Ballast

I've been unkindly referred to as ballast once or twice in my life. Okay, thrice. Twice by Old Salt who really should know better and once by my ex in the throes of a rear tractor torque situation. "Shiiiit. Just jump in the bucket at the front and hang on, will ya?" To balance the ton of pavers at the back. Nice.

The ballast I'm referring to now is the ballast that keeps us upright in big seas. My friends Greedy and Em built a beautiful fireplace in their backyard from the basalt that was once used to stay 19th century tall ships on the high seas. The stones were dredged out of the harbour recently to make room for the new marina and taken to the rubbish dump. I say basalt but the stones look flintier, more like slate, with the heavy density and colour of local basalt. Perhaps these stones came from England? Africa? South America? Imagine.

Anyway, I'm digressing for a second time. Ballast.
Here is my ballast. Gracie, her Mum and her Dad made up a little trio who kicked arse in 2012 and showed us all how it is done.

Greedy sat down beside me on New Years Eve and rested his dancing legs on the stone fireplace.
"You know Sarah, I just can't wait to have grand kids. Teach them how to catch fish and go hunting and take them out to the bush block, go crazy for a week, teach them to drive the old bombs around the fire breaks, how to do that firestick dancing thing at night ... "
He stopped and looked at my earnest nodding. "Ha! I was being facetious, Sarah. But you're serious, aren't you?"
"Of course I am Greedy. She's got shorter big toes, just like me."