Memorable moments: Dad’s petrol rebellions

My dad was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a reckless rule-breaker. In almost every arena of life, he was a steady, methodical man who respected boundaries, followed instructions, and kept well within the lines.

Except when it came to petrol.

The moment volatile hydrocarbons were involved, a rogue, undercover operative emerged from inside the mild-mannered dentist.

Every year, our family embarked on an annual holiday to Eight Bells, a lovely guest farm nestled in the mountains near Mossel Bay. The ritual always began in the pitch black of five in the morning, loading into the car while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep.

About halfway into the six-hour journey, with the fuel gauge hovering uncomfortably near empty, Dad would execute a maneuver worthy of a Cold War thriller. At the exact same undisclosed spot along the route every year, he would peel off the highway and pull deep into a concealed clearing out of sight of passing traffic.

While Mum unpacked breakfast—a Tupperware tub of cold sausages and pungent hard-boiled eggs whose sulfurous aroma I dreaded—Dad got down to business.

He would cast a furtive, conspiratorial glance across the empty veld to ensure no police patrols were lurking, pop the boot, and hoist out a heavy jerry can of illicit fuel. Under South Africa’s strict oil embargo and rationing laws of the era, hoarding and transporting private reserves of fuel like this was entirely illegal. Dad would place a funnel into the neck of the fuel tank and pour the bootleg petrol directly into the car, his eyes darting toward the tarmac like an international smuggler topping up between borders.

The dangerous streak didn't end on the highway; it was an essential fixture of our weekend family braais.

Dad cooked over a colossal half-barrel he had personally sliced and welded from a full steel drum in his workshop. His fire-building was a masterclass in structural engineering: he laid out thick logs in an immaculate, hollow rectangle, meticulously crisscrossing the timber to create an architectural chimney.

Any ordinary backyard cook might reach for dry twigs, pine cones, or scrunched-up newspaper to coax the fire to life. Not Dad.

He would stride over with his beloved container of petrol and generously douse the entire timber structure in fuel until the logs were thoroughly soaked. Next came the choreography: he would take precisely two measured paces backward, strike a match, and flick it into the hollow core.

WOOSH!

It was less an ignition than a localized sonic boom. The air would displace with a tremendous roar of heat and light, instantly engulfing the drum in a towering inferno of orange flame. The logs were roaring within a split-second.

Standing before the blast, his eyebrows intact and the heat reflecting in his green eyes, Dad would wear an expression of supreme, quiet satisfaction. It was as though the secret stuntman buried deep within his soul had been granted his ritual fix, leaving him thoroughly appeased and ready to return to his peaceful, risk-averse life until the next tank needed filling.

Memorable moments: The window to his soul

Dad had striking, beautiful green eyes. Long before my mum ever noticed them across the deck of an ocean liner, those eyes had been his truest feature—a direct window to his soul, consistently revealing the warmth and wit that lay beneath his quiet exterior.

He was never a man for stern lectures, heavy-handed punishments, or theatrical dressing-downs. In fact, across my entire childhood, I can only recall him delivering an official reprimand on one single occasion.

We were holidaying in Pringle Bay alongside our close family friends, the Rusconis. Mrs. Rusconi was, in many ways, the polar opposite of my dad—a formidable woman who ran a tight ship and was not to be crossed. One afternoon, her son Julian and I got up to some brand of juvenile mischief. The exact infraction has long faded from memory, but Jocelyn’s reaction has not: she promptly marched Julian around the corner and gave him an almighty, blistering lecture.

Seeing this display of resolute parenting, Dad felt duty-bound to follow suit. He pulled me aside and began delivering a solemn dressing-down of his own—a routine so completely unnatural for him that it felt almost foreign.

Yet as he spoke the stern words, his green eyes told an entirely different story.

They looked down at me and practically whispered: I am taking zero pleasure in this. Under normal circumstances, I would let it slide. But Jocelyn expects an exhibition of discipline, so we must both play our parts.

I picked up the transmission loud and clear. Standing there taking my scripted medicine, I didn't feel chastised at all; I felt a swell of profound affection and quiet sympathy for the gentle man forced into playing the disciplinarian for an audience.

Years later, during my late teens, those eyes betrayed him once again.

A group of female friends had come over to the house for an evening get-together. Our parents were gathered in the lounge chatting over drinks, leaving us to ourselves outside by the pool. Under the cover of the dark, innocent flirtation gathered momentum, and before long we had all slipped out of our swimming costumes for an impromptu game of midnight Marco Polo.

It was harmless teenage bravado, but when the swim finally ended, disaster struck: my trunks had completely vanished into the black water.

Leaving the girls behind, I hauled myself onto the coping and executed a frantic, soaking-wet nude dash across the paving, slipping through the back entrance to my bedroom to scramble into a pair of dry shorts before the lounge door opened.

The following morning, I walked into the kitchen to find Dad making tea.

Without a word of fanfare, he reached over and handed me a damp bundle of fabric: my missing swimming trunks.

"I found these jammed in the Creepy Krauly," he said evenly.

He launched into a brief, dutiful lecture about pool maintenance—how fabric ruins the suction, how delicate the pump mechanisms are, and why swimwear must never be abandoned in the deep end.

Once again, his eyes blew his cover completely.

Right behind the technical advice about pool filtration was that unmistakable, familiar twinkle. There was genuine amusement dancing in those green irises, along with something more subtle: a a glint of paternal respect.

Memorable moments: Gentle reassurance

When I was young, I flirted rather heavily with hypochondria. My imagination was prone to running riot, seizing upon the most minor physical anomaly and instantly spinning it into a medical crisis.

The peak of this adolescent anxiety arrived when I was thirteen.

One day, I made what felt like an apocalyptic discovery: several tiny, distinct lumps on my testicles. For weeks, I carried the secret in sheer, silent terror. My frantic brain cycled through every catastrophic scenario imaginable. Was it a rare, disfiguring skin disease? Was it terminal cancer? Each day the dread grew heavier, until the need for certainty finally overpowered the intense embarrassment of being an adolescent boy.

Desperate, I approached my dad and asked if he would take a look.

We stepped out into the yard and walked into his workshop—that familiar backyard sanctuary surrounded by his model trains, metal lathes, and tools. Standing amidst the machinery, I dropped my drawers.

Dad leaned in, took a calm, clinical glance, and looked right back up at me.

"No need to worry, son," he said softly. "Those are just hair follicles."

It was a moment of extraordinary, quiet grace. He could so easily have rolled his eyes, condescended to my ignorance, or made a cheeky joke at my expense. But there was not a trace of mockery in his voice—only steady, matter-of-fact reassurance that dissolved weeks of fear in a single breath.

Standing in the sawdust and grease of his workshop, pulling up my trousers with a profound sense of relief, I felt a deep surge of love for him. In a world full of big anxieties, Dad's gentle, steady way was the safest place to be.

Memorable moments: The anatomy of fragility

There is a tired old playground idiom that tells men to "Stop being  a pussy and grow some balls." As an anatomical metaphor for toughness, it could hardly be more inaccurate. The female anatomy is engineered with enough elasticity and sheer physical resilience to pass a human child the size of a small volleyball into the world. Testicles, by comparison, are ridiculously exposed, unarmored liability zones where the slightest misdirected breeze can reduce a grown adult to a whimpering puddle.

Like almost every man, I have had my fair share of painful education on the subject.

During my school rugby days, a couple of mistimed tackles connected directly where they shouldn't have, producing that hollow, nauseating ache that radiates straight into the solar plexus. Worse still were two distinct occasions in my life when I managed to catch skin in a trouser zipper.

It is a uniquely primal form of terror. The second time it happened, the teeth were so hopelessly snagged that I had to take a pair of scissors and carefully cut the shorts right off my body just to survey the damage. In those desperate, cold-sweat moments of entrapment, the frantic male brain invariably throws up a wild, unhinged question: Should I just yank it?

The answer is always an emphatic, horrified no.

Yet my personal mishaps paled in comparison to what happened to my dad when I was seventeen.

Dad was out in the garden cutting down an overgrown tree. In an effort to get a cleaner cutting angle, he climbed up and braced himself across a high branch. His footing gave way. He slipped off the perch, dropping hard and straddling the branch beneath him with the full momentum of his body weight—compounded by the heavy, steel weight of a petrol chainsaw landing directly between his legs.

It was pure agony. It wasn’t just a momentary shock, either; the trauma was so severe that the injury haunted him for months afterward, requiring strong prescription painkillers just to get through a normal day.

Years later, while chatting with a good friend who had given birth to two children, the subject of bodily suffering came up. Operating on a generous helping of male ignorance, I floated the theory that both sexes possessed their own equivalent pinnacle of agony: women had childbirth, and men had a direct blow to the groin.

She looked at me with withering amusement.

"Hah!" she scoffed. "You try getting kicked in the balls non-stop every two minutes for ten straight hours, Graeme. Then you might have a rough idea of what women actually go through."

I shut my mouth and conceded the point immediately.

Trish's questions and answers

Kyle and Keira gave Trish a "memoir package" as a gift which asks you questions and correlates what you write. The idea is that this is something that will give Marlo insight into her granny when she grows up.  I loved reading it. It gives some deep insight into Trish and there is also some intimate details about Gran and Gramps.

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A strange sighting by Ruth

When I was in Carcoar, Ruth shared an amazing recent experience she had. I believe there is almost certain to be life elsewhere in the universe, but I'm always quite skeptical that extra extraterrestrials are here but flying under the radar. My friend Brandon, who is a strong believer, and experiences like Ruth's are at least opening me to the possibility although I'd need to see it with my own eyes to really believe it.

Jane's birthday breakfast at Frenchy's

Jane, Nik, Xenia, Chris, Krissula and I met up at our favourite cafe for birthdays. Such a lovely day. I had mushroom tartine again. Delicious.

Jo does her 1st half marathon

 What a wonderful achievement!!

Celebrating Tina's 92nd birthday in Carcoar

I spent 2 days in Carcoar celebrating Tina's 92nd birthday with her, Ruth and Dom. It was wonderful as always. Great company and food and some lovely dips in Ruth's sublime plunge pool. Also some fantastic movie & TV recommendations like East of Eden.  Carcoar really does feel like home away from home. This was my 10th visit!

Picked up at Blayney Station by Dom & Tina

Wonderful to all be together again

Home away from home

Tina's birthday party

A beautiful connection between the oldest and youngest in the room 💙

My card to Tina

Tina's gift from Ruth & Dom

Tina was so genuinely delighted by her gift, so wonderful to see. It was a collage of treasured family photos. Below are some of the photos I especially loved.

Tina

Dom

Ruth & Dom

Dom & Matt

Ruth

Coffee and a lovely walk to Tina's care home

I had a lovely coffee with Ruth at local cafe which is a relatively recent, wonderful addition to Carcoar. I then went to see Tina at her care home and Ruth directed me to go the scenic walk. It was a stunning day and the scenery was gorgeous.

Helping Chris fix his internet

Chris came round and I helped fix his internet connectivity issue. He had been without internet for several days.  We then logged into the Power of 8 session with Shushann, Marion, Alun, Xenia and Barbara where we sent healing intentions to Alun who has cancer.
 

Chris's message after the Power of * session

Memorable moments: Stepping on the curfew

When I was a teenager, my parents were remarkably enlightened when it came to household curfews. I was never saddled with a rigid, ticking-clock deadline to be through the front door, but there was an unspoken, mutual understanding that I wasn’t to take the absolute piss.

One Saturday night, however, a party got the better of me. When I finally glanced at my watch and saw the hands creeping past one in the morning, a sudden jolt of teenage panic kicked in. Even the most relaxed parents have their limits, and 1:00 AM felt dangerously close to overstepping the line.

I resolved to execute a masterclass in covert night-ops: I would slip into the house in total, ninja-like silence so nobody would ever suspect when I had returned.

I clicked the front garden gate open without making a sound, easing it shut behind me. I crept onto the pathway on tiptoe, holding my breath as I slinked past my parents' bedroom window. So far, pure stealth. I slipped through the side gate by the front door, which led out onto the dark poolside patio—my preferred, discreet route to the back entrance.

It was pitch-black out on the tiles, with only the faint shimmer of the pool water to guide me. Blindly navigating the dark, I was fumbling forward when my foot collided hard with something large, solid, and yet alarmingly squishy.

Instantly, the darkness erupted with a low, unmistakably human groan.

My heart nearly launched itself out of my ribcage. In a split second of icy horror, the layout clicked: on hot summer nights, Dad loved dragging a mattress or lounger outside to sleep under the stars on the patio.

I had literally stepped directly onto my sleeping father.

I froze, bracing myself for the immediate explosion—a barrage of shouted questions, furious demands to know the time, and the inevitable fallout of blowing my cover in the most catastrophic way possible.

Nothing came. Just the distinct, swishy rustle of nylon as he shifted in his sleeping bag, followed by a heavy, groggy sigh.

Taking no chances, I abandoned all dignity and scuttled like a frightened crab across the remaining tiles, slipped through the back door, and bolted into my bedroom.

The next morning, I walked out to breakfast with my stomach in knots, dreading the confrontation. Dad was sitting there as calm as ever, sipping his tea. He looked up, greeted me pleasantly, and said absolutely nothing. Not a single word about the time, the noise, or the rogue teenage foot that had landed on his ribcage in the dead of night.

To this day, I still can’t say for certain whether Dad somehow miraculously drifted straight back to sleep, or if, in his typical gentle wisdom, he woke up, understood everything in a flash, and decided to let the intruder off with a silent, benevolent pass.

Memorable moments: The backstreet pick-up

For most of our youth, Dad was decidedly, magnificently uncool.

His everyday wardrobe consisted of aggressively sensible button-downs paired with high socks pulled taut against knee-length, unfashionable shorts. But his absolute crowning glory of uncoolness was his fleet of cars.

He owned two vehicles: a battered red Volkswagen Beetle and an aging, scuffed VW Type 3 Variant station wagon. Today, vintage Beetles are prized counter-culture icons, but back then, an old red Bug merely functioned as a bright beacon drawing unwanted attention to your total lack of street cred.

The Variant was worse. It was painted a truly dreadful, unappetizing mustard yellow, covered in scratches, and treated entirely as an industrial workhorse. Dad used it primarily to haul his heavy model locomotives and track gear back and forth from his beloved train club. To him, the aesthetics were utterly irrelevant. Being naturally gifted with tools and mechanics, he kept both engines purring in immaculate mechanical order. As long as the pistons fired sweetly, he saw zero reason to waste good money replacing a car just because the exterior looked like it had survived a minor skirmish.

My sister Jo, however, was in the full throes of teenage image preservation. The mustard Variant was her ultimate mortal enemy.

Whenever Dad came to collect us after the final bell, Jo laid down strict tactical protocols: under no circumstances was the yellow monstrosity permitted to breach the school gates. Dad was politely instructed to park two blocks away in a discreet side alley, allowing her to slink out to the car under cover of relative anonymity.

Dad never took offense. He simply took his post in the backstreet, engine ticking over quietly, perfectly amused by her youthful paranoia.

Then came his fiftieth birthday—and with it, an astonishing, wholesale metamorphosis.

It was as if a switch flipped overnight. Dad grew a full, distinguished beard that immediately gave his face immense warmth, gravitas, and character. He ditched the drab conservative palette and started striding around in vibrant, brightly patterned short-sleeve shirts—pioneering the vibrant aesthetic years before Nelson Mandela made the Madiba shirt a global fashion statement.

To complete the transformation, he inherited some money from his own father and promptly traded the dusty air-cooled fleet for a sleek, second-hand BMW.

In one glorious leap, our quiet, sock-pulling dad had become the coolest man in Cape Town.

The irony, of course, was cruel in its timing. Jo would have given anything to lean against that gleaming BMW right outside the main gates as crowds of schoolmates walked past. But by the time Dad finally arrived at peak cool, her school days were behind her.

Memorable moments: Decidedly uncool

When it comes to alcohol, I have always been decidedly uncool.

I grew up in South Africa, where beer isn't just a beverage; it is a sacred cultural institution. It is considered the ultimate man's drink, and sharing your first cold beer with your father as you cross the threshold into young adulthood is practically a mandatory rite of passage.

When my turn came, my dad was genuinely thrilled to initiate his son into the fold and share his love of a good brew.

From the very first sip, however, the experiment was a disaster. I hated it. It was far too bitter, entirely devoid of sweetness, and had no appeal to my palate whatsoever. The only conceivable way I could stomach it was by diluting it heavily with lemonade to turn it into a weak shandy—and even then, I would have dropped it in a heartbeat for a sweet apple cider. My poor dad must have looked at me and wondered what went wrong: his son had arrived at manhood with the drinking preferences of a child in a sweet shop.

A few years later, as a student at the University of Cape Town, I decided to join the university wine club. In truth, my motivations had very little to do with viticulture and everything to do with the strategic opportunity to mingle with tipsy girls.

The wine club, I quickly discovered, operated on a rigid, unspoken caste system of sophistication:

• The Aristocracy: Bold, tannic red wine reigned supreme at the top.
• The Upper Middle Class: Crisp, bone-dry whites occupied the respectable middle tier.
• The Social Pariahs: Sweet white wines languished near the gutter.
• The Sub-Basement: Sticky dessert wines sat at the absolute bottom, viewed as a crime against enology.

Given my relentless sweet tooth, there were no prizes for guessing where my tastes landed. I found red wine far too sour and acidic, and dry white wine was, well, entirely too dry. While the serious connoisseurs swirled their glasses and pontificated on hints of oak and leather, I was happily lingering down in the subterranean dessert-wine section, thoroughly unbothered.

As the years rolled on, I drifted away from alcohol altogether. I simply stopped enjoying the taste, and more than anything, it just made me feel sluggish and tired. So, I packed it in completely.

These days, when I finish a long trail and join my hiking mates at the pub, I don’t order a crisp craft ale or a stout. I walk straight up to the bar and ask for a soda, lime, and bitters.

Naturally, this is considered the height of social heresy. My friends love their beer, and ordering a sparkling cordial in an Australian pub is hardly the blueprint for rugged coolness. In the beginning, there was the inevitable good-natured ribbing, but over time, they’ve come to accept that Graeme simply drinks pink fizzy water.

And really, who cares? One of the greatest dividends of growing older is that you finally become completely comfortable in your own skin. The exhausting urge to posture, to perform masculinity with a pint glass, or to drink something you loathe just to blend into the herd simply evaporates. There is immense freedom in standing at the bar, decidedly uncool, knowing exactly what you like and letting the rest of the world get on with their bitter beer. 

Memorable moments: The gravel path

During my final year of school, I was right in the thick of my rebellious phase. In my eyes, my dad could simply do no right. I found him far too conservative, too quiet, and exasperatingly mild-mannered. I was convinced that other fathers possessed an effortless dynamism that mine somehow lacked.

Then came a trip to the Kruger National Park that shattered my teenage illusions in an instant.

I was invited along by a school friend and his family to stay at a luxurious private reserve on the outskirts of the park. My friend’s father seemed to embody everything I admired at the time: remarkably wealthy, magnetic, outgoing, and brimming with charismatic energy. Compared to Dad's gentle, unassuming presence at home, this man felt larger than life.

One afternoon, my friend and I set out on foot into the reserve to track some wildlife. Before we left the lodge, his father handed him his expensive camera.

"Be careful with it," he warned, his tone firm.

Half an hour into our walk, our patience paid off: a magnificent eland appeared through the bush. My friend raised the camera to line up a shot, fumbled with the strap, and the camera slipped from his fingers, crashing hard onto the rocky dirt. When he picked it up, there was a visible, undeniable dent in the casing.

The colour instantly drained from his face. A wave of panic took hold of him. He wasn't just disappointed; he was terrified of what would happen when we returned to camp.

"How on earth am I going to explain this so he won't be furious with me?" he muttered, pacing back and forth in sheer distress. "I’ll tell him I took a bad fall. I have to make him believe me."

Then, right before my eyes, he did something that chilled me to the bone.

He dropped to his knees on the gravel track, reached down, and forcefully raked his bare leg across the jagged stones, scraping away layers of skin until a raw, bloody graze opened up across his shin.

Oh my God, I thought, standing there in stunned disbelief.

As I stared at the blood on the gravel, a profound realization hit me with the force of a sledgehammer. If I had dropped my own father’s beloved camera, Dad might have sighed, felt a little disappointed, and maybe reminded me to use the strap next time. But never in a million lifetimes would I have felt the need to mutilate my own flesh just to shield myself from his temper.

In that single, shocking moment on a bush track, the scales fell completely from my eyes. The charisma and swagger I had so admired in other men suddenly looked hollow, while my father’s quiet, mild-mannered gentleness revealed itself for what it truly was: a rare and magnificent gift.

Standing beneath the Kruger sky, nursing another boy’s self-inflicted wound, the foolishness of my rebellion washed away, replaced by an overwhelming, permanent gratitude for the gentle man waiting for me at home. 

Cumberland Forest cafe and nursery with Xenia

It was a beautiful summers day so we decided to venture further afield for our Fri lunch get together.  We also went for a lovely stroll in the forest afterwards. 

Anusha and Ashesh get remarried on their 10th wedding anniversary

Anusha and Ashes, our beautiful Nepalese friends, got married 10 years ago, but by Nepalese standards, it was a very small wedding. They decided to get remarried and do it properly this time to affirm their commitment and celebrate their love with family and all their Australian friends who they've met since moving here. 

I ended up being neither celebrant or official photographer so I was able to completely relax and enjoy it. They got married at 8.30 am on Sunday morning and their reception wasn't till 5.30 pm so I was able to go home and have a nap in between. I had woken up very early in the morning to help Shushann with her conscious aging presentation.

At the reception, there was a wonderful array of performances to watch. Ashesh has a love of magic, so they had a fabulous magician do a show. The highlight was when he filled a paper cup with water and then asked Anusha to pour it over her head. Of course, the water had magically disappeared, but there was a little bit of suspense. If the magician had got his trick mixed up, Anusha's beautifully done hair would have been horribly ruined!

Lots of Anusha and Ashesh's friends's did songs and synchronised dances. There were also lots of heartfelt speeches, some of which brought tears to my eyes. Anusha did a lovely song and she and Ashesh did a beautiful dance. Of course, Gavin was the MC (who else!) and he always makes it fun despite the 45 logistical announcements he had to make and the fact he had just returned from a gruelling trip to Saudi Arabia.  

Jack was there with his lovely wife, Tess, who I have never met and they brought their gorgeous new baby who did not cry once despite some very loud singing and antics.

All in all, a beautiful day of love and celebration.

Ashesh, the groom

Krishna, the head groomsman

All the groomsmen. I wonder what the collective noun would be 😅

The beautiful bride arrives with her parents out from Nepal

How cute was this little page boy

The flower girl, also so cute

The bridesmaids

Saying their vows

The celebrant had done over 500 weddings and he was great

The wonderful climactic clinch!!

Signing the register

For once, the Hot Lunch Bushbashers were not in hiking clothes!

Tanya in beautiful attire, as always

At the reception

Ashesh takes part in the magic show

Rajesh, not surprisingly, was late to the wedding but, surprisingly, was on time to the reception!

Lovely to meet Tess, Jack's lovely wife

Jack's beautiful new baby