03-15-2017, 04:29 AM
The ashes
Robbie leaves instructions. He wants
to be cremated, his ashes scattered
into Sydney Harbour near North Head
while the tide’s going out. He wants to be
part of the Pacific Ocean.
Six months after the funeral, Mr. Nasty
books a cruiser from a Cremorne marina
and we work out the best time and place to
catch the outgoing tide, send him off
as he wanted.
We round up the mourners and meet
at the marina; about a dozen of us:
the widow, two of his sons, a couple
of clerks who once worked for him,
a couple each of bookies, builders,
neighbours, and friends.
Mr. Nasty’s brother Blue takes over
the job of captain, steers us in the right
direction. We make a mistake about tides
though so we have to wait, floating on
gentle swells under the hot sun, harbour
busy with boats all around us, telling tales
of Robbie at home, at the races, and
drinking wine. Everyone becomes tired
and emotional. The widow weeps openly
as we drift near North Head.
When we all agree the tide has turned,
definitely, Blue brings out the plastic urn
provided by the crematorium, ready to
open and shake,but it’s sealed, there’s
no way to open it except with a blade.
Which no-one has.
The only implement of any kind we find
on board is a corkscrew. The widow won’t
let us throw the urn in the water to bob.
Blue takes charge, stabbing holes in the urn
with the corkscrew, again and again, tiny
holes that no ashes can come out of.
The widow is very disturbed by the stabbing,
weeps some more.
‘Don’t worry, love, can’t hurt him now’
comforts Mr. Nasty, but that doesn’t help.
Blue stabs his own hand, hard. ‘Ah fuck this!’
he throws the holey urn into the harbour,
turns the boat around, and heads us towards
the dock. The widow wails ‘I can still see it!
It’s bobbing!’
Blue convinces her that water will seep in
soon, the urn will sink, Robbie’s ashes will
mingle with the ocean in no time at all.
We disembark, after a slight altercation with
the edge of the dock, and go our different ways,
happy that Robbie’s wishes are carried out. Now
there’s some closure.
Six weeks later the crematorium contacts us.
Someone up the coast in Gosford picks up the urn
on the beach, tracks down where it comes from,
worried someone has lost it. Can we come and
collect it again please.
This time we make no fuss. We bury the balance
under a bush in the Tower garden at Palm Beach.
Mr. Nasty says there’s enough of his ashes dissolved
in the ocean between North Head and Gosford
to say his wishes are carried out. No one’s game
to get the widow weeping again.
Robbie leaves instructions. He wants
to be cremated, his ashes scattered
into Sydney Harbour near North Head
while the tide’s going out. He wants to be
part of the Pacific Ocean.
Six months after the funeral, Mr. Nasty
books a cruiser from a Cremorne marina
and we work out the best time and place to
catch the outgoing tide, send him off
as he wanted.
We round up the mourners and meet
at the marina; about a dozen of us:
the widow, two of his sons, a couple
of clerks who once worked for him,
a couple each of bookies, builders,
neighbours, and friends.
Mr. Nasty’s brother Blue takes over
the job of captain, steers us in the right
direction. We make a mistake about tides
though so we have to wait, floating on
gentle swells under the hot sun, harbour
busy with boats all around us, telling tales
of Robbie at home, at the races, and
drinking wine. Everyone becomes tired
and emotional. The widow weeps openly
as we drift near North Head.
When we all agree the tide has turned,
definitely, Blue brings out the plastic urn
provided by the crematorium, ready to
open and shake,but it’s sealed, there’s
no way to open it except with a blade.
Which no-one has.
The only implement of any kind we find
on board is a corkscrew. The widow won’t
let us throw the urn in the water to bob.
Blue takes charge, stabbing holes in the urn
with the corkscrew, again and again, tiny
holes that no ashes can come out of.
The widow is very disturbed by the stabbing,
weeps some more.
‘Don’t worry, love, can’t hurt him now’
comforts Mr. Nasty, but that doesn’t help.
Blue stabs his own hand, hard. ‘Ah fuck this!’
he throws the holey urn into the harbour,
turns the boat around, and heads us towards
the dock. The widow wails ‘I can still see it!
It’s bobbing!’
Blue convinces her that water will seep in
soon, the urn will sink, Robbie’s ashes will
mingle with the ocean in no time at all.
We disembark, after a slight altercation with
the edge of the dock, and go our different ways,
happy that Robbie’s wishes are carried out. Now
there’s some closure.
Six weeks later the crematorium contacts us.
Someone up the coast in Gosford picks up the urn
on the beach, tracks down where it comes from,
worried someone has lost it. Can we come and
collect it again please.
This time we make no fuss. We bury the balance
under a bush in the Tower garden at Palm Beach.
Mr. Nasty says there’s enough of his ashes dissolved
in the ocean between North Head and Gosford
to say his wishes are carried out. No one’s game
to get the widow weeping again.
