Stories from my life

"A human being is nothing but a story with skin around it."  Fred Allen

I've been having so much fun remembering and writing the stories from my life and some of the stories of the people I love.  Lots more stories to come. When my memory gets going, there seems to be an endless supply!

Stories by theme

• Funny
• Embarrassing
• Inspiring
• Insights
• Disgusting
• School
• Teachers
• University
• Work
• Travel
• Flights
• Sport
• Spirituality
• Music
• Camping
• Hiking
• Pets
• Love
• Romance
• Friendship
• Relationships
• Sex
• Nudity
• Food
• Medical
• Pranks
• Nicknames

Stories by life stage

• Childhood
• School years
• University years
• Old Mutual years
• Life at Willow Road
• London years
• Cambridge years
• Life at King Street

People involved

• Family
• Mum
• Mike
• Dad
• Jo
• Gran
• Gramps
• Granny & Grandpa
• Ally
• Mack
• Friends
• Russell
• Ivor
• Chrisel
• Oliver
• Housemates
• Teachers

⬇︎ Keep scrolling for all posts tagged as “Story”

Memorable moments: The three great twitches

In the birding community, those of us who obsessively pursue rare or elusive species are often known as "twitchers." The name comes from a very real, very physical phenomenon. When you finally spot a bird you’ve spent years searching for, a wave of intense excitement hits you. You raise your binoculars to your eyes, but the surge of adrenaline is so overwhelming that a tremor sets in. Your arms begin to shake, and sometimes the twitching spreads through your entire body. It is an extraordinary reaction that has to be experienced to be believed.

Over a lifetime of scanning treetops and riverbanks, I like to say that I have only truly twitched three times.

The first was in the lush wilderness of Ndumu, when I caught a sudden, violent flash of crimson through the canopy—the rare and breathtaking Narina Trogon.

The second was also in Ndumu, when my binoculars landed on the distinctive rufous face of the elusive Pel's Fishing Owl perched silently above the water.

And the third, most unforgettable twitch occurred along the banks of the Palmiet River.

Shortly after meeting Ally and her group of friends, a bunch of us went down to the river for a late-night, moonlit skinny dip. As everyone scrambled into the cool water, I caught a sudden, distinct sight of Ally’s white rump disappearing into the shadows of the river.

Right then and there, the classic birder’s tremor set in. My body began to twitch, and a single, crystal-clear thought echoed through my mind: Wow, I’m going to marry that girl.

I didn't need binoculars for that last sighting, but the instinct was spot on. We ended up spending seventeen wonderful years together—proving that sometimes, the rarest and most life-changing sightings aren't hiding high up in the trees at all.

Memorable moments: The pot plant contingency

When I was in my early twenties, I went to see the doctor. I can't recall the exact reason for the visit, but at one point, he decided he needed a urine sample.

"Oh dear," I said, wincing. "I actually just went to the loo right before I came in."

"Not to worry," he replied smoothly. "I only need a tiny drop."

He handed me a small plastic container, gestured to the room, and stepped outside to give me some privacy.

I positioned the bottle and began, pleasantly surprised and relieved that my body was cooperating enough to squeeze out a modest sample. But then, to my great surprise, the flow didn't taper off. In fact, it gathered momentum.

I watched in mounting panic as the fluid reached a quarter full... then half full... then three-quarters full—and I was still going at full throttle.

Oh no, I thought, a wave of sheer desperation hitting me. The bottle isn't big enough! What on earth am I going to do?!

Panic-driven calculations raced through my mind. Stepping out into the packed waiting room mid-stream was obviously out of the question. I scanned the small consultation room with wide, manic eyes. My gaze darted to a potted plant in the corner—could I get away with watering the Ficus? Then I looked at the window—could I somehow crack it open and aim for the flowerbed outside without the passersby noticing?

Just as I was on the absolute brink of making a terrible, life-altering decision, the tide miraculously turned. The flow sputtered and stopped, leaving the urine exactly one inch from the absolute brim.

A moment later, the doctor walked back in. He took one look at the sloshing, overflowing vessel handed to him by the young man who five minutes earlier insisted his tank was completely empty, and stood there in silent, utter astonishment.

Memorable moments: From Party Animal to Grumpy Old Man

Mackie, my beautiful Jack Russell, underwent a profound shift in his relationship with the younger generation as he aged.

When he was in his prime, he loved kids with all his heart. I have vivid memories of taking him to my friend Andreas's house for his young son Lucas’s birthday party. Mackie was the undisputed life and soul of the event. The kids had endless fun throwing a tennis ball for him, and Mackie had the time of his life chasing it down and bringing it back, completely tireless.

Then, around the ripe old age of sixteen, a switch flipped. Mackie officially retired from his role as party entertainer and decided he was completely over youngsters—whether they were energetic human children or overeager puppies.

At the park, if a young whippersnapper of a dog bounced up to say hello, Mackie would let out a low growl and occasionally even snap to enforce his personal space. He took the exact same stance with children. This posed a bit of a diplomatic challenge, because even in his twilight years, Mackie looked utterly adorable, and kids would naturally wander over wanting to pet him. I constantly had to intervene and explain that the cute little dog had grown very grumpy in his old age.

My daily routine involved walking Mackie and sometimes tethering him outside the local shop for five minutes while I popped in for a few items.

One afternoon, standing near the back of the store, I glanced toward the front entrance to check on him. To my horror, I saw a small child stepping toward Mackie, arm already outstretched to give him a pat.

It instantly became one of those ultra-slow-motion action movie sequences. In my head, a deep "NOOOOO!" echoed as I lunged toward the doorway, desperate to prevent a nipping incident before it was too late.

Thankfully, Mackie merely let out a stern, warning growl rather than a bite, and the child pulled back safely. But that was the end of his solo waiting privileges outside the shop.

Grumpy or not, I adored Mackie in every single one of his moods. After all, when you are pushing close to a hundred in human years, you’ve earned the absolute right to assert your seniority and tell the young whippersnappers to get off your lawn.

Memorable moments: A seasoned disappointment

I will never forget the first big raffle I ever won. It was at a massive event—I can't recall the exact occasion now—and anticipation in the room was running high. There were two major prizes up for grabs.

The ticket for the first prize was drawn, and a woman was called up to the stage to collect her reward: an all-expenses-paid trip to Italy. It was a magnificent, dream-of-a-lifetime prize, and the crowd applauded wildly as she went up to accept it.

Then came the moment for the second prize. The host read out the ticket number, and to my absolute shock, it was me! I am normally the kind of person who never wins anything, so I was surprised and thoroughly delighted. As I walked down the aisle toward the stage, my mind was racing with possibilities, wondering what exotic corner of the globe I was about to be whisked away to.

I stepped onto the stage, smiled, and was promptly handed... a large, heavy black bag filled to the brim with something bulky.

What on earth have I won? I thought, holding the sack. A bag of refuse?

I peeked inside, and the reality set in: it was packed to the top with spices. A lifetime supply of culinary seasonings.

Now, a professional chef might have been overjoyed with such a bounty, but I don't cook. The transition from imagining a romantic getaway in Tuscany to holding ten kilograms of ground coriander was an utter, hilarious disappointment.

Needless to say, those spices lasted me for a very long time. In fact, over twenty years later, I have a strong suspicion that a few forgotten jars from that faithful night are still quietly lurking in the dark recesses of my spice drawer.

Memorable moments: The sonic wake-up call

I have a rather unfortunate physiological quirk that causes me profound embarrassment every now and then.

It usually happens when I’m commuting on a quiet train or settled into a long-haul flight. The soothing rhythm of the travel lulls me, my eyes grow heavy, and I start to feel tired. My head slowly sinks down toward my chest, and I momentarily doze off into a peaceful, blissful sleep.

Then, without a single second of warning, my airway collapses and I let out the loudest snort imaginable—a real ripper from deep within the nasal passages, sounding remarkably like a walrus in heat.

The violent sonic boom of my own body shoots me instantly back to full consciousness. My head snaps up, my eyes fly open, and I am immediately met with the horror of thirty fellow passengers who have all turned in their seats to identify the source of the mighty blast.

Thankfully this doesn't happen too often, but when it does, I want to be swallowed up by the floorboards. My only survival strategy is to instantly join the rest of the carriage in looking around with an expression of deep, horrified disgust, silently asking the crowd, "Can you believe the nerve of whoever just did that?!"

Memorable moments: The British Pub Test

My friend Gavin comes from the UK, and during his younger days, he and his mates used to partake in some wild and rather disturbing pub games. One of their absolute favorites was an incredibly bizarre tradition known simply as "cock or ball."

After several pints of beer had been consumed, the game would begin. One of the lads would carefully pull a tiny, isolated piece of skin through the zipper of their trousers—sourced from either the shaft or the testicles. The remaining players then had to examine the exposed sample and make their official deduction.

Apparently, differentiating between the two under dim pub lighting is a lot harder than you might think. Whoever guessed incorrectly was penalized and had to down their drink. For Gavin and his crew, this high-stakes anatomical guessing game caused a great deal of mirth and became a staple of their nights out.

While it certainly makes for a memorable story, I am incredibly glad Gavin has long since moved on from his wilder days. It is definitely not a game I would relish participating in. When I go out for a pint, I prefer to keep my private life completely private, leaving my anatomy safely tucked away exactly where it belongs.

Memorable moments: The existential check-in

James was a wonderful hiking friend who joined us on several of our trail outings before he eventually moved back to New Zealand. He is a profoundly thoughtful chap with a deep interest in existential issues, so I always felt a strong intellectual resonance with him. He also happened to have a highly unusual hobby: several times a week, he would sit inside his broom cupboard, take a heroic dose of magic mushrooms, and attempt to tap directly into the fabric of the universe.

One night, fresh off a session in the cupboard, James came to meet Gavin, me, and a few mates at the local pub.

When he walked in, he greeted us normally but looked a little preoccupied. As the rest of the table fell into our usual loud banter and storytelling, James sat quietly, not saying much of anything, just observing the scene with a distant look in his eye.

Then, during a brief lull in the conversation, he suddenly leaned across the table toward Gavin and me. Lowering his voice to a hushed breath, he asked with total seriousness, "Guys... am I actually here?"

It became instantly clear what was happening. The dose had been so intense that he was struck by the disturbing thought that he was still sitting alone in the dark among the mops and buckets, entirely hallucinating the pub, the pints, and his friends.

Gavin and I quickly reassured him that he was, in fact, physically sitting in the pub with us. A look of great relief washed over his face, and he slowly settled back into his chair. I have never taken mushrooms myself, and listening to a grown man ask his mates for structural confirmation of his own physical existence convinced me right then and there that I probably never would.

Memorable moments: The 5th floor summons

During my time at Old Mutual, I worked with a colleague named David. He was a friendly guy with a great sense of humor—sometimes bordering on the risqué—and he was incredibly laid back. Absolutely nothing flustered him. Except for one time, under an extraordinary set of circumstances.

David was trawling through the internet at work when he came across a highly questionable picture. It was titled "The Russian Spice Girls" and featured a graphic of four extremely large women in a state of near undress. For some reason, this completely caught his funny bone. Knowing a friend who shared his specific sense of humor, he promptly sent the image over using the office fax machine, thinking nothing more of it.

About three hours later, a directive came down from on high telling David to report immediately to the General Management office on the fifth floor. In our office, you generally only went to the fifth floor to get promoted or fired.

David walked up and was promptly hauled over the coals. It turned out he had entered a single digit incorrectly on the fax machine. Instead of going to his friend, the transmission had landed directly in the office of South Africa's premier, most militant activist feminist and anti-pornographer.

She had absolutely seen red. Spotting David's name printed in the tiny automated header at the top of the page, she immediately bypassed regular channels and called the Chairman's Office of Old Mutual to lodge a vociferous, furious complaint.

The sheer statistical improbability of that specific wrong number was mind-boggling. David managed to keep his job, but he was severely and memorably chastised. The rest of us walked away with an important lesson: it is best not to fax anything risqué from the office, but if you absolutely must, you had better check the number fastidiously.

Memorable moments: The Pigeon Displacer of Udaipur

I have always been deeply fascinated by the sheer variety of ways people make a living in this world. There is an endless landscape of human professions, but the most unusual and captivating job I have ever come across belonged to an elderly gentleman in Udaipur, India.

Ally and I had traveled out to the Lake Palace for lunch—a breathtakingly beautiful, historic hotel that sits like a white marble ship isolated on an island in the middle of Lake Pichola. The restaurant is located in a magnificent inner courtyard, surrounded by the intricate arches and walls of the exquisite palace.

As Ally and I sat back and began tucking into a delicious meal, a lone pigeon flew into the courtyard and alighted on one of the pristine white palace walls.

Immediately, an elderly Indian gentleman stepped into action. He walked briskly toward the bird, holding a long piece of rope. With practiced ease, he began swirling the rope over his head like a lasso, creating an unmistakable presence that promptly shooed the pigeon away.

Exactly forty seconds later, another bold pigeon landed on a wall on the completely opposite side of the courtyard. Without missing a beat, the gentleman marched over, spun his rope into the air again, and sent that bird packing too.

And so it went. For the entire three hours we spent relaxing at the palace, this man engaged in a non-stop, tactical battle against the local bird population.

I’m not entirely sure what his official job title was—"Pigeon Displacer" seems appropriate—but he treated his duties with the utmost gravity. He never once lost his concentration or allowed his gaze to wander from the palace perimeter. And his vigilance paid off remarkably: there was not a single trace of bird droppings on any of the architecture. Every wall gleamed perfectly pristine in the bright Indian sunshine. He was a complete legend, proving that no matter what your job is, there is an art to doing it flawlessly.

Family stories: Forgoing the marks

My dad had a story from his student days that he loved telling, one that completely captured my imagination as a kid.

Back when he was at dentistry school, the going was incredibly tough. Anatomy was notoriously the hardest course on the syllabus, and a massive part of surviving it involved grueling lab work and detailed dissections. The end-of-year anatomy exam was the ultimate hurdle, a high-stakes ordeal that combined a massive theory section with a live practical dissection.

Armed with both his pen and his scalpel, Dad walked into the exam hall. Because of the sheer volume of information required to pass, he, like almost everyone else in his class, had been forced to play the odds during his late-night study sessions. He had strategically anticipated what topics would come up and had simply been forced to skip a few sections to save time.

He was crushed when he flipped over the paper and read Question Three: Draw a detailed cross-section of the penis. It was one of the exact topics he had completely left out of his studies.

Whenever Dad reached this part of the story, his eyes would light up with a brilliant twinkle.

"I wasn't the only person in that exam hall," he would say, "who looked down at their scalpel, looked down at their lap, and thought, 'Mmmm, is it worth it?'"

Then, the twinkle in his eyes would grow even brighter, and he’d deliver the punchline he clearly cherished: "Isn't it a good thing I decided to forgo the marks, or you might never have been born!"

Memorable moments: The fastest slow hiker in the world

Of all the hikers in the world, I am fairly certain I possess the highest variable speed. Depending on the exact minute you look at me, I am both the fastest and the slowest hiker on the planet.

After I got divorced, I joined a number of local Hiking Meetup groups. It was a wonderful way to meet new people and get out into nature. Because hiking and photography are two of my greatest passions, I naturally wanted to combine them on these trips.

This created a very specific, exhausting rhythm.

Typically, I would loiter at the very back of the group, scanning the trail for a beautiful flower or a striking landscape. When I spotted something, I would stop entirely, spending five minutes setting up and capturing the perfect shot. Meanwhile, the rest of the group would keep walking, disappearing down the trail.

Realizing I was about to get left behind in the wilderness, I would then tuck my camera away and sprint like mad to catch up. I would fly down the path at breakneck speed until I finally reached the back of the pack. But the moment I caught my breath and spotted another interesting perspective, the cycle would repeat. I would drop anchor, take my photos, and then burst into another full-blown sprint.

I was caught in a constant loop of extreme loitering and high-speed chasing.

Fortunately, these days I hike with a regular bunch of mates who are far more tolerant of my photographic detours. The pace is much more balanced now, which is a massive relief—because as it turns out, sprinting a marathon in five-minute intervals gets incredibly tiring after a while.

Memorable moments: The carry-on carvers

In 2004, Ally and I went to Western Australia for a short holiday, knowing that we would be emigrating to the country sometime in the near future. We had a brilliant time exploring—cycling around Rottnest Island, wandering through Perth, sampling wine in the Margaret River, and walking among the massive trees in Shannon National Park.

During our travels, Ally decided to do a bit of shopping. She had been wanting a proper, high-quality set of kitchen knives for ages, and we happened to stumble across the absolute perfect find: a beautiful wooden board containing an array of incredibly sharp knives of varying sizes, ranging from a small fruit cutter all the way up to a giant carving knife.

After ten days of exploring, we reluctantly packed up our things, sad that the holiday was coming to an end, and drove to the airport. We successfully navigated the check-in desk, answered the standard security questions about packing our own bags, and watched our main luggage disappear down the conveyor belt.

Then, with our hand luggage in tow, we walked up to the security checkpoint.

As Ally’s bag rolled through the X-ray scanner, the entire terminal seemed to erupt. Alarms started flashing, sirens went off, and two massive airport security guards came running, descending on her bag with intense urgency. They snapped open the zipper, reached inside, and pulled it out.

There, gleaming viciously under the harsh airport fluorescent lighting, was Ally's brand-new wooden knife board, complete with its array of razor-sharp blades.

In the rush of leaving, Ally had packed her bags on absolute autopilot, completely forgetting that a collection of heavy-duty culinary weaponry probably shouldn't go in the overhead bin. The embarrassment was immediate and intense; we could feel the eyes of every single passenger in the terminal burning into the back of our necks.

Needless to say, the guards were not about to let us board a commercial flight with a giant carving knife. The set was promptly confiscated on the spot, and just like that, Ally’s years-long search for the perfect kitchen knives had to start all over again.

The black-and-white terror

 To tourists and outsiders, Australia is a terrifying gauntlet of lethal wildlife. They think we live in constant dread of the inland taipan, the world’s most venomous snake. They picture us checking our shoes for redback spiders or scanning the surf for box jellyfish that can inflict agonizing, fatal stings.

But if you ask any actual Australian what strikes pure, primal terror into our hearts, we will give you a very different answer: the humble magpie.

On paper, the magpie sounds harmless. It’s a medium-sized bird with striking black-and-white feathers and a beautiful, warbling song. But come springtime—better known locally as "swooping season"—this sweet-looking bird reveals a deeply aggressive dark side.

The reason for the hostility is simple: pure parental protectiveness. During their brief nesting window, proud magpie parents view anything moving within a hundred-meter radius as an imminent threat to their unhatched chicks. To defend their territory, they launch high-speed, tactical aerial assaults.

They don't just fly near you; they dive-bomb. Cyclists and pedestrians alike are targeted from behind without warning. With terrifying precision, the birds clip ears, peck at eyes, and slash at scalps, frequently drawing blood and leaving victims with nasty head wounds.

This annual reign of terror has forced Australians to develop some truly absurd survival strategies. Walk down any street in September and you’ll see commuters wearing ice-cream tubs on their heads or cyclists riding with dozens of plastic zip-ties poking out of their helmets like high-visibility mohawks. We look absolutely ridiculous, but desperation breeds innovation.

So let the tourists worry about the snakes in the bush and the sharks in the deep blue sea. True Australians know that the real danger doesn’t crawl, swim, or hide in the shadows—it waits patiently in a suburban gum tree, eyes locked onto your scalp, just waiting for you to walk past.

Memorable moments: The 165-minute hostage situation

I went to see a highly acclaimed Italian movie with my close, elderly friend Sue. The critics had raved about it, promising a masterpiece that easily justified its daunting two-hour-and-forty-five-minute runtime.

Within the first ten minutes, however, the illusion shattered. I knew instantly that this was going to be a long, painfully tedious experience. The film didn't resonate with me at all, and every fiber of my being wanted to stand up, walk out of the theater, and find a good cup of coffee.

But I hesitated. Knowing how much Sue generally loved art-house cinema, I couldn't bear the thought of spoiling her afternoon or dragging her away from something she might be deeply enjoying. So, I gritted my teeth, sank into my seat, and prepared to endure nearly three hours of pure, unadulterated tedium for the sake of friendship.

Finally, the credits rolled, the lights came up, and we made our escape. As we walked out of the dark theater and into the bright afternoon sunlight, my mind was racing, trying to figure out exactly how honest I should be without sounding ungrateful.

Before I could utter a word, Sue turned to me and let out a huge sigh.

"Oh my word," she exclaimed. "I'll be honest, I did not enjoy that at all. So tedious! I would have walked out pretty early on. Did you get anything out of it?"

We had spent almost three hours trapped in a mutual hostage situation, each suffering in absolute silence solely to protect the other person's assumed happiness. It was a hilarious reminder that sometimes, the greatest act of friendship isn't polite endurance—it's just being the first one to admit that the movie is terrible.

Memorable moments: What a hit!

I have a vivid memory of playing French cricket with my beloved Gramps at the park—just him and me on a quiet afternoon.

For those who haven’t played, French cricket is an informal, close-quarters game. The batsman stands stationary, using the bat to shield their legs from the bowler, who tries to hit their shins with the ball. It’s a game of quick reflexes.

During our game, I got overly excited. Gramps bowled the ball, trying to sneak it past me, and I swung the bat with everything I had.

Instead of connecting with the ball, my bat swung wide and struck Gramps directly on the elbow.

There was a loud, sickening crack. The impact must have been absolutely excruciating. I can still clearly remember the flash of pure, sharp pain that crossed Gramps’s face in that first microsecond. But almost instantly, through what must have been a superhuman effort of will, he forced that look away.

He managed to break into a smile, though he couldn't completely hide the lingering agony in his eyes. Looking right at me, he gasped out, "Never mind, my boy—what a hit!"

Even now, I feel a twinge of guilt when the memory comes back, but it is entirely overtaken by a deep, expanding love for him. In a moment of such intense, sudden pain, so many people would have lashed out in anger or frustration. Gramps did the exact opposite. He chose to absorb the pain entirely on his own, doing everything in his power to ensure his grandson didn't feel bad for a clumsy mistake.

Memorable moments: The Newlands dilemma

During my twenties, I shared a house in Newlands, Cape Town, with three housemates. Among them was Dane—a really lovely, generally friendly person who also possessed a fierce temper if provoked. Her ultimate trigger was simple: anyone touching her food without asking.

One afternoon, I found myself alone in the kitchen making a sandwich. I assembled the ingredients, only to realize with disappointment that I was completely out of lettuce. Scanning the fridge, my eyes landed on Dane’s shelf. There, sitting inside a pristine Tupperware container, was a large, crisp head of lettuce.

She’ll never notice a single leaf, I thought, letting hunger override my better judgment.

I surreptitiously cracked open the lid and began peeling a piece away. Suddenly, I stopped. The leaf wasn't just textured—it was alive. The entire thing was wriggling with a miniature army of worms. Feeling a wave of disgust, I put it back, snapped the lid shut, and settled for a leaf-free sandwich.

The real complication, however, arrived the following day.

I walked into the lounge to find Dane happily relaxing on the couch, halfway through eating a massive sandwich of her own. To my horror, a large piece of lettuce was protruding from the crusts. I stood there, completely convinced I could see the edges of the green leaf subtly moving.

I wanted to tell her, but the calculus of the situation was brutal. If I spoke up, she would instantly realize I had been into her private Tupperware. The fierce Newlands temper would be unleashed on me.

Feeling extremely guilty, I chose to stay quiet. I left her to finish her meal in blissful, oblivious peace, keeping the secret of the kitchen fridge entirely to myself.

Memorable moments: The orthodontic awakening

When I was thirteen, I went through the standard teenage rite of passage: getting orthodontic braces. Periodically, I had to visit the clinic to have them tightened. For most teenagers, this is a dreaded chore, notorious for causing days of dull ache and intense discomfort.

Naturally, my parents were utterly baffled by my reaction to these appointments. Instead of dreading them, I always got incredibly excited. I counted down the days, practically leaping into the car when it was time to go. They probably thought they had raised the most resilient, stoic teenager in South Africa.

They wouldn't have been surprised if they had known the truth.

My mum would drop me off outside the clinic, and I would head upstairs with an uncharacteristic spring in my step. The magic began the moment the orthodontic nurse came to fetch me from the waiting room. She was a gorgeous, friendly blonde who always made a point of asking me how school was going, treating me with a warmth that completely disarmed my thirteen-year-old self.

The highlight, however, was the actual procedure. I would lie back in the chair, and she would lean closely over me with her tightening tool to adjust the wires, her ample bosom just inches from my dazzled gaze. For a teenager right at the precipice of waking up to the world of romance and attraction, having this lovely woman so close  was absolute heaven.

To her, it was just a routine, innocent Tuesday morning at the office. To me, it was a profound, thrilling introduction to the opposite sex. The physical discomfort of the tightening didn't matter at all; the scenery more than made up for it. It remains one of my funniest memories of growing up—a time when a painful dental adjustment somehow became the most anticipated event on my social calendar.

Memorable moments: The voice of the reef

In 2005, I traveled to Dahab in Egypt to complete a scuba diving course in the Red Sea. It was an extraordinary environment, but the true highlight arrived on the second day of our training when our group descended to a depth of twenty metres.

The coral reef was absolutely spectacular—a true wonderland of vibrant color and marine life. As we glided through the water, I was overcome by a profound sense of wonder and peace. I felt entirely present, experiencing a transcendent, spiritual moment of feeling completely at one with everything around me.

When I practice meditation at home, I often use a soft, humming "om" to anchor myself firmly in the present moment. Wrapped in the silence of the deep sea and filled with a sudden desire to express that connection, I let out a gentle, low "om" into my regulator as we swam alongside the reef.

After thirty minutes of exploring, our group finally ascended and exited the water. The moment we pulled off our masks, one of the girls from our group turned to the rest of us with wide, amazed eyes.

"My God," she gasped, "did you hear the coral humming?! I've never heard anything like it in my life!!"

I froze, caught in a wave of sudden embarrassment, and decided it was best to say absolutely nothing. To this very day, she is likely out there somewhere in the world, completely convinced that the coral reefs of the Red Sea sing a beautiful, spiritual song to those who dive deep enough to listen.

Memorable moments: A bright misconception

On our flight back from Zululand to Cape Town, a thick cloud of fearful anticipation hung over the trip. We had heard reports of a massive storm hitting the Cape, and we were braced for a wild, bumpy landing that would be a world away from the 34-degree sunshine we had left behind in Durban.

About thirty minutes before our scheduled arrival, I looked out the cabin window and saw nothing but brilliant, golden light. Relieved and confused, I turned to Antony and my sister, Jo.

"Wow, it's still sunny!" I exclaimed. "I would have thought it would be getting dark and stormy by now."

Antony looked at me with a mix of amusement and pity. "Yes, Graeme," he said gently, "that's probably because we are still above the clouds."

Sure enough, as the pilot began our descent and we dipped below that white, fluffy floor, the world transformed. The bright gold vanished, replaced by an ominous, dark grey. We landed safely in the end, but I left the plane with a newfound appreciation for the fact that just because you can see the sun doesn't mean the storm isn't waiting for you just a few thousand feet below.