Week Eight: 'Home' once more...

G'day mates!

Why Australian I hear you ask? Well, the number of people thinking that I am from the land of Oz is increasing. Which is odd really, as some Americans think that I might be Australian, others are almost offended by the thought - 'No way! You're definately British!' Facinating.

But that's not all. I like to wear my Nautical Training Corps (NTC) uniform to 'retreat' ceremony (when they lower their flag) every now and then. It makes experience for the Scouts, whilst allowing me to represent the Nautical Training Corps (it's also nice to be different sometimes). Unfortunately, some people don't quite realise what my uniform is.

Obviously, the NTC is so unwell known in the UK, that no American is going to guess correctly. Most go straight for me being a 'Sea Scout', which is about as close to correct as they can be. Some ask if I am in the Royal Navy, which again, is fairly reasonable. Last year, my rank was signified by a big gold button with an anchor written on it. This year, thanks to my ludicrous promotion, I have three thick gold stripes. With my officers cap, I have had several people ask if I am a pilot. Even if I was a pilot for British Airways! With the stripes I can kind of understand the confusion - but with all the anchors on my various badges? What pilots carry anchors? Bad ones, that's who. If 'm flying, I don't want to expect a water landing...

Just when you think the level of dumbness amongst our campers has reached an all time high, they go out and proove that people are always capable of being more dumb. One day this week, I told my sailing group that we would need another driver, as one of the parents wouldn't be available (the lake that we sail on is about 15 miles away form camp). One of the Scouts enthusiastically said he would get his Dad. I asked if he could take the other two Scouts from his troop too. I said 'Yes, absolutly'. Okay great. So I jump in the other leader's car, with the other three Scouts, and we drove the the car park and waited. And waited. And waited...

After about 20 minutes, the leader and I decided that we should probably go and see where the other leader and the three Scouts had gotten to. So we drive up to the back of the 'parking lot', and we find the rest of our group. It turned out that the other leader had a two-seater pick-up truck. Two seats for five people. So, the leader was standing at the side of the vehicle (looking a little confused) about to get in, and drive off. His son was sitting in the passenger seat. Where do you think the other two kids/ Scouts were? That's right - in the bed of the truck!

Obviously, we stopped that from happenning. But I should have seen it coming, when one of the Scouts had asked me previously, and unrelated, 'So, what's the law on riding in pick-up trucks in Pennsylvannia?'.

'Well' I replied, and to the best of my knowledge, 'as I understand it, it is legal to ride in the bed, so long as you are below the load level of the bed. Of course, I could be wrong.' How riding below the load level is any safer is anyone's guess. Only in America...

Finally, we get on to the topic involved in this week's title. This weekend, I travelled 'home' to New Jersey to see my friends (who are like a second family really). Dunellen, NJ is kind of my American home, and I just love the people there. I can't believe it has taken me so long to get up there and see them. Terry kindly lent me his car, so I went on a mini road trip to Dunellen, 70 miles away. As I am sure you all know, I dearly love driving. But driving automatics long distance is as dull as I have always thought it was. This was made even worse by America's ridiculously low speed limits.

I was driving at 55 mph along roads that in the UK would have a speed limit of 70 (which really means doing 80). Of course, if I had been driving my car, with the UK police to worry about, I would take the risk of pushing it just over the speed limit. But in someone else's car, with a foreign police force to worry about, I wasn't risking it. It felt like it took forever to get up to Dunellen.

But I arrived at Bill V's house just after 12. Fantastic. It was great to see Bill and his wife Stella again. I spent a few hours with them, and had lunch. By the way, Bill V cooks the best steak that I have ever had! Absolutly beautiful. After that, I moved onto Chris Q's house, and met up with him and his wife for dinner. In the evening some more people showed up, and we just sat on their back porch, in their words, BS'ing (BS stands for Bull and Something Else). I think I eventually got into bed around 1am. It was a late night, but it really was great to catch up with the Piano family, and the rest of the troop. And they always treat me so well. I really hope I'll be able to get up there and see them again.

Well that kind of wraps up my week. Except to say that my friend Bill V has given me a special ration of 'Pickled Balogne' for camp. It's like a giant uncooked frankfurter, but pickled. It looks pretty disgusting (I may even put a picture up later), but it tastes great. Thanks Bill.

If you think riding in the back of a pickup truck for 15 miles sounds like fun, why not leave a comment addressed to the organ donar program.

If you think that riding in the back of a pickup truck for 15 miles is a bad idea, why not leave a comment addressed to the camp's staff applications.

Quote of the Week: 'That's a tip from an old hunter, from when he used to go hunting coons' explained Bill V over a coke. I'd never heard a racoon called a coon before, so I naturally assumed that Kentucky must have some really racist hunting history...

Tune of the Month: Tea for the Tillerman. Chris Martin. (it's the closing theme to Extras)