Patriot Realm

In this world of misery and mayhem, violence and vitriol, chaos and calamity, I often think of a man I call Mr Beaconsfield. 

Redhead and I met him in Tasmania, Australia,  when we were on a motoring holiday some years ago. We had visited the museum dedicated to the Beaconsfield mining disaster. For those of you who do not know of it, the Beaconsfield Mine collapse, occurred in Tasmania, on April 25, 2006. The incident gained international attention due to the dramatic rescue efforts and the survival of two miners who were trapped underground for an extended period.

It was a gold mine, and the collapse happened about 925 metres underground. Three miners were initially trapped: Todd Russell, Brant Webb, and Larry Knight. Unfortunately, Larry Knight lost his life in the collapse.

The rescue operation became a major focus for emergency services and mining experts. The two surviving miners were located in a small steel cage that had been partially buried by fallen rocks. The rescue operation involved drilling a borehole to reach the trapped miners, and communication was established with them through a small PVC pipe.

Over the course of the rescue operation, which lasted for two weeks, various drilling techniques were employed to create a borehole wide enough to extract the miners safely. On May 9, 2006, after 14 days of being trapped, Todd Russell and Brant Webb were finally brought to the surface in a small capsule. The successful rescue was met with widespread relief and celebration.

The incident prompted discussions about mine safety, emergency response procedures, and the conditions in which miners work. It also highlighted the challenges and risks associated with mining activities, especially in deep underground environments.

The Beaconsfield Mine collapse and the subsequent rescue operation were extensively covered by the media, both in Australia and internationally, turning the event into a widely known and discussed situation.

I was so saddened by the tragic and heroic tale that was depicted in the museum and, as Redhead wandered through the exhibits, I found myself standing beside a waterwheel and contemplating the horror of what those poor men endured, contemplating  hopelessness yet still keeping hope alive in their hearts. 

Suddenly, a man walked up beside me and said ' It is quite moving, isn't it? " 

I looked back at him and I was in love. Hopelessly, head over heels, insanely and irrationally in love. He smelled so good. He was clean shaven, smiling and his eyes twinkled like Montalbano aka Luca Zingaretti. 

He wore a blue denim shirt, blue jeans, a brown belt and a pair of brown leather loafers. " Be still my beating heart! " I thought. I was gazing into the eyes of a man who smelled better than a freshly cooked cinnamon doughnut and looked better than a calendar full of Australian Firefighters minus the animals. 

Throughout that day, we encountered Mr Beaconsfield, in his rental car, as we toured the Tamar Valley and, each time we approached his car, he would mysteriously vanish and head off on his solitary travels. All I knew about him was that he was from Cairns and that he was gorgeous. 

I never spoke to him again. 

Later that night, I spoke to Redhead and expressed my regret that I never exchanged names, phone numbers, or email addresses.

You may well ask why I am writing about this strange man from the vaults of my memory who, like Jesse, in Joan Wilder's novels in the movie " Romancing the Stone " never really became a reality but was as real to me then as he is now.

Because he was a light in a morning that had been so dark. So sad. So tragic. There I was, staring, like a giddy school girl and I felt glad.  Glad to be alive. Glad to breathe in the then fresh autumn air and glad to see the sunlight and feel the breeze and see a bumblebee feeding off the pollen on a nearby rosebush. 

The expectation of joy is a strong antidote to hopelessness. 

Yesterday, Mum and I looked at a listing for an apartment for sale on Queensland's central coast. It was perched overlooking the blue waters of the Coral Sea and we joked about living there and how the evening " Happy hour ' drinks would taste rather nice sitting on a rooftop patio and we could hear the distant lap of the waves as reality was forbidden from entering our hallowed and gentle peace. 

The cats would lie, belly up in the warm sun and pluck kibbles from silver trays and we would stay forever young and beautiful and there would be a handsome firefighter at our front door commanding " None who mean harm shall pass. " 

Like the unit, where it is always warm, but never hot, where the rain showers are soft and never dangerous; where the food is always fresh and the sheer wonder of being alive is calming and joyful; where trouble and sadness have no place, Mr Beaconsfield was that happy place where hope and meaning came back to life. . 

We live in a world where reality has become so dreadful and so depressing that a memory is becoming more attractive than reality. 

How many people are suffocating after having been buried in the insanity of the modern world? 

How many people dream of a roof over their heads - let alone the delight of a family pet cat or dog to share their lives because being homeless is " so now. "  It's just the go-to place these days.... living under a bridge or in a car is just the most fabulous green energy climate change thing to do to save the planet. 

As marriages break up at alarming levels; as poverty bites in and gnarls at so many; how many people dream of a life with a perfect man or woman in a perfect home and imagine the wonder of perfection? 

Of course, Mr Beaconsfield was a 30 minute encounter at a mining disaster museum in Tasmania. A nice chap and one I would like to have gotten to know better. 

But perhaps it is just as well that we did not meet again. He lives, still handsome, still perfect and still untainted by real life. In short, a fantasy. 

In these dark times of foreboding and danger, reality has become too ugly. It is covered in tattoos, angry and full of hate. It dwells in deep places and suffocates. People are waiting to be rescued and the chances of a  team making it through are diminishing by the day.

We have seen Javier Milei and now Donald Trump  and others breaking through the cave-ins. Let us hope that they reach us in time.  

What kept those miners alive? 

Courage. Hope. Faith. And a hell of a lot of work from those above.

So get digging people. We are being buried alive by our governments and time is running out for rescue.