Cruisin'

by Brian Caswell

'Feel like a game of chess?' I asked.

  'Does a one-legged duck swim in circles?' she replied.

  I never brought up the subject of her legs again.

  At least, not until it was too late to make any difference ...

  6

  Bora Bora

  THE WORLD ACCORDING TO SUZI

  The great thing about being on a cruise around the islands of French Polynesia is that you get to visit some pretty cool places.

  The not-so-great thing – if you don't happen to be multilingual – is that there's actually a really good reason they call it French Polynesia, and not English Polynesia, or Australian Polynesia, or even US Polynesia.

  That reason has a lot to do with the fact that it's ruled by France – which is why everyone there speaks French, especially when they're explaining why two cans of Coke and a couple of stale doughnuts cost approximately the same as a small European car.

  I don't speak French – except for merci and monsieur – both of which come in pretty handy, if you find yourself in French Polynesia and some guy opens the door for you while you're struggling to manoeuvre your wheelchair outside, with two cans of Coke and a couple of stale doughnuts in your lap – and Jules nowhere in sight, because he's trying to work out how to use the payphone to call a cab back to the ship.

  Of course, I didn't get to use my two words of French, because no one bothered to help me by opening the door – even though there were four guys in the shop sitting at one of the café tables, drinking strong black coffee and discussing, in angry French, what I assumed to be something of grave importance to the survival of the planet.

  (This assumption was based on the volume of their voices and the fact that they kept banging their fists on the table to emphasise whatever point they happened to be making at the time.)

  Jenna Hamilton, of course, speaks fluent French.

  I heard her bargaining for a sensational new bikini at one of the shops on the main street of Bora Bora – and though I didn't understand a word of what she said, I'm willing to bet that she got that bikini for a fraction of the price I paid, a few hours later, for two Cokes and a couple of stale doughnuts.

  And I'm also willing to bet that if she was struggling to negotiate that door – even if she had nothing in her hands except her 'so cute' rattan beach bag – she would most definitely get a chance to say, 'Merci, Monsieur.'

  In fact, they'd probably end up thanking her.

  Does anyone here, apart from me, think that the world is particularly unfair?

  It's not her fault. Not really. I mean, she's really quite nice – in a Malibu-Barbie-meets-Hilary-Duff kind of way.

  The thing is, she honestly doesn't notice the effect she has on the half of the population that's genetically programmed to drool whenever she enters a room.

  She doesn't notice it, in the same way a fish doesn't notice the water it swims in.

  It just is.

  The way the sun just is.

  And she accepts it as the natural order of things – and wears spectacular bikinis and adorable little beach dresses to make the most of it.

  Jules finally found us a taxi – and a driver who spoke English, sort of. He drove us back to the ship along roads which were lined with palm trees and thatched huts. I'm sure it took us twice as long as it should have, but Jules was smart enough to negotiate a price before we started, so we weren't really worried.

  It wasn't a wheelchair-friendly cab – actually, I don't think they have such a thing on Bora Bora – so, for the second time that day, we had to struggle to get me into the back seat. My chair travelled folded up, sticking out of the boot, with the lid tied down using a piece of old rope he carried for just such an occasion.

  He was really quite sweet, explaining all the sights in his broken English, and blowing his horn and waving to the groups of children we passed – all of whom he seemed to be related to.

  His name was François, and as if he didn't have enough relatives on the road between Pua Pua (which was where we'd ended up on our little adventure) and the wharf where the tender boat was supposed to pick us up to take us back to the ship, he informed us that he had cousins in Sydney, and that he intended to visit them soon.

  'Maybe I see you there, and you show me aroun',' he said.

  'Maybe,' I replied, looking out of the window at the sun on the blue sea and the huge bulk of The Polynesian Queen – looking sleekly out of place, anchored out there in the middle of the bay.

  I wasn't looking forward to explaining to my father how we'd ended up halfway around the other side of the island, instead of heading for the shops and the beach with all the other tourists.

  I was kind of hoping that he hadn't noticed we'd gone AWOL, and that I could bluff him by telling him how great the beach was, and dangling the authentic seashell necklace (complete with its imitation clamshell medallion engraved with 'Bora Bora') in front of his nose, while I kept him spellbound with my story of how I'd bartered the stall owner down to practically nothing.

  (Which, of course, wasn't technically true, as this particular stall owner was doing a pretty good impersonation of someone who didn't understand a word I was saying – and didn't particularly care to try – and kept holding up four fingers until I gave in and paid him the four francs he'd asked for.)

  As it was, I needn't have worried. About preparing the excuse, I mean – I gave up being worried about being ripped off years ago.

  The thing is, either:

  a) you want the thing and you're willing to pay the price (in which case, you're not really being ripped off – you're just paying premium, and whether or not you could have screwed him down another dollar is sort of immaterial), or

  b) you're not willing to pay the price (in which case, you don't buy it, so you're not going to get ripped off anyway).

  The reason I didn't need to worry about the excuse was that my father wasn't remotely aware of our movements for the entire afternoon.

  It turned out that Jules' mum had got a bit too much sun while trying to bargain for souvenirs (probably from the seashell necklace guy!), and almost fainted, just as my dad was passing on his way to the beach to get us.

  Being Dad, he'd helped her back to the ship, with Jules' Aunt Pru assisting – by reminding him to keep his hands where she could see them.

  After he made sure she had enough water to drink (Jules' mum, I mean, not Aunt Pru, who'd retreated down to the cabin in search of salt-tablets and pain-killers, then entirely forgotten to bring them up when she got into an argument with one of the officers, because he'd given her 'that look', while she was waiting for the lift), Dad had stayed with her in the shade beside the pool, asking probing questions about Jules and telling her my entire life story.

  When we arrived back on board, I had my story all ready, but he didn't even ask me. Which was a relief – in a slightly disappointing kind of way.

  What I didn't want to tell him was the real reason we'd ended up in a cab, heading for the wrong side of the island, in the first place.

  I suppose, in a way, you could say it was Barry Barnes' fault.

  His, and the language barrier – and our craving for an ice-cold strawberry milkshake.

  Since the first day on board, Barry had had it in for Jules – partly because Jules wasn't the world's best fighter, and partly because of Jules' sarcasm reflex.

  This is a particularly unfortunate combination to be cursed with where Barry Barnes is concerned, because:

  a) he likes beating up on kids who aren't very good fighters, and

  b) he doesn't understand sarcasm (because understanding sarcasm requires at least eighty IQ points – which is about eight times as many as Barry can muster up on a good day), and when Barry doesn't understand something, he assumes the person who said it is 'being smart' (which, relatively speaking, isn't all that hard to be, when you're comparing yourself to a vacuum).

  Unfortunately, when Barry doesn't understand something, and thinks that the person responsible is 'being smart' (which h
appens pretty regularly), it triggers his 'inflict hurt on something' reflex – which, like Jules' sarcasm reflex, is pretty much beyond his control.

  And certainly beyond the control of the unfortunate victim.

  Which is why we found ourselves running for our lives – or, at least, for Jules' life – on the first morning of our visit to Bora Bora.

  We were heading down the main street, which looks like the main street of most Polynesian island tourist spots – small shops selling everything from traditionally printed sarongs and carved wooden canoes (which the tourists buy for a great price, only to have them confiscated and burned by Customs when they arrive back in Australia), to cool beach-wear and snack foods.

  We weren't looking for anything in particular.

  I'm not big on the cool beach-wear scene, and Jules wasn't interested in anything but the fact that Jenna Hamilton was big on the cool beach-wear scene, so it gave us an opportunity to follow her, under the pretence that we were actually interested in buying something.

  I pointed out that there had been plenty of time to break the ice with her while we were on the ship, and that he'd been too much of a wuss to make his move then, so why would the change of location make any difference?

  In reply, he just ignored the superior logic of my position and whispered, 'Look, she's stopping at that beach-wear stall.'

  Quelle surprise!

  (Okay, I've added a couple of words to my French vocabulary list, since our little adventure.)

  I really think he might have raised the nerve to talk with her, if fate hadn't stepped in – in the form of Barry Barnes.

  Jules didn't notice him, of course, because he was staring into the shop where Jenna was holding up skimpy shreds of material against her body, imagining what they'd look like when she was wearing them.

  I could see that Jules was imagining approximately the same thing, but I could also see something that he was a bit too preoccupied to notice.

  Bury Bones had just emerged from one of the stalls, with a soft-drink in his hand and a vague look on his face, when he looked up and saw us – or Jules, at least.

  Suddenly, the vague look was replaced with a look I don't think I can easily describe – unless you happen to have seen Jurassic Park.

  It's the look on the velociraptor's face when it's in the kitchen, hunting for lunch – in the form of the terrified humans who happen to be hiding behind the metal cupboards in an effort to survive at least until dinnertime (or, preferably, until the final credits).

  I tried to get Jules' attention, but that was like trying to get a sensible reaction out of a lump of yellow playdough. In the end, I reached across and pinched hard at the flesh on the back of his hand.

  'Ow!' he shouted, then looked hurriedly down at me, because his outburst had alerted Jenna to his presence and he didn't want to look like he was staring at her – even though that's exactly what he had been doing.

  I caught his eye, and jerked my head in the direction of Barry Barnes – who still hadn't moved, and who looked even more like a velociraptor, as his gaze met the wide eyes of a potential victim.

  'Let's get out of here!' I whispered, as if the volume of the words was likely to make any difference.

  Jules didn't say anything, he just nodded.

  Then Barnes took his first step, and we were off.

  Jules would probably have tried to push me, but I can go quicker under my own power, so I yelled, 'Run!' and took off down the street, with Jules keeping pace beside me, and Barry Barnes perhaps fifteen metres behind.

  The street was slightly downhill, so we were able to stay a fraction ahead, but at the same moment we both realised that the way back to the ship required us to climb a slight hill. Not a problem, normally, but a major problem when you're in a wheelchair, trying to stay ahead of a rampaging velociraptor. We'd never make it up the hill before he caught us.

  'You go ahead,' I shouted. 'He's not after me.'

  But Jules isn't the type to leave you alone – just in case. He was looking ahead, and caught sight of something. I could tell, because he increased his speed.

  At the bottom of the hill was a taxi, and he was heading straight for it.

  When the driver saw the wheelchair, he looked like he was about to drive off, but Jules grabbed the handle and wrenched the door open.

  'Could we get a little help here?' he shouted, and though the driver clearly had trouble understanding the words, I think he got a sense of the urgency – especially as Jules was banging the top of his cab with the palm of his hand and muttering, 'Come on. Come on!'

  I looked back at the bone-digger, who'd slid to a stop about ten metres away, unsure whether he should approach and satisfy the thirst for dismemberment that had driven him to chase us in the first place.

  He was probably considering the chances that the cab driver might side with us, and/or that he might be a better fighter than Jules – which are two distinct concepts, a combination which might well have proved too complex for his limited brainpower to handle all at once.

  Whatever the reason, it gave us the chance – with the help of the reluctant driver – to manoeuvre me into the back seat of the taxi, and fold my chair down so it fitted into the boot.

  Jules slid in beside me and slammed the door, staring out at Barry Barnes with wide eyes, and a deep sigh of relief.

  At that moment, he reminded me of my dog Indy. She's a Jack Russell/foxy cross who sometimes has to make a mad dash to avoid surrendering portions of her anatomy to Augustus, after she's riled him up by barking at him – which is probably the canine equivalent of 'being smart'.

  Augustus, by the way, is the psychotic pit bull who lives next door. He chases her because he's never quite mastered the difference between Meaty Bites and biting meat. My dad reckons Augustus has brain damage from chasing parked cars.

  Anyway, most times Indy just manages to slip through the doggie door in the laundry before Augustus (who hasn't been able to fit through the doggie door since he was three months old) closes the gap. Then, once she knows she's safe, she turns around and growls menacingly at the huge slavering monster on the other side of the screen.

  It's like, Yeah, go on, chase me, you great lump. You couldn't catch a cold in a snow-storm. And your mother ...

  ... Or whatever the terrier version of trash-talk might be.

  Jules didn't growl exactly, and he certainly didn't trash-talk. After all, he isn't a Jack Russell/foxy cross, so he doesn't have small-dog syndrome.

  Besides, we still had over a week to go on the cruise.

  And a week is a long time to keep running and hiding.

  What he did do was stare out of the window at Bone-Boy, who stared back for a few seconds, before he snarled something we couldn't make out, and turned back towards the shops.

  Perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline, perhaps the close call had unhinged us a little, but when Jules said, 'Look, we're in the taxi now. Do you want to go somewhere?' I replied, 'What, an adventure, you mean?'

  A word of warning: in French Polynesia, a lot of the names sound pretty similar, so if you're planning to go on a small adventure (not that what we did could really be called 'planning'), make sure that you're careful with your pronunciation – especially if the taxi driver you happen to choose doesn't speak English, and will probably, if there is any doubt about where you want to go, choose the place that sounds like what you said that is the furthest (and therefore, the highest fare) away.

  Which is pretty much what our driver did.

  You see, our idea of an adventure at that moment – having just escaped an adventure of a much darker type – was to go to the beach at Pula Pula, a couple of ks down the coast, where, rumour had it, the waves were better (not that this was particularly important to me) and they made the best ice-cold strawberry milkshakes on the island (which was!).

  Unfortunately, Pula Pula sounds a lot like Pua Pua – a village halfway around the other side of the island, which is famous for ... absolutely nothing.

>   By the time we realised we weren't headed for the milkshake capital of Bora Bora, our driver had developed a severe case of deafness – or terminal stupidity. He refused to understand our pleas to turn around, and when we finally arrived in Pua Pua, he demanded his fare before he would give us the wheelchair from the boot.

  When I suggested – forcefully – that he take us back to the ship, he shook his head, pointing to his watch, and drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving us stranded. He probably didn't want to have to explain our detour to anyone with authority when we got back.

  Which is how come we were so late getting back to the ship – and why we were extremely lucky that Jules' mother has a low tolerance for heat and ultraviolet radiation.

  Still, it was unlike my dad not to ask me about my day. The third degree is sort of second nature to him.

  It didn't click for me until I saw him the next day, sitting on the Lido Deck, rubbing sunblock into Jules' mum's shoulders ...

  7

  Busted

  JULES' STORY

  When Suzi asked me if I thought her dad had the hots for my mum, I'll admit it took me a bit by surprise.

  I mean, the last time I remember her having a boyfriend was way back when I still thought that Transformers were a pretty cool idea – even though the stories on the cartoon made absolutely no sense (this was, incidentally, long before the Transformers movie – which had great special effects, and wasn't as lame as it could have been, even though it really didn't make any more sense than the original cartoon).

  The reason it sticks in my mind is because Eric (which was the boyfriend's name) insisted on buying me the little Transformers toys every time he came to take her out on a date.

  It didn't last all that long, of course – partly because my mum isn't the dating type, but mainly because, even if she had been (and even if he did increase the share price of Hasbro almost single-handedly, trying to buy my childish support), poor old Eric just wasn't her type.

  After all, his idea of reading was the sports pages of the Daily Telegraph – while hers (as I think I already mentioned) was just a little more ... extensive.