Watching the Tides

When we moved to New Zealand, we rented a house that has a wonderful view of the local bay. Because of that view, I've been able to observe all sorts of fascinating natural phenomena, such as birds, weather patterns, and sunbathers. (The latter get most of my attention, since I'm interested in figuring out why the heck the average New Zealander starts running around in skimpy clothing whenever the temperature rises far enough to be called merely “freezing” instead of “OMG my nose just fell off.” And I consider it my duty to examine the best-looking ones closely to see if they are actually developing tans.)

One of the things I've been watching is the tide. Scientists tell us that tides are caused by the moon's gravity, which supposedly sucks the water toward it like some kind of giant teenager downing a milkshake. Balderdash. It only takes a few hours of watching to disprove that theory, because the tides go in and out even when the moon isn't there. How you gonna explain that, Mr. Smarty-Pants Scientist? Huh? I suppose you're going to try to snow us by concocting some complicated explanation involving arcane mathematical symbols that don't actually mean anything, like “plus signs” and “numbers.” That won't work with me.

Nope, it's simply not possible that the moon causes tides. In fact, I've come to the conclusion that there's a much simpler explanation: toilets. Think about it: everybody gets up in the morning, flushes the toilet, and takes a shower, all at the same time. That's zillions of gallons of water zipping through the pipes. And where does all that “used” water go? Into the ocean, of course. So naturally, the ocean rises. It stands to reason. Then everybody goes to work, and the water all drains out into a big hole near Guatemala. (If you visit Guatemala, you can actually take tours to see the hole. They put an immense strainer over it a couple of years ago, so it's safe. Really.)

But I digress. What's especially interesting about our bay is that it empties out completely at low tide. Every day we start with this beautiful, pristine harbor unsullied by man or beast (except for the seagull poop, of course). Then the tide goes out and we get to look at what amounts to a swamp, except without trees or poisonous snakes.

This poses an interesting problem for the sailboats scattered around the harbor. When the tide comes in, there's lots of pretty water to sail on. When it goes out, though, they end up stuck wherever they happen to be, balanced precariously on the sticky-downy thing that sailboats have on their bottom. Then the tide comes in, and they sail a few more feet until the water disappears again.

The New Zealanders don't seem to be bothered by this difficulty, though. When the boat gets stuck, they just hop out, wade to shore, and order a beer. Pretty clever, those Kiwis! (Though I do wonder why they don't just stay in the bar in the first place.)

Coming soon: how surfers cause tsunamis by falling into the water.

Earthquake!

You may have heard that New Zealand had an earthquake recently.

Imagine what it's like: it's 4:00 in the morning. You are sound asleep, snug under a warm blanket, dreaming of the kind of people who exist only in shampoo commercials. Suddenly an enormously loud noise startles you awake. The bed is shaking, the house is shuddering, and in your half-aware confusion you struggle to figure out what's wrong. Without quite understanding why, you leap into a doorway and brace yourself against the frame. Only then do you realize the horrible truth: your spouse is snoring again.

So you go back to bed and try to get some shut-eye before dawn. But pretty soon the shaking starts again, and this time it's the Real Thing. So you do what you do best: pull the covers over your head and pretend it's not happening—which is about the stupidest thing you could do because what if the house collapsed? Or your spouse woke up and accused you of snoring?

Somewhere in the middle of the “event” the power goes out. You know this despite the wee hour because you always keep a Winnie-the-Pooh night light burning, and now it doesn't work. Now that things are really serious, you jump out of bed and start banging the light against the wall, with no effect. You become aware of the rest of your family; you can hear screaming, whimpering, and sobbing. Fortunately, at just about this point the whole thing stops.

Sweating, overcome with relief, you look up to see your daughter standing in the hall, looking at you with an odd expression. “Daddy?” she asks calmly, “Why were you making all those noises? You woke me up.”

“Oh, just planning a quick vacation, honey.” And without missing a beat, you toss her in the car and drive north as fast as you can.

Anything to escape that snoring.