find home. Glorious dinner finished, Mission 7 completed

THE DAY AFTER

Act 4 Scene 1 – Waking in the morning, The Nav reflects on a successful 7 step mission. But this is a search for true love and its just isn’t that easy; you cannot go onto Step 8 until steps 2 to 7 are repeated approximately seven times. And so The Nav commenced plans for a new expedition in his search for true love. You our loyal reader will have to wait and see. Stay tuned

This is The Nav. Appetent about Love. Out

Breakfast at Wicky Dees ?

I mean why would you. Is it because the food's delicious ? A mix of Northern Thai fresh herbs and spices, combined with a soupçon of Central American heat, all rolled up in an aroma of French Michelin star cooking. Nope. More like bland bread – sweetened – with patties and eggs with the appearance and taste of your socks, in a room that soaks you with ‘Eau De Deep Fry’, all washed down with a cup of Joe. ‘Robusta’ Joe that is, not the more expensive ‘Arabica’ variety

(Ed Note : There are two globally dominant types of coffee bean. The ‘Robusta’ – weak, tasteless, wide-spread, and cheap. And ‘Arabica’ - big, bold, bounteous in taste, and with a cost akin to your car. The ‘Robusta’ is used predominantly for the reason of cost, but it would be just as effective to take a syringe of caffeine to work each morning. This method of receiving the ‘morning hit’ of what is basically a Class ‘C’ drug wouldn’t cause havoc on bladders)

We start the day there because every Wicky Dees restaurant in the world is like a womb with a view. Warm, clean, quiet, with the temperature carefully monitored and measured, everything being scrubbed, cleaned and re-cleaned every minute of every day. An environment that reminds us of a pre-natal delivery ward, the safe kitchens of our youth, and dining in a warm Mongolian yurt – albeit with a bunch of strangers. In this quiet chapel to the worship of fast food people can sit, quietly munching on a ‘Wac’, much like a bovine at the barn feed bin in a cold Canadian winter. Ruminating on life, concerned and uncertain about whether what they had ordered is actually what they are eating, or when these combustible calories would create chaos in their carotids

If we didn't have breakfast at Wickey Dees, what would be the choices? Toasted muesli, wholegrain toast with organic fruit jams, and fresh brewed ‘arabista’ at home; or eggs Florentine with freshly squeezed orange juice at any one of dozens of local cafes; or perhaps a salad sandwich - on fresh brown bread, with a piquant but delicious grape fruit juice - at a corner deli. All enjoyed at a leisurely, languorous, lingering pace

But no, Wicky Dees grabs us back, mesmerizing us and soothing us with air con, and ardor, and aroma; our noses drawn through its doors by the pungent but lethally lingering smell of "fresh coffee in the morn", our saliva like a water diviner, our senses 'pinging' back the location of this the nearest fast food womb, dragging us in towards an eventual arterial apocalypse

So why do we do it? Why do we go in, sit for less than 15 minutes, cram our bodies full of foods of questionable nutritional value, then be up and off and away at speed - until tomorrow mornings fast food culinary installment. The Nav thinks it's because of time - or our perceived lack thereof. We tell ourselves that we are too busy to sit at home or in a leisurely local cafe, family within hugging distance, and just enjoy quality time consuming quality ingredients

But are we too busy? If the children have 20 minutes less in the playground before class - who cares? Quality time with family will see them invariably as balanced adults with something to contribute to this little planet, and not become nervous, lonely, and incapable of communication

If we're 5 minutes late for that meeting, or submit presentations 30 minutes late, who cares? Bosses have families too. And work colleagues love to hear stories about 'flying bagels flung by a five year old', or 'coffee stains adding to the stripes on ties - splashed by a sibling'. Time is limited for each of us with family, and time forgets

The French do have it right. Food is not function, Food is LIFE!

Sadly The Nav suspects that the gaudy 'Golden W' will shortly appear in photo shots of the International Space Station circling above - beckoning

But then again in space you can't smell. There is hope

This is The Nav. Deep fat fried

Shakespeare’s Macbeth – Shouson Theatre Hong Kong

The HK Arts Centre Shouson Theatre - A Hong Kong shrine to all things theatrical. Since opening, the host of all dramatic genres – pantomime, operetta, variety shows, and tonight Shakespeare. The English Bard. Renowned around the English-speaking world for great works such Othello, King Lear, The Tempest, Romeo & Juliet, and this evening perhaps his most depressing work - Macbeth. A play about the dangers of the lust for power and the betrayal of friends, with Scottish royalty murdering each other pretty much to enable the hated English to successfully invade a Scotland in a power vacuum.

This is the irony of those norse Celtmen. 'One together' on other continents, celebrating Burns and Wallace, Malt Whisky and Haggis, kilt and bag-pipe, in solidarity as ‘Scots’ in foreign lands. All angst forgotten about highlands and lowlands, Campbells versus MacDougall, Chukters and Sassenachs, Rangers versus Celtic. But at home the reverse, in a land variously described as a barren rock, hewn from glaciers falling into the sea after the most past ice ages; a country of lochs, lakes, and lands filled with wild herd animals, heather, and oats. With Scotland’s one true contribution to modern world cuisine remaining that revered cereal - oats

The Nav, freshly cleansed, ales sitting warmly in his male womb, celebrating a day of winning on the water, made his way to the theatre to meet the mad mob of miscreants that is the HK theatre community. A kaleidoscope of teachers, musicians, teachers, technicians, teachers, and journos. Fun-loving and ‘fabulous’, these religious followers of all things intellectually fashionable. A colourful community in HK, mostly seen after dark, a few hours in a theatre, cheek kissing and gossip complete, then off to the pub for a 7 hour review together until the early wee hours; Gordon and Morgan and Guinness their warming companions, before sidling off home to avoid that most damaging of earthly aspects – sunlight

Into the theatre, a storm of expectation, people to their stalls, the house tannoy ‘blinging and blaring’ in earnest, urging all to take their seats as the performance was about to start. House lights down, stage lights up, and then we were off ! A graveyard stage, witches and necromancy, royalty and thanes, soldiers and swords, blood and treachery, murder and loss. Oh what an evening of uplifting light entertainment in this Asia’s world city. Intermission, a loud raucus crowd in the house bar, comparing auditions and calendars, upcoming shows, who’s cast and who’s not, Producers and Directors, Techies and Stage Managers, and then it was back to more beastliness from The Bard.

Interestingly the 2nd act offered much the same fare - a graveyard stage, witches and necromancy, royalty and thanes, soldiers and swords, blood and treachery, murder and loss. And then it was over, lights up, the audience filing out quickly, more cheek kissing and calendar checking, and then it was off with urgency to that shrine of all thespians – The Pub

The Producers birthday. Booze in excess, leeriness and lechery, deafening decibels, birthday songs, cascading glasses of lit licquer, deep discussions yelled from 3 inches about costumes and lighting, stage and sound, scripts and plot. Then like Cinderella, watches watched, clocks clocked, these thespos skipped off to the next bar, then the next, and the next, and finally the next - a whirlwind of wandering. Until finally, as light began to appear in the east, it was off home, shambling to taxis or first buses, back to the dark recesses of apartments and flats, homes and houses, behind closed blinds and eye blinkers, electricity avoided.

These Thespians of the night allowed the netherworld of rest to nix them, waiting until the sun again disappeared, enabling them to again rise and reclaim the night, wandering the theatres and auditoriums, the bars and clubs, the streets and alleyways of Hong Kong – because all the world is indeed a stage

Until the next Theatrical tragedy

This is The Nav. Curtains drawn and house closed

HKYC Harbour Pursuit Race - Prelude

THE EVENT

A relatively quick, ‘round the cans’ race on east Hong Kong (HK) harbour, near the old Kai Tak airport runway. Line of site the race would be about 10km long and take up to 2 ½ hours to complete – but no more otherwise the HKYC shortens the races to get the sailors back the bar to maximise over the counter beverage sales – and is a regular weekly event during the autumn, winter, and part of spring in HK. Comprising several yacht ‘classes’ of different sizes and ratings, including Flying 15s, Etchells, Pandoras, Ruffians, Sonatas, and Impalas. This report is from the Impala ‘Shikari’, a 27 foot, single masted, fibreglass yacht that, despite its age, is still a light, fast, furious, and fun class of yacht to sail on

THE PROTAGONISTS

The Shikari Crew

A small cabal of regulars including ‘The Helm’, mainsail man ‘Nige’, mid-shipman 'Jonesey’, bowman ‘Mike’, and general sewer rat The Nav, with new crew wading in on occasions to make the fibreglass flyer fang around the designated water course at snail-neck speed

The Opposition

Although all craft on the water remain the opposition, variously and aggressively luffing, covering, rounding, and running, the main enemy army on this day are the other Impalas’ in the fleet. Boats named Also Can, Boss Hogg, Impala One, Ling Yuan, Moll, Pied Piper, Rainbow, and Taxi. An assorted montage of the kaleidoscope of HK society, with bankers on the weather rail with painters, lawyers on winches with journos, and company managers working the sheets and halyards with technicians; all being constantly tested, taunted, and terrified by possibly the most frightening creature in the world – The Yacht Helm

THE FORECAST

Today’s air temperature 23.5 o C up to maximum 25 o C. UV Index 3 up to moderate. Low tide 1.41pm 0.8metres. Incoming tide during the race

A humid easterly airstream is affecting the south China coastal areas. Locally, there were a few showers this morning and a few millimetres of rainfall were recorded over the territory of Hong Kong. Weather forecast for today misty with one or two light rain patches at first. Sunny intervals in the afternoon. Moderate easterly winds.

(The Helm’s Ed Note : Moderate winds are Beaufort Force 3 – 4 which equates to a wind speed of 13 – 30 kmph)

PRE-RACE PREPARATION

And so the day dawned. One of those early summer days in HK, the heat growing, odours of the ocean, a hint of rain, the air so bad you can't see China even if you had the Hubbel

Through the hallowed gates of the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club (RHKYC) Kellet Island GHQ. Ground zero for the more well healed and well to do nautileers in this small archipelago of islands. Many owners but mostly crew, several of these elite of HKs salt flavoured H20 never having seen the bottom of a bilge, nor received a battering on a bow while working the foredeck. More fond of champagne sailing in their 'Roman' slave galleys than actually sweating, swearing, and slipping on their blood on the deck

To the right of the club house, back behind the children’s playground, a small quiet plot of terra firma, shaded by a big banyan tree. In its soil assorted Christian crosses, Stars of David, and small statues of a smiling Buddha, where those hard-working, hard-drinking, hard-living crew hacks have been laid to rest. "RIP Bob - victim of a bearing away boom. RIP Simon - of the sinking spinnaker. RIP Johnny - of the screaming clattering cleats. And RIP Harold - innocent victim of his gun-toting Helm"

To the Main Bar. Men and assorted 'Sailing Sallies' rejoindured around this inner sanctum, many having camped in over-night, red eyes and brewers cough prevalent, the smells of Lang Kwai Fong and Wanchai an overbearing odour

Check the chart room, see what classes are sailing today - Flying 15s, Etchells, Pandoras, Ruffians, Sonatas, and our own Impalas. The course a start at the club house line, down round the mid-harbour buoy, turn to starboard for a BIG triangle, BIG sausage, LITTLE triangle course, before the beat up to the finish - past the Committee Boat. Its boat boys brandishing their cannons, flags, and horns, serving lashings of Gordons and Skol, abiding to the letter with the age old mariners rule of one hand for the ship, one hand for myself - in this case one shot glass for the guest, one shot glass for me. Busily aiming gunpowder laden starter and finishing cannon at the fleet, unsure of which class is which, which course is correct, nor which way is North - but still admiring the multi-coloured race signal flags hanging in the early summer slop

Onto the mighty 'Shikari' - line honours in our last turn at bat - 2 hours before the gun. The Nav sorting mainsail, genoa and spinnaker. Halyards and sheets next, rescue life belt installed, winch handles and outboard set-up and sorted, the hot haze of HK bearing down badly on the back of The Nav, sweat oozing, back breaking, hands bleeding - the dock not even departed. 30 minutes to game time, mainsail man 'Nige' aboard, 25 minutes left mid-deck man 'Jonesey' aboard. No sign of our Helm. Minutes pass. Heartbeats and thum-drumming increasing in tempo. Minutes from the starting millieu, there he is. Our man of the moment. Our saviour. Our saint. Our sourcer. The Helm. Climbing aboard, non-challant as Neptune ruling the waves as far as the eye can see. Dropping bag, some ice in the esky, he turned to his critically conditioned crew and asks "Anyone need some sun cream?!"

HKYC Harbour Pursuit Race – The Race

Outboard started, ropes released, we motored away from the dock, weaving and winding our way through yacht club traffic at 'rush hour'. Out through the granite shelter walls, onto the wide, wind-swept creek that is now HK harbour. Mainsail raised and set, then the genny, tacking and gybing through the fleet as the 'Men of Shikari' sought to charge at the line for a flying start at the sound of the gun. Horn blares with sixty second warning, watch hands being monitored, ticking down, the last gybe, sheets tightened, up to maximum velocity, the run at the line, and then the loud “Kaboom!” of the terrier-sized starter’s cannon, and the class was away. Screaming down the harbour like a pack of ravenous piranha, smaller Flying 15s, Pandoras, and Ruffians nervously looking to their '6' as the Impalas - the hot-rodding hoons of Hong Kong harbour - charged down toward the Hung Hom mark in line abreast like the great battle fleets of old

Around the mark and sailing at speed up to the outer harbour the fleet sailed, tacking and ducking, sheeting in and easing, screaming "STAAARBOARD!" and "HOLD YOUR COURSE!" in seeking to outpace or sink off-side opposition. Rounding the top mark, spinnakers rapidly raised, 'Shikari' in the leading pack. Down to the bottom mark, in 2nd now, knuckles whitening with intensity as we rounded that buoy, spinnaker stowed, The Helm yelling expletives, the deckies defying physics to maintain our momentum. Then it happened

The Class Captain, that doyen of HK harbour sailing - cunning as a coyote, a fine connoisseur of dark rum in barrels, schooled down the ages in the intricacies of avoiding South China shoals - inexplicably turned to port - to the left for those non-nautical landlubbers amongst our readers - seeking to avoid the worst of the incoming tide. This left the course open. 'Shikari' and her crew, stunned into action, about to roar up the outer harbour again, advised by our British Supremo Scientist type 'Nige' that the other boats going left probably hadn't factored in the presently limited current effect of the 'Diurnal Tide Curve' in their tactical course calculations

(The Helm's Ed Note : 'The Diurnal Tide Curve' is similar to a mathematical bell curve, where the intensity and speed of the tide reaches either its zenith or its nadir at the specific highest or lowest tide time)

The Nav tried desparately to absorb all this sea-going science, but failed badly as sadly his attention was at that time taken by The Helm constantly yelling "Get it in the f****ng bag!!!", as the spinnaker was dropped over The Nav down to his knees. So the race continued, tacking and covering, gybing and passing, until rounding the last mark in the lead - the 'Shikari' crew desparate for gun and glory - The Helm made the decision to wander aimlessly around the course, allowing others to close in this a 'pursuit' race

(The Helm's Ed Note : A pursuit race is where blocks of yachts are pitted against each other in the form of a fleet match race, with points scored for individual yachts beating their one opposition, and points multiplied for a team all winning against their individual oppositions. In the overall scheme of things, in this race type, the yacht that crosses the line first and gets the gun counts for little)

The crew cursing, desparate not to lose this opportunity for triumph, no matter that all of our fellow team fellows were in a sailing sump, The Nav derisively declared with venom to The Helm "Stop acting like a bl**dy Kiwi and put your ruthless Aussie baggy cap back on!!!" So we sailed on, The Helm helping our team 'pack' but taunting our crew. There the opposition, Impala Ling Yuan 1 Km to port beating up fast. Taxi at our 4 - a faster beat to the line. Moll way to off to starboard, avoiding the tide and scooting in like a seasoned surfer. Could 'Shikari' do it ? Would they do it ? What would our drinks tab be back at the club house main bar be if we failed ? Then quite probably the subject of all sailors hated scenarios, the dreaded "Losers lament back on land"

Up to the finish, that dreaded 'Diurnal Tide Curve' now at its zenith, a Pandora tacking desparately around the finish buoy trying to reach the line, the waters of the South China Sea savagely banishing her backwards. And on 'Shikari', white knuckles again, a quiet moment, the sound of the sloshing sea, the hum of humanity from the far shore, and then - "Kaboom!!!" What joy, what ecstacy, what relief. Two in two. Our team 'pack' had lost miserably in the pursuit race, but that did not matter this day as the 'Shikari' sailors broke every rule in the yachting pursuit race tactics book to get that gun - and dam the torpedoes being flung at us by our fellow fellows. The hull turned to starboard, sails reset, a quiet reflection on our victory today, then the one moment we had actually truely only been waiting for all afternoon, our mainsail man 'Nige' singing out with gusto - "RIGHT, who wants a BEEEER!?"

HKYC Harbour Pursuit Race – Post-Race Log

Back to the dock, sails packed, deck gear put away, smiles and waves at our opposing opposition, and most importantly MORE cold beer. Showers, changed clothes, into the main bar, the subject of endless banter, sore sunburned bodies, comparisons of knocks and bruises and abrasions

Quotes of the day were classic. Besides the one from mainsail man 'Nige' about 'Diurnal Tide Curves' reported earlier, there were a couple of pearlers from our other crew

Mid-shipman 'Jonesy' commented at days end "Todays choice of activities was either camping in Plover Cove in the New Territories with my 13 year-old, or drink beer and sail with my mates. The beer won"

And The Helm, explaining about a growth of conglomerated blood vessels on his neck, was at once rebuked by mainsail man 'Nige' with "Nah, its probably just due to wife pecking"

So why do we do it? Why do we go out and fling ourselves mercilessly and with abandon around on a big, flying, fiberglass, projectile - on a cold, heaving, terrifying sea. Sure in the knowledge that at any moment we could be skewered by a bowsprit, suffocated by a spinnaker, or made brain-dead by a flying boom!? There can be only one answer to this age old question of all sea-goers

Because of the Beer!

With everything now packed and stowed, and 'Shikari' safely secured to the dock, until the next chapter of sea-going shenanigans

This is The Nav off up to the main bar. STARBOARD !!!

HK Hebe Hackers CC vs HKCC Taverners Match Day 3 – Pre-Match Build-up

THE EVENT

A seemingly innocent game of social cricket, played between two of Hong Kong’s more eccentric teams on China’s Labour Day holiday, one team in the main comprising players based in and around Hebe Haven and Sai Kung in the Eastern New Territories, the other team comprising players living variously on HK island or in Kowloon. The game would be played in an afternoon, with two innings played - each comprising 35 overs bowled by each team, with batters retiring at scoring 45 runs, and with 11 wickets taken causing a premature end to that innings play

THE PROTAGONISTS

The Hebe Haven ‘Hackers’ Cricket Club – The Visitors

A committed team of amateur cricketers, drawn from the highland and lowland tribes of Clearwater Bay and Sai Kung in HK. Variously comprised of accountants, IT executive, sales professionals, personal fitness professionals, and company managers. The ‘Hackers’ take their cricket very seriously, but in the main they take all their team sports even more seriously, as it affords them a myriad of chances to get together afterwards, drink barrel-loads of beer, and generally afford each other psychologically taunting banter

The HK Cricket Club ‘Taverners’ – Home Team

A similarly committed group of mostly amateur and some not so amateur part-time cricketers, currently domiciled in HK, and comprising lawyers, bankers, medicos, captains of industry and other assorted ne’r do wells. Operating out of the Hong Kong Cricket Club’s (HKCC) Chater Tavern – or ‘Bradman’s Lair’ – this team of gentleman is well known locally for regularly laying siege to the Main Bar at the Kowloon Cricket Club, locking themselves in, and then not being seen for days after annexing that hallowed watering hole in the name of their mother club


THE DAY BEGINS

The day dawns grey, the humidity of Hong Kong in May percolating all parts of life – minds, bodies, and manifolds. This is it. The Big One. Match 3 between these two leviathans of the Hong Kong social sporting scene. These men of willow and pine, cleated shoes and floppy hats, with towering intellects and insatiable sporting hunger. Collectively driven to beat the odds, better the other, and empty the beer cooler together afterwards

How would the day end ? What drama would there be ? Who would be remembered in the annals of Hong Kong social cricket ? Would the ‘Taverners’ get up for a 3rd time in 3, running rough shod over the ‘Hackers’ after a shellacking in Match 1, and a close call in Match 2. Or would the ‘Hackers’ get up and be able to look back in years to come, and remember the moment when they were inspired to meet, match, and master those terrifying ‘Taverners’ on this one May day? It would prove to be a clash of titans, a conflict of chaos, a war between two worlds. The cold, hard, steeliness of the hard-drinking team from the HKCC Chater Tavern, 2nd Floor, The HKCC, 137 Wong Nai Chung Gap Road, Hong Kong. Or the flamboyant, flying, fun-loving men of the waters and beaches of Sai Kung and Clearwater Bay on the sunny Kowloon Peninsula – where lives are lived more akin to Hawaii than Hong Kong. The Nav certainly knew which team he would wager his money on

(Capn’s Ed Note : The Oxford English Dictionary defines cricket as a “game played with ball, bat, and wicket.” Probably a more apt description is 11 men and a 12th man or ‘Sub’, standing around for an entire day, watching other men thrash at a small leather orb missile, using what looks like a large spatula made from the wood of the willow tree. One team trying to run themselves ragged, scoring the most ‘runs’ after connecting with the missile, while protecting their three 71.1cm vertical wooden stumps and two 11cm horizontal wooden bails. Concurrently, the other team doing everything criminally possible - within the rules of the game - to fling asunder the stumps and bails using the said missile. Countries have been conquered, governments have fallen, and entire industries lost on the results of cricket ‘matches’. Indeed it has oft been said that the only reason India and Pakistan still exist is because they regularly play cricket – with their generals’ too busy enjoying the competitive fireworks of leather on willow to comply with Delhi or Islamabad’s directive to “Press that bl**dy button!”)


1pm. An air of nervous tension around the ground. The myriad children of these ‘Men of Willow’ moving like ants across the playing field, stomping on the wicket, moving the boundary ropes, playing scrabble in the large manually operated scoreboard. The groundsman, staring in shock, hip flasks close at hand, trying to shoo these little beasts from this one of Hong Kong’s sporting cathedrals for gentlemen. And so they appeared from the club house, dressed in their club colours, variously gloved, helmeted, and padded like Spartans, ready to close in battle to beat the other fellow

The ‘Taverners’, resplendent in the traditional English ‘creams’, caps and bright white shoes, with names like George, Douglas, Eric and Simon subtly tailored to their personas but on no part of their uniforms. These genteel man, Lions in the place of lambs, reminding us of those great Kings, Warriors and freedom fighters - the fifth English Monarch, the great red Viking leader, that WW II warrior of the sky, and the renowned Latin Liberator of the Americas. Yet their cricket creams remained a comforting throw-back to the English village green before the valour of the Somme, Flanders, and Passchendaele.

Opposing them, the ‘Hackers’, gleaming bright in their Colonial white, white, whites - a splash of gay navy blue across their shoulders - floppy hats and loud blue caps, with names like ‘Sainty’, ‘Soos’, ‘Trev’ and ‘Schatsie’ proudly emblazoned in 50 point font on their backs. Their calm, casual Antipodean or African manner a reminder of why the southern allies didn’t do too well at Chunuk Bair, Lone Pine, and Ladysmith – until they learned the rules of engagement and redeemed themselves at Crete, El Alamein, and Malagasy. The Captains’ closed. Hands were shaken. Steely mumblings of ‘good game, good-luck, best fortune’ - with fingers crossed behind their backs. The Head Umpire appeared, a coin produced and thrown high into the grey particulated sky, a call made by the visiting ‘Hackers’ Captain – “Heads !”

The Nav imagining all this, arrived late after catching a couple of episodes of ‘Dog Fights’ on the History Channel, part of a 6 hour May Day Marathon of that terrific TV series, weighed up the opportunity of learning more about the how the F86 Sabre matched the MIG 15, versus a chance to snatch a siesta on the sidelines at the cricket. The Nav eventually saw the light and decided on the sleep – little did he know what awaited him. Out of the taxi at the HKCC, to the outdoor café by the field, acknowledging and cheek kissing all the wives and girlfriends of cricketers (WAGCs), ready to settle in for a tall cappuccino and a quiet kip, then rudely interrupted by the ‘Hackers’ Cap’n for the day reaching out “Oy Nav, out here now ! We need a square leg umpire. Out you go lad.” A look of consternation on The Nav’s face, square leg umpire ? “Where’s square leg ?” he mumbled to himself.

Cap and sunnies put in his hands, pushed to the gate, and he found himself on Hong Kong’s own ‘Field of Dreams.’ Pointed towards square leg - or ‘Foolish Cover’ as it is described on the map of cricket field positions - again wishing that that hand-held GPS had been bought before the Targa Tasmania so he could locate mid-wicket - The Nav made his way past the very distinguished looking Bowlers End lead Umpire, John ‘The Judge’, a global stalwart of all things legal in matters of discipline in world Cricket. Nervously deciding to indicate his less than substantial expertise in the rules of the greatest game, and having had no opportunity to study Wisden, The Nav commented on his way past “Ah, how do you do. Um, I do a lot of sailing…..”, to which there was a crystal clear riposte, carrying to the boundary many many metres away “Well I don’t !” Nodding his understanding of his place in this day of sporting drama, and humbly chastised but looking forward to washing ‘The Judges’ breakfast dishes and shining his shoes on the morrow, The Nav walked purposefully to his ‘Foolish’ spot on the oval, and stood ready in trepidation, thinking not for the first time in the past few months “How the h*ll did I get myself into this situation?”

HK Hebe Hackers CC vs HKCC Taverners Match Day 3 – The Match

And so the game began, ‘Hacker’ at bat, ‘Taverners’ with ball, the field set by the latter ready to receive any mistake from the former with interest. After a creeping start, the ‘Hackers’ run rate momentarily moved up in tandem with the temperature. 4 overs 16 runs, 8 overs 37 runs, 9 overs 52 runs. 12 overs 76 runs. So the pace picked up, heading to 151 runs at 21, 209 at 34, and a final and very respectable 221 runs at the finish of the full 35 overs for 9 wickets lost. Despite a soft slippery field and an artificial playing wicket, runs were hard to come by with 4s and 6s appreciated like a good bottle of cold Crown Lager.

Through the overs the ‘Hackers’ toiled away, with many of the boiler room boys – the mainstay of this team – attempting stunning shots but for little reward. Wicket Keeper and opening batsman Schatsie caught for 7, after attempting a slog to mid-on. 'Chopper', attempting a sweep to deep backward square leg, LBW for 8. 'The Oracle', attempting a mammoth 6, bowled for 10. But these boys were the glue in the sandwich that is the spirit of the ‘Hacker’, with straight backs and straighter hairstyles their contributions added to the run rate, taking the side to a total that would challenge the terrifying ‘Taverners’ in their chase

And what characters’ there were on the field. George 'George' and Andrew 'Sainty', Skipper's constantly tweeking their fields, moving men in, moving men out, switching bowlers, doing everything conceivable to dominate, demoralize and destroy the spirit of their tough social cricket opponents. The wicket keepers Douglas 'Doug' for the ‘Taverners’, and Peter 'Schatsie' for the ‘Hackers’. Men of ages hewn from granite, wise but wiley, marshalling their troops around the field as if nations depended on it, at all times minimizing friction on older joints and muscle conglomerations, constantly seeking that tiny edge that would mean victory for their beloved team


The Nav - while working his magic on the oval monitoring the legality of the bowling, stressing about stumpings, always ready to let the ambulance through the white picket fence to fix a fractured skull - spied the many WAGCs on the boundary line, glasses of cold Sauvignon in hand, chatting about Bali, a thousand children milling around them, slowly but with certitude destroying the infrastructure of the HKCC. This week there had been emails flying around HK and the world, a ‘Call to Arms’ sent to all corners of the globe, pursuing any and all ‘Taverners’ and ‘Hackers’ to sign-up, represent and defend their hallowed clubs’ in this, Match Day 3. Cricketing codes, acronyms, and jargon were used by all in their messages – box, duck, googly, hook, lbw, maiden, odi , pull, seemer, slips, ton, and yorker to name but a few – to drive up the banter, the expectations, and the excitement of playing this one May Day match. Of course several stalwarts, by fate or design, were unable to make the match and play for their beloved brothers. But technology remains a wondrous thing, with some MIA mates quietly SMSing or emailing the actual playing protagonists for scores, updates, and general sledge all during the conflict

One unwise ‘Hackers’ MIA ‘Jonesy’, late of Sai Kung Town, made the error of telephonically telecommunicating with one of the WAGCs, not knowing that this wondrous mother still struggles to delineate the All Blacks from the All Whites from the Black Caps, unsure which team plays at Augusta. Much to the chagrin of the missing mate, the messaging proved messy. Mate “How was the toss?” Mother “Caesar. Delicious” Mate “Whos in bat ?” Mother “What? No caves round here” Mate “Score?” Mother “7” Mate “Over?” Mother “213” “Wickets remaining?” Mother “23” Mate “R u looking at score board?” Mother “Is that the big brown house?” Poor emotional MIA would live through many highs and many lows this long afternoon, confused and unsure of score, not quite certain what sport was being played on the oval this day – in a form of players purgatory – turning to Gordon to share tonic, lemon, and ice to calm the nerves. Triples. Small glass

And so it was the turn at bat of the ‘Taverners’, their secret weapons a 9 year old lad who in the 1st innings had bowled at the ‘Hackers’ like Bradman, and a 16 year old sub-adult who had bowled like Lillee, Thommo, and Garner – and who won the ‘Taverners’ choice of their man of the match. Onto the oval the openers marched, kitted out like Carthaginians, the withering gaze of Hannibal a constant through their metal-caged visors. So innings 2 began, first at a gentleman’s clip, then a trepidating torrent, and finally into a biblical flood.

6 overs 25 runs, 11 overs 67 runs, 16 overs 133 runs, and so it went on, the ‘Hackers’ sliding all over the field in their Adidas and Nikes, seeking to catch, bowl, or bury the ‘Taverners’ batsman but to no avail. 163 runs at 21 overs, 184 at 24, and finally the magic number of 223 reached in 29 overs and 3 balls bowled, with only a handful of wickets lost. And so the ‘Taverners’ were victorious, but there were no vulgar high 5s, no self-congratulations, no offering of autographs, just the combined contentment of a job well done. The ‘Hackers’ had put their hearts into it, marching off the field, their heads held high, staring in unison at the cold green Carlsbergs’ that awaited them

So the match ended, just the post-match proceedings to look forward to. The Nav, seeing that there was still work to be done, headed over and helped clear up the extensive detritus left lying by the WAGCs and their broods, noting upended coffee cups, empty plates previously of hot dog and hamburger, and extensive numbers of empty Carlsberg pint glasses strewn all around the ‘Hackers’ warm up arena; The Nav couldn’t help but wonder if these had had a material affect on the teams ability to leap, leg it, and look at the game as it was in play. Certainly the friendly HKCC ants appeared to be feeding voraciously and having their usual field-day. And so it was on to the the post match proceedings

HK Hebe Hackers CC vs HKCC Taverners Match Day 3 – Post-Match Proceedings

At the post-match proceedings, seeking more material for this report, The Nav cornered the ‘Taverners’ Antipodean Skipper ‘George’, and sought information about key protagonists of the victorious ‘Taverners’. Apart from ‘The Judge’ and ‘Krakatoa’ so described earlier and later in this epic, there was ‘VFF’ Eric – so named not because he worked in radio telecommunications, but because his bowling of that leather missile was ‘Very F**king Fast’. Also Rod ‘The Grocer’, a very successful local British businessman in supermarkets and retailing, prone to delivering to the opposition exactly what they ordered. A true stalwart on the cricket field, grounding out a very respectable score of runs this May Day, thus allowing the other matinee idols of the ‘Taverners’ to come in and score 4s and 6s at their leisure – unhindered by that nemesis of all one-day cricketers – that of ‘overs remaining’

And so the players emptied the beer cooler, had their showers, grabbed some BBQ scoff, and sat down for an hour or two of ‘bad boys bonhomie’, shooting the breeze about massive 6s, fearsome 4s, dropped catches, and plays of the day. Indeed the Nav, busily blogging on his blackberry, scribbling on his stationery, and photographing with his Casio Exilim in preparation for this report – all the while using his left eye to make cricketing calls from ‘Foolish Cover’ – had the time to note the plays’ of the day for each team. These are shared now with you our loyal reader

For the ‘Hackers’, ‘The Purser’ when at 1 wicket for 83 runs and just when the team were moving themselves to DEFCON 4, he took a diving catch of a leather missile fired from a wowitzer directly at deep mid-on, over his right shoulder, eyes straight up towards Venus, both his arms outstretched as if pleading to his wife for another pink pass, cap flying and hair flailing in the torbid HK air, taking an incredibly valuable 2nd wicket. Although The Nav was technically a non-combatant standing in the neutral part of the oval delineated as ‘Switzerland’, even he found himself clapping

For the ‘Taverners’, 'Krakatoa' Kieran and his towering 3 consecutive sixes directed at deep square leg, each and all strategically landing right in the small 2nd floor Chater Tavern verandah, some 90 metres from the bat! Some review of the rules by The Nav after he noticed two carefully placed paid up members of the 'Taverners Tribe' Fan Club - variously dressed in pink or blue t-shirts as 'target markers' - carefully being field positioned on the verandah by the unseen 'Taverners' sub to ensure none of the shots were caught

And the quotes of the day – often spoken at life or deaf moments in sport, but dismissed as mere banter by many :-

‘Hackers’ ‘Trev’, fielding at the deep fine leg boundary, upon seeing ‘Smerdo’s’ ‘Bean Ball’ at an opposing ‘Taverners’ batsman, yelled out in a sledge-like Ocker accent “Go on, give him another!” Cracking competitors these cricketers ! (Capn’s Ed Note : A ‘Bean Ball’ is a ball bowled which bounces up to head height of the opposition batsman. If it connects with the head, two things can happen. Either a) death or b) rest-of-life hallucinations)

‘Hackers’ ‘Trev’ again, on being advised that a petty burglar had been snatching cash and credit cards from people in the HKCC club house, checked his wallet and commented “Jeez, if they got my Igor’s [restaurants loyalty] card I’d be in trouble!”

Oh what drama, what an event, what a show! At the end, no matter the result, the winner on the day was Cricket. The Nav being his usual entrepreneurial self, did see a massive opportunity to fly in the India Premier League Cricket Cheerleaders for Match Day 4, with visions of the venerable HKCC Club House filled to the gunwales with screaming, whistling, testosterone fuelled young men - most of them Hindus from the mean streets of Mongkok - drinking keg loads of 'Kingfisher Beer' and 'eating the club out of house and korma'. On reflection, The Nav decided to file this idea and float it to the Captains' on another day, conscious that he would probably either be assassinated by the extreme right wing Hindu Nationalist Party, or be black-balled from the HKCC - a club he isn't even a member of. The Nav had visions of reporting the ‘Taverners’ vs ‘Hackers’ on Match Day 4 from behind the 50 metre tall netting fence that surrounds the HKCC oval. Probably across on other side of the main Wong Nai Chung Gap Road. Next to the Esso station

So this memorable Match Day 3 closed in a warm spring HK evening, everyone winding down, already reminiscing about the good, the bad, and the illegal in this match to remember. Following the scoffing, the Captains’ made their speeches, swapped gifts and thanks - eyeing each other already for ‘Taverners’ versus ‘Hackers’ the rematch of the rematch of the rematch. For The Nav today was one he would never forget, the day he acted as an official ‘assistant’ to the real Match Day decision-makers, marching backwards and forwards between overs to take position on the opposite side of the wicket, so involved in the game that he busily paced out his distance from the edge of the pitch - 33 paces on the club house side, and 34 paces on the island side. Precise, engrossing stuff this cricket. And despite all the statistics that this game can throw up – runs scored, wickets taken, catches caught, boundaries hit, stumpings achieved – one indelible statistic would remain with The Nav. In two innings and a total of 64 overs and 3 balls bowled, as square leg umpire at ‘Foolish Cover’, The Nav made just one decision. But that’s Cricket – and he Loved it !

Until his next mission – possibly more brooding about boxes

This is The Nav. Out