A Castle On The Shore

There is something culturally significant and alluring about the Australian coastline. Between its rugged southern cliffs and the tropical northern points lie a myriad of seductive sandy coves or stretches of long white beaches that spear the horizon like a comet in the night sky, bordered by thousands of miles of dunes with hues and shades to make a rainbow weep in despair at its own lack of beauty. 

The Aussie sun, sand and surf is infamous for its body beautiful, bronzed bathers but equally, more recently, for the less appealling 'beached whales' that accompany the army of eskys and umbrellas on most weekends and public holidays. But while the aesthetic lustre of naked skin and lustful curves becomes a rarer and less forgiving sight, some things will never change.

Since the earliest of times, small children have watched attentively as older siblings built sand castles that often resembled St Basil's Cathedral as if it were sculpted by a collaboration of Picasso and Dali in a fit of artistic chaos fuelled by a night of absinthe and opium. 

Adorned by whatever flotsam and jetsam happens to be scavenged from the shoreline, these remarkable constructions bear little resemblance to reality and, briefly, even seem to defy the laws of physics before being crushed by the youngest child as they pounce on the precariously teetering turrets in a cataclysmic demolition of 9/11 proportions. 

The juvenile engineers will scream with disdain and the adults quickly intervene to prevent retaliatory strikes from those armed with plastic pails and shovels. A grey haired mediator is appointed to assess ground zero and resolves to assist in the reconstruction effort, promising to "build it bigger and stronger and better than before".

All parties excitedly agree to the proposal, with the false hope that the mediator has some esoteric knowledge about the qualities of sand and water. The building phase resumes once more as the sounds of peace echo through the warm breeze, caress the ocean spray and frolic with the screech of gulls.

Solid foundations are mapped out and compacted by a hundred eager footsteps. Walls are built as thick as they are high, and a moat is dug wide enough for any suitably scaled clipper to navigate at sailing speed without fear of running aground.  An esky lid becomes the drawbridge, ensuring that  a two year old giant can view the progress without causing further havoc.

Turrets soar into the air, three and four pails high. A pail being the industry standard  measurement for feats of engineering in this environment. The ageing foreman takes on most of the critical labouring tasks himself and sends his minions scurrying down the shoreline and into the dunes to secure materials for the fortification of the great building.

Many grand and exotic paraphernalia are returned to site and are first shown to respective mothers and grandmothers for assessment. A grimace or look of disgust from the matriarchs are a signal of approval to the proud scavengers and only increase their enjoyment of this collaborative effort as they squeal with laughter at their daring insolence.

Nature is recycled in a way that even the gods could not have predicted. Crab limbs become cannons, pieces of shell that survived the tumbling across reefs are reborn as armour cladding for battlements, while cuttlefish remains form the many brattices and hoardings from which the army can defend the castle walls. Strips of seaweed are tied to twigs and placed high atop each turret to proudly announce the royal standard under which this city is protected.

A quarrel breaks out between the three boys over who should be king. As swords are drawn and duels challenged, a fair lady charms the would-be knights with her siren voice and proclaims that Queen Barbie of Malibu shall rule, promptly placing Her Majesty atop the largest building in the keep. 

The small guild of artisans stand back to admire their work and the foreman instructs the 2 year old giant how to dig away a small portion from the side of the moat and create a trench toward the ocean. 

With each consecutive wave lapping the shore, a trickle of water begins to emerge in the trench. Six waves later and the sea starts streaming into the moat as the sandsmiths jump and squeal and clap their hands in appreciation of the miracle unfolding before them.

Matriarchs of two eras are dragged from their comfortably reclined positions and begged to give attention to the grand design of the latest generation. Pleasantries and polite accolades are duly offered and received before life is allowed to return to its dull, but serene, talk of the latest health concerns for poor Aunt Sally.

Back to the new fortification protecting Australia's shores, the builders seemed to have moved onto new projects. The three boys taking the southern part of the kingdom for practising their swordsmanship and jousting skills while their two female counterparts attend to Queen Barbie, ensuring that the castle is appropriately fitted with everything Her Majesty desires. 

The two year old giant is given a royal pardon, appointed to be the city's sentry and allowed to wade through the moat on the promise to never touch the castle. 

As the warm afternoon becomes cooler with a shifting southerly breeze swirling sand around legs and into eyes, it is time to pack away the accoutrements of modern civilisation and bid the medieval fortress a fond farewell. 

With its creators carried away by horseless carriages that are unfamiliar to its own era, the empty relic stands forlornly on the beach like a discarded toy in a field.

In a few short hours the sun will set on this small human endeavour. The flags blown from their poles by gusts of wind, the tide creeping in and lashing away at every grain of sand in its foundations, with the towers eventually crumbling into ruin. 

By sunrise the next day, no trace of the thriving civilisation would remain where once Queen Barbie of Malibu ruled. 

The pride of humanity over its entire existence is simply no match for the endless humility of nature. 

Dare!!

Dare to think and to challenge,


experience, question, and admire,


take wonder; be amazed; stand in awe,


believe and hope and dream.

Just dare to do it when others can't be bothered or have given up and just know that every individual has the power to move mountains.

Apathy, hopelessness and fear create a slow and painful death.


While passion, hope and courage create a fast and fulfilled life.

Written 18 February 2003

Three Dads Are Better Than None

A perspective on coming out to my daughter. 1999

Seven years seems so long ago. As far as relationships go, it might sound a decent stretch, even outstanding and worth commemoration. But it is still in the early stages yet, and we have a lot of growing to do together, a lot of learning and a lot of sharing. Relationships don’t just blossom overnight, and as our time together is limited, we have to put in a little more effort to get over the occasional hurdles, but we have our whole lives ahead of us to get it right.

She’s beautiful, of course, a treasure I would never forsake. The day she was born is vivid in my mind and it will be so until the last day I see her face. A father can never forget that magical moment when their child is born, and for me, I have extra reasons to feel special.

Being a gay man is not a description people would naturally put onto me, especially when seeing my daughter, Sophie, and I together. But to us, it doesn’t seem strange that she is blessed with a wonderful Mother and three Dads. It seems very normal.
As far back as she can remember, I have always had boyfriends rather than girlfriends, but it wasn’t always that way, as her birth obviously portrays. And the question I am still waiting to hear fall from her seven year old lips is “Daddy, when did you stop liking girls and start liking boys?” or something to that effect. And that is one question I could never even answer for myself.

I was married to Fiona, Sophie’s mother, for 2-and-a-half-years before we separated. Although the reasons for our break up did not include my sexuality, it was evident to me that the added pressure of trying to live a straight lifestyle was making me unhappy. It took more than a year to pass before I came to terms with my own sexuality and with that came the responsibility to share this part of my life with those that I loved.

Opening up to my sister was the easiest. As we were sharing a house, and I was developing my first gay relationship, it also became necessary to remove any veils of secrecy. Telling my parents was more difficult, as any gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender person will probably agree. I knew it would be, but I faced the task all the same, and at the end of the day I am glad I did, as it was such a weight off my shoulders at the time.

But these tasks aside, how would I tell a child of 3 years that her father was a homosexual? Without knowledge of sexuality, without concept of maleness and femaleness, and without an understanding about the love that occurs between any couple, straight or gay, how would I tell her? How could she possibly understand my feelings and my desires when she was only just starting to learn about her own world? I don’t think I could have found a perfect opportunity or method, and in a way I am glad I didn’t find it. Instead, it found me.

Without the solution at hand, my strategy was to normalise all activity. I believed that if Sophie was to meet and interact with the people in my life without any preconceptions, that it would allow her to develop her own sense of “normal” instead of adopting the version that would be imposed on her by society.

In a sense, this strategy worked. Sophie met my boyfriend at the time, and then she met my subsequent partners. She saw us cuddling on the couch, watching television, kissing and holding hands, she shared our personal space, and she saw a caring relationship develop. If it weren’t for the common denominator of the Y chromosome, it would have been easily mistaken for a “normal” happy and healthy relationship. And of course it should have, because to all of us it was normal. By not actively outing myself to my daughter, or her mother at that stage, I had succeeded in re-defining the normal, but only temporarily.

“Daddy’s boyfriend, Mark...” Sophie began, interrupting a discussion between her mother and her day carer.

“What was that?” asked her mother, half surprised that Sophie had mixed up the word boyfriend for girlfriend, and half surprised that there was another relationship being established. Fiona had commenced a new relationship almost a year earlier. Or did she mean boyfriend in the same way that women talk about their girlfriends, as close friends?

“Daddy’s boyfriend....” she stated again.

I can only imagine the quizzing that my daughter, 3 years old at the time, would have gone through during a very confusing and somewhat embarrassing moment for her mother. It was a defining moment, though; one filled with apprehension, intrigue, shock, concern, and a multitude of other emotional states.

When Fiona broached the subject with me several weeks later, it was with some nervousness and apprehension that I confessed. It did feel like a confession too, like keeping a secret from your very best friend. But at the heart of our discussion were an understanding, an acceptance, and a common concern for the well being of Sophie.

Being open and honest with our daughter was just as important as ensuring she was fed and clothed. At all times I wanted her to know that there were no secrets, no dark closets, and no taboo topics of conversation. My life has been open to my daughter from the day she came into it, and my door is always open to her.

I look back now, and share with others that defining moment when a three-year-old “outed” me. I certainly underestimated a child’s perspective and level of understanding, an attribute that supports the maxim “out of the mouths of babes”. Children are wiser than we expect; are more accepting than we give them credit for; and certainly, in my experience, are less affected by society’s expectations in their early years than we, as adults, are with our years of experience.

Sophie and myself continue to enjoy a wonderful relationship as father and daughter. As with any parenting role there will always be traumas, and being separated by access arrangements has its own pitfalls. Time is precious with every weekend, and for that period my priority shifts from lover and partner, to father and carer.

I am proud that Sophie can understand such concepts as same sex relationships, and I am proud that she can attend Pride Fair Day and other events with my partner and myself as a family. We have had a lot of fun together, and as she grows there will certainly be many fond memories of her life with Mummy and her partner, Neil; as well as her life with Daddy and his partner, Richard.

We are fortunate that my partner enjoys the unique family situation we have developed, and he is willing to share in the parenting role where possible, a position that I encourage and support. It is wonderful to see the gleam in his eye when Sophie gives him a hug or runs out of her room with her latest drawing especially for him. It is a child’s ultimate sign of acceptance and unconditional love.

Sophie is lucky. While some children are homeless and without a loving family, she has a unique extended family, one that I hope she will grow to be proud of and not embarrassed by. She is privileged to have a very special Mum, three extra special Dads, and a resulting plethora of aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins. Who could ask for anything more but knowing that she is truly loved by all, including Richard, the man her Daddy loves.

Friendship

A short speech I gave at a Junior Chamber function in Fremantle in 1998.

Around the corner I have a friend

    In this great city that has no end,

Yet the days go by and the weeks rush on,

    And before I know it, a year is gone

And I never see my old friend's face,

    For life is a swift and terrible race.



Yet, he knows I like him just as well,

    As in the days when I rang his bell,

And he rang mine. We were younger then,

    And now we are busy, tired men

Tired of playing a foolish game

    Tired of trying to make a name



"Tomorrow", I say, "I’ll call on Jim

    Just to show that I'm thinking of him."

But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,

    And distance between us grows and grows.

Around the corner! … yet miles away,

    Here's a telegram sir - "Jim died today."



And that's what we get,

    and deserve in the end.

Around the corner,

    a vanished friend.



[Src: Around The Corner by Henson Towne]

"I received this poem in December last year just two days after a close friend suddenly died.

His death and this poem opened my eyes to how we take our friendships for granted. How we replace life’s important tasks with life’s urgent chores, and then regret those lost moments of pleasure.

Society conditions us to anticipate a busy life in which we run out of time for the things that are important and that our friends will wait, patiently, last in line behind the rest of our life.

Perhaps a true friend will wait, but would you? Or would you continue in your busy lifestyle, placing them at the back of your line?"

A friend is one who believes in you

    when you have ceased to believe in yourself.



A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart

    and can sing it to you when you have forgotten the words.



A real friend is one who walks in when

    the rest of the world walks out.



[Author(s) unknown]

"I wasn’t close to my friend, not as close as I could have been. I certainly took more than I gave, always thinking I would make it up later ... when I had some time. But I ran out of time.

The funeral service overflowed, I did not realise the extent to which he had shared his friendship, and yet he always had time for me."

Some people come into our lives and quickly go.

    Some people move our souls to dance.

They awaken us to new understanding

    with the passing whisper of their wisdom

Some people make the sky more beautiful to gaze upon.

    They stay in our lives for a while,

leave footprints on our hearts

    and we are never, ever, the same.



[by Flavia Weedn]

"Set aside some friendship building time and place it in your diary just as you would any other important task your busy life requests. Make time to stay in contact and be available 24 hours a day to those who need your ear.

And at the end of the day, when you get that telegram saying Jim is dead, you will look back and be glad that you shared that small moment just yesterday."