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Seal Lion Caves and the American Dream

23/8/2015

This (rather dull) BBC nature show around Monterey Bay got Anne and I reminiscing on one of our trips up the west coast of America and in particular the day we went to The Seal Cave.

We were on our way from Crater Lake up to Vancouver. Shortly after joining Highway 101 north along the coast we started seeing road signs every few miles or so. “Don't Miss the Seal Caves – only 100 miles!”. After ten or so signs I said to Anne, what do you reckon? She said “Seal Caves – don't miss out – only 50 miles.”. Thirty miles away they helpfully told us “Seal Caves – with elevator”. Twenty miles away I was so excited I did a little wee. Plans for the day were cancelled. We were in. Deep. Ten miles away it suggested we could see this whole spectacle – with elevator – for a mere 10 dollars each. God bless America.

We came, we paid, we descended. There was the Pacific. There was a cave. There was another couple hungry for all the beauty and truth that nature and 20 bucks can muster.

What was lacking, just a touch, was seals. Not a one. And you know it's not like seals are unknown on our own wee island coast – we've canoed, coast steered, boated, swum and walked by hundreds – but these were Great American Sea Lions, which like have manes and hunt down water buffalo and stuff. Probably. We were disappointed. We were forlorn. We felt let down. Say it ain't so Joe, but a little bit of the American Dream died inside me that day.

Distraught, we took the lift upwards along with a couple from Austin, Texas. We know this because she said – hi we're from Austin, Texas. You? Anne, never one to be outdone said, um, we're from London, Wimbledon – upgrading us by a couple of miles and the odd half million. Oh, the woman said, how lovely, we lived there for several years, didn't we Jeb, whereabouts?

Which isn't the punchline, but should be. The punchline awaited exactly 2 miles further north as we arrived in Newport and our berth for the night. Piped in by the reek and the raucousness of a million seals sunbathing on the decks of the marina. Didn't sleep a wink. Dirty foreign bastards.

Seal cave don't miss it. As it says on its site - only 41 hours and 26 minutes from Chicago.

Sea Lion Caves.

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Farewell Karin - the funeral address

6/8/2015

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Karin asked me if I would read a poem which I wrote for her. But, it's a bit maudlin so I'm going to do something else instead and talk about the signature she left on me, as Mark has just put it.

When we were writing Farewell Trip together we thought the main characters would probably have some shared tastes – you know in films, books, music – that sort of thing, and so thought we'd see what we both liked and take it from there. And an hour later we realised that we didn't have a single taste in common. We agreed on nothing and no-one. As a Venn diagram we were two completely separate circles. And we wondered how we only just found that out about each other. In the end we agreed it must have been because we'd been too busy over the last 25 years taking the piss out of Mark's tastes to notice.

In fact Mark came home an hour later to find us shouting and swearing at each other over the relative merits of Hugh Grant. He's brilliant by the way, Karin.

And never was this difference more apparent than when it comes to poetry. My greatest love – her greatest hate. Her disdain for my heroes unequivocal. Sylvia Plath – a self-obsessed whiny old harpy. Larkin – a smelly old drunk. TS Eliot an anagram of toilets.

When it comes to poetry I'm with Izzy she used to say. Izzy hates soup. What's the point of it she says. That's how I feel about poetry – what's the point of it.

Now, as a tangent, being a non-driver I have spent a lot of my life sitting in passenger seats observing how other people drive. And much the same is true of being childless, I've spent a lot of time observing how friends have raised their children. And pretty early on both Anne and I decided that Mark and Karin would be the role models by whom all others would be judged. But, strictly between you and me, we did wonder whether all that hippy-dippy, happy-clappy, lovey-dovey stuff might backfire when the loin-fruit reached those tricky teenage rebellious years. In fact, we believed Karin secretly hankered after just this, being preternaturally well-disposed towards naughtiness and difference.

And so it came to pass that, when Elly was 16, Karin e-mailed me in despair. She said I have just caught Elly. In her bedroom. Writing poetry. She sounded genuinely upset. I wrote back to say how sorry I was. But don't despair, fingers-crossed, there was still every chance that at least one of them would turn out to be gay. No pressure, Malin.

So, it was somewhat amazing when looking back through the emails that I stumbled across a poem that Karin had actually written to me, and I thought it would be much more fun to read that out than the old maudlin thing I wrote to her. Not least because I'd be fairly sure it must be the only poem she ever wrote her entire adult life. It's called for GT and look she even centre-justified it, taking the piss out of one of my own poetry peccadilloes.

For GT

As I repeat every time we meet,
Poetry is like soup.
You ain't the only one who's tried
And I do wish to be one of that lucky group
who appreciate the joys of metre, assonance and rhyme,
Understand the significance of pensive punctuation...

And meaningful

Gaps.

I have tried,
And my conclusion?
What could be worse
Than a friend who hates verse?

On the contrary Karin, what could be better than a friend who hates verse but still encourages you with all they have to keep on with it. You encouraged me more than anyone with my writing in general and my poetry in particular. You encouraged me in life, and I bet there's many of you out there who have been similarly encouraged, egged on, enabled, enthused. It was your gift and I thank you for it.

You signed me up to Facebook one drunken New Year's Eve against my express wishes and I spent the next seven years writing on there every day with the sole intention of making you laugh. Out of that came two books, one of which was Farewell Trip which was an honour to write with you and a whole lot of fun. I will miss you terribly.

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Farewell Karin - the funeral.

6/8/2015

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So to Karin's funeral, which was held in an extraordinarily peaceful non-denominational woodland chapel and grounds somewhere outside Bristol.

Karin didn't wait long to play a trick on me, for after all this was her day. A friend arrived with a welcome lift Bristolwards, and Karin decided what fun it would be if my trouser zip were to malfunction. She was already imagining everyone catching me stepping into and out of the venue's disabled toilet with a parade of concerned women and their safety-pins.

I do get nervous ahead of training courses, but nothing is like speaking for your loved ones. Ahead of my best man speech at Mike's wedding I was so nervous I had to go to the doctors for mistaking an anxiety attack for a heart attack. And once you get the faintest reputation for being any good at this stuff, the harder the thought of letting down someone you care for becomes.

I picked up a friend's text on arrival. She said to me: Words that Claire said to me once, “Strong back, soft front.” Not just perfect words but carefully chosen for Claire was also Genkai the Buddhist monk who was to run the day perfectly.

My speech was soon after kick-off. Words ok, memorised and delivered ok. It really was ok, but I rushed it. Through fear of non-completion. Played safe, choked down on the club, aimed for the centre of the green. Glad to get through it. Us trainers pride ourselves on being able to hold the audience in the palm of our hand. Like a comedian or an actor. Like a preacher. Not today. Not quite. Skills are not as transferable as many would like to think.

Genkai showed me the way. I had a line in my speech that was a throwaway joke addressed to Karin. I mumbled it and moved on. Too quick, wasted. Genkai reached a similar place in her bit and moved to the coffin (a giant blue cardboard box like you get in Staples) and put her hand on it and then said her line. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Normally, by which I mean a Church of England service, that would be that. Play Jerusalem or something, pull back the curtains, go to the pub. Not today. A cavalcade of folks spoke movingly and funnily, from lectern and from their seats. Mark said how she had put her signature onto each of us, and also shared how lazy she was, Izzy broke our hearts, her dearest friends shared their love, and an ex work colleague remembered a time when she declared to all and sundry that the meeting they were in was 'as dry as a nun's chuff.' Anne read my favourite bit from Farewell Trip – so well I noticed someone even bought a copy on Amazon later.

Which is all well and good but flipping heck it went on a bit. At heart I'm a good old Western cowboy. Chew some baccy, dig a hole, small wooden cross, take your hat off, mumble, put them in the ground and ride on. This was all a bit much. Half of us had been crying for two hours. I'm never going to slag off a CofE, stiff-upper lip, twenty minute bout of repression ever again.

But hey, Karin hadn't even started yet. She had written a letter of love to her family. Like they didn't know already. I always told her she should do like Trip and leave her loved ones a letter. Didn't fucking think she'd get Genkai to read it out loud. For fuck's sake Karin – you're from Stevenage. Get a grip. Upstaged us all, obvs.

Quick, a negroni, fuck Karin, these are horrible, what were you thinking? Add prosecco to it, better, another. Repeat ad infinitum or ad nauseam whichever comes first. Wait to wave her off. The idea, of course, was that she was there. And, of course, she was, everywhere you looked. And, of course, she wasn't. Like a magic trick you love but hate yourself for loving. Truthfully, closure's a shit concept. I'm not for closing. Karin, open all hours. Like my flies. Otherwise who else am I writing to?

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Seal Lion Caves and the American Dream

Farewell Karin - the funeral address

Farewell Karin - the funeral.

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