Top of Dubai

If you have read previous Flying Gurnards' posts you are probably aware that I got hopelessly lost in a Dubai mall and that it is not one of the my favorite places to visit. It is an elite city in the middle of a desert built around shopping. It is often referred to as the 'Do Buy' city by my employer and I think he is right on the money with that one. (Hey, let's build a bunch of islands in the shape of countries in the Arabian Gulf and sell them for millions. Somebody must be crazy enough to buy them!) Due to the intense coastal development and pollution the local marine environment is pretty much shell-shocked around those parts. I got really excited seeing a single tiny cuttlefish during one of the few dives I did around there. What a dismal place.
All in all, on my days off the last thing I wanna do is visit this superficial city but this time around on the drive into the Emirate I could hardly suppress my joy and impatience: My father was in town!

My father had decided that we were going to see Dubai in a different light, taking me to Burj Khalifa, the tallest building in the world. That evening, from high above, we saw the twinkling lights outlining Dubai. I have to admit, it was real pretty. And the elaborate Dancing Fountains (choreographed to epic music) below the Burj Khalifa put on quite the lit-up water show.

My father often shows me how to look at things from a different perspective. Not just in this fake city, showing me the glimmers of beauty that I was previously blind to.
He has an ability to remind me how life's experiences ought be seen, always cast in a positive light. My father has taught me that you learn from everything and everyone, and that this should be filled with joy and that it never ceases. So better soak it all up and enjoy the wild ride that life itself is.
He is a pretty cool dad. And the two days I got to spend within his calm and loving presence made me feel whole again after being so long and so far away from all who I love and cherish.

On top of Burj Khalifa

Glorious Gluttony

Lionfish are such glorious fish. They are beautiful with their intricate stripes and extravagant feathery fin rays. These frequent reef inhabitants seem to do nothing much except gently float about, making them an easy target for underwater photographers. Lionfish are by definition one of the most photogenic creatures and the only bad angle I have ever seen captured has been entirely the fault of the photographer.
Simply put, Lionfish are the ultimate posers. Until I went to Mexico I just filed them into the Pretty Fish Category.
I already knew that their fin rays were poisonous and this has always blended in nicely with my golden rule of not touching shit underwater. But I had no idea that these Pretty Fish were voracious fuckers; gluttonous pigs. And in Mexico there was a new rule I learned when it came down to the lovely Lionfish.

Kill them. Kill 'em all. And make ceviche if you have limes handy.

Here's a great article by Christie Wilcox that takes the reader more in depth about the global Lionfish invasion. And if you want a delicious ceviche recipe you can browse the World Lionfish Hunters webpage for culinary tips and killing techniques.

Photo derived from the web

En Route

Surgery

My aunt and I walked around aimlessly, not knowing what to do or what to say. There was a lot of silence, perhaps since we were both so deep in thought, focused on my mother's well-being. The surgery that day was thirteen hours long, roughly the same amount of time it took for my last-minute flight from the Middle East to arrive in Belfast. I had landed the night before my Mum was admitted to the hospital and my older cousin drove me to my mother's doorstep. I hadn't told her I would come.
Recovery was hard on my Mum. After major neck and face surgery she was stuck with a tracheotomy for a couple of days and trying to make light of a serious situation I had made her silly Q-cards she could use, both to divert her attention and to spare her from having to write down every simple request, question or answer for the medical staff in the hospital ward. I don't think she used them much, as the mounds of scribbled papers beside her bed were piling up. We joked with her, saying that we hadn't ever heard her say so little for so long.
After two weeks in the hospital she was finally allowed to come home and I stayed another twelve days in Northern Ireland to aid her in her recovery period.