Greetings from the Vodka Sea by Chris Gudgeon Page A

such stories,” he said, beading in on Bruce. “But it’s important to remember that our government has never supported the — what’s the word — notion? Yes, notion of a resort on the Vodka Sea. First of all, they mistrust foreigners in general, even Australians,” John turned to the McGuffans and smiled; Alice hee-hawed appreciatively, “and wish to do anything to avoid encouraging them to come here. And second, the government is given to a certain,” he paused again, grasping for the right word, “fundamentalism. The notion of a sea of alcohol, well, they don’t quite know what to make of that. First they tried to ban it, but as you can imagine, it’s hard to ban a sea.”
    The small crowd tittered.
    â€œThen they tried to regulate it: no swimming on Sundays or after eight o’clock, that sort of thing. Now, they simply tax us to death. There’s a twenty-six per cent room tax, a fourteen per cent food service tax . . .” He waved to indicate that he could go on forever. “It’s the perfect antidote for a pious, avaricious, ambivalent government. Condemn with one hand, profit with the other.”
    â€œBut the marauders? What of them?”
    â€œThe marauders?” John grunted. “That’s just an old wives’ tale, sir. Spread by the government to scare off tourists. The old women believe it, and the children. But I can assure you, you’re perfectly safe on the Vodka Sea.”
    On cue, a whale punched the surface and rolled its back through the air, and then another and another until the sea around the cruise boat boiled with these bobbing self-contained fists. John pulled a bucket from under his seat and spilled its shrimpy brine into the water; in their rush to get at the food, the little whales smashed into one another quite comically.
    â€œLook, the whales have come to say hello.” John uncovered another bucket, and with a professional conjurer’s flourish, poured it over the side. “A most intelligent animal indeed, ladies and gentlemen. Stories are told of I don’t know how many drunken fishermen, who, after falling overboard in a stupor, have been safely buffeted to shore by the vigilant whale.”
    Bruce looked into the water. The sun was already beginning to set, and the broken water sparkled sharply in the whales’ small wakes. Two or three of the creatures begun ramming the side of the tour boat, hungry for more, It was all quite comical, like a small child play-fighting a giant dog. Ping. Ping . Their little heads echoed off the aluminum hull. Bruce looked in the water and watched the curious whales, immersed in his own tiny sea as surely as Monica (leg slightly raised, fingers discreetly but vigorously working) was immersed in hers.
    . . .
    There were ups and downs. At times they seemed to be moving in different directions. If Monica wanted to go to the bazaar, Bruce wanted to go to the ruins; if Bruce fancied the ancient burial grounds, Monica insisted on the sixteenth century frescos. She called her mother.
    â€œIt’s a give and take, sweetheart. Your father and I never really agree on anything. That’s why we have two tellies.”
    â€œThree tellies, Mum.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œThree tellies. You and Dad have three tellies.”
    â€œYes, three tellies. One for the children, of course.” Monica envied the way her mother could reduce any problem to fit into her dollhouse world of social teas, the ladies’ squash ladder and Third World charity boards.
    â€œIt’s just that I sometimes wonder if — not that I think I’ve made a mistake, mind you, but — I wonder if maybe we didn’t rush into this a little too fast.”
    â€œSurely you’re not having second thoughts? The man’s a doctor.”
    â€œThat’s not what I’m saying, Mummy. I just don’t know him. I should have eased into him a little more, I