
The Best of Times Short Story Competition
Spring 2021 Results
Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:
There's No I In Team
Copyright © Leigh Garrahy 2021This is the second time I’ve gone over the side.
“You didn’t get the full effect,” they said. “You were too pre-occupied.”
Yes, that’s true. I was pre-occupied. With staying alive!
So, I’m going over again. I grit my teeth, back up to the edge, lean backwards, and go over, one hand holding the rope above me and the other on the rope below me, my trussed bum pointed to the ground and my feet trying to stay attached to the rocks.
The instructor issues his orders, “Walk slowly down the wall, release the belay, then walk down the wall a little further.”
I didn’t know there was such a word as 'belay’ before today. I hope it means the same as delay. Stop would be even better.
“Sit back in the harness, relax. You don’t want to turn upside down and rap jump,” the helpful instructor says.
“You’re doing great. You’re almost there,” he says. I hang on for dear life and pray I make it out of this with my dignity intact.
“Smi-ile,” my work colleague’s voice singsongs. He looks like he’s sitting in a comfy armchair in his lounge room instead of dangling from ropes down the side of a cliff-face. As I turn towards the camera, the helmet perched on my head like a red pimple, slips off-centre. I instinctively let go of the rope to push it back in place. Tragically, during that moment of lapsed concentration I slip, and smash my knee against the rockface.
“Ouch. That’s gotta hurt,” says my work colleague. Oh, you think? By the time I make it to the bottom, tears are stinging my eyes and my jeans are spotted with blood. I try to hide my delicate emotions and my injured knee. Tough girls don’t cry.
I’d already been humiliated today on the high-ropes course. All had been going well and I was feeling smug about my obvious athletic prowess and my fearlessness as I walked along the rope. And then, it happened. We climbed onto a platform high off the ground. It was probably about twenty metres up, but it felt more like one hundred. My legs refused to hold me and even though we were high in the tree canopy, there wasn’t enough air. I lay on the platform and peered over the edge at the lush, soft ground so far below me and wondered what would happen if I jumped.
I forced myself to stand, grabbed the handle of the flying fox and stepped off the platform. It was supposed to carry me safely to the forest floor, but it got stuck half-way. The instructor yelled at me to jump up and down to release the snag. Seriously? That didn’t seem sensible, but I couldn’t stay dangling above the ground like a bat caught in a powerline until I died (which I suspected was imminent), so I gently wriggled the contraption releasing it enough to move me downwards. I may have even kissed the ground at that point.
Tomorrow, we’re supposed to go rock wall climbing. I’ve point-blank refused to do it. I’ve told my boss I won’t be participating, and he has implied that if I don’t want to be part of the team then maybe I should find a different job.
"Our firm’s culture is all about our people and the way we conduct ourselves as part of the team. It’s important to the success of our business that everyone is on the same page,” he said. Blah blah blah.
At last, the abseiling is over, and we’re set free. I limp back to my room and run a deep bath, perfumed with rose oil, and foaming with bubbles. As I soak in the tub, I remember other work conferences I’ve been to.
The venues are often luxurious but always marred by one thing – team building exercises. We went to an idyllic island one year. There were miles of uninhabited beach, clean waves gently washing on to warm sand, delicious food in a beautiful restaurant overlooking the ocean, and soft beds with thick doonas. It would have been perfect if we didn’t have to crawl through spider infested pipes, run over rough terrain keeping an eye out for snakes and playing childish games like figuring out how to get from one spot to another without stepping onto a patch of 'radioactive' ground.
To top it off, we rode rickety bicycles, rust-eaten by the salt air. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was a child, and I would have managed not to crash into any of the other riders if they had been fast enough to get out of my way.
As hard as I tried, I didn’t have the strength to propel the bike forward on the soft, sandy track or the skill to keep it upright. The rest of the group moved on, their voices fading away, leaving me stranded and frustrated. 'Right,’ I thought, “time for a leisurely stroll to my room for a lie down.' Before I had a chance to turn back, one of my kinder workmates rode towards me. I quickly righted my discarded bike and insisted I was fine, there was no need for him to stay with me, but he didn’t leave my side until we re-joined the group.
Just when I thought it was over, the last challenge for the day was raft building. We were split into teams, given a few construction materials, and shown the launching point. Have you ever put a raft together to carry four people across a lagoon without dumping everyone into the cold dirty water? Thankfully, I’m here to tell you it’s not easy. Made even more difficult if you’ve never held a hammer or a screwdriver in your life. Other than a cocktail. (Note to self; invent new cocktail, hammered screwdriver).
Another year we went to a mountain resort. There was a lot of boisterous revelry at night involving dancing and drinking, which I think is a much better way to bond with your team. These conferences all have a common thread. We arrive in the afternoon, check in, go hard the first night then are hungover for the first sessions the next day. But sore heads must be put aside for the obligatory team-building activities.
This time it was go-kart racing. We were mustered to the starting line and given our designated karts. One of the guys from our office was taking it so seriously he had brought his own helmet and spent the first fifteen minutes observing the karts going around the track so he could choose the fastest one. He waited for it to be returned to the starting line, jumped in, and despite the attendant’s best efforts to convince him to change karts, he refused to move from it. The rest of us breathed the toxic exhaust fumes from the deafening engines and waited for the stand-off to be resolved. In the end the guy got his way.
I putt-putted around the track for one lap like a granny driving to church, then parked the kart. One of the other girls didn’t get that far. Fifty metres from the start-line her kart veered off to the side. She got out, walked away, and left it where it had landed. I can’t be sure but there could have been some kicking and swearing involved. We spent the rest of the time in the kiosk drinking coffee together. I don’t know if she went off-course on purpose or by accident. It wasn’t discussed.
Then there was the year of the horse-riding. I don’t remember much about the conference that year other than a beautiful starlit, silver service dinner under the gum trees, the moon bright enough to neutralise the glow from the candles on the table. So beautiful. It lulled me into a sense of well-being which was rudely shattered the next day. We were given two choices of how to spend our afternoon. I don’t recall what the other choice was, but it must have been something so distasteful that I decided horse-riding was the better option.
When I was little, my Uncle Bill put me on the largest horse he owned. Its name was Goliath. Looking down from that great height, I could barely see the footprints in the dust. I’d never been back on a horse since, but I was a lot bigger now and hopefully a lot braver. If I was lucky, I’d get a horse that was small enough for me to touch the ground with my feet. The horse-riding started off easily, standing on little platforms to mount, then slowly walking nose to tail along a worn track between tall stands of wispy grass.
“This is going to be a doddle,’ I thought. Just some old nags shuffling their way around a paddock, but it soon turned into a remake of A.B. Paterson’s gripping poem The Man from Snowy River.*
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat -
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.
Our leader urged us to go faster, pushing us into a trot. I bounced around in the saddle in my efforts to imitate the calm and elegant rise and fall of the Olympic equestrians. I never gained the same degree of elegance and my bottom thumped on the hard leather on every downward motion. We arrived at the foot of a hill and headed upwards on a narrow track circling the side. One wrong foot (or hoof) would have seen us over the edge, sliding down to hell. At least it would have been a short-cut to get there. I felt we were heading that way anyway.
When the track cut through rocks, turning it into a steep, and narrow incline down to a dry riverbed, my trusty steed didn’t set a racing pace, and unlike The Man, I didn’t have nerves of steel. We were on such an angle, I feared I would fly over the horse’s head so I leaned back as far as I could without lying down. I kept sliding forward in the saddle and ended up sending mixed messages to the poor horse. My legs were clasped fiercely against his flanks, my heels digging in, telling him to go, and at the same time, I drew on the bridle, telling him to stop.
“You’re a good horse. You’re going to keep me safe, aren’t you? We’re going to make it. Good horse,” I murmured. I felt bad that I hadn’t bothered to find out his, or her, name. When we made it back on to the flat track, the swing of a stockwhip and a cheer would have been appropriate, like Banjo Paterson’s stockmen had done.
In theory, all these things are supposed to be character building and make you stand out for your awesomeness but all it does for me is highlight my inadequacy. I’m good at the academic stuff, not the physical stuff. Put me in front of an audience to give a presentation, no problem, put me in the outdoors, big problem. I’m past the age of thinking I need to prove anything to anyone. The young girls want to show the boys they are equals, and the men want to flex their muscles to impress each other. All I want is to see the next day dawn.
I get out of the bath, put a Band-Aid on my knee, and dress for pre-dinner drinks.
There’s been murmurs about sky-diving next year. What is it with this obsession to be off the ground? What’s wrong with terra firma? It’s solid, reliable, mostly trustworthy, and with a bit of nurturing, unlimited in what it can provide for you. A bit like what you’d look for in a partner.
I’ve met every challenge that’s been put in front of me, but tonight I’m going to tell the boss I’m through. I’ll tell him there may be no I in team, but you can find a mixed up me and this me has been mixed up for long enough.
I’ll need a few Hammered Screwdrivers first.
*The Man from Snowy River – from The Bulletin, April 26, 1890,
& The Man from Snowy River and Other Verses, October 20, 1895
A.B. Paterson (17 February 1864 – 5 February 1941)