Last Sunday, Rosanna and I were supposed to be going out for lunch. Just as I was getting ready, Anthony called and asked if we wanted to head out on the yacht. Hell yes!
That is where reason and appropriate decision making ended. The three of us were out of control. I’d waved the kids off to Melbourne for a week of school holiday catch up with their cousins early that morning, so it was going to be a long day.
We ran out of drink supplies as soon as we hit Pinch Gut Island, so we moored in Woolloomooloo wharf to get a bottle or two at the BWS. Walking up the plank I could see the security gates ahead of us, and literally thousands of diners eating at the restaurants lining the water. In a full dress and without a single flinch, Rosanna threw her wallet at me, scaled the fence and landed like a cat on the other side, I think she even flicked her hair out on landing. I couldn’t stop laughing, I goofily followed her over.
So in moments of nonsense, of course, the phone comes out and there are a million pictures taken. Not all are good either. Neither is holding onto anything as you sail the undulating waves and land in beetroot dip and crackers with your speedos, which have rode up exposing part of your butt cheek.
All was going well until heading back we hit some serious waves under the Harbour Bridge. Rosanna and I were on the starboard and instantly we were suspended mid air and then as we came crashing down, the boat met us half way. The bruises and cuts are gentle reminders of the day.
Would our mothers be proud of us? Probably not. Would I be happy if the mini men took on Sydney harbour and come out on top with just a few bruises and a sore head? You bet.