ShamWow

I awoke bleary eyed from a restless sleep, interspersed with what seemed to be the unending sound of small fat children taking turns bombing into the pool outside room 153. Peeling back the curtains offered little return on investment – grey skies hung low, and a haze had already settled along I-8. The steady rain of the night before had at least largely abated, offering the promise of a day of possibly reasonable weather for our trip to Seaworld.

Before setting off however I got to attempt to eat waffles while watching Regis and Kathy on television discussing Regis’ colonoscopy and his weekend away having an enema. They’re a strange bunch in many ways, Americans – you can’t have swearing or nipples on television, but it’s cool to have a blow-waved permatan talking head on television telling you about his bowel movements during breakfast. No-one bats an eyelid. Australians are a pretty tough bunch – there’s not much we’d flinch at – but I can pretty well guarantee this is one topic of conversation that’d get vetoed before making it on breakfast television in Australia. Americans, though, truly don’t give a rats – they take it all in their stride. Why the hell wouldn’t you talk about your colonoscopy at breakfast? Let’s chat lightheartedly about enemas! Just don’t mention boobs – unless it’s in a leering, salacious manner – and everything’ll be sweet.

After running screaming in terror from the breakfast room we deposited the kids in the back of the Ford and headed off. For once (somewhat disconcertingly) we failed to make a wrong turn, squeezing our way into the late rush hour traffic heading west for Seaworld. I hit the carpark, was again slightly pissed off at having to pay $12 for the privilege of parking at Seaworld to then pay them a further $239 for a family to enter, parked the car and stepped out into a sudden squall. We hid our illegal stash of comestibles in a no doubt anything-but-subtle manner, and headed through the front gates.

There, thankfully, my negative experiences dissipated. The park was outstanding, with only the slight let down of a couple of rides being inoperable due to wind, rain, being the off-season, or a combination of the three. Probably the lowlight in this regard was the Atlantis ride – in summer it’d be an absolute hoot, featuring a water splash (incorporating a flood of water down the back of your neck), along with people attempting to drench you by firing water cannons at you as you sail past. In mid-spring, on a bleak day, it was closer in spirit to what the NSA would consider to be a light hearted way of extracting information from suspected terrorists.

First stop was the Wild Arctic exhibit (including a display featuring a Ford Edge SUV, bogged to the axles in fake snow, by way of cross-promotion). The entire area was styled along the lines of an Arctic base, complete with supplies, walls covered in real ice, and a helicopter just past the movie theatre near the entrance. Everyone was most impressed, although quite possibly I was the only one to imagine Kurt Russell flame-throwing a spider-headed creature running for the exit. First stop was Beluga whales frolicking (do whales do anything else?) in a sensationally realistic looking arctic pool, with what appeared to be the remnants of a wooden hulled ship frozen into the cliffs. The whales looked to be having a sensational time – as would I be, if I were a Beluga whale safely ensconced in San Diego rather than eking out a frosty existence in the Arctic, a weather eye perpetually open for Polar Bears, Killer Whales, and the occasional trawler full of Japanese scientific researchers rounding a headland under full power. Walruses were next door, their vast wrinkly bulks drifting past upright, then upside down, regaling everyone by repeatedly regurgitating masticated squid against their windows and lazily mopping it up. My son asked me, straight faced, why the walrus water was dirtier than the beluga whale or polar bear water. I told him. He appeared to make a silent, solemn vow to never speak of the incident again.

Thankfully for the Beluga whales and Walruses, their polar bear neighbours were separated from them by a foot of Plexiglas. The bears, as is typically the case, had adopted their very best albino teddy bear look, no doubt in the hopes of lulling a mentally unstable visitor into having a swim with them, to liven up their day a tad. We progressed underground to watch them paddling, hypnotically, schools of presumably terrified arctic fish darting about beneath their vast paws.

Next stop was the Penguin Encounter. In Australia to a degree we get a little blasé about the little guys, seeing as anyone living in the southern part of Australia has relatively easy access to see fairy penguins. For those in North America, far from their natural habitat, they were a source of great fascination and amusement. Although the display was beautifully done, with a genuinely realistic habitat, natural lighting, and even a small Plexiglas chamber to one side to give them an opportunity to chill out a little, no one who had seen Happy Feet would be able to not think of the movie. Still, in all fairness, the penguins seemed remarkably unfazed, except for one little fella who was sadly tap dancing in the corner, teary eyed and alone.

In the mood for something else, we followed the lowing herd to the Sea Lion and Otter Stadium to see “Sea Lions Live”, a piss-take (sorry, pastiche) of a range of poplar shows including CSI and Dancing with The Stars/So You Think You Can Dance, starring Seamore* and Clyde. It was actually a cracker of a show; to be honest, I had no appreciation for just how obviously intelligent, perceptive, and capable of genuinely sensational comic timing the stars are.

We also took in what I believe is most likely the banner show of Seaworld, Blue Horizons, a strange fusion of Cirque du Soleil and a traditional dolphin show. To my mind at least it was an odd pairing – the show was probably too arty for most adults (myself included), and went over the heads of many of the littlies present. Still, it was flawlessly performed, and everyone applauded rapturously on cue.

Finally after taking the opportunity of getting drenched on the shipwreck rapids, twice (in Jackson’s case) but only once for Elise who was fine with the possibility of being drowned but burst into tears when we passed into an underground river, and checking out a couple of nicely done aquariums, it was time for the star of the show, Shamu the Killer Whale. Dude even has a stadium named after him. Must be a hell of an ego to manage.

Jackson bolted for the Soak Zone and duly got drenched as Shamu did his patented flipper flap to saturate the more (fool) hardy spectators, he and the other Killer Whales leapt somewhat staggeringly athletically out of the frosty 11^OC weather, and generally put on a show worth watching. It was apparent they were eating machines – food was constantly shoveled into them to keep them motivated, at a rate of up to 50 pounds per gulp.

Still, the highlight – if that’s the right word – for me was the pre-show spot. A saccharine 5 minute B&W movie supposedly recounting the story of one boy’s obsession with Shamu was screened first, barely eliciting a response, but when an ad for the Armed Services came on, people spontaneously burst into wild and uncontrollable applause. A trainer walked out, asked all those who were serving or had served in the American or Allied armed forces to stand, and the cheering only went up in volume. I clapped too, acknowledging the sacrifice they make, but in my opinion for all our similarities, the greatest difference between Australians and Americans is perhaps highlighted in our regard to country.

I’d argue that Australians are just as fiercely patriotic as Americans, however the American display is an overt one – politicians take to wearing American flags, just to remind everyone how patriotic and American they are, goddamn it! – but Australians tend to internalize their patriotism. Every now and then however the cracks show, particularly, and regrettably, after yobbo’s have squared away a couple of cases of Carlton Cold at Cronulla Beach on Australia Day - nationalism, masquerading as patriotism. That nauseating “Australia – If You Don’t Like It, Leave” mentality.

The crowd cheered as one, the show went off without a hitch, the vendors shuttered up, stalls turned off the lights, and the throng dispersed, content. As were we.

*The irony of Seamore’s name is presumably lost on most. He'd perhaps be better named Sea, Less.