Soldiers, pirates and fennel killing

Well, we've finally made it.

I've just finished my surprisingly good cowboy coffee (which I was forced to learn to make after I broke the coffee jug the other day) on the morning of the first of five glorious days off, for which we have worked moderately hard for the past couple of weeks, putting in ten-hour days (or at least that's what the timesheet's going to say), slowly cleansing the island of its dreaded aniseed-scented nemesis one plant at a time.

On the weekend before last's camping trip at Shark harbour - which I am assuming is named after the fin-shaped rock formations and not the local sea life - I had a somewhat humbling encounter with a young Hawaiian named George.

As happens often on this small friendly island, he and his girlfriend Rhi asked Liz and I what it is we do here on Catalina. I enjoy saying "we work for the Conservancy" - it sounds important, and gets us perks like being able to camp and hike wherever we want without a permit, or ride the once-a-day Safari bus to Avalon for free. After describing with a drama similar to that of my last blog post (see below) the near-100 degree heat of our then eight-hour work days, and the physical demands of killing fennel, and just how hard our job is, I politely returned the question: what do you do?

It turns out George had just come back from serving in Iraq. In a very matter-of-fact manner he described working in the 140-degree heat in the desert. When Liz asked what the food was like, and he said that some days they had enough to eat, other times they would go whole days without eating anything at all. He looked out to the ocean, smiled, and noted how nice it was to be back for the time being at least, musing that he would probably be sent out to Afghanistan sometime soon.

Liz engaged him with questions about how the soldiers were received by local Iraqis, and what he thinks about the conflict, and that kind of thing. I just kept quiet and decided I should probably think about George before I started complaining over the coming weeks. I don't think I'd make a very good soldier.

That night I slept ridiculously well in the sand under the stars, warmed by the campfire and lulled by the sound of the waves breaking a few yards away. Only the flies that swarmed over our sleeping bags first thing, with no sense of occasion, failed to recognise just how cool the whole thing was.

The second day of our weekend was pretty badass too. (By the way, "badass" is my new favourite American adjective. You should try it in a sentence, it feels pretty badass to say it.) We got to sample the bright lights of the island's only city, Avalon, where there are all sorts of futuristic things like paved roads and Von's grocery store. We got pizza at this crazy old-movie-themed diner where they have tiny jukeboxes on the tables (a quarter for two songs) and really fascinating magazine articles from the 60s on the walls of the toilets which make people take ages having a wee, we did our food shopping, and then drove the 20-mile, hour and a half drive back to Two Harbors, where Amelia's Dad - possibly one of the coolest Dads ever - who was visiting with a friend on a fishing trip for the weekend took us out on his boat, and I got a seriously badass photo of me diving into the ocean for my Facebook profile picture:

Having mentally prepared myself for more stupidly hot days, I was pleasantly surprised on the Monday that the Santa Ana winds which apparently were responsible for the ridiculous temperatures of the first week's work had dropped, and we found ourselves working in much more bearable conditions. That evening, however, we were landed with the dismal news that we were to change our work patterns: instead of working five eight-our days per week, we were going to be working seven ten-hour days out of the next eight, in order to allow our supervisors the time off to go to a conference on invasive plants (which I imagine is absolutely fascinating, although not in the way that the conference organisers probably think). Don't get me wrong, five days off sounds great, but we had been enjoying so much our afternoons during the week, and I really didn't like the idea of just enduring ridiculously long work days in order to get to that time off.

In fact it wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. Our breaks became somewhat elongated in order to allow for some quick dips in the ocean, or some quality sunbathing minutes, and we made it to our one-day weekend fairly painlessly. The most traumatic point was probably the day that we woke to find our burly tattooed neighbour Josh, crouching in anguish by his best friend, a huge, soft sixteen-year-old dog who that morning was unable to stand. "I think Bodie's dying," he said sadly. Just before we left for work we watched him carry the helpless dog to his pick-up truck, and then later, as we worked by the roadside, saw him drive past, a shroud covering the body that laid in the bed of the truck.

Our second most traumatic time occurred on the evening before our Saturday off, for last weekend our tiny town of Two Harbors faced an invasion. Seemingly thousands of pirates arrived on our shores, camped out in the fields or slept in their boats, or possibly just under a bush outside the general store, all with bandanas or eye patches, or hooks for hands, or dragging rats on leads. "Buccaneer Day" was quite an experience... and not my kind of experience. At first dressing up like a pirate seemed like a fun idea, and we bought a bottle of rum for the occasion and dressed Timor in a bikini (although I never really understood the pirate link there).

The party, crammed into Two Harbors' only bar, was pretty grotesque. With hindsight I suppose I shouldn't have been too surprised: pirates are after all the original "dirty old man". But after being assaulted one too many times by rich middle-aged Californians acting like teenagers on the dance floor I decided to call it a night and head home. Unfortunately the pirates stayed for about three days, and so on Saturday Timor, Asaf and I decided to get the hell out of Two Harbors.

Our five-mile costal hike to watch the sun set over the ocean was well worth it, and walking back in the moonlight was pretty spectacular. Pictures really don't do it justice - but what the hell:

After that it was back to work for just three days, and now it's time to decide what we want to do with our five days. Thankfully the Conservancy has given me permission to drive the Jeep (which makes me feel pretty badass too), so at least we're not totally stranded here in Two Harbors. I've called a meeting at noon so we can figure it all out. Watch this space!