On the Beach: Sea Foam

 

 To make up for disrupting power supply for three days, the recent winter storm generated a massive amount of sea foam and drove it ashore on Monday. It was a spectacular natural event resulting in what was variously described as soap suds, whipped cream, cotton wool and souffle, depending on one’s imagination, and varied in colour from dirty brown to shades of yellow to pure white. On Tuesday it was all gone.

There is an informative article on Wikipedia, which describes and explains the phenomenon, and is well worth reading. Here is an extract:

Sea foam, ocean foam, beach foam, or spume is a type of foam created by the agitation of seawater, particularly when it contains higher concentrations of dissolved organic matter (including proteins, lignins, and lipids) derived from sources such as the offshore breakdown of algal blooms.^[1] These compounds can act as surfactants or foaming agents. As the seawater is churned by breaking waves in the surf zone adjacent to the shore, the surfactants under these turbulent conditions trap air, forming persistent bubbles that stick to each other through surface tension.

Sea foam is a global phenomenon,^[1] and it varies depending on location and the potential influence of the surrounding marine, freshwater, and/or terrestrial environments.^[2] Due to its low density and persistence, foam can be blown by strong on-shore winds from the beach face inland.

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Memory Project: The Crystal Set

A crystal radio receiver, also called a crystal set, is a simple radio receiver popular in the early days of radio. It uses only the power of the received radio signal to produce sound, needing no external power. It is named for its most important component, a crystal detector, originally made from a piece of crystalline mineral such as Galena. This component is now called a diode.

Crystal radios are the simplest type of radio receiver and can be made with a few inexpensive parts, such as a wire for an antenna, a coil of wire, a capacitor, a crystal detector, and earphones. Crystal radios are passive receivers, while other radios use an amplifier powered by current from a battery or wall outlet to make the radio signal louder. Thus, crystal sets produce rather weak sound and must be listened to with sensitive earphones, and can only receive stations within a limited range. - Wikipedia

My parents’ radio was positioned on the record cabinet in the lounge. This cabinet had been custom made in Fish Hoek by Percy Webb and was designed to take the record turntable on a pull-out shelf. The collection of vinyl records stood in the compartments below. I think they could get the BBC on shortwave but they listened mostly to the SABC English Program on medium wave.

Alan also had a radio. His bed was in the corner of his room, had an iron frame and stood high off the ground. It was similar to the houseboy’s bed, only it had a better mattress. Next to the bed and facing the window was a blue painted table that served as his homework desk. The large, old-fashioned radio that had been bought second hand sat on the side of the table facing the bed.

He liked to lie in bed at night and listen to English football commentary and comedy programs like ‘Round the Horne,’ ‘The Glums,’ ‘Hancock’s Half Hour’ and his favorite, ‘The Goon Show.’ We were treated to sweets on a Friday night and he would chew toffees while listening and then throw the wrappers under the table. When my parents objected to this slovenly habit he preferred to stand on a chair and push the sweet papers through a triangular tear in the metal ceiling rather than put them in the dustbin. Another of his practices was to pick his nose and stick the ‘bogeys’ to the underside of the table, where they dried out and became quite a collection. I know this because I used to join him in bed for some of the comedy programs and witnessed the procedure on numerous occasions.

Like many young children I sucked my thumb. This was mildly discouraged, but when I was nearly seven and still doing it my parents became concerned and decided to try and cure me of it with some bribery. If I were to quit the habit they would buy me a crystal set.

The one they bought for me consisted of a small cream and red plastic case that could be pulled apart to reveal the rudimentary components, a pair of second hand earphones and a long piece of insulated copper wire. This wire was the aerial and was strung from my bedroom window to the tall syringa in the corner of the plot. There was a tuning dial but no volume control, there being no power source to amplify the signal.

I continued to suck my thumb for another year or so, but less and less frequently and only in secret. It seems that I was a rather pathetic little shit at that time.

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The Man in the Plastic Mask

Doctor D phoned to say that the PET scan showed my lungs to be clear except for a non-malignant nodule, which meant curative treatment of the cancer in my neck could proceed. This would entail six weeks of chemo and radiotherapy.

By using the word ‘curative’ I understood him to mean he expected to delay my demise by as much as a decade. If he thought I only had a year or two left, he would have said ‘palliative.’

The next day, Friday the 28th of October, 2022, Karien from Oncology phoned to say that I should be at the Centre at 2.30 to be fitted with a mask before undergoing a scan. We scurried about, jumped in the car, and K got me there with ten minutes to spare.

In the Radiology waiting room there was a comfortable black leather couch, which the receptionist urged us to make use of, but we had barely seated ourselves when Karien and Rochelle arrived and welcomed us in a friendly fashion. We followed them down a sloping passage into the radiation bunker. They explained that I would be fitted with a mask that would be used to position my head in precisely the same place for each treatment. I lay on the table that stood before the radiation equipment, the mask was heated in some kind of microwave oven to soften it and, while it was still warm and waxy they pressed it down on my nose, forehead and chin, moulding it to my features with their fingers.

 

The radiation therapists explained that they now needed a scan of my head and shoulders for them to direct the radioactive rays to target the cancerous areas with the utmost precision. Accordingly, we drove the short distance to Mediclinic, I again put my head into the white doughnut, and then it was back to Oncology.

I again removed my shirt and lay on the hard plastic bench, a wedge under my knees and one behind my neck. The mask was fitted over my face and they fastened it down at its nine anchor points. To say it was a snug fit would be an understatement. My head was completely immobilised and I could barely move my eyelids. They asked me if I was all right and whether I felt claustrophobic, to which I grunted in the affirmative and the negative. Flor the next ten minutes or so they took measurements, drew lines on the mask and calibrated their instruments in the control room. The mask was unfastened and removed, and I was free to go home, have a dop and braai some Friday fish. The preparatory work being complete, treatment could commence on Monday.

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Fake News and A Short Story

 

 

FAKE NEWS. The snail (Achatina fulica) originates in East Africa and only began to appear in the Western Cape about 15 years ago. This snail species has become a significant pest around the world. Internationally, it is the most frequently occurring invasive species of snail.

Outside of its native range, this snail thrives in many types of habitat in areas with mild climates. It feeds voraciously and is a vector for plant pathogens, causing severe damage to agricultural crops and native plants. It competes with native snail taxa, is a nuisance pest of urban areas, and spreads human disease. This snail is listed as one of the top 100 invasive species in the world.

An increase in physical size of the snail was first observed in the Southern Cape in 2017 and the mutation of growth genes was confirmed by zoologists from the University of Stellenbosch at the end of 2018. The team of scientists led by Dr Hans Gastrow established that the snail was increasing in body mass by 5 percent every three generations. In November 2019 it was announced that the gastropod’s feeding habits had changed from herbivorous to omnivorous. Dr Gastrow has warned that the mutant form of Achatina fulica poses a serious threat to plant and animal life in the coastal zone between Gansbaai and Die Dam, and its eradication should be seen as a matter of extreme urgency.

 

THE STORY. When Mike reached 65 and sold his share in the firm, he and Cheryl put their Cape Town house on the market. Their holiday cottage in Pearly Beach had been recently renovated and they relocated at the end of 2016.

That first Christmas in Pearly was wonderful. Their three children and their partners rented a house on the seafront and the festivities lasted for two weeks. Then Mike and Cheryl settled into comfortable retirement. They upgraded their PC, the computer people installed an antenna and connected them to the Internet, and a new satellite dish gave them DSTV reception better than it had been in town. They might be in the countryside but there was no sense of being cut off from the outside world.

Cheryl joined a Bible group and Mike found some buddies to go fishing with, or meet in one of the drinking holes to swop yarns and discuss the state of affairs in the country. They became members of the Angling and Recreation Club, and sometimes went for a meal on Club night and socialized with other residents. As they expanded their circle of acquaintances they discovered the reality of small town politics, which meant being drawn into one of the antagonistic factions.

“I suppose it makes life interesting,” Mike told his wife. “But we must be careful not to get too involved.”

Phil, their youngest, lived in Joburg but both Jane and Keith were in Cape Town, and every few weeks one of them would pay a visit, or Mike and Cheryl would spend a couple of days in the city. Of course there was also the phone and the WhatsApp group to keep them feeling connected

When Phil announced that he and his wife had been offered positions at separate law firms in Sydney, and that they would be leaving as soon as the emigration papers had been processed, it came as a disappointment rather than a shock.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” he told Cheryl. “We’ll come back on holiday and you and Dad can come and visit us once we’re settled.”

The shock came not six months later. Keith was unable to hide his feelings of guilt when he told them that he and Meg wanted to start a family but felt there was no future for white kids in South Africa. They were considering job offers in London. It made sense to choose the UK, because Meg’s brothers were there and her parents had made the move a year ago.

“You can’t blame them,” Mike said. “South Africa is a mess. Trump is right: this is a shithole country”

This did nothing to console Cheryl, who was in tears.  “It feels like they are abandoning us. Both of our sons will be gone. At least Jane is here. It’s like my mother used to say: A son is a son until he gets him a wife. But a daughter is a daughter all of her life.”

All of her life until she gets hijacked. She wasn’t beaten up or raped, but being driven around in the company of three villains for an hour, and then being left at the side of the road on the N2 left its mark.

“I just can’t get it out of my head, and I know I will never feel safe again.”

She and her husband had any number of friends who had settled in London, and John and his wife were there. It made sense to try for a new beginning in England, and they packed their bags and left in February 2019.

“If we hadn’t invested so heavily in their education we could join them. But even if the Brits let us in, which is unlikely at our age, we would have to live like poor whites. Our money wouldn’t go far in the UK. To think how much we spent on private schools and putting them through university! And now all three of them have buggered off.”

From then on Mike referred to emigration as buggering off.

They continued to walk on the beach at low tide when the weather was good, and they pottered about in the garden, but it took more of an effort to remain active. Boredom and apathy replaced zest and enthusiasm, and they began to slow down, both physically and mentally. Mike’s hypertension meds had to be adjusted and the doctor put Cheryl on antidepressants and gave her something for anxiety.

When they could no longer ignore the sight of their spouse’s expanding waistline they resolved to cut back on their drinking. No more sundowners and snacks from Monday to Thursday. Although it was tough at first the discipline did them some good and they even lost a couple of kilograms. But there was the danger of making up for abstinence in the week by overdoing it on the weekend. It was hard not to binge on Friday and Saturday nights, and if they weren’t careful they could go through two bottles of wine with Sunday lunch.

Their discontent was further fuelled by what was going on in the country as well as globally. The economy was shrinking, unemployment was growing, and crime was on the increase. More and more corruption was being exposed but the justice system was paralysed. The State Owned Enterprises had been looted and were collapsing, and most infuriating of all was Eskom and the constant power cuts.

“The bloody ANC has destroyed the country,” Mike complained to his wife. He was becoming increasingly racist with his pronouncements. “Wherever these blacks take control there’s a guaranteed disaster. And these idiots are still talking about Expropriation Without Compensation! It’s not going to be long before we become a basket case like Zimbabwe.”

“What I worry about is the NHI,” said Cheryl. “I’m sure they want to destroy private health care, and then our medical aid will be worthless.”

“I know. Imagine what will happen if the virus gets going in Africa. God, it’s such a tragedy we can’t afford to bugger off like the kids have done!”

He got up to open another window. That wind blowing from the East felt like it was coming from a furnace, but at least it helped to evaporate sweat. He looked out at the lawn, which should have been parched yellow at this time of the year. Instead. It was green and lush, evidence of galloping climate change. As predicted, sub-Saharan countries were going to be hit hard. Floods and droughts and tornados would become commonplace. It was another reason to bugger off if you could afford to.

He was about to turn away when he caught sight of one of those giant snails that were plaguing the area. God it was huge! It was at least as big as a soccer ball, if not bigger. Leaving a trail of slime behind it the creature was advancing across the lawn towards the flower bed. It was probably intent on polishing off what was left of the petunias and calendulas. He certainly wasn’t going outside to deal with it. Trying to kill the thing and dispose of it was just too much of a mission, what with all that disgusting slime it exuded.

It was a week later and the last Sunday in February. There had been three days of black southeaster and the incessant drizzle had deposited 60mm in the rain gauge. In the late morning the wind dropped and it looked like the weather might clear. The summer sun burned holes in the thin cloud cover and it became horribly hot and humid.

“No ways I’m doing a braai,” Mike declared. “Not in this heat.”

“Any excuse will do,” said Cheryl. “But don’t expect me to stand slaving over a hot stove.” She put the chops and sausage back in the freezer and took out two Woolies meals to start defrosting.

“Pathetic bunch of losers!” Mike snarled as he turned off the TV. “Ninety-eight all out! I can’t bear to watch. The series is going to be a whitewash.”

“Shall we watch another episode of Downton Abbey before lunch?”

“Alright. Like a glass of wine?”

They had developed a strategy whereby they could justify opening two bottles. It entailed starting with the first one well before the meal. It felt perfectly acceptable for him to be opening the second bottle just as she served the food. To crack number two any later would have made them feel like old boozers.

They shared a lasagne and a quiche, and ended with ice cream and chocolate sauce, which was nice and easy. Then they finished the wine and sat back.

“God, but it’s hot! I’m sweating like a pig.” And this was in spite of removing his shirt and footwear.

“And Jane says it’s six degrees in London! I’m going to go and lie down before I die.”

“I’ll try lying on the floor,” Mike said. “It might be cooler than on the bed.” He pulled the cushions off the couch and spread them on the tiled surface facing the open sliding door. Before long they were both on their backs snoring, their mouths wide open.

Outside there was no movement of air and low cloud cover was trapping the heat. On the lawn a giant African land snail had paused in its progress and was trying to decide where to go next. Its brown striped shell was twice the size of a football and lay on top of the stretched out metre long body. Its head was raised high and moved from side to side. The two pairs of feelers waved in different directions like surveillance antennae gathering data. Then its slime engine started up, revved, and the monster travelled forward on its route to the house.

It mounted the step to the stoep with ease and began its convulsive progress into the living room. Level with Mike’s bare feet it came to a halt in order to reconnoitre. Again it started up and advanced. With its head and half of its oozing underbelly raised high it stood poised above the sleeping man.

Cheryl awoke with a jerk. It was gone five but still stifling hot and she felt terrible. Her mouth was dry, her head ached, and when she called out to Mike her voice sounded like that of an old witch. She called again but there was no reply. No snoring, so he must be up. Unsteady on her feet, she lurched into the living room and then acted like she had walked into a wall. Mike was still on the floor but he wasn’t alone. The snail was spread out on him and its loathsome flesh enveloped his upper body while its head was at his face.

She screamed and shouted for help and pushed and pulled to no avail. Her neighbour arrived and after screaming and covering her eyes said she would call Lofty. He was the local paramedic and was also an electrician and a handyman, and he would know what to do.

When Lofty arrived he looked a little groggy but was perfectly steady on his feet. After assessing the situation he said the only way to deal with this snail was to electrocute it. Stage four load shedding had just kicked in so he went to his bakkie, disconnected the battery and came back with it, along with some tools. Using jumper leads and a length of copper wire he was able to pass an electrical current through the hideous creature. It immediately lifted its head and began to writhe and convulse. Only after five minutes when it finally lay motionless did Lofty disconnect the power and they were able to separate the snail from Mike’s lifeless body.

When they cleaned the viscous sludge from his face they were horrified to discover that his eye sockets were empty, his lips had been stripped away and a start had been made on his tongue.

“Don’t worry, it would have been quick,” Lofty said. “He would have choked on the slime almost immediately, you see. Death by asphyxiation.”

Naturally, Cheryl was in a terrible state. Jane and Keith’s wife immediately flew out to be with her, and the entire family made it to the funeral.

“You will have to come and live with us in London, Mummy,” Jane insisted. “You can’t stay on your own in this dreadful country.”

Cheryl had to agree. With the insurance money and what she could get for the house it was now possible to make the move. With a feeling of bitterness she acknowledged that it had taken this catastrophe to enable at least one of them to bugger off.

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