Paradise Lost and Found

The word 'honeymoon' is a funny one and I wonder where it originates, so I hunt around. Apparently, a long time ago in a land far, far away (called Scandinavia), when it was still okay to kidnap a wife of your liking, newlyweds would drink a daily cup of honey flavored wine called mead. 'Moon' referred to the cyclic nature of our skies and therefore, the first full month of marriage when this wine consumption would occur. Some have since said that the term, 'honeymoon' implies that the first 30 days of marriage will potentially be sweeter than the times that lie ahead.

That remains to be seen, of course. What I can vouch for is that 'honeymoon' is a word defined as; "brief yet meaningful sabbatical in order to celebrate extraordinary relationship milestone and add to already exorbitant wedding spend". It also provides the breathing space that two people need to get used to calling each other "husband and wife" when they have well embedded the colloquial references "boyfriend and girlfriend".

On ones honeymoon, there are many things to opt in and opt out of. Lounging is high on the list of priorities, preferably by a pool and with spouse. Cocktails certainly made the top five on our hitlist, as did sleep-ins and sunsets. Most couples are on the lookout for that golden opportunity to make their honeymoon that little bit more something. Every destination has an array of bells and whistles to bolt-on and enjoy. Upon our arrival at Tokoriki, Fiji, we went straight for that list of exclusions, pointing to the most suitable extra to further enhance an already exceptional set of circumstances.

We select the delectable "honeymoon picnic", booking it for Friday, precisely one week post the best day of our lives. Advertised as a romantic day of seclusion on a private beach, the lucky couple is dropped off at a deserted island with naught but a radio for emergency contact, a picnic lunch and all the towels and snorkeling gear that four hands can carry.

When Friday morning rolls around we are enthused. Another couple are on the boat when we arrive and we watch our driver load a red and a blue eski on to the motorised tinnie. After the initial surprise of seeing another pair of honeymooners on board, we manage to extract enough information from the reserved Fijian sailor to understand that there will be two drop off points that day - one island for each couple.

We set out, salted sea spray in our faces and upon arriving at the first island, it is left up to us to decide amongst ourselves whose picnic destination this will be. I can tell that Chris is not as impressed as he could be by this beachfront and we graciously insist that the other pair should disembark at stop one.

The driver proceeds to the next island, which appears to be the back half of the beach we just visited. Calling it Liku, he helps us dump our eski and beach mats, a bag of supplies and then motors away. We are left, as advertised, completely alone.

We reach prompt agreement that our first adventure will be to enjoy the snorkeling. Our agreement is followed in quick succession by the discovery that the rip is too strong for anyone to snorkel. Sand from the ocean floor is churning so violently that I almost swim face first into a seaweed bush because it is so well camouflaged by gusts of sand. Trying to pull on flippers in the current is also challenging. It is hard enough to stand on two feet, let alone perched on one in a rubber shoe when the swell is plotting to drag you 50 metres off the beach. A romantic walk is also out of the question. The sand is so clean and loose we sink deeper with every step, and are soon marooned up to our knees as if wading through thick mud.

So, with walking, swimming and snorkeling all now listed as life endangering activities, we choose to read.

We spread our towels under the shade shanty (pictured) and proceed to lie like brocoli on the lumpy sand. Half an hour later, we are fed up with the unique combination of sand flies, aching joints and sweltering heat. We're becoming agitated, not at each other, but much like bees become agitated, in unity. We check the time via our only source of real world information - Chris's mobile phone. It is a mere 11.30am. Chris turns off his phone to save battery power and we continue reading a little while longer.

Hot and restless, Chris goes in search of other life forms. He finds two crabs and makes a circle in the sand using a large stick. We hold a crab race. Spiky shell and Shiny shell fight it out under a brazen sun. Spiky shell is ultimately victorious and makes his way across the line of the outer circle with somewhat measured glee, for a winning crustacean.

Chris and I look up at the sun and make an uneducated judgment that it must be lunchtime, eagerly breaking open the picnic eski to a putrid smell. We're relieved when we realise that it's not the food, but the container itself that's in need of a good airing. Regardless of the odour, we investigate each foil covered plate. Leftover chicken. Okay. Soggy bread - also leftover? Possibly. We put that aside. Fruit, half mandarins, fresh pineapple and watermelon. Some cut oranges. Good for scurvy. Another plate with some melted looking cheese, maybe Camembert, more watermelon, more bread. Bread and watermelon are not good on the same plate (in case you are wondering) but we rescue a couple of pieces. The saving grace of lunch is a container of Just Juice pineapple and two beaten plastic wine glasses. We munch the chicken, some bread and cheese, some of the fruit. Then we carefully place the food with the least nutritional value on the bottom of the eski where ice has become a swimming pool for food, in case we are stranded like Tom Hanks on Castaway.

Half an hour later we are even more hot, more sunburned, more bored and annoyed than before lunch and we begin to develop a mild understanding of how Tom became such good friends with a netball. We exchange verbal extremities about how it is [f&%k$n&] crazy that we paid good money for this experience. I accidentally rub insect repellant in my eyes and have to pour drinking water all over my face. It takes awhile for the stinging to stop and for my blurred vision to return to normal.

We make up songs. "We're all stuck in the middle of Fiji", works quite well to the basic tune of the epic Beatles classic, "Yellow Submarine" and helps to sustain an amicable mood. We try to check the time again and find the phone battery flat. We try to tell the time by looking at the sun but we're guessing at best. I am distressed because Chris thinks the man who dropped us off in his boat said he was coming at "four o'clock" rather than "in four hours". We agree optimistically that Chris must be mistaken. I am forced to finally concede a point that my husband has maintained for a good part of nine years; that I would not last long if I was ever on Survivor. The evidence for the prosecution is simply too overwhelming.

At what we estimate to be about two pm, I reach and exceed my tolerance threshold for general discomfort. The sun has moved around the beach to a point where the shade in our so-called hut is about a metre square and we are standing atop of one another trying to occupy it. I bark in a tantrum like fashion that Chris is the husband and that he should radio home base to find out how much longer we are going to be stuck on this god forsaken beach. He tells me to be patient. I tell him I am completely out of patience and that there is nowhere to buy any around here. He says I am being a princess (a little bit true). I instruct him to man up and radio in and to look after me, his wife (which of course he is already doing for the most part). He gives in to my whining, picks up the radio, tunes it in and phones home like E.T.

There is no answer. Nobody responds to our distress call. He tries again. Good thing it isn't a real emergency, he says. Isn't it? I prepare to stamp my feet but remember we are on an island of quick sand. Surely being covered from head to toe in bites with a full body suit of sunburn, and sand particles located dangerously close to one of my more intimate orifices must be classified as some kind of emergency.

And then the boat comes, like an mirage crystallising in a desert.

Crisis averted. Relief pours over us (or at least me). We high five and cheer. We do a little dance with our hands on our hips and pack up our stuff like the island is on fire. I could have kissed that little boat man on his brown, freckled nose.

Standing under a cold shower, back in the 5-star luxury of our beach bure, I had a quiet chuckle to myself. I have to admit that the cumulative panic I experienced over a whole four hours of what was (on reflection) relatively mild discomfort, was a bit of a shameful display. How accustomed we become to our creature comforts and how lucky we are to have them. I openly apologise to the people of the world who live through ordeals with much worse implications everyday, and I promise to check myself and my over-reactions in any future potentially uncomfortable situations. It's a good thing that my relationship is almost decade old and our trip did not serve as a personality expose.

I concede that I like my life just the way it is. But life, like honeymoons, and like marriage, can't always be a picnic.

I'm with him

Many people have expressed surprise that I will change my surname now that I'm married, although my pen name remains in tact. I suspect that the jaw-dropping is because most people perceive me to be an independent type of person, perhaps even defiantly so at times. To me, a surname is just a symbolic inference. It used to say, "I'm with them". Now it says, "I'm with him". The key to it is, I'm still Peta and that cannot be changed. My surname is just a family GPS. It tells people where to send me if I get lost.

Overwhelming would be an understated description of the emotional tsunami that was our recent wedding. A (married) friend had told me in the lead up that having such an expansive group of friends and family in the one place at the one time, all there to celebrate your partnership and future, was like being trapped in a wonderful love bubble. Even this astute summation left me unprepared for the outpouring of goodwill and generosity that was to come.

Our wedding was a warm, sparkling, happy celebration full of unforgettable moments with special people.

Afterward, a sea of faces and fun played like a b-roll, over and over in my mind. I lay, awash with feeling and exhausted in my crisp, white hotel bed, unable to sleep for the adrenalin still pumping through my veins. I could not shake the profound sensation that something extraordinary had just happened, something life-changing. This was a peak in my existence. A marker.

Even looking at the hundreds of beautiful photos taken on the day, there is simply no way to bottle or capture the cumulative moments, the pearls of time strung together, so precious and delicate, which had occurred. I thought, I must be satisfied just to savour them inside and to share them with my husband.

We left for Fiji two days after we were married. In Fijian culture there is a concept called kerekere. It means that time (and property) is communal and is shared amongst many. Continuing from person to person, it is given unconditionally.

Upon our return, so many of our friends and family have called or dropped by to share their experiences of our wedding. Their humorous anecdotes, enjoyment of the food and wine, excitement at making new friends or in catching up with old ones, and their genuine sense of appreciation for the ceremonious and monumental nature of the event in our lives has been humbling.

Fijian kerekere is indeed alive and well, here in our heartland. Memories shared will make the pearls of time from the beginning of our marriage into a dazzling necklace, to be kept forever in a sacred and collective vault.

Words to Wed By

I feel like I've been spun around twice (really fast) and now I find myself back in the chair, married and 'honeymooned' already, with lots to report. First and foremost, I will respond to numerous requests for my wedding speech to be posted. For those of you that I was unable to invite to the nuptials, my husband and I shared the thank you's at our reception, so those that appear to be missing from my speech were spoken by my handsome other half.

The posting of this speech will be followed by a post on marriage and of course the honeymoon, an indulgence of the highest order, wiled away in the tropical surrounds of Fiji.

For now, without further ado...the bride's speech...

Good evening, everyone.

I know that it’s a bit unusual to hear from the bride, but I think it would be fair to say in this case that it would be more unusual not to hear from me.

I know that table 9 in particular, which is filled with folks who have all at one time or another been my colleagues, would be very surprised if I stayed in my chair and let someone else have the last word.

My parents will be able confirm what Chris is about to find out, if he doesn’t already know – that the last word always belongs to me.

I am going to begin tonight with the remainder of the thank you’s that were not covered by my husband.

My first thank you goes to Alex [bridesmaid] for her kind words.

For those of you that don’t have the privilege of knowing Alex, she is very careful when she commits words to a page. She feels their weight and their meaning and treats every word as a thought delicately placed.

For this reason, and because we have been friends now for just on 20 years, I was confident when we assigned her the task of making a speech on one of the most important days of our lives.

My second thanks goes to Nataisha [bridesmaid], my supremely organised sister and friend.

I know many of you are quietly nodding and surmising that surely there is not a person more organised or more anal in the world, than I – but alas, I can assure you that there is!

Without Nataisha’s spreadsheets and google maps, her thesis on wedding cars, and her month-by-month checklist, we would most likely be at McDonald’s right now holding a party that involves cheeseburgers and paper hats.

A sincere thank you to both of my bridesmaids, affectionately know as B1 and B2, for your counsel, your friendship and your good humour.

Thanks also to our mums, dads, and our extended families, for everything you have done to support us and to get us here in one piece.

It’s been an extraordinary and special day that we’ll never forget. Everyone has pitched in to ensure it goes to plan.

For some people, a wedding involving a diverse or complex family coming together would be viewed as difficult or awkward. We prefer to see the glass as more than half full.

We might have more members than Oprah’s book club but we also have less turf wars than the Hells Angels.

Our family has multiple parts, or layers if you like – Chris says we are part of the onion family.

One thing is for sure - there is nothing like a wedding to make you appreciate diversity. We approached seating our guests a bit like the Event Manager at a banquet for the United Nations. In fact, if you have any feedback about your experience with us this evening you can email it directly to enquiries@un.org.

Thank you to my new in-laws, the clan of Bender on table 2. I have always been proud of my name, but I will be equally as proud to bear yours from now on.

Thank you to our sponsors, otherwise known as “the silent partners” of this event, you know who you are. All of your contributions are gratefully received and acknowledged.

Thanks to “MC Steve” who emerged as an early front runner in a race consisting of stage-shy parental types, then looked behind him to find out he was the only horse running.

You’ve done an outstanding job as our MC this evening and we really appreciate it – please put your hands together for Steve, folks.

It would be remiss of me not to thank all of our speakers and readers from today, I know some of your were quite nervous but you all did a fantastic job.

Fiona Hewish has been assisting in the role of long-distance wedding planner. She runs her own business called Weddings Actually, in Sydney and it turns out she actually does know quite a bit about them. Thank you Fi, for lending us your coordination skills for today.

Last but by no means least we would like to thank;
Sophie, Christy and Rebecca from Fenix and the Chef, for what has so far been a delightful meal.

Thank you to our celebrant Janet Hussey, photographer, Robyn Slavin and to our DJ, Bruce Harrison.

Thanks also to CMS Australasia and Office Choice Braeside for their assistance with our Bonbonierre – Chris calls them Bon-Bon-YEAH! So I hope you all find them as exciting…

I also echoe Chris’s thanks to our interstate guests and regional visitors. It means a lot for us to have you here tonight.

Phew.

I hope I didn’t wear you out with all those thank you’s because I’m about to get to the real business at hand.

The business of marriage.

You may not know this, but I have never really been an advocate of marriage, so to be standing here today in the frock that rocks is more surprising to me than to anyone.

For my 21st birthday my grandmother (who turns 93 on Sunday), gave me all of the money she had saved for my wedding to spend on my first car. I had her thoroughly convinced her that I would never be exchanging nuptials with any man.

Now, you hear all sorts of clichés about marriage – it’s an expensive way of getting your washing done for free.

It’s the ball and chain.

They even call it “tying the knot”.

Lots of harmless quips that imply being stuck, captured, tied up and tied down.

Those of you that know me best know that there is nothing I value more than my freedom.

So, why “tie the knot”, then?

There is a simple answer – because I was asked by the lovely Mr Christopher.

Until I met Chris, I didn’t realise that the best kind of freedom is the sort that you find within a relationship.

But after nine years of being a part of “us” I believe I have enough evidence to prove that this is, in fact, the case. During this time, we have travelled overseas twice, moved house three times (three blocks apart), and changed jobs eight times between us.

I don’t believe that love has anything to do with “becoming one” or a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

To me, marriage is about agreeing to move through life permanently alongside another person – always parallel but never merging.

Almost like two sides of the same freeway.

The partnership that we have gives both of us the space to be who we are, do what we do, and achieve what we want to for ourselves as well as each other.

As much as we are a couple we are also two individuals.

Chris never tries to change me or to make me do things for selfish reasons. He always tells me to do what makes me happy, even when the outcome doesn’t necessarily favour him.

Our life together has a built-in flexibility, with enough push to challenge and enough pull to compromise.

Personally, I think this could be because my brother-in-law Paul has been chanting his mantra of “Happy wife, Happy life”, in Chris’s vicinity.

We kept our vows simple and traditional at this afternoon’s ceremony. We thought this was safer, given start-of-day nerves and the fact that it was too early to justify too many stiff drinks.

But now that I have warmed up my vocal chords and consumed enough vodka to boost the Russian socialist regime for few more months, I will say a few words extra words, especially for my new husband.

To me, love is not about finding a perfect person but seeing an imperfect person perfectly.

I am imperfect but I know that you see me.

I want you to know that I see you too.

I love you because you are the rarest of human beings.

A man of honour and a man of your word.

Children are drawn to you because they see your energy. They also see you are a very big kid.

You have an extraordinary talent, but you are extremely humble.

You are kind to others and too hard on yourself.

You have an offbeat sense of humour and you are genuinely funny.

You make me laugh out loud every single day.

Every morning you sing me a different song.

You are beautiful to me.

Chris; I promise…

I will laugh with you,
and tell you when others are laughing at you!

I will tell you that you’re wrong if you need to hear it…
but I’ll agree to humour you most of the time.

I will stand by you, stand with you and stand up for you.

I will fight for what I, you and we, believe in.

We will have some more great adventures in amazing places

And great fun with amazing people.

And no matter where you are, you will never be alone.

To borrow some well-worn words from my friend Mr Shakespeare;
My heart will be your shelter, and
My arms will be your home.

Thank you, everyone.

In closing – our heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you for coming here to share our wedding day with us.

We are privileged to have such an exceptional group of family and friends. We have friends here who have known us since primary and high school, who have worked with us, travelled with us, and most importantly have laughed and/or danced with us – as we have said inside your gift today, your smiles have made it truly spectacular.

Have a great evening.