Armless not Brainless

Prologue

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We do judge a book by its cover. People judge me by my appearance. I have no arms; thus people assume I have limited brain function. It isn’t true as my story tells you.

When I was born without arms in 1942, three doctors at Nelson Hospital told my mother they suspected a limited mental function from my appearance and were prepared to record that I had died at birth. She told me this when I was an adult, leading a very happy and successful life. The three wise doctors would have been amazed.

The doctors’ next offer was to take me to one of the two large institutions for the mentally defective that were located in Nelson at the time, to be left in their care for however long I lived. Little were they to suspect that at age of 40 I would be managing one of those institutions, Ngawhatu,  following my term as Chairman of the Nelson Hospital and Area Health Board and 15 years in practice as a lawyer. At least one of the three doctors was alive to see my rise.

The third offer of the doctors was to take me home and see what happens. Here I am 72 years on, at home.

What you see is what you get. Read my story and I will show you that I am different. Without arms, my feet are my hands that allow me to function independently. You’d be surprised what you can do with your toes if you don’t have fingers.

My story is to tell you that in spite of living my life without having arms, there’s always been a way to hug my wife and kids, have big jobs, drive my car and boats and help many to show their strength of character and drive over the speed bumps in the road of life.

I tell my tale with my feet, not hands. With the other kids I went to school at five and learned to write with my right foot. I even won a handwriting competition - there were no footwriting competitions. I wrote by foot through school, college and at the University of Canterbury. At Canterbury I learned to write again with an artificial arm and hand on a desk, as it was too dark to see on the floor. I’m ambidextrous in that I can write with my right foot and my left artificial hand.

This ability to write has let me be a lawyer, a Judge, a Governor, a Manager and have a number of other careers.

With computers I learned to two-toe-type. This story is two-toe-typed using the free-foot-written-log of our summer cruising boatahome, Gentle.

The lifting of the lid on our lives is edited and enhanced by my dear wife, Leonie (nicknamed Bunny), of over 32 years using the colour of a life we enjoy, sharing each others’ abilities and disabilities. It is not a sad story. It’s a story of how we are living a full and happy life in spite of bumps in my road. Once I realised that I am entitled to a full measure of life, even though it took me extra effort and ingenuity to be a husband, father, amateur boat builder and professional lawyer, we sup that full measure.

There have been tragedies and near misses from circumstances visited upon me by my having no arms, but the philosophy I grasp is that the dark times were not of my making. It is unfair to expect me to be burdened down by circumstance, so I am not anymore. It is so freeing to have dropped this weight overboard as we sail off into the sunset!

We sail the summer days exploring rivers, lakes and estuaries in our boatahome, Gentle. Always eager to see what is around the next corner, exploring is a synonym for our lives. With only one pair of hands between us, life is often not what we expect, so much so that we have taken the words should be out of our vocabulary.

Boating without arms leads to many encounters with water, as I used to fall overboard on conventional boats. I have used my toes to build boats, and, to prevent overboard accidents, built rails high enough to catch me at armpit height. This is another point of difference my story. Bunny and I built a boatahome that wrapped around us, cocoon-like, to keep us from falling overboard as we enjoy our cruising in the shallows.

Most boating stories are of fishing, water skiing, yachting and racing, but having tried all these, I prefer to avoid waves and wind. We spend our time in sheltered waters where the water is shallow and the surface is calm. We often tie to a tree. Our specially built boat will sit on the bottom of the estuary. We go up the creeks and spot the trout, and settle down with flocks of birds that are not troubled by our presence.

It’s the magic edge between land and water.

We spend much of our summers cruising on Gentle. We are usually alone as we haven’t met anyone who has grasped the idea of building a flat-bottomed boat which doubles as a caravan. We are registered as a caravan with the Motorhome Association, as Gentle is a caravan when it’s on the trailer. It simply takes a moment to slide it off the wheels and we have attached an outboard motor so that it can behave like a boat. What fun we have.

We start the story with a dramatic incident, and other incidents are laced through the book, but mostly our cruises are smooth sailing because we manage the risks as part of enjoying the ambience of boatahoming.

Chapter 1

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Lake Waikaremoana – Hitting the rock

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We struck at 4.35pm on Sunday. It shocked us out of complacency built up from having had four fantastic days cruising around the edge of Lake Waikaremoana.

In our little wooden home-built houseboat, Gentle, we had been proceeding upriver at walking pace, keeping a sharp lookout. The river had varied in depth, but overall we had plenty of water under the hull. The propeller was just turning, the motor on idle.

But still we hit the rock hard, stopping dead. The boat had risen up onto the rock. With my toes I pulled the gear lever back to stop the propeller turning and just sat. Unbelievable! We peered over the side. Where did that rock come from? It was as big as the boat itself - and we were up on it, like Noah’s Ark!

Poking up the creek to find a spot out of the wind to tie to a tree is part of our cruising plan. Eating tea in the cockpit enjoying the setting sunshine is one of our greatest pleasures.

Feeling good, looking forward to getting out of the light breeze, I was perched up on my stool. I sat up on a stool so I could see over the cabin and reach down with my foot to operate the outboard motor controls. It had worked fine for eleven years of cruising. And then crash, I fell off the stool into the cockpit.

We had bumped rocks and stumps and other obstacles before and slipped over them or off them, but never before, had we ridden up and stopped dead.

What to do? Simply reversing at full throttle with us standing on the back and bouncing didn’t move us one jot. Circling the boulder and bouncing and backing had no effect. Trying to push off with the barge pole had no effect. We were well and truly stuck.

What does one do when marooned? We could throw everything of significant weight overboard. We had no cargo to jettison and apart from the anchors and batteries there was nothing onboard of significant weight except us. Jumping overboard seemed to be the only option.

Bunny, my brave crew, offered to go over the side first. However, as Captain, I felt I should go first. If I could swim to shore with a rope I might be able to pull our houseboat off the rock. This was a brief display of nobility as I was already cold and afraid to jump over. I did have a good reason, though, for going first. Even though I have no arms or perhaps because of it, I was stronger in my legs, and I weighed more. I could pull harder and might manage to pull Gentle off the rock on my own. Bunny, though younger than me, has osteoarthritis in both knees which limits her pulling power.

I didn’t really want to go. The water was cold, the wind was cold and I was cold. With Bunny’s help, I dressed in togs, shirt and parka jacket and stood ... and stood. It was late afternoon and the river was dark by this time and I couldn’t see the bottom. I could see the outline of the rock and could see the opening beside it. Hitting the rock as I jumped over would be disastrous. Hitting another rock and perhaps hurting my foot or ankle would also be disastrous. I didn’t want to go.

Water was not pouring into the boat but that could have been because we were high on the rock. We worried about what was going to happen when we got her off - would she sink? Were we better to stay on the rock for the night? Who could sleep, anyway? And what if she slid herself off during the night and exposed a hole? The hull was only half an inch (12mm) thick plywood. We could find the boat leaking badly. Could we cope in the dark? All these questions just kept racing through our minds.

I had to go. Without arms to lower me, jumping in was the only option. I shivered, then did it, hunched up to stop going deep. Suddenly, my feet touched the bottom of the river and I straightened up, preparing to swim – which I do quite well, like a frog.

My head popped up and so did my shoulders. It was only armpit deep! Using my toes I tied a loop in the end of a rope. Slipping this loop over my little left arm which stops just short of the elbow, I hopped ashore. With the intensifying cold to prompt me I quickly reached the beach.

Afloat again on little river on Lake Waikaremoana

The wind blew on my wet clothes and body and chilled me to the bone. Shivering certainly didn’t help but I gave my best heave on the rope. Gentle didn’t move one jot. I braced myself and heaved again – still not a jot. I tried again and again but my strength was failing.

Bunny dressed in togs and windbreaker and slipped over the side. Knowing now what the depth of the river was, she knew she could keep her head and shoulders above water. She bobbed over to me.

With the weight of both of us off the boat and with both of us hauling, Gentle scraped down the rock and came free. We pulled her into the shallows and beached her in case she had holed and was going to sink. At least on the beach, she wouldn’t go far and we could spend the night aboard if need be.

Climbing back aboard and searching every locker and corner we discovered the leak.  Admittedly, it was very small – just a weep really – but even the smallest crack can rapidly grow into a big leak, given certain conditions. For instance, a small split in the hull could suddenly open up if we struck waves on the way home. We realised that we were taking water on board very slowly now, but the trip home could find us in trouble. 

Up the river we were out of cellphone range and couldn’t expect air or sea rescue. We would be able to get cellphone cover out in the middle of the lake if we could reach there safely – but it is a very deep lake.

I was so cold I was shaking uncontrollably and cramping, and could barely move. Bunny stripped me, dried me and put on as many warm clothes as would fit. I had read in sailing books that a tot of rum or brandy warmed the cockles, but we didn’t have any of that, so had a glass of wine instead. We weren’t sure of the effect of the wine and were surprised to read when we checked on the internet later that alcohol is an absolute no-no, and it is better to gradually increase the skin temperature and have high sugar liquids.