Close Call!

Close Call!

For once I am glad to be at my desk, in my little bunker, in darkest Walsall. This morning the sun is shining and reflecting off the yellow hard hats of the street workers midst the myriad roadworks, and, it is beautiful. For I have just survived a near death experience. An accident on the M6, around junction 15.

It was just last week that I was bemoaning my commute to work and the terrible driving that I had witnessed. Well, today was a shave too close for my liking. The last two mornings have been a little dodgy due in part, I believe, to the cold, icy mornings, and the bright sunshine. The winter sun is very low in the sky and there are certain stretches on the motorway where it catches drivers unaware. They are suddenly dazzled, blinded and yank on their brakes. Consequently the motorway goes from the national speed limit (or above) to zero in the briefest of moments.

Consequently, I do try and leave a sensible gap between me and the car that I am following. I also hope that the car behind me will attempt to do likewise.

Well, this morning I was tootling along in the outside lane (I am advised by the more politically correct members of the office that we shouldn’t refer to it as the “fast lane”) when, all of a sudden, the traffic in the middle lane slowed significantly. Without warning and without signalling a white panel van pulled out in front of me, and a Vauxhall Vectra pulled out behind me. The panel van had been travelling at a slower speed than I was and he immediately hit his brakes. I reacted instinctively and jammed my brakes on, making an emergency stop just as the white van ploughed into the car in front of it.

Unfortunately there was not any time for my life to flash before my eyes as I braced for the impact ahead and behind. I do remember thinking that it was rather sad that one of my very last images could be the words “Please clean Me” finger-painted on the van’s rear doors as my head made rapid progress towards the windscreen. I had a brief memory of an article that I had read during some driving awareness course or other which described the last thirty seconds of someone’s life as they were involved in a fatal car crash. It hurts apparently.

But there was a minor miracle. Praise be the engineers at Audi. In particular, those in charge of brakes on the TT. I was able to stop with millimetres to spare. I was able to keep the car in a straight line. The car behind me had swerved back into the middle lane to avoid hitting me.

The panel van had ripped the back end off the car which it had hit, pushing it into the middle lane. But somehow the driver of the car was sufficiently unhurt or so high on adrenalin that he was able to leap from the wreckage and drag the white van man out of his seat for a bout of fisticuffs, until he was dragged off him by the driver’s three other mates. Road rage, but understandable given the circumstances.

How I was not hit and how I stopped in time I will not know. My guardian angel was truly alert this morning. Fortunately, the hour long queue between junctions 11 and 10 gave me sufficient time to calm down and count my blessings. The coffee is beginning to kick in now, so all is well.

Drive carefully out there!

Near Death Experiences Part 3

I am not the world's strongest swimmer. I did get my Swimming Proficiency Badge while in the Cubs so I am able to swim 25 metres and rescue a brick from the bottom of a heavily chloronated pool while wearing pyjamas. But, this has not proved to be the perfect training for the real thing. The sea. The ocean. The big blue. Maybe I should always wear pyjamas when I go swimming.

I have nearly drowned twice. The first time was in the beautiful lagoon of Oludeniz in Turkey. C and I were on holiday there a few years ago. Oludeniz is beautiful with its white fine sand tipping into the beautiful blue/green water of the lagoon. The lagoon is framed by sheer cliffs. Paragliders launch themselves from the top of these cliffs and soar like graceful eagles until they decend onto the beach. Indeed our neighbours, who are big in the paragliding world - Neil was former captain of the UK team - have flown here themselves. But, not on the day that C and I were there.

It was very hot. C and I decided to swim a while in order to cool down a bit. The water was clean and cool. The beach sloped gently into the sea, giving an expanse of shallow water, before falling away quite dramatically into deep water. While swimming you could tell that you had crossed the "ledge" by the considerable drop in water temperature.

C and I were close to this ledge, taking in the views. Earlier we had spotted a bunch of local lads, in their early twenties, teaching one of their number to swim. Right now this lad was stood alone near to us, waist high in the water, while his mates were catching some rays back on the beach. After a while he started to jump up and down in the water. After a little while longer he began to wave his arms around. His mates waved back. After a little while longer he began to slip under the water. It suddenly became clear to C and I that he wasn't messing around. He was in difficulty. He was clearly caught on the edge of the ledge and the sand was slipping away beneath his feet. His mates hadn't noticed and were too far away to help him in any case. And, then he disappeared.

I dived into the water, over the ledge, and grabbed the lad. He was really panicking at this point and grabbed me and pulled me and dragged me down with him. It took a huge amount of energy and strength for me to get beneath him, to grab his legs and literally to hurl him away from me back into the shallows. He crawled to the shore. I emerged from the sea, gasping and gagging on water I had swollen. I crawled to the shore. There his mates surrounded me and patted me on the back. They had no English but it was clear that they were very happy that I had rescued their mate from a potentially dangerous situation. I was quite proud of myself that day. I think I save that lad's life.

The second time I nearly drowned was a lot more recent. It was Christmas 2005. It was the second day of our holiday in Australia. We were in Sydney staying with a very good friend, K, who was working over there. We were taking in the coastal path walking from Clovelly to Bondi Beach. About half way round we stopped for a bite to eat at Bronte Beach before walking on to Tamarama. We were all a bit hot and so we decided to stay a while at Tamarama and take a cooling, refreshing dip in the beautiful blue sea.

After a little sunbathing C and I went into the water together while K was guarding the bags and applying her suntan cream. C and I were bobbing up and down in the waves, sometimes hopping on one leg, sometimes with C holding onto me as I bobbed. We were ecstatic. We could not believe that only a couple of days earlier we had been in the depths of a British winter, complete with snow. We were engrossed in the view, the excitement, the whole experience.

I should also add that this was considered to be a safe beach. And, there were lots of other people in the water at the same time as ourselves. The beach was guarded by life guards and we were well between the flags that designated the safe swimming area.

Anyhow, after chatting for ten minutes or so, C and I noticed that we had drifted a few metres away from the main crowd of bathers. At the same time, waves began to break on top of us, taking us under. But at this point, once the wave had broken, I was till able to hop and bring my head above the surface. We looked at each other and decided it would be best to swim for shore.
We swam. We swam for a good five minutes. We were getting nowhere. Actually we were getting further from the shore. We were swimming backwards. We were in a rip tide. We were in a rip tide that was taking us beyond the edge of the rocks and into the open sea. Into the open, shark-infested sea. We had already heard of two swimmers who had been killed by bull sharks since our arrival Down Under, so this was not a pleasant prospect. And, again, waves began to break onto us and take us under. But, by now I was tiring and there was no sand beneath my feet when I attempted to hop. By now, I was beneath the surface more than I was above it. I realised that I was helpless. I was too tired to swim to shore. C is a stronger swimmer than I am. I told her she should leave me and try and swim back. She refused. She wouldn't leave me. This was the closest I have ever felt to death. C and I were actually, silently, beginning to say goodbye to each other. Helpless. But, at least were were together.

I got taken down again by a big wave. As I spluttered back to the surface and looked around for C I was surprised to hear another voice: "G'day folks. Do you need a hand?" It was a lifeguard. Sat there on a surfboard, all bronzed, blond and muscular in his red swim shorts. I could have kissed him. They must have been watching us from the shore and realised that we were in difficulty. He had swam out beyond us on his board to come to our rescue. However, we were in a very rough bit of sea so as we clung to his board he signalled for another lifeguard to came and help. And soon, another surf knight arrived on his gleaming steed.

Being rescued was not the easiest. For a while both rescuer and rescuee spent a good time somersaulting around in the water, gripping a surfboard, as waves crashed about us. My knuckles were raw from gripping the cord and being pressed against the board. Eventually we made it to some flat water. Now they attempted to get us onto the boards. C was hesitant. Throughout most of this experience she had been clinging on with just one hand, while the other attempted to cling onto her dignity and the bikini bottoms which every crashing wave attempted to wrench from her bum. C insisted on pulling her pants back up before climbing on board and being whisked to the safety of land. Once C was safe it was my turn. I was instructed to clamber aboard on my belly. Once I was on, I heard something from another man that I hope never to hear again: "Spread your legs mate, I'm coming in from behind!" With my guardian angel kneeling behind me we veritably flew back to shore. "No more swimming for you today mate!" He instructed as he went off to move the safety flags.....

C and I clambered back to our friend Kate. Our friend Kate who had missed the whole thing. An old guy who had been sat next to her suddenly remarked:"Jeez, if I'd a known they wuz with you, I'd a given you a heads up" (to be read in an Australian accent).

Everyone we met thereafter seemed to have good advice how to survive a rip tide. I wish they had given it to us before we had entered the water. The advice goes a) don't attempt to swim your way out - you will just tire and drown or attract shark and be eaten; b) put one arm in the air to signal that you require assistance; c) float. Apparently rip tides pull you out but then, as if in a big arc, will simply deposit you further down the coast. As long as the sharks don't get you, you'll be fine as long as you float.

We chilled for the rest of the day and then, in the evening, went to a bar in another Sydney suburb to meet up with some of K's work colleagues. One Aussie native was adamant that she knew C from somewhere. We then attempted to determine how this could possibly be. We ruled out London and other parts of the UK and everything else until the girl suddenly exclaimed: "I know! You were the girl rescued from Tamarama Bay this avvo......" C's fifteen minutes of fame.

I hope we don't come that close to having to say goodbye to each other for a very, very long time, C and I.

Near Death Experiences Part 2

So, having successfully avoided chemical scud attacks on holiday in Israel (see earlier posting), C and I continued to risk life and limb on our various sojourns in warmer climates.

Beware the Goats of Atros! Atros is a small monastery high up in the mountains above the port of Poros on the beautiful island of Kefalonia, the famed setting of Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. It truly is a beautiful spot. Indeed, the area in the north, around Fiscardo, is officially the 7th most beautiful spot on the planet. I don’t remember who officially designated it as such, but, I am not one to argue. And, the six more beautiful places must be quite some sight.

There is a story about the monastery at Atros. Apparently the monks there are very sociable. They welcome all visitors who take the time and the trouble to visit them, rewarding them with bread, olive oil and salt, and a glass of ouzo. In return, all they ask is that you send them a postcard from home. Well, this little piece of cultural and social idealism appealed to my better half, C. And so we set off one day, C in search of cultural and social idealism, and me in search of a welcoming glass of ouzo.

The guides all told us that the road cum path up to the monastery was steep and windy. But, I was not deterred. I was not deterred because a) I am generally fearless, b) my inhibitions tend to reduce significantly with proximity to alcohol, and, c) I was driving a four wheel drive Suzuki jeep with the roof down. How cool is that!? Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my diminutive partner. C is not the most confident passenger in the world, while I am the master of under-statement. Nor is she the best at heights. What I hadn’t known until this fateful day, is that she is also not to hot on crumbling edges of roads. I was really enjoying winding my way up the dirt track to Atros. C was not. C was clutching the jeep door like a theme park ride. Even without her glasses, the imminent fall off the sheer drop at the site of the road was clear to her. I decided against an approach of reasoning, and reassuring that my Advanced Motorist techniques were more than a match for the route. When the screaming got too much, I parked. We parked about half way up the mountain path to the friendly monks. We decided to walk.

As we walked we were passed by a couple of other 4WDs carrying labourers from the monastery on high. They looked at us as if we were idiots for attempting to walk up the mountain. They must have fell about in a heap when they realised we had decided to walk with a perfectly functioning 4WD of our own parked below. I just hope to God that they mistook us for Germans. They don’t like Germans on Kefalonia. Don’t mention the war.

We walked. We climbed. We climbed. We walked. The path disappeared into a steep wooded area. All of a sudden we could hear a distant clunking sound. Like a pebble being rattled in an empty coke can. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. The clunking was joined by other clunking sounds. C and I stopped walking and we stopped climbing. C and I looked at each other in bemusement. And, then, all of a sudden, the source of the clunking became clear as hundreds, and hundreds, and hundreds, of mountain goats hurtled through the trees towards us. There were hundreds, and hundreds of them. It was very frightening.

These were huge beasts. Mythical beasts from ancient times. They all had huge, sharp horns sticking out from their heads. They were stampeding. Towards us. C took shelter. C took shelter behind me. I had nowhere to hide. Wide-eyed and nostrils flaring, these huge beasts flew towards us, hooves striking sparks on the rocks beneath them. Fortunately, they all somehow managed to spot us quaking there and changed their course at the last minute. We could smell them as they whipped past. The stampede seemed to last an absolute age. And then, all of a sudden, they were gone. It was quiet. C and I looked at each other. Hugged each other. Sighed with relief.

We climbed a little more until we heard a distant clunking sound. The clunking got louder. The clunking got closer. We had to endure another two stampedes of hurtling mountain goats. It was quite terrifying.

Only when we were confident that the mountain top was goat free did we continue on our way. The path steepened. Unfortunately, C and I were ill prepared for such a walk in such a heat. Expecting that we would have driven to the monastery (!) we hadn’t bothered to bring water with us, or hats. It was very hot. We were very dehydrated. And soon, C began to feel the effects of the heat and the sun. She was sick and dizzy. She went weak at the knees. I avoided all obvious jokes. It wouldn't have been the right time.

And so, as we caught a tantalising first glimpse of the monastery on high, we stopped. C could go no more. Fearing the re-emergence of the demonic goats, C refused to be left while I returned for the jeep. We gathered our strength and trudged wearily down the path to our jeep below. We stopped at the first shop we could find for a refreshing can of coke. Fortunately, these cans of coke were clunk free.

We never did get that glass of ouzo. But we had survived yet another near death holiday experience. But even today, the bleat of a goat or a clunking sound or cow bell in the distance can cause the hair on the back of our necks to stand on end. Beware the goats of Atros! Ignore your wife. Drive to the top!

Near Death Experiences Part 1

C and I often joke that whenever we go on holiday we end up having a near death experience.
This is not always the case. But it is mostly the case. So, I'm not sure why our parents are always so keen to come with us.....

We did get a bit spooked when we went to Eilat in Israel and almost ended up in the middle of a second Gulf War (this was, of course, long before the second Gulf War). Eilat is at the base of Israel, on the Red Sea. Eilat is surrounded by hostile states. From our hotel you could see Jordan – Eilat is next door to Aqaba in Jordan, which is where Lawrence of Arabia went through all that grief to get to. We used to joke that as long as the lights were on in Aqaba then we were OK. Saudi Arabia was also visible from the hotel and Egypt was just 10 minutes round the corner on the coast road. And, most importantly, Eilat was within scud missile range of Iraq, Saddam’s Iraq.

That would be enough to put most people off Eilat, especially at a time of such international tension. But not C and I. Indeed, the threat from weapons of mass destruction aside, I am not sure that Eilat is somewhere that I would recommend to anyone other than the most committed scuba-divers. Eilat is a bit like holidaying in Birmingham by the Sea, or, a Portsmouth with dolphins. It is quite a big city, at the edge of an even bigger desert, with nice beaches, a wonderful aquarium, and dolphins. But, it also has huge shopping malls (a bit disconcerting when you get searched as a possible suicide bomber on the way in), prostitutes, and quite a lot of industry too. It also has the rudest rip off taxi drivers I have met anywhere. They are even worse than those of Paris (don't get me started) with the one notable exception - Eilat cabbies tote guns!

When you visit Israel you can kind of understand why they do not get on with their neighbours. Israel is surrounded by hostile states. Admittedly, those states are hostile because they lost the war and ended up with a very westernised, very Americanised, very militaristic Israel in the middle of their holy land, and, in their own cities and homes. To the victor the spoils of war. Also, Israel is only something like forty miles across at the widest point - and that is shrinking fast as the Dead Sea finally seems to be giving up the illusion of life. And, it seems that the Israeli's are not always the easiest of people to have as your neighbours. Israeli's differentiate between those that are born and bread in Israel and those that are immigrants. The home-grown variety are called "Shabra". In Israeli this means "Prickly Pear", being soft and delicious on the inside but spiky and aggressive to the outside world.


Anyhow, things were a little tense when we were in Eilat. Saddam was not playing ball. He was not allowing the UN weapons inspectors to search for those mythical WMDs (Weapons of Mass Destruction) that would cause Tony Blair so much trouble later on. The Security Council, egged on by the US and Britain, were spoiling for a fight. Israel expected to be a target and mobilised its forces. Admittedly, C noticed this mobilisation a little later than the Iraqis probably did. She is a bit shortsighted. I had to point out to her that every Israeli man and woman of a certain age, walking about the streets of Eilat, was sporting a sub-machine gun. The navy was constantly patrolling the Red Sea. The naval base was just five minutes up the road from our hotel. Trips to Jordan were cancelled after a tourist bus had been fired on. We never did get to see Petra. We were searched going into the local mall. We watched Red Neck US satellite TV to stay in touch with the scarce news. We were getting worried. We got even more worried when we met another British couple at a bus stop and they told us that they had been advised to report to an Israeli police station upon arrival to be issued wit their gas masks. We had received no such warning. We had no gas masks. Thank you Foreign Office. Thanks for nothing.

Local TV was full of advice about sealing your home against a chemical attack. Great. There is only so much bottled water you can store in a mini-bar. And, mosquito nets are not the best defence against anthrax spores.

C and I even conjured up an escape plan. In the event of something kicking off we were going to steal bikes from the hotel reception and cycle the two miles round the coast road to Egypt and seek sanctuary there . This could have been fun; it had been a long time since C had been on a bike…….As it turned out we were evacuated instead. We were evacuated through Eilat’s military airbase, which was bristling with attack helicopters and other such military hardware. It was quite spooky. And, being interrogated by an 18 year-old female soldier about the contents of your luggage was pretty spooky too, especially when she went into graphic detail about how little explosive was needed to bring down a jumbo ( a credit-card sized amount will do it apparently). We didn’t mention that we had left our bags unguarded at reception for two hours as we took a last swim in the pool…….


As it turned out, Saddam did not unleash the mother of all battles at this time. The day was saved by Koffi Annan, then top honcho at the UN. He flew into Baghdad just as we flew out and he came to an arrangement about the weapons inspectors……It was pretty tense for a while though.