A few days ago, I got an e-mail from Karen, a student at New Norfolk High School, in the Australian island state of Tasmania. New Norfolk, the town, seems to be a wonderful place, but New Norfolk High is the subject of at least one lightbulb joke. (We can thank South Hobart native Pete Escott, age 17, for that one.)
Karen, who is somewhere between 7th and 10th grade, wrote:
Hey whats happening, i got your address from a navy site. Ar you involved with the navy? Iknow a "pat cooper" that has left for the naval base in victoria recently this year. Well i would apreciate it so much if you could get back to me and tell me a bit more about you if you dont mind!
thanks heaps
catchya later!*!
karen!
In replying to Karen's e-mail, I thanked her for writing, but explained that I probably wasn't the person for whom she was looking. But her e-mail left me curious: Why would my contact info appear on a Royal Australian Navy Web site? I've never been to Australia or served in a navy. I filled out a Selective Service card on my 18th birthday, but I'm pretty sure that was for the United States' armed forces.
Nevertheless, I checked out the RAN's recruiting Web site, where no Flash technique goes unused. The site's information was intriguing. I — your friendly neighborhood journalism major — could be a sailor in the Australian Navy.
I'm rethinking this whole job thing now. "Thanks heaps" to you too, Karen, for the inspiration. Twelve weeks at CNN Center in Atlanta this summer, or 11 weeks of basic training aboard the HMAS Cerberus? Think about it. The sun-toughened slang, the drill instructors descended from convicts, the hazing matches of Aussie Rules Football. In my opinion, that's Australian for fun.
The seas of Oz are a fickle mistress, for sure. But the message is loud and clear: Uncle Dundee wants you, meaning me.