"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea, on a beautiful pea green boat. They took some honey and lots of money, wrapped up in a five pound note."

My father told me the other night that he is planning on running away to sea.

With a cat.

No shit.

So, let's pretend for a moment that my father is the owl. There are similarities. He's 64, which I suppose bestows on him certain wisdom gained through age. He is fond of cats. He says he knows how to sail a boat, and while I'm not sure about the honey, I do know for a fact that he is keen on peas.

But that's it. There's not lots of money, in fact there's probably not even a five pound note or its equivalent tucked away in his pocket.

"Where are you going to get the money to buy a boat?" I ask him down the phone line.

"I'm going to fundraise."

He always has a plan.

His plan is to sail from Australia to South America, navigating one of the most dangerous oceans, and deliver a commemorative wreath to the grave of Sir Ernest Shackleton.

Ernest Shackleton had a sea-going cat called Mrs. Chippy. My father plans to take his land-loving feline, Scratcher, with him as a tribute to the great explorer.

Ernest Shackleton is my father's hero. As a boy, he read of Shackleton's Antarctic journey and the age old story of man versus nature, captured a piece of my father's little boy heart.

Keen for his own storybook adventure, he went to sea when he was still just a teenager. He forged some papers and managed to land a position as an able- bodied seaman on a cement carrier full of recalcitrant drunks. He sailed the waters of New Zealand, overcoming both sea sickness and the advances of a bosun who was riddled with gonorrhea.

My father's sailor heart was overjoyed at being at sea. He was living his dream as part-time sailor, but being a part-time sex object wasn't what he'd signed up for.

When he could no longer stave off his enthusiastic shipmate, he fled to Australia and joined the Merchant Navy. One night, the ship was docked at a port in Tasmania. In the local pub, there was a basket of kittens on the bar.  He bought one for a dollar and christened this orange ball of claw and fluff, 'Groovy.'

It was the sixties after all.

Groovy was an official member of the crew. He had to be registered in the ship's articles and whenever it left port, my father would have to run about the ship to find Groovy, so the harbour master could account for the cat.

My father was asked to leave the ship when he fired the signal pistol at the first mate for a joke. It meant he had to leave Groovy behind. It always pained him.

Now he has Scratcher.

Scratcher is in training to get her sea legs.

I ask how he is going to keep the cat from falling overboard if they sail into troubled waters on their epic high seas adventure.

"She'll be on a leash," my father explains. "I will run a line on deck, so Scratcher can run up and down and that way she'll always be safe."

Oh. of course. That is, if she doesn't throttle herself first.

"What if you disappear at sea?" I ask him.

"Nobody disappears at sea these days," he scoffs.

"No, I mean what if you 'disappear' at sea?"

"Oh. You mean what if I get shipwrecked and die?"

"Yes." That is exactly what I mean, but I prefer the euphemism.

"Well. It'll be a good ending for my story."

But to have a good ending, there must be a beginning, and this is what my father is currently working on.

He has to find the money to get a boat.

His plan is to grow a Santa Claus beard and dress up like an old sailor, complete with smoking pipe and cap, and stand on the street with a tin asking for dollar donations.

By his reckoning, he will need about $70,000.

By my calculation, that's a lot of hours standing on the street, rattling his tin.

'Why will people give you any money?" I ask. "What's in it for them?"

'Well, I will take down their names and record them as sponsors and when I lay the wreath on Shackleton's grave I will make sure it says it's from all of the people who sponsored my voyage."

Oh. Of course.

He is already calculating how many gallons of fresh water he will need for Scratcher to drink. He is going to sharpen up his fishing skills so he can catch fresh fish for the cat's dinner.

All he needs now is the funds. 

I imagine my father at sea with his pussycat in a pea green boat. In a rare moment of introspection, he once told me about the silence of the sea and how he enjoyed the solitude and the feeling of utter insignificance the waves brought him. I imagine him out there in the lonely waves with his white beard and sailor's pipe.

"If the worst happens and your ship starts to sink," I venture, "will you save the cat or yourself first?"

"A good captain always gets his crew off first," he says, heroically. He pauses, and we both imagine Scratcher sailing away on a tiny lifeboat, as my father goes down with the ship.

Then he speaks again. "But in a situation like that, well, it's every man and cat for himself."

I tell him I think he's crazy, but I'll give him a hundred bucks to start his Shackleton fund. I hang up the phone and ponder his mission. I imagine him battling the Southern Ocean, shouting into the winds. I imagine him fashioning a lifejacket for Scratcher. I think of the nursery rhyme and see the old owl and his pussycat dancing by the light of the moon.

I laugh as I imagine my old man and the sea.

TAGS: adventure, Sailing, Sir Ernest Shackleton, Southern Ocean, The Owl and The Pussycat, Zara Potts

ZARA POTTS is a former network television journalist, specialising in murder stories and entertainment. Which makes her a little bit like Phil Spector. She has worked variously as a producer, reporter and publicist as well as contributing to major newspapers and other media outlets in New Zealand. Alongside her television work, Zara has also been involved in radio and film. She also, weirdly, has been a judge for the NZ Music Awards. Zara currently manages communications and PR for one of NZ's leading educational institutes, as well as working on her first novel. She lives in Auckland with a bionic dog.

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This entry was posted on Wednesday, December 23rd, 2009 at 3:30 pm and is filed under Essays, Nonfiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.