The 'survival' courses consist of a short stint in a 100-acre wood with a few ex-military survival experts who can teach you how to build a shelter, start a fire, read maps, use a compass and even track a man. Admittedly, my sixteen year old son is less than thrilled at the prospect of building anything in the woods. In fact, when I first broached the subject he said - 'Can I bring 500 metres of electrical cable into the woods so I can use the Playstation?' I'm sure he was joking...
Suddenly my son took this discussion to the next level of enthusiasm - first identifying in no uncertain terms exactly what his requirements were for such a would-be 'trek' into the woods. The list read something like: sausage rolls, Coke, a DVD player, electricity, the PlayStation and a few games, mints (I think to mix with the Coke in order to amuse oneself in the middle of the night with a Vesuvius-like eruption of carbonated beverage), the dog (that was a surprise), and a few other items of creature comfort. (When I suggested things like a sleeping bag or tent, he nodded in a 'well- duh, of course' way.)
Once that line of thinking was completed, my daughter joined in, moving into new heights of curiousity: when was this going to happen, and how much time do I have to find all the answers about how to do it. It wasn't as if this was some sort of exam with an accompanying preparatory study guide. Well actually, I thought, that's not a bad idea - might be useful to learn a few things before the shroud of darkness took over, or torrential rain, or whatever else could happen in the woods in Cornwall.
Having been showered with such youthful perspective, I dutifully sent off an explanatory email to the owner of the survival school explaining the issues at hand-- the stroppy teenagers, the need to build confidence and skills, immersion in an environment that offered challenges, the constant need to be artificially stimulated by electronic games, the nocturnal schedules, the discrupted sleep patterns of the mother who is awakened at strange hours by the animated discussions occuring outside her door, the restlessness of the dog, the 24 x 7 nature of the house, the competitiveness, the lack of assistance in the chore department, blah, blah, blah. I'm sure you get the picture.
After firing off the missile, I waited expectantly for a response. Several days passed. Hmmm. Maybe the picture I painted was a bit too clear? Maybe they wouldn't be able to suggest anything. What if they too were going to pass on the challenge? That couldn't be possible, they came highly recommended to me. Wasn't this exactly the sort of thing they did, and did well. Couldn't they help me? I am not afterall a man - never was one, never will be, and don't want to be one. Weren't they supposed to be the experts at survival skills and ciphers?
OK, thinking it through rationally, I made excuses. Clearly, there are no 500-metre cables for electricity and these guys really don't bring a laptop into the woods, and even if they did, I'm sure there is no wireless signal that far out. Hmm, now I am wondering if mobile phones and Blackberries would work either? And then came the email from the owner of the survival technique company.
"Having looked at your situation (Holidays 7 -28 August, Channel swim, etc), I think your best bet is to go for the Families Course the first weekend of September. This would be run by the other director in the Company as I am out of the country. This would be ideal for you and your kids. Failing that, then with notice we may be able to lay on a bespoke event for you and your friends in October early November. Many thanks"
I am now wondering what I was initially thinking. Did I really need someone hiking into the woods with me and the kids, leaving us there for 3 days, and expecting someone to come out alive? And really, let's face it, I am not a natural camper. My idea of a holiday has always been somewhere pampering, or in the very least, several feet (if not storeys) from the ground.
Ok, I did camp for an extended period of time - but only twice. The first camping excursion (if you could call it that) was when I returned to the UK after living in Dubai. While waiting for the arrival of the shipping crate containing what was left of my first marriage (it took about 6 weeks for the shipment to arrive and clear customs), I 'camped' in a four bed townhouse in Kew. Pretty wimpy I know, but there was NO furniture, no blankets, no sleeping bags, no beds, no pots and pans, no plates, no cutlery, no napkins, not even towels. It was just me, two small children, a Nanny and about eight suit cases. With limited funds, I had to economise where I could - there were only so many things I was willing to buy... again.
That summer I learned that parquet floors can be very hard and cold; that suitcases can double as small beds; that you can really cook a three course meal with one pot; that it is OK to use paper napkins; that no matter what, I had to drink tea out of a tea cup, and coffee from a mug; that curtains can double as a blanket provided they are hung up again during the day to remove all the wrinkles; that a good Nanny is really worth her weight in gold; that small children are remarkably resilient; and that you can make a game out of just about anything in order to get your kids to regard adverse conditions as a holiday.... Despite the life-lessons, for us bigger campers, working a 12 hour a day after kipping night after night on a wooden floor with a curtain for a blanket became old pretty quickly.
The next real camping expedition occured in Maine. This time, however, I wasn't waiting for the furniture to be shipped. I was in between houses - as in, the lease on the house I was renting had expired, and the closing on the house I was hoping to purchase was taking longer than expected. It was summer afterall, in Maine - two miles from the sea- how bad could it be? In hindsight, the kids tell the story as if it was a six-month tenancy at the campsite, even though it really was only 6 weeks. To be fair, it was fun, despite the skunks and the fact that it was the wettest summer on record for more than 25 years..... Really, the worst bit of it was the $1000 dollar mobile phone bill I had to pay at the end of it. Yes, telecommuting to the Cambridge office proved to be quite a personal expense that summer. The absence of a land-line meant an overdependence on the mobile; it was shortly after that summer that I stopped using a mobile telephone for more than six years. I was certain I had given any potential brain tumour a head start and therefore wasn't going to take any chances!
Oh, and yes, there was one other near-miss third time camping opportunity- just in the last 6 months - when I was almost invited on a 'family' camping holiday. Had it materialised, I would have gone along gleefully, but it didn't, so this is one camping story which will never be recounted.
Let's rewind a bit - and return to the concept of survival tuition for my son. What went wrong here. Was I unclear in my email to the survival instructor? Had I miscommunicated my plight? What was so unclear? How did this end up as a family survival of the fittest exercise?
And now we finally get to the heart of the matter. To something I believe everyone should know, something that should be taught in school instead of French - universal distress signals.
Wouldn't it be great if everyone had the same internationally-recognised, universal communications system - like maritime flags, or morse code, or the lettering signals - something that no matter what the circumstances were, there could be no ambiguitiy in the meaning?
Think about it - you're on your way home from your own brutal day at the office: Knackered, beat, slighted, overworked, exploited, unappreciated, hungry. You pull up to the curb, in front of your house, and there are two GIANT letters on the pavement. It could be anything - something to let you know you're walking into a questionable situation.
US4: Nothing can be done until weather moderates.
Something that alerts you to the fact that you need to quickly drive off and get an Indian take-away and a bottle of wine. Or, take refuge at the gym, or something, anything.
Here are some examples of real distress signals.
- AC: I am abandoning my vessel.
- AD: I am abandoning my vessel which has suffered a nuclear accident and is a possible source of radiation danger.
- AN: I need a doctor.
- AN 1: I need a doctor; I have severe burns.
- AN 2: I need a doctor; I have radiation casualties.
- EL: Repeat the distress position.
- EL 1: What is the position of vessel in distress?
- GM: I cannot save my vessel.
- GN: You should take off persons.
- GN 1: I wish some persons taken off. Skeleton crew will remain on board.
- GN 2: I will take off persons.
- GN 3: Can you take off persons?
- IT: I am on fire.
- MAA: I request urgent medical advice.
- MAB: I request you to make rendezvous in position indicated.
- MAC: I request you to arrange hospital admission.
- MAD: I am . . . (indicate number) hours from the nearest port.
- VG: The coverage of low clouds is… (number of octants or eighths of sky covered).
- US 4: Nothing can be done until weather moderates.
Personally, I like AC, AD, GN, AN, IT and US4.
Imagine how different parenting a teenager would be if your kids were equipped with such distress signals. If you had some indication - before the shot across the bow - that there was something amiss in your child's life. Why couldn't they leave notes like this:
Dear Mummy,
AN: I need a doctor.
EL: Repeat the distress position.
GM: I cannot save my vessel.
I know we're supposed to see the signs. But we're busy - especially if we're a single-parent - there's never anyone else around for back up and therefore sometimes you just nod off on your watch. Or you're not paying attention because you're up to your elbows in laundry and dirty glasses.
That's when you get a phone call out of the blue, and of course, it's on your voicemail because you were on four hours of conference calls - couldn't answer the incessent ring of the mobile.... and when you pick the message up, your knees go weak and floppy because you suddenly realize that somehow, somewhere the signals didn't make it through to you. And you fall, metophorically, about twenty storeys into the whys and hows. And then you realize that anyone that is in any position to help you at all is already on holiday....
That's when you want to hang the flag upside down. When you have to say, "This country I call motherhood is in distress."
NC*: (November-Charlie)... Is anyone out there?
*NC is an international maritime distress signal depicted by two signal flags.
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1 comments:
Very entertaining and very true! Understanding my daughter's signals is like navigating hostile waters, or is that because I am a man! A simple t-shirt branded with the days distress signal would certainly help, or would that t-shirt then because the point of distress it being in the wrong colour or style or something else I 'just don't get'! I recognise the camping requirements, it is just so true...I've given up trying to get my lot under canvas...lets face it, we are just a different generation!
Following your links I found this...
Wondered how plants talk to each other? They do not have the same language as humans but they have their own ways. Recent research by scientists at Kyoto University, Japan, describes how the Lima bean plant protects itself and its neighbours from the spider mite or the red spider. It sends out clear distress signals. Its not like they make weird noises to attract attention, though. It does it very silently. So it is not just a self-survival instinct that plants have. They also have an instinct for community feeling, as the Lima bean plant shows. Nature is full of unending surprises!
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