{"id":2829,"date":"2020-12-07T07:10:19","date_gmt":"2020-12-07T12:10:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/?p=2829"},"modified":"2020-12-07T10:54:28","modified_gmt":"2020-12-07T15:54:28","slug":"duetting-memoir-45","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/duetting-memoir-45\/","title":{"rendered":"Duetting: Memoir 45"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Duetting:<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy would you want to go THERE?\u201d ask two stewardesses on my flight from Sydney to Melbourne, when I question them about transportation to Geelong, the gateway city for my next destination, the Great Ocean Road.<\/span>
\n\u201cTo scatter my daughter\u2019s ashes,\u201d I gush out, in tears, overwhelmed by the first bit of interest anyone has shown in me since I got to Australia. I\u2019m also a little terrified, having no plan for getting from the Melbourne airport to Geelong to the tiny town of Torquay where I have booked a room. This is not how I like to do things, not knowing what\u2019s next.<\/span><\/p>\n

From the airplane to the Melbourne shuttle, two train rides, two buses, and long walks dragging my rolling luggage behind, I am making my way, inch by inch, with direction-seeking and extended waits between each step. It takes all day to get from Sydney to the remote town of Torquay on Australia\u2019s southeast coast. This second part of my journey is filled with questions no one back home could answer. Marika\u2019s friend Carla would only tell me the Great Ocean Road must be discovered for oneself.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 <\/span><\/p>\n

The first I\u2019d ever heard of the Great Ocean Road was in April 2010 when, in the middle of her trip, Marika had phoned. Overjoyed to hear her voice, I was caught off guard. I thought she was homesick. I should have known better. She was calling to ask for extra money. To rent a car for a trip along the Great Ocean Road. It was \u201cwhat everyone does on holiday from Melbourne.\u201d I told her, No. So she and Carla took a bus.\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Now here I am, two years after Marika\u2019s trip, on a V-Line regional public bus, racing along a two-lane winding road that hugs a corner of Australia\u2019s dramatic southeastern shoreline. The road ties together one hundred fifty miles of remote coastal towns and popular resorts. Prime surfing territory. I can\u2019t take my eyes off the teasing blue sea which one minute seems ahead of me, just beyond a stretch of beach, then disappears and is suddenly smack below as we speed along atop high cliffs. We wind by rocky gorges, rolling foothills, secluded bays, and shipwreck coasts with towering limestone formations. Built as a memorial to the fallen soldiers of World War I by the returning soldiers, and later the jobless of the Great Depression, the Great Ocean Road is one of Australia\u2019s National Heritage Sites. Tour buses from Melbourne regularly run its length, stopping at the most dramatic spots, the stunning seascapes in Marika\u2019s photos.<\/span><\/p>\n

Finally arriving in Torquay at the east end of the road, in a new motel room I reconstruct the altar of photos, chocolates, and stuffed Puppy, around the box of ashes. Then, wanting to locate the trailhead before dark for the next morning\u2019s mission of ash-scattering on Bells Beach, I question the motel\u2019s friendly bartender. No one else is around at that moment. So he closes up shop and leads me to his car. I hop in. He\u2019s not really a stranger, I tell myself. But I sit poised for escape anyway. He drives a short distance down a deserted road.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYer sure ya want to walk all the way from the motel \u2018n the morning?\u201d he asks, regarding me like I\u2019m crazy. \u201cIt\u2019s a long way.\u201d I don\u2019t want to look at him. What am I doing in this bartender\u2019s car anyway? He keeps driving.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNine kilometers, that\u2019s only like six miles. Not much elevation change. Why not?\u201d I say with a rising cloud of doubt. He shakes his head. I must look old to him, this kid running the whole show here. A hotel, motel, gaming room, bar and bistro, all in one, the Torquay Hotel Motel is the liveliest place in this little town. Everyone including this bar-boy seems to be Marika\u2019s age, maybe younger. \u201cI can walk back from here, thanks,\u201d I say once we reach the trailhead. My sense of direction flustered, I ask him, \u201cWhich way back to the motel?\u201d just to be sure.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back at the bar and bistro later, I borrow a knife to open the sealed box of ashes, to let Marika breathe. And to make sure I won\u2019t be stuck way out on the beach the next day, unable to open her box without tools. It is my first time meeting her ashes. With held breath and quivering hands, I pry gently at the box. It opens easily, like she\u2019s pushing the lid from inside. She\u2019s a trillion tiny shards, like cool white sand on a beach at sunset. In a plastic bag. In a bewildering way she\u2019s still beautiful. I stare at her. At what\u2019s left.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe internet\u2019s crashed,\u201d says the Hotel Motel bartender when I seek him out once more, to get online. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. This never happens. I\u2019ll refund some of your money.\u201d<\/span>
\n\u201cNo, that\u2019s okay,\u201d I say, thinking I may have killed the Internet connection myself. I\u2019d tried to google \u201chow to scatter ashes\u201d and the little iPad went blank. Connection disappeared. It went the way of my family and friends all during the past year whenever I\u2019d mentioned anything about Marika or ashes. Or death.<\/span><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t have much faith I could learn efficient tossing techniques online anyway. I\u2019d simply have to stand with my back to the wind and wing it. Tossing ashes. Flinging ashes. Ashes are typically \u201cscattered\u201d or \u201cspread\u201d if not kept forever in an urn on the mantle until someday some distant young relative has to figure out what to do with them. Marika had requested her remains be \u201cscattered in Australia, if possible,\u201d which gives me a lot of leeway. Spreading means smearing, like what one does with peanut butter or sunblock. So I\u2019m glad she specified scattering. It gives me more a picture of sprinkling small amounts. Either way implies a distribution over a large area or several areas, broadcasting here and there, as opposed to just dumping it all in one place. And Australia is a vast continent, almost as big as the US. Early on I decided to leave ashes in the places I knew from her photos that she\u2019d been happy.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next morning, I load Marika\u2019s Ithaca Track and Field drawstring backpack with water bottles, a peanut butter and plum sandwich, and chocolate bars I\u2019d hunted and gathered from the local grocery the evening before. I add maps, Marika\u2019s stuffed Puppy curled into her baseball cap, and the ashes. But when I put the pack on, the box of ashes chafes at my back, giving me visions of Crusaders with heavy crosses gouging deep gashes across their backs and shoulders. I take the bag of ashes, maybe six pounds, out of the black box and gently stuff it back into the pack, leaving the box behind. With a full, heavy backpack I step out the door to a blinding sun. Quickly the bag of ashes settles into a rounded rump shape that bumps behind me as I walk a few hesitant test-steps around the parked cars. I imagine I\u2019m carrying a life-sized Marika piggyback style. I can almost feel the swish of her heels swinging by my knees.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom. Let\u2019s go.\u201d She kicks and nudges me in the direction of the trail. And so we\u2019re off to Bells Beach. A long walk with a lot of weight, but all I need to do is keep on the right trail and be wary of the high tide at four-thirty the bartender had told me about.<\/span>
\n\u201cOh, I\u2019ll be done way before then,\u201d I\u2019d responded. Then he\u2019d warned me to watch for the occasional big rogue wave, and I\u2019d stifled a gulp.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now, tall dark Norfolk pines line the beaches I pass. A long boardwalk over shallow water bounces under me as I tread the moist planks. When I reach solid ground, the landscape changes rapidly. Forest turns into scrub, and then into sandy coastline. Soon the path climbs. It becomes gravelly beneath sky that is dauntingly blue and forever. Under the hot sun, I lumber over rocks and cliffs, along crunchy red-sand footpaths, and through heathlands. Grasses, scattered trees, birds flickering in low woody bushes. Scrubland. The Surf Coast Walk twists and breaks off occasionally for lookouts. I whisper nervously to Marika\u2019s ashes each time the trail splits. When it hangs over the shore, visions of falling from crumbling cliffs crash in my head. And I assure her\u2014her ashes\u2014we\u2019re okay.<\/span><\/p>\n

There are surfers out in the distance. A dog sits in the teeming shallows waiting for its owner. So much of surfing is waiting. You wait to be in the right place at the right time, wait for the right wave, and then fly with it. Hold on when you\u2019re tossed, keep on top, re-find your footing when it\u2019s lost, and then go the distance. As far as you can. And scramble back up again when you get dumped. And wait some more. It reminds me of living with cancer. Am I a cancer survivor, I wonder? Marika got wiped out by cancer, but I survived. Watching the surfers, I wonder how they don\u2019t get completely mauled in the crashing waters.<\/span><\/p>\n

Three hours later, I climb down several sets of wooden stairs and stare at Bells Beach, the exact spot in the photo. The photo where Marika stands smiling, holding her arms out like she\u2019s hugging the world. Only it\u2019s an empty landscape before me now. It\u2019s supposed to have her centered in front of the jutting point, arms lifted outward. Glued to the spot, sweating, I wait like I\u2019m expecting to be met by her ghost.<\/span><\/p>\n

An Asian tourist, bogged down with heavy cameras, passes by after a while and I give him my borrowed, pocket-sized point-and-shoot to take my picture in Marika\u2019s place as I try to duplicate her pose. When the tourist is done and walks off, I am left alone on the beach. A kick at my back tells me Marika wants out of the bag, so I remove it from my pack, open its twist tie and inch closer to the water. Fears of waves and the incoming tide clash with the realization that I need to wade into the water to release the ashes. This is what I came all this way for, I tell myself. I can\u2019t just spill Marika\u2019s ashes onto the sand. So I kick off my sneakers, roll up my pant-legs, and cautiously slip into the seething surf. In knee-deep water the waves barrel into my body, soaking me almost to my waist. I brace myself against the poundings and try to ignore the stirrings in my head, \u201cDon\u2019t go out too far\u201d and \u201cNever swim alone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

“Why would you want to go THERE?” ask two stewardesses on my flight from Sydney to Melbourne, when I question them about transportation to Geelong, the gateway city for my next destination, the Great Ocean Road. “To scatter my daughter’s ashes,” I gush out, in tears, overwhelmed by the first bit of interest anyone has […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1998],"tags":[2137,2181,246,372,1202,2128,951,1961,2090],"class_list":["post-2829","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-1998","tag-daughter-with-cancer","tag-duetting-memoir-45","tag-facing-fears","tag-great-ocean-road","tag-grief-journey","tag-living-with-cancer","tag-mother-daughter","tag-scattering-ashes","tag-young-cancer-patient"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2829","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2829"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2829\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2829"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2829"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2829"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}