It has been a fairly dull week. Eyad is working hard to prepare for the Auckland and then the New Zealand winter championships. Swimming New Zealand (SNZ) hasn’t said much. At least that means they are not causing any further harm. But it doesn’t help provide interesting topics for a blog like Swimwatch. When things go quiet I have occasionally written about events from the past. Let me tell you then about the day I first met my then ten month old grandson, Sam.

The day began in the lovely Dutch capital city of The Hague. If you are ever visiting the Netherlands, skip Amsterdam and spend some time in The Hague. It is a beautiful place. Lovely tree lined streets, picturesque canals, international cafes and warm and friendly natives. I was there by chance and misfortune. I had completed the Mare Nostrum series of swim meets in Canet, Barcelona and Monaco. In the drive from Monaco to the Netherlands I stayed a night in a small ski-chalet hotel in the middle of Switzerland. I drove on the next morning for 900 kilometres towards the Netherlands before I realized I had left my briefcase, my passport and my computer at the hotel. The problem was the hotel was so small I had paid with cash and had no idea of its name or even its exact location; except that it was 900 kilometres behind me. I decided to drive on to The Hague and get a new passport from the New Zealand Embassy. I needed the passport quickly because in two days I was due to fly to England to attend my daughter Jane’s wedding. The New Zealand Embassy was stunningly helpful and in one day I had a new passport.

The next day began well. I had booked a flight from Amsterdam to the London City Airport. I was looking forward to landing alongside the Thames, in the centre of London City, rather than at the sprawling mass of Heathrow. Mind you Heathrow is not all bad. In Terminal Three Departures they have an Oyster Bar that has food to die for. If you get a chance try their oyster and crayfish supper. With a cold Budweiser; that’s close to heaven.

Anyway back to the Amsterdam flight. It was a lovely day as we flew west over the English Channel and the Home Counties towards London City. As we descended along the Thames I could tell the pilot was setting up to land. But it was not to be. Suddenly our descent stopped and we began climbing away towards the north, away from London. After about ten minutes the pilot announced that there was a problem with the airplane’s flaps and we were diverting to the longer runway at Stanstead Airport.

I was not unduly worried. I had done enough of my own flying to know that a landing without flaps required care but with plenty of runway should be a safe enough exercise. But I was surprised when the pilot added that when we landed a fire engine would race alongside to spray foam on the wheels to prevent fire. “But don’t worry.” he said in a, perfect for the occasion, German accent, “This is perfectly normal.”

Landing without flaps, with a fire engine spraying the wheels with foam – even with my limited 1500 hours of flight time I figured “perfectly normal” might be a bit hopeful. In the event the landing was close to normal. Sure enough the airplane touched down fast but well, the fire engine appeared alongside but did not spray foam and we taxied into the terminal at Stanstead.

What I was not aware of was in Reading Jane and Alison had been watching my flight from Amsterdam on Flight Tracker. They had seen us line up to land in London and then head off north to Stanstead. When I called to let them know where I was they said, “Yes we know where you are. What happened?” So much for my story about surviving a mid-air crisis.

I caught a bus into London and then the tube to Paddington Station. Tube rides in London are normally fairly peaceful affairs. But this one; not so much. Two guys in my carriage began to argue and then fight. They were soon rolling around the floor of the carriage, swearing and throwing wild punches. The driver must have communicated with the police because when the train stopped two policemen came on and separated the two combatants. They put handcuffs on them both and started to push them towards the doors. In a broad east London accent one of the fighters said, “I can’t get off here.”

“Why not?” asked the policeman.

“It’s not my station!” came the perfectly logical reply.

The rest of my day went without incident. I arrived at Jane’s place and received an enthusiastic welcome. I met Sam who even at less than a year old had an expression that said, “There seems to be far too much excitement over your arrival.”

Quite a day. Quite a way to conclude my Mare Nostrum trip. And it ended with a stroke of good fortune. The next day I was looking at Google Maps trying to see the location of the Swiss hotel that had my briefcase. Amazingly there, on Google Maps, was a photograph of the hotel. I called them and, yes they remembered the New Zealander and, yes they had my briefcase. Two days later it arrived in Reading. This story has been written on the “lost” computer.

Editors Note:  While the above is a true story, it doesn’t quite convey the total chaos and laughter of that day.