6692 Pisces the Sailfish

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This is the True story of my Family Adventure and Disaster and the best thing that ever happened to me! The number, is the date, June 6th '92, when the curse that was placed upon the vessel finally destroyed her. Although the ship was originally cursed when she was built and originally named Pisces, the Star-sign. I also left port on a Friday. Renaming a boat and leaving port on a Friday is considered bad luck by sailors.

This True Family Adventure and Travel story follows my young family's adventures after we abandoned our secure, comfortable and meaningless existence in suburbia to follow our dream. This often humorous account, relates how we unwittingly bought a jinxed yacht, watched it smash itself to pieces and with no prior experience, skills or training rebuilt it, sailed away, rediscovered paradise, punished betrayal, found ancient treasure and survived sharks, crazed lemurs, gossiping walruses, a lynch mob, a curse, explosive gas, flaming epoxy and oozing quicksand.

It also relates how, in answer to my prayer, we lost everything we owned and experienced heart-breaking generosity that altered our lives and welded our family even closer together. The book explains why we celebrate June 6th every year as Pisces Day with a family meal of Prawns and Rice. The book also reveals why and how I tried to commit murder. Despite encouragement from family, friends and total strangers to write this book I refused to do so for almost twenty years whilst I waited for someone that I tried to murder -to die. During that time it has remained trapped inside me like the key log holding its fellows prisoner within a logjam.

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I believe that once this book breaches the flood gates it will release my other novels from the dam. After several short stories based upon opening chapters of this book reached the finals and were published in a daily newspaper's annual True Short Story competition, I was inundated by requests from readers for the rest of the tale, which I ignored at the time, for reasons which may become apparent. I hope this book will appeal to readers of true adventure or travel, cruising sailors would-be sailors, dreamers, adventurers, and adventure travellers. Similarly it should appeal to anyone who dreams of escaping from their self-made prisons but perhaps lacks the courage or will to actually do it.

Women in particular may identify with the multifaceted heroine, a strong female who is simultaneously my wife, lover, partner, best friend, a mother and our anchor. Although Pisces and the Sailfish will perhaps resonate with those who experienced the final years of Apartheid in South Africa, it should also be of interest to readers who would like to learn a little about some of Africa's amazing people and exotic cultures. Although we have yet to set sail again our journey has already begun anew.


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Our Journey, our adventures and those of the fascinating people we have met over the last two years are already well on their way to populating the sequel to this book —2nd Time Lucky. Get A Copy. More Details Original Title. Other Editions 2. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up.

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Meaning of "sailfish" in the English dictionary

Sort order. Dec 12, Wanda Hartzenberg rated it really liked it. I had absolutely no idea what I was letting myself in for at the start of the book. I was delighted to find it not another memoir of the sole savior of the nation against Apartheid as so many of these books tend to be. Also I could follow most of the lingo so I suppose that the book was not overly technical regarding sailing since I have never sailed in my life.

What the book is about is hope. Once the hull had been scraped clean the sweating men placed wooden gum poles between the hull and the concrete apron below and hammered wooden wedges into place to secure them tightly. Wednesday Legs. I mumbled absentmindedly to myself as I looked at the flimsy wooden struts that were Pisces the Sailfish all that prevented Pisces eighteen ton mass from toppling over and crashing to the cement below.

Our boat resembled the bowl of a wine glass balanced precariously upon a few toothpicks. Yes definitely Wednesday legs I repeated to myself. Isn t that what you say about fat girls with skinny legs teetering on high heels giggled Dianne. When s dey gonna break we chorused and laughed uproariously at our lame joke.

Translation of «sailfish» into 25 languages

Puppet on a String The piercing wail of a factory siren signalled the end of the working day magically replacing the mechanical din of the shipyard with the shrill cries of excited seagulls as they swooped and squabbled over the shattered barnacles that lay writhing on the sun baked concrete. As the breeze picked up the staccato metallic sound of ropes tinkling against hollow yacht s masts became more urgent.

Dianne and I were keenly aware that we were seen as outsiders and we knew that we needed to do something in order to be accepted into the tight knit yachtie community. This had proved difficult to achieve since our yacht was moored far out in the bay out of contact with most of the other boats and also due partially to our young children and the fact that we did not frequent the bar where the yachting community socialised and bonded.

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Sweetheart these guys know that I am not a sailor besides they regard me as a Zululand Queer. I complained. How so Dianne responded shocked. They found out that I prefer women to rugby I laughed. Perhaps you need to take a leaf out of a woman s book and fake it if you want to make new friends. She observed shrewdly.

Eager to explore our new surroundings Dianne and I decided to break the ice by introducing ourselves to the other yachties in the boat yard. We noticed a Pisces the Sailfish number of them drifting back from the hot showers at the Whites-only ablution block their bodies freshly scrubbed at the end of the working day oblivious to the black labourers that were forced to share a single cold tap and a rectangular green brick of carbolic smelling soap before being obliged to leave the premises.

It was clear that the yachties were looking forward to quenching their thirst as they communed around a smoky braaivleis. Colloquially known as a braai this open flamed charcoal-fuelled barbecue so appropriately named by the Afrikaans-speaking Dutch-Huguenot Boers or farmers can literally be translated as scorched flesh. As Dianne and I stood dejectedly alone and ignored on the outside of this lively gathering I could not help thinking how this ritual essentially as much part of South Africa as it s brown veldt and sparkling blue skies seemed to parallel the original justification of Apartheid or apartness that sanctioned Church and State to unite to force every group sex and culture to be separated from each other in order they said that each community could individually develop their own unique identity and culture without being influenced by the others.

The braai is a traditional South African rite almost exclusively performed by white males who congregate together peering through clouds of greasy smoke as they prod and worry bloody chunks of charred meat dripping fat into the leaping flames whilst the women are relegated to preparing salads and side dishes whilst standing apart in their own groups and holding a completely different conversation to that of the men. Naturally these groups segregated themselves not only into their whites-only male and female bands but they also polarised themselves into English and Afrikaans Pisces the Sailfish speaking groups as well.

In contrast to the adults Bill and Morgan made friends easily as they were able to ignore the artificial boundaries created by sex skin colour and language as they wandered off to play hideand-seek with all the other children beneath the suspended keels of the yachts.

Dianne and I felt out of place with our soft white hands neatly pressed clothes and new deck shoes that contrasted with the ragged shorts rumpled T shirts and grubby slip slops worn by the sun burnt men and women alike in this tight knit group who spoke of epoxy and rigging sacrificial anodes and ballast. As we stood awkwardly watching the various groups a snatch of raucous husky laughter and banter drifted over from the Afrikaans all-male laager unconsciously parodying the encircled ox wagons festooned with acacia thorns that their ancestors had deployed against the onslaughts of Zulu warriors and British redcoats as they stood shoulder to shoulder clutching beers instead of Mausers and deliberating their religion -rugby whilst they defied their enemies.

Mooi gedoen n boer maak n plan Well done A settler makes a plan A farmer comes up with a solution. I chuckled at the inevitable retort from the English square each bearing gin and tonics as they chorused Ja Vra n Engelsman Yes Ask an Englishman as they erupted into a chorus of derisive laughter. Ja Souties.

Moes ons julle Rooinekke al weer leer skiet Yes Salty s must we teach you rednecks to shoot properly once again Came the angry response from the Afrikaans enclave referring disparagingly to the nickname they used for the hated English with their Pisces the Sailfish sunburnt necks their reputation as a nation of seafarers and the fact that the Boer snipers humiliated the British soldiers with their superior marksmanship. Hey can any of you rockspiders tell us the Afrikaans word for genius The English responded with the sardonic nickname sometimes shortened to rocks that referred to the Boer tactic of hiding behind boulders whilst they sniped at the English soldiers.

Of course it s Genie.

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