There are moments when you surprise yourself. When the calm, coffee-in-hand, dog-walking version of you quietly steps aside and something far more Johannesburg steps forward. Friday was one of those moments.
Our Belvidere routine had unfolded as it so often does. Swimmers in the water. Walkers on the shore. Nats and I strolling with the dogs, keeping pace with Brandon, Keegan and Pam as they worked their way from buoy to buoy. Gentle, predictable, almost meditative.
Until it wasn’t. A ski boat came tearing across the lagoon, dragging a skier at speed through what is very clearly a No Wake Zone. Not just bending the rules, bulldozing straight through them. At first you almost hope they’ll realise. Slow down. Correct course. Do the decent thing.
They didn’t. By the time we reached the viewpoint, the skier had fallen and the boat had paused about 20 metres from shore. Close enough. Close enough for me to decide that watching quietly was no longer an option.
I marched.There’s something quite cinematic about that kind of walk. Purposeful. Direct. Slightly fueled by outrage. I planted myself at the water’s edge and called out, “Excuse me!” once… twice… several times. The children on the boat saw me immediately. The man? He perfected the art of not-seeing.
Eventually, he looked. And I asked, as politely as one can when internally on fire, “Are you aware that this is a no wake zone and there are swimmers in the water?”His response? A casual shrug wrapped in arrogance. He’d grown up there, he said. He knew the flood levels. He could ski there. Which is fascinating because none of that has anything to do with the actual rules of the lagoon.
So I returned serve.I pointed out, quite clearly, that he obviously didn’t have a skipper’s licence if he didn’t understand how to operate a boat safely in a designated no wake zone.
His counterargument? Turning up the music. Loud enough to try and drown me out which, I’ll admit, only added a layer of absurdity to the whole scene.
Meanwhile, out in the water, the swimmers were effectively stranded at buoy two. Waiting. Watching. Trying to predict the behaviour of someone who had already proven himself wildly unpredictable.
Then, unbelievably, another child got up on the skis.Off he went again. Engine roaring. Weaving between the buoys.
Past the swimmers.By this point, Brandon had joined in let’s say his version of “polite” had loosened slightly. And rightly so. This wasn’t irritation anymore. This was a genuine safety risk.
Even a nearby fisherman, who had no personal stake in our little group, started shouting at the boater. Because some things are just universally understood or at least they should be.
And then, the quiet voice of reason from the most unexpected place. One of the children.“Dad, can we just go home?” Out of the mouths of babes and possibly the only sensible voice on that boat.
Eventually, they left. No details taken. No names. No way to report him to SANParks. Just the lingering frustration of knowing someone got away with behaviour that could have ended very differently.
But it did leave us with something else.
A reminder. Both Brandon and I grew up in the south of Johannesburg, where there’s a certain instinct baked into you. A “don’t mess with me” reflex that doesn’t ask permission before showing up. On Friday, it arrived in full force.
Pam has since decided that if anyone ever needs an escort down a dark alley, we’re the people to call. And she might not be wrong. Because sometimes, standing up and making noise isn’t about being confrontational. It’s about drawing a line in the water.