Last week was an expensive time food wise. We lashed out dining at Chin Chin and then on the Saturday Ex Sis in Law's husband called and said he had won on the gee gees and asked if we would like to join him and Ex Sis in Law Sunday at a place called Wings and Fins.
Damn, we the day before been to Mother's and taken her out for lunch. She had forgotten we were coming and was not dressed or made up. Tradie Brother was there to fix ABI Brother's garage roof drainage issues. Mother is much better when she is surprised by a visit from anyone. She doesn't suffer pre visit stress. We lunched at a local cafe and she later said it was the best afternoon ever. I managed to extract from her $50 for her meal, and the last one she did not pay for. Bills and paying for things has never been her focus.
Anyway, the point of mentioning Mother's outing is that I had already driven Saturday on the Monash Freeway and now to visit Wings and Fins, it would be another drive on the Monash. I hate the road with a passion. Interestingly to local readers familiar with the area, rather than use the South Gippsland Highway through Cranbourne, Google suggested we use Cardinia Road from the Monash which becomes Dalmore Road, joining the Highway almost right at the restaurant gate. It was quick.
Wings and Fins sits over the Tooradin light plane airport, with a view over some seaside mudflats. It is not a cheap eats place but it was ok though rather noisy. It has a lovely outdoor partly shaded deck but hard to believe a few days later, it was a bit warm to sit out.
This abandoned ship sits on swamp before the mudflats. Ex Sis in Law suggested we ask staff about its history. Her husband confidently said, 'It was one of the boats Vietnamese boat people used to arrive here in the 70s and then abandoned'. While waiting for our meal, I went out on to the deck to take some photos and also had doubts about the ship tale. I googled it and armed with facts I returned to the table.
Now when you don't normally swear, you can very occasionally do so with great effect. "Vietnamese refugee ship my arse", I proclaimed. Here is the rather sad story of the ship.
It was owned by a man who was renovating the small steel ship. The swamp leading to the mudflats below our dining position was the only place he could find to store the boat while he worked on it with occasional help from his son. Between them they extended the length of the steel hull by six metres. The son was in Darwin in 1974 when Cyclone Tracy hit and was killed. The father was so distressed, he never returned to the ship. The ship has sat there ever since, slowly rusting away.