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| (Dude stepping onto vessel - my dad) |
My dad was in the Royal New Zealand Navy
When he was home from sea
Which did not feel like often
he’d go out on Friday nights
At the open front door of 62 Beresford Street
Our mustard coloured, weatherboarded
royal blue-roofed mansion
I’d grab his hand, Dad, Dad where are you going?
Floating down the river in a matchbox, he’d chuckle
My then four-year-old self would worry for his
Six-foot man body teetering in a teeny boat
His bent knees at ear level
His bottom snug
Just how long could that cardboard craft contain him
Bobbing under the barnacled Devonport wharf
My mum would tuck my pink-nightied self into bed
To search for sleep under the long grey curtains
That sometimes turned into a herd of elephants
Stampeding at night
Trampling
My endless worries into untold proportions
It wasn’t until I was grown up that I worked out
what I already knew
He was going to the officer’s mess at the naval base
To drink whiskey and smoke Rothmans
And tell tall stories with his shipmates
Years later when I told him of my childhood view
My wet, papery woes of his impending demise
His potential drowning
He just laughed
And floated on down that river in his matchbox
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