Tag Archives: australia

On This Day


To the me on the left: You’re stubborn. You’re surrounded by people who love you. You’re brave and fierce and determined. You have value and you are worthy.  I know you are uncomfortable. Everything hurts. Nothing is easy. Not walking not sitting not standing not anything. Every career path you’ve tried, you’ve struggled at because in your head you feel like everyone you know is judging you because of your size. They weren’t, but it’s hard to change a mind set, and it’s hard not to project your insecurities.

To the me in the middle: You’re stubborn. You’re surrounded by people who love you. You’re brave and fierce and determined. You have value and you are worthy. You kept it going. The idea of being a personal trainer was still tucked away behind that head of curls and strange ideas. You were discovering, at around this point, that you enjoyed exercising. You enjoyed the fun runs, the weights, the treadmills and the spin bikes and the different things that your body was suddenly able to do.

To the me on the right: You’re stubborn. You’re surrounded by people who love you. You’re brave and fierce and determined. You have value and you are worthy. You’re almost there now. You’ve taken that idea of being a personal trainer, completed the first part of your qualification and started the second. You’ve learned that the number on the scale isn’t overly important, what’s important is having a goal broken into micro goals, and then achieving them. You thought that losing weight would help you to be happy with yourself, and with your body. But then you discovered the joy of excess skin and chafing and random clapping. What you’ve been working for is hidden by a daily reminder of what was. What’s important though, is that it’s there. Hidden, yes. But there. You’ve worked your arse off, literally.


*     *     *     *     *

Those memory things on Facebook, they come up every day to remind you or taunt you or embarrass you about what you were doing on this day in previous years. The memories only go back for as long as you have been on Facebook, which proves that there is life outside of social media. Or, that there was.

It was because of the On This Day feature that I realised for the first ever time that my regime of training, walking, running, lifting and generally moving was making a difference to my body. It was 12 months ago, on this day, apparently, that I made this realisation.

It was a photo of me in my Scout uniform shirt. It was the largest size shirt that I could purchase. You can see how it fits – it was tight. And I remember seeing that photo of myself and thinking, “Hang on, my Scout shirt doesn’t fit like that anymore!”. So I put on my shirt and took a photo and compared them, side by side. It was a pretty huge moment.

Anyway, that original photo popped up in my On This Day reel today. I’m not doing Scouts anymore – I finished up last year so that I could focus more on my shifting priorities. So for shits and giggles more than anything else, I went and found my shirt and popped it on.


The me on the left. The me in the middle. And the me on the right.





Get Stuffed


Today is Melbourne Cup Day.

This is the image that won the internet for me today:

Source: Marie Claire

Source: Marie Claire

That’s Michelle Payne, the only female jockey riding in the Melbourne Cup and the first female jockey to win. And I love that she used the phrase “get stuffed” in her victory speech. How completely Aussie is that!

I’m not going to pretend to know a lot about the Melbourne Cup, nor about the horse racing industry. But what I do know is that my beloved’s daughter works in this industry, and I know her love and compassion for horses. For me, beloved’s daughter is the closest actual source that I know when it comes to racing and the way horses are treated. Beloved’s daughter might not know how to hang a wet towel and she might struggle with getting rubbish into the actual bin – but the love she has for horses and the expectation she has that they be treated beautifully seem to be in keeping with her chosen field of work.

Beloved and I went to the local pub for their Melbourne Cup lunch do. We went last year too, and I won Best Footwear (my post-op ankle boot). I didn’t win this year. I’m in normal shoes now.

While we were there I was chatting to a woman who worked at a place that sounds like… Parby’s Dies. Just a quick chat. Then I went back to my beloved. About an hour later, I walked past her and I saw her turn on her stool at the bar, and very clearly heard her say, “big girl, big girl, big girl”. I stopped in my tracks, turned around and returned to our table.

I sent beloved to get our drinks.

My thoughts considered the situation.

She’s correct. I am big. But by fuck I’m working on it, every single day. I didn’t retaliate, didn’t make comment on her physical shortcomings. I didn’t go back to the bar. But I also didn’t go home.

I’m working on it, every single day.

And ultimately I would love to have turned to this woman and shout GET STUFFED.

But I didn’t. Because that would be mean. And I am many things, yes – but I am not mean.

I actually found myself feeling really sad for this woman. Based on the things she mentioned in our brief chat, and her own appearance challenges, and that she thought it was even worth saying something like that, and that she lived in a world where making that kind of comment held some form of validity.

So, it’s been a funny old Melbourne Cup day here. But I think we can all agree on who the real winner was:

The phrase GET STUFFED.

Sandwiches for lunch


Why are cheese slices square but deli meats round?

It’s the big issues that worry my head on a Monday.

I’m currently listening to my beautiful beloved ranting at a Toll reminder notice, silently thinking about the Tolls I racked up in the trip to and from Sydney over the weekend. It’s good to be home.

The thing about the cheese and the deli meats occurred to me for one reason or another just a moment ago, but now it has reminded me of my Dad, and how he used to make our sandwiches for school. The family favourite was chicken loaf, closely followed by tomato sauce sandwiches. He even had a preferred fillings list that he taped to the bench, and every morning we’d trundle off to school, knowing that our sandwiches were going to be edible.

My brother and I were quite young when we were playing outside one weekend. I’m not sure why but we ran inside to make sandwiches, which then were stuffed into brown paper bags and shoved onto a rock while we rode our bikes on the driveway. He’s four years younger than me. We rode our bikes and performed skids and used one hand then no hands in our ever extending quest for greatness. Being someone who lived in their little creative imaginary world, I remember drifting away to a place where I was a member of the T Birds, from Grease. Remember those guys?

Source: Unknown

Source: Unknown

What I discovered while I was searching for that image was who Sandra Dee is! She was an actress who portrayed nice, virginal girls. Aren’t you glad I am so easily distracted?

Now, why I wanted to be a T Bird and not a Pink Lady has become clear (T Birds get the girls, der). However I was so caught up in my imaginations I didn’t notice what my brother was up to. So when we threw our bikes to the ground, grabbed our sandwiches and sat down on the grass to eat, I had no idea what he was giggling at.

I too a bite of the sandwich, and I remember feeling quite puzzled. I chewed, swallowed. Something was wrong with my Vegemite. I took another bite. Chewed. Opened my mouth, letting the sandwich therein drop to the grass. Had I put the paper bag inside the sandwich? How did I get dirt in there?

At this point my brother began to giggle.

I didn’t want him to know that I realised I had been pranked, so I never asked him about it. I actually don’t recall how the situation ended. But I do know I never conceded defeat.

I can still taste whatever the fuck it was he hid in my sandwich. And I remember the texture, too. The resources available to him offer me some comfort, knowing that at worst, it would have been dirt.

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t on Dad’s list of preferred fillings, though.

Have you ever eaten something that you shouldn’t have? By accident, or on purpose?

Game, Set and Frigging Match


There’s this local idiot who seems to think the only way to drive is via burnout. We hear them revving the guts out of the car that mummy and daddy undoubtedly paid for, while they spin their tyres without a thought given to the kids that use the park or the dogs and people that walk the area every day. What shits me is that while this idiot is getting their thrills, they’re creating a really unsafe environment. Let’s face it, if you’re busy trying to make lots of smoke and noise with your car you’re not going to be looking out for people. Or animals. And if you’re spinning mud up through the park as fast as you can, your focus isn’t really on anyone or anything else. Happy as a pig in mud? Yes and quite probably equally as ignorant. Beloved and I are trying to catch them in the act because the police said they can’t do anything without the rego plate, which is fine. We’re stubborn. Beloved and Scouty love gazing out the window, anyway.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It’s funny, the things you see if you keep your eyes open.

For example, last night when we were making dinner, I looked down at the garlic bulb in my hand and realised it looked like a baboon. Then I looked closer and now all I can see is a baboon with a Donald Trump comb-over.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Can you see it? It was really off putting at the time because I gave the garlic this deep voice in my head and it kept telling me I was fired and then I finally thought to respond by saying (in my head) that I was not fired, that YOU’RE about to be fired, and sauted and then EATEN.

Screw you, Trump.

Which leads to me to the adventure that was today.

I can only consider it to be revenge from Trump.

Beloved and I had a meeting of some importance today, and the meeting finished up in a small, house-like office. I asked about the loo and hobbled my way there. Sat, tended to business.


Realised that there was little power behind the flush.

Held the button down for as long as was humanly possible with one hand while I desperately tried to open the window with my other hand. It was locked.

There was nothing that could hide the exact nature of my business. Nothing. It’s OK, I reasoned with myself. Everyone does this. This is OK. We’ll just spray some air freshener and hope for the best.

But there was no air freshener, was there, Trump. You’d completely taken a mighty form of revenge, hadn’t you, Trump. There was only a pump soap container, a fake pot plant, and a window that wouldn’t open.

I tried to collect myself while I washed my hands. I let the water run while I thought about options. I couldn’t hurl myself out the window, it was locked. I couldn’t change this. I couldn’t fix it. I certainly couldn’t take it back. There wasn’t anything I could do. Not really. Just admit defeat, return to the meeting, and hope that I never have to see these people ever again. Well, except for my beloved – I would like to see her again.

I sat down, smelling of guilt and poor plumbing decisions.

As I sat, the woman who worked out of this little office said that the office was actually a display home that wasn’t really hooked up to the plumbing properly – she smiled and joked about me waiting for the water to warm up when I washed my hands, and that was when the pieces fell into place. As I made a lame comment about cold hands, the facts aligned and slotted themselves into order amongst the chaos that is my brain.

I’d just toileted in a display toilet.

A display toilet, with minimal plumbing connected.

A display toilet that could manage a number one, but should have been wearing a sign advising against any number higher than one.

Game, set and match, Trump.

Game, set and frigging match.

Game On: 10 Steps to Understanding NRL


My beloved is an avid footy fan. The Manly Sea Eagles are her team of choice. And my God, isn’t she a woman of passion when it comes to her boys in purple.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It’s Sunday morning, there were three (yes, THREE) games on yesterday and she watched two and a half of them. And we’re about to watch the second half of the third game. Even though we know who the winner is. And this season, it’s a pretty safe bet that it won’t be Manly.

But wait, it’s not all bad. You see, I’ve adopted the “If you can’t beat them, join them” mentality, and I have now randomly carefully selected a team of chumps sportsmen to barrack for. I like to call them the Pandas, however they’re the Panthers. And now that I have a team, I like to think I am somewhat of an expert on the game. So here is what happens in a typical NRL game.

1. They players are all neat and tidy and they do a funny back slap hug shaking hands thing. Then they make a line and run onto the field. Ladies shake pom poms and the crowd either cheers or jeers.

2. Someone plays the National Anthem. The players put their arms around each other. Most of the players stand there like they have a problem with their footy sock, like it’s slid down in their shoe and they’re not sure if they can do a full game with their sock like that. One or two will sing. Then there is another big cheer and everyone stops hugging and they run into positions on the field.

3. One team gets the ball and they throw it to each other then run forwards, directly into the other team. The other team encourages the player with the ball to have a little rest on the grass, then they do a massive “STACKS ON!” and all lie on top of him. This happens six times, and they either do a big kick or they run towards a white line then have another lie down, this time with the ball as a pillow.

4. Sometimes, during the six run and lie down sequence, a player will do something that is considered thuggery. Everyone yells and dobs and points and waves their arms around. A man, who wore pink last year but this year is wearing yellow, comes and huffs and puffs. Then he will make a decision and the players grunt and groan and wave their hands.

5. When players do a lie down over the line with the ball as a pillow, the man in last year’s pink or this year’s yellow will make two hand signals. The first indicates whether or not the player has tried hard enough. The second is to get someone else to look at the footage to decide if the player has tried hard enough. The someone else is known as the Video Ref, and is apparently a bit of a fuckwit. But the pink (or yellow) ref seems to like to keep the Video Ref in the loop, and so most things go to him to have a look at. Then a swirling sponsorship logo loads on the big screens and if it is red then they player hasn’t tried hard. If it is green then the player has tried hard enough, and everyone does the back slap hand shake cuddle thing again.

6. If the logo goes green, then one player from the team who tried hard gets to kick the ball through the goals. This is called converting a try. I am not sure what they are trying to convert the try to. But this is done by giving the ball an almighty kick and hoping it goes through two metal posts. I think this seems a little unfair. Because sometimes they choose to kick the ball from a very odd angle, or from a very long distance away from the posts. And to be honest it would work better if they could take the ball a little bit closer. The other thing that might help is if the player were to lick their finger then hold it up to see if there is any wind.

7. This continues for 80 minutes. Yes, 80. It’s important to keep an eye out for a couple of distinct moves. The first is the “rooting the air” move. This happens during the STACKS ON moments. The player at the bottom of the pile thrusts his crotch into the air with a tenacity that interests even this little gay duck. The second is the big group hug that my beloved tells me is called a scrum. I’m not certain of the purpose of the scrum. Basically, the two teams cuddle up close and someone pops the ball in at their feet, and then they push backwards and forwards until the ball pops out. Now, given the player who puts the ball into the scrum tends to put the ball as close as he can to his team, it’s a given that that team will “win the scrum”. But it would be more impressive, I think, if the ball was placed centrally.

8. At the end of the game, one team will have had a sleep on the ball more than the other, and they get points for doing that. And the team with the most points wins. They win the right to walk on the grass in a circle and wave to their fans, while the opposition’s fans throws things at them and swears.

9. One player is named Man of the Match, and I think his mum has to wash the team jerseys.

10. Between games, the players like to train, disgrace themselves publicly, and smile at each other when they stand in cold water.

That’s pretty much it, as far as I can tell. And it goes on and on and on. For weeks. And about halfway through the season, when all the players are tired, they suddenly mix them all up into two teams and they then play three Very Special Games, called The State of Origin. It is peculiar to think it takes three extra games to decide The State of Origin, because it would be much quicker to ask each player what state they come from. Then make a special graph, and the state with the most players is the winner. Quicker, and also removing three games of footy from the TV.

Because ultimately, that is what the game is about for me. Finding ways to minimise the impact of it all. And if that means I cheer for the Pandas when they run and lie down and play stacks on and hump the air, then that is what I do.

I’m classy like that.



In my family, the Griswolds are very loved. Remember the Griswolds the Christmas Vacation?

For years, my family have giggled at houses with Christmas lights, remembering Chevy Chase and his staple gun. Well, have I got news for you, Daddio! My beloved and I just spent the afternoon putting Christmas lights on the house!

Australia seems to go stir crazy when it comes to decorating with lights at Christmas. We love it. My sister’s street has a Christmas party each year, which she ignores. Every inch of the street is decorated in candles and lights and tinsel. It’s festive as all fuck. I love it. One year, my sister and her neighbour simply erected a sign that said “DITTO”.

I tend to be a little more enthusiastic.

I spent an hour or so putting together an array of solar lights. They went from this:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

To this:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

More lights hanging from the front verandah – and check out the storms that are closing in for night nine:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Then my beautiful beloved popped more lights in the garden:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

I am so excited to see what happens at night. Aside from it getting dark, obviously. I’ll share some pictures when night falls… but first, it’s another storm.

Do you decorate your house?

A weekend away

A weekend away

The temperature went completely stupid here, with local temps laughing at 30 degrees as they danced towards and into the 40 degree zone. These are hell conditions. Dogs inside, air conditioner cranking, only venture outside when you have to conditions.

And I had to.

I went and visited my sister, jumping on a train for a two hour trip down to the Hawkesbury. Saw this out the window and now I want to know what that mysterious box is for.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

My sister has a vege patch and grows all sorts of stuff in it. When I was there she dug up her most recent crop – POTATOES! I cannot tell you how awesome it was to watch her shovel up load after load of potatoes from the ground. It was one of the best things I have ever seen. Here are some of the spoils of her crop:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

We had a good weekend. Our pseudo sister joined us for an early kind of birthday celebration – with my sister and I a week apart (and a few years), we tend to celebrate together. I made a cake, which was really a watermelon with yoghurt icing an a heap of fruit:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Bright and early this morning, with temperatures predicted to hit at least 44 degrees, my sister drove me back home. And now as the heat fades into a storm, Zelda our anxiety hound is losing her shit as the thunder rises a sexual feeling in Harry, who is madly humping his bed. Scouty? She’s just watching TV and grinning at us all.

I’ve arrived home tired and sore. Nightmares came to play on the wee hours of Saturday morning, and it’s hard to shake this one. I hate them. I get that it isn’t real and it isn’t so much the content that bothers me, it’s the emotions and the sense of failed responsibility on my part. I have this ongoing internal battle with feeling like I should be able to protect and an overwhelming ache of utter uselessness. I’m working on this. Ongoingly. It sucks and it’s hard and it has been arousing more and more of these nocturnal terrors, but I have to tell myself it will be worth it.

It will be, won’t it?

Over to you. How was your weekend? Did you swelter?

Out of the box: How we’re still getting it wrong


So last night I dedicated some time and brain cells to staring at a screen. The television screen. Julia Gillard was about to be interviewed, and being a fan of hers for a long time I had been pretty keen to see this. Because we are in 2014, I knew the interview wouldn’t be about hair and beauty and shit like that – it would be about policies, and political achievements, and what she wanted to achieve in her time as PM.

The fact is, Julia will always be referred to as Australia’s first female Prime Minister. Because that is what she was.

The problem with this is that straight away, she’s categorised by her vag instead of her viewpoints.

I don’t care that she is female – I’m one too – but the thing is, the more that we focus on her genitals the more we undermine this strong, wise, independent human being. Not because she’s female – but because it’s the precursor to every single thing she did in her time in office.

I love this picture of her:


Image by Sophie Deane, at the introduction of the DisabilityCare levy.

She’s human. She was PM, she achieved a huge amount in her time as PM, but for some reason the interview focused on the following:

  1. Her hair
  2. Her fashion
  3. Her photo
  4. Her boyfriend
  5. Her marital status

Get. Fucked.

Julia showed us more about ourselves as Australians than any other PM has: quite simply, the majority of us could not cope with a strong woman steering the ship of our country.

This isn’t about sexism or misogyny or the disgusting Alan Jones moment. This is about a human who achieved much but is left having to discuss her follicles and anatomy.

An hour or so after this, I admit to you that I watched the Big Brother Eviction. This was the first eviction for the year and I have to tell you something: I’ve never witnessed anything more excruciating and unnecessary in my life.

The background – several housemates were up for eviction, votes were tallied and it came down to one pair – Jake and Gemma. Here they are, the night they entered the Big Brother House:

And this is them last night, as the housemates took turns to say whether they wanted Jake or Gemma to remain in the House:

Image via Channel 9

Image via Channel 9


Ever been the last person picked for a team? Ever been in a situation where every single person (except one) chose against you? Ever had that happen to you on national TV?

Completely unnecessary. Totally brutal.

For me, viewing of the box left me with an overwhelming sense of how far we still had to go. We have a lot to learn about the way we treat each other. About respect. About being thankful and considerate and protecting the inner core of each other – that part we all have that can be so easily wounded.

Because it’s there. There’s no disputing it.

If your heart has ever shrunk with shame, you have it. If your tummy has ever dropped with fear, or fluttered to life with anxiety, then you have it. If you’ve ever felt like you were going to drown in grief or loss or loneliness, you have it.

It’s time we remember it. It’s time to remember we all have that part.

It’s time to protect each other.

What do you think?

State of something or other


There was a fairly major football match on last night. Apparently. A couple of guys in pastel blue versus a couple of guys in purple, they ran around and hurt each other and then did some kicking of the ball and ball areas and just like that, an eight year drought was broken.

The ground is still pretty dry though, so maybe it isn’t really a drought.

I have to admit it: I’m not so good at the whole “being enthusiastic about televised sports” thing.

Here are some things I did not understand from last night:

1. Why my beloved wore her Manly jarmies, even though they weren’t playing, and even though the colour of the jarmies suggested they were worn in support of the purple team.

2. Why blue afro wigs are supportive.

3. Why someone in purple would bump their head against someone in pastel blue in an aggressive way, after the man in pastel blue let the man in purple use his neck to help get up from the ground.

4. Why the players don’t listen to the advice my beloved is bellowing offering them. She knows her stuff, boys. Listen to her!

5. Why the players don’t like to sing the National Anthem. Kids are taught to sing it, adults know it’s the respectful thing to do. When I was a teacher, if a kid was hanging their mouth guard out of their mouth and fidgeting instead of singing the Anthem, they would miss out on playtime.

6. The final question I have regarding State of Whatever is: Will this fellow be back for game three?

Pic: Cameron Spencer/Getty Images

Pic: Cameron Spencer/Getty Images

OK, folks, over to you: What am I missing? Are you a football fan? Would you wear a pastel blue afro to support your team?


Support our sharks


The thing with power is this: If you feel like you don’t have any, you try to get it in any way you can.

Don’t believe me?

The next time you’re in a coffee shop and you hear a toddler in the midst of an epic tantrum, look around. I bet you anything the kid is bored and wants to leave as soon as possible. They’re probably slouched in their chair, flicking their feet towards the coffee table, food and babycinos splotched all over themselves. Kids fucking hate cafes. And who can blame them, they’re always full of screaming kids.

Anyway anyway, I digress.

I asked the cool kids over at the Facebook page for this blog for some ideas about what I could write about this week. One of the suggestions came from a photographer buddy of mine.

“Support our sharks!”

It seemed like a decent idea to me.

Because there’s a bit of a power struggle going on in the waters.

We’ve got the vicious creatures plotting destruction and savagery in one corner, and in the other, we have sharks.

Credit: Images by TLP

Sharks, that live and hunt in the ocean. Which we know about. It’s not a surprise to any of us, that as sea creatures, sharks actually really do live in the ocean. And they really do hunt their food in the ocean. And they have big teeth, and lots of them, which means that they are predators. They hunt for their food, and then they eat it.

Then we have some very clever souls who have looked at this pattern of behaviour and made a policy that basically says that sharks over 3 metres in length and within a kilometre of popular beaches are fair game to capture and kill.

Well, der. If the beach is popular, why wouldn’t a shark want to go there? Sharks just want to be cool, too – you know, seen in all the right places.

tlp_shark2Amongst all of the justifications for this policy, I’ve seen repeated statements about the importance of human life. That human life has to be the top priority. That humans need to be kept safe.

You know what would be safe?

Funding education and research into shark behaviours and patterns. Continued development and testing of deterrent and shark-spotting systems – that would be safe. Public education about the risks associated with entering the water. Education and research into the preferred habitats of the sharks.

You’d be able to bluff your way into Abbott’s good books by saying that the increase in shark attacks is because there are more sharks. You could carry on about spikes in population and breeding cycles. But it would be rubbish.

And while rubbish is fueling the current Australian government, it’s reality that needs to spoken.

Abbott tells us that the ABC is biased in their reporting, however if you want to take a chance on believing the information the ABC puts forth, you’d read this:

Certainly, the threat to public safety appears to be increasing over the last few years due to the increased number of shark attacks off our coasts. It has been argued that the cause of this relates to an increase in the numbers of sharks, and presumably, an increase in the population size. However, there is no evidence that this is the case, as indicated in a 2013 report on the recovery of white sharks by the Australian Government.

This is perhaps not surprising, given that they are slow growing, late maturing and produce few offspring, so it takes many years for them to recover from exploitation. An alternative, and more plausible explanation of the increased shark attacks, is the increasing number of people spending time in our coastal waters. Reflecting the population increase and Australian’s love of the coast, more people are surfing, kite surfing, diving, canoeing, and so on, leading to an increasing number of encounters with a shark.

The first shark was culled on Australia Day.

She’d been snared on a drum line, and was trapped with a hook through her mouth for up to twelve hours. The shark killer then dragged her onto his boat. He shot her, four times. He shot her four times in the head. Then she was gutted. Then she was dragged out to sea, and dumped.

Bravo. The cull is going along swimmingly.

I have to say it: I’m ashamed to be an Australian under Abbott’s regime.

If you want to ask our government to look at alternatives to culling sharks, there are a few ways to do it.

You can check out this site, or this Facebook page.

The way I see it, at the moment we have a government in place who is throwing tantrums at every opportunity, trying desperately to prove they have power. There is power in using your voice. There is power in saying that you aren’t happy with things. There is power in writing letters and attending protests and finding out for yourself what the facts really are when it comes to shark culling.

Because if we’re going to fight for the rights of whales and dolphins, we can’t promote the slaughter of a third sea creature.