REPORTING FOR DUTY

REPORTING FOR DUTY

They call him the “Bulldog” - and with good reason.
The chairman of our paddle ski club is only shoulder height but nobody messes with Johnny Vassilaros when it comes to the well-being of the paddle ski club.

With the proposed development of a small craft harbour on the site of the club, tempers flare up from time to time between Johnny and the Durban City Manager in the press. There is an imminent court case in July 2010, to save Vetchie’s pier and the clubs situated along the beach. Johnny has no problem in referring to the City Manager (Dr Mike Sutcliffe) in the press as “The Big Boss/ Spoilt Child/ The Emperor.

On 23 January 2010 I reported for my annual week-end duty at the clubhouse (about the same size as our house). Johnny was fuming. The guy that should have done duty with me had advised Johnny that he was not available. (He is no longer a member of the club).
Without much ceremony I was referred to a list of duties that had been stuck on the wall:

Wash the floors.
Wash the (plastic) furniture.
Dust the cupboards.
Wash the dishes.
Clean away the sand at the kayak wash bay.
Wash the stoep.
Answer the phone.
Clean the toilets.
Ensure that the main gate remains locked at all times.
Ensure that the log book is signed by all members of the club.
Ensure that every craft that launches has a valid sticker.
Etc, etc.

“And don’t forget the windows” Johnny added as he handed me a crispy-clean dish cloth.
As he was leaving to fish, he shouted over his shoulder:
“Oh, and keep an eye out there for the guys. If somebody drowns, you are responsible”
“Good thing I was in the Army” I replied.

Just my bad luck that Adai had remained in Pretoria for an extra couple of days when I’m doing duty at the club, I thought.

The log book:
Everyone that launches, is required to enter details in the log book that shows the member’s name, vessel number, departure time; and upon return, arrival time, fish caught and fish released.

Beware the guy (we have only one female member) that forgets to record his time of beaching.
Johnny has a system:
“When somebody forgets to record his time of arrival from the sea”, Johnny told me, “I will wait till 2am the next morning and then phone his home number”.
“Invariable the wife will answer the phone and I will tell her that her husband seems to be lost at sea. Obviously the guy will get hell from his wife and then we will follow-up with a disciplinary hearing.”

As I said, you don’t mess with Johnny.

In between washing furniture, dusting cupboards, washing windows, etc. the phone rings continuously.
“What are the guys catching?” they ask. – I don’t know, not one of the 25 fishermen has returned.
“What will the weather be like tomorrow?” I don’t know – check Windguru.
“Is my son there?” – I don’t know, what is your son’s name? I can check the log book.

“Nice job with the windows” Johnny said when he returned from the surf at about 11 am. No fish.
“Do you want some lunch?” he asked.
“No thanks, I brought some sandwiches” I replied.
“I did not ask you whether you brought sandwiches - I asked you if you wanted some lunch!”
“That’ll be nice”, I surrendered.
About twenty minutes later he returned with a massive bacon and egg toasted sandwich wrapped in foil.
Obviously not from your regular “Take-Away”. Where he organized this from, I would not know.

I left washing the floors till last and since my “shift” ended at 4:30pm, I started washing the floors at 3:45 pm.
Man, you have no idea how much sand +- 100 wet, sand-covered feet can deposit on a floor!

Broom in hand and exhausted, I retired to the (swept) stoep at about 4:15 pm
All fishermen had returned by then. They had caught shad, kingfish, mackerel, grunter, etc.
Looking over the glassy sea I could not help but feel somewhat deprived of utilizing the ideal conditions.

Then I noticed an elderly man with a Jack Russel dog approaching from the beach.


He reminded somewhat me of a smaller version of Oupa. Snowy white hair and a beard.

“The name is Blackbeard” he said as he stepped onto the stoep.
“Captain Cook” I said in reply as I reached out for his hand.
“No honestly”, he said, “the beard may be white now, but it used to be black”
“Ok, I’m Pierre”

‘When last did you have your prostrate checked?” he asked.
I looked at him.
“Uh.. my prostrate?”
“When last did you have it checked?”
“Uh.. about 2 years ago?. “ (Actually it’s more than 4 years)
“Not good enough. How old are you?”
“59”
“You must have your prostrate checked every 3 months”
I looked at him.
“Ok”
“I used to be Chairman of the club, but my name does not appear on the board”, he said.
I peek around the corner to the notice board and it’s confirmed – there’s no Blackbeard on the list of chairmen since the 1970,s
“You’re right” I said.
“I had a prostrate operation last week” he said. “It’s my third time. The first time they scraped me. The second time they (…I cannot remember what he said), and this time I had an operation”
“Are you OK now?”
“Is that Greek still Chairman of the club?”
“Do you mean Johnny Vassilaros?”
“I used to be Chairman of the club. I lost a good friend through prostrate cancer two weeks ago. He left it too late, you see”
“I’m sorry”
“Women get breast cancer and men get prostrate cancer”, he added
“I guess you’re right.”
“It’s the tablets, you see. They make me pee. I want to pee every 5 minutes. When people ask me how I am, I say I’m fine, but they don’t know I want to pee every 5 minutes.”
“There’s a toilet at the back” I pointed out.
“No, its OK for now . You must have your prostrate checked”

Then the telephone rang.
Somebody wanted to know what the status with the Duzi marathon is. Sorry, wrong club.

When I went outside again, Blackbeard and his Jack Russel had disappeared.

It was 4:30 pm. when I locked the main gate, thinking about the amusing dialogue between me and Blackbeard.