Well before dawn on Sunday, there was a call coming up the stairs, growing closer and louder, “Who’s a skier?” Then a not too gentle knock on the door — BAM BAM BAM. And another call, retreating down the stairs, “The car is leaving in 15 minutes…”
Holiday traditions create feelings of nostalgia in all of us, young and old. Twinkling lights on a Christmas tree, the smell of baked goods floating through the air, and freshly-fallen powdery snow — all evoke the warm feeling of tradition, family, and love during the holiday season.
Our camp was boy heavy. The leader was Tony. We would follow him anywhere. He knew all the cool things to do, like leaning on trees with one foot and tossing rocks at fences. There was Luc, a tiny, quirky guy who would engineer all our imaginings into reality.
As I pulled out the GPS, memories surfaced of Nat navigating the streets of New York decades earlier. Navigating the streets of every country we’d travelled in. He always used to say he carried maps in his head and if he needed to find the right direction, he simply lifted his mind above the car, looked down on the streets and visualised the right route.
Arrival at night was what I was dreading. Night sailing was bad enough, but I had no desire to get into the dinghy after nightfall. The familiar coastline of northern Kangaroo Island came into view, but the sun was setting, and by the time we arrived the coastline would be obscured.