Our normal, responsible, "goes to a few clubs, has an odd drink" 18 year old daughter was giddy with excitement at the prospect of going on this traditionally wild week away to celebrate the end of school. "Of course we're going to party like there's no tomorrow," she promised us, defending her jail break plans after years of being a good scholar. We couldn't argue with that, but worried ourselves sick at the prospect of hordes of teens, suddenly responsible for themselves alone in rented accomodation, with free access to booze and the opposite sex. Tales abounded of the quantities of the morning after pill which reached peak sales proportions in local pharmacies. It transpires that many of the locals felt the same way about the annual descent on their once sleepy hollow, and finding accomodation was easier said than done. Super rich kids were bragging about fabulous beach houses and penthouses apartments, but my daughter and a few close friends were happy with an old house close to town. They eschewed maternal offers of frozen meals to keep their strength up after all that hard partying, and packed lightly, though I definitely heard a few bottles clinking in her travel bag. They left sounding like a circus act. I had two rules: 1. Have fun and 2. Check in once a day at noon (figuring that it might be a good time to have recovered and before going on the next wild spree) and I promised not to phone or nag and let them get on with it. "Trust me Mom!"
Vasbyt for me. They arrived safely by noon, courtesy of a kind and concerned Mr Suzy Q, who settled them in and deemed the house to be perfect for their needs. This was a good idea, as it seems that some of the houses were not as promised, and one even had the male owner still resident while five girls were renting it. Early that evening I received a call, and my heart simultaneously lifted and sank. She was calling because she missed me! No, there was something wrong, as teens only sms and never waste airtime on calling parents. I answered cautiously, but could only hear something akin to the Minstrel's Carnival in the background. It was a handbag call - ha, now I'd hear what they were really up to! It ended with a rather sloshed sounding girl's voice, which I recognized, telling my daughter that, "I'm shhooo drunk guys I can't shhee shhraight..." And this at 7pm!!
Well, after a rather sleepless night I received my check in sms the following day, and they were having a ball. (No kidding!) And so it continued. I kept my word (and my secret - till now) and the week went well it seems. They met many old friends at the beach, played card games (shot glasses were involved) and partied into the small hours. However, it seems that by the third or fourth night, they were slinking back to base, somewhat tired of so much unadulterated revelry. For many, a week of trying to keep up the party pace was simply too much. They all survived, as did we, and a rite of passage passed mercifully without tragedy or trauma. Naturally, what happens on tour, stays on tour, so for me, ignorance is no doubt bliss.
Oh, I forgot to mention, when she came home hoarse and weary, my daughter proffered a lucky packet ring on her wedding finger. "I got married on Plett Rage Mom,"(at a communal wedding ceremony on the beach, to a virtual stranger.)
My new "son-in-law" is a super chap, and in their post "honeymoon" newly domesticated bliss, the two of them cooked a delicious meal for us over the weekend AND cleaned up. He is a very welcome guest and new "addition" to our family.
Worse things have happened at sea, I guess...
A mildly relieved,
Suzy Q
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