What Every 13-Year-Old Should Know

According to my father.

Many fathers, especially my own, view their roles as protector and provider as paramount. Unfortunately for every parent, they know the time will come when their precious bundles will grow up and have to fend for themselves. In order to raise well-rounded, functioning members of society, they must equip their children with all the useful skills and knowledge required to face the big, bad world.

These are skills my father thought every 13-year-old should know:

1. How to gut and skin animals.

Most children learn how to gut a fish, but my mother still admits how creepy she found it when she'd walk into the kitchen and see all her children gathered around a boiled deer head, learning how to skin it properly.

Given that we always lived in a city of over 20,000 people, this skill did not come in handy as often as dear Papi would have liked.

This is a low quality picture of my father and me spending some high quality time together skinning a sea-gull skull. Obviously.

2. How to make poisonous darts.

This skill would be used in combination with skinning and gutting animals. Before you can gut an animal, you need to know how to kill one.

This fulfilled a dual purpose, by teaching us some of our Colombian heritage: also, apparently, the best way to kill an animal in the wild is with poisonous, handmade darts.

3. How to set a snare.

As I write this, it has become clear my dad was obsessed with the idea that his children would, at some point in their lives, be stranded in the wilderness and forced to hunt and gather.

To make the most of our time in the wild, we were encouraged to set some snares that we could then come back and check after a fruitful (hopefully!) poisonous-dart hunting session.

4.  How to potentially kill someone in hand-to-hand combat.

Elbow them in the throat.

We were taught a series of moves that would disarm a person and leave their throat exposed, so that if we were attacked, we could elbow them in the wind pipe, collapse it, and cease someone's breathing...forever.

5. How to knife fight.

Everyone knows suspicious activities can sometimes take place at high school: doing drugs or drinking in the bathroom, schoolyard run-ins, but...knife fighting?

I think parents have a hard time accepting the events that signal their children are growing up. So when I started going to the high school for a few classes a week, it occurred to my dad that I might be challenged to a knife fight by some angst-filled teenager.

An eye-roll and a sigh was the only reaction my mother could offer when she walked into the living room and saw father and daughter positioned in a mock knife battle.

6. How to get out of an attack, without killing someone.

Gouge their eyes out.

If the situation didn't call for the other person to die (i.e. kill or be killed), then a simple eye gouge would do.

"Stick your thumbs into their eyes," he would say. "If stuff isn't squishing out of their sockets and running down your hands, you're not pushing hard enough."

7.  How to harvest worms.

Apart from the basic survival skills, my father also knew that he wanted his children to be business savvy. So he built us a worm farm. Instead of teaching us about responsibility with a reasonable pet, like a dog, we had to learn to care for worms instead.

He began by constructing two big wooden boxes in our basement, filled them with dirt, and threw in some worms. We had to collect all the compost and bury it in the worm crates. We were then taught how to recognize pregnant worms, worm poop, and egg cases.

The worst part? We had to market the worms to our friends. One way to gain an awkward reputation in kindergarten is by trying to sell 30 worms for a dollar to other 6-year-olds. Trust me.

8. How to get rid of the hiccups.

This one actually works 100 per cent of the time. Sadly, my friends will never allow me to use this miracle hiccup cure on them because it basically involves choking them.

Oh, and sometimes you pass out.

This fail-proof way of getting rid of the hiccups involves having someone push their thumbs into your neck (cutting off part of your airway) as you take deep, slow breaths. Providing you don't push too hard the hiccups are cured after a few moments and no one loses consciousness.

As well as knowing how hard to push, other precautions must be taken.

For example, don't do it in public.

On one of the two occasions I did faint from having this done we were in a movie theatre. Luckily for my father, no one was there to witness him choking a 6-year-old and then shaking her awake.

Another time he led my mother into the corner of a pub, where he was caught with his hands around her throat. The man who stumbed into this potential murder scene tried to "save" my mother by soothingly telling my dad "it isn't worth it".

9. How to salsa dance.

No matter how Canadian we are, we were all born (Daniel was fake born) in Colombia. And every self-respecting Colombian knows how to salsa.

I'm sure many other teens would have been embarrassed to see their fathers shimmying and gyrating their hips in the general direction of uncomfortable, white seniors during community street parties. But it was always a source of pride for me.

What isn't a source of pride for me is how my middle-aged father is a better dancer than I am.

10. How to care for your family.

We all know there is nothing my father wouldn't do for his family. Even with all the crazy survival, entrepreneurial, and good-to-know skills, we can always return to home-base for help when needed.

And, when the time comes when we can't, he made sure we can turn to each other.

So whenever my father goes off on yet another crazy, long-winded explanation on how to heal wounds with maggots (they eat the rotten flesh), we just sit and listen dutifully.

Because there isn't much we wouldn't do for him either.

 My dad sewing sequins onto one of my dance costumes. He was the family sewer. 

I included this just because it's so cute. 

Lost at Sea

I'm sure that when you become a parent, you compose a list of the many terrifying scenarios that you hope will never befall your children:  

...car accidents, eaten by bears, addicted to drugs or alcohol, kidnappings, accidentally leaving them in the produce aisle (my mother did this with Daniel).

So when your phone rings late at night and your children are away from home, either because they have moved out or are attending a sleepover, that list is on the forefront of your mind.

In most cases, it probably turns out to be an inconsiderate friend. In other cases, it's the Coast Guard telling you that your son is "lost at sea".

It was late at night when the call came. My mother, father and I were all piled into their bed watching T.V.

From the way my mother's expression changed into one of absolute fear, we instantly knew something very bad had happened.

Earlier that night, Julian and two friends had left for a camping trip on Myrtle Rocks in Powell River. At low tide, people can walk to the island; at high tide, as it was that night, it is completely surrounded by water.

The Coast Guard told my mother that someone had heard my brother calling out repeatedly for help from the water. According to the witness, Julian was lost in the ocean, desperate for aid. 

By the time our family was contacted, helicopters had been dispatched, boats sent to search the ocean, and flares shot to light the way.

The screams for help had long since stopped.

 Like this, but more night and flare guns.

The next hour was terrible for our family. My mother sat in silent terror, my father was repeating prayers and I didn't know how to react. A couple hours later, we got the call.

Julian was safe.

It was a typical Julian story. Once the other boys stepped onto the island, they abandoned him with all the bags to carry up onto the rocks. Upset at being left with all the heavy lifting, Julian began calling out to his friends: “Help me!” 

The longer he waited, the more desperate his calls became. To anyone listening from the mainland, without the luxury of light to see by, it sounded like someone was drowning.

Not too long after that, the flare-helicopter-Coast-Guard dance began. Delighted, the boys settled in to watch the show. Little did they know it was all for them.

Ten thousand tax dollars, one emotionally distraught family, and an entertained Julian later, the whole ordeal was over.

Thankfully, since Julian was completely unaware of the chaos he had caused, he was not forced to pay back the cost of the rescue mission. He did, however, have some real explaining to do with Mom and Dad.

With all the scars it left on our psyches, this was definitely one of the more memorable moments in the Biagi Family Chronicles.

Cake in a Bag

"Cake in a Bag" refers to 12 years of school lunches.

I might be hurting myself here by admitting that my mom made my school lunches every day right up until graduation. I know most kids took over that responsibility in the 6th grade, but I'm sure if I lived at home I'd still be bringing "Cake in a Bag" lunches to uni. 

My mom will be the first to admit that she wasn't Stepford material when it came to making our lunches. But as disorganized as she always was, it was infinitely better than letting my dad make you a sandwich. I think I was actually given a jam, Cheese Whiz, Marmite, ham sandwich once (you'll notice the overuse of condiments, refer back to "The Kitchen" post). 

So let me explain this a little better. The reason why I have dubbed lunches prepared by my mom "Cake in a Bag" is because absolutely everything went in one. And I don't mean nicely wrapped and placed in brown lunch bags. I mean plastic sandwich bags.

My earliest memory of these bagged lunches is way back when we still lived in Nova Scotia. I must have been five or six. My mom had sent me to school with half a jar of applesauce dumped into a zip-lock bag. I was so made fun of for it that I put it back in my rabbit-shaped knapsack and ate it back at home.

Another lunch, more common in my high school days, was the build-your-own hot-dog in a bag. This was a two-bag lunch. The first zip-lock would contain the cooked hot dog and bun, the second would contain all the condiments. Ketchup, mustard and relish would be squeezed into a bag and left to mingle together until noon. Once my friends and I had made our way to the cafeteria, I would have to turn the bag with the unhappy-looking mixture inside out and wipe it onto the hot-dog. People noticed.

Then there was the grocery bag, bagged lunch. There are two versions of this. One version is the makeshift sandwich bag. This is a grocery bag, knotted, then cut above the knot. The second is the more complex double tied, stacked lunch.

For example, let's say, if I was sent to school with a samosa and sauce, the sauce would be dumped into the bottom of the bag, the bag would be knotted, the samosa placed on top, and the bag knotted again.

Step one: untie the first knot, get samosa. Step two: untie second knot, rub sauce-covered bag on samosa. Step three: eat as your peers watch in disgust.

Now, the most famous of all bagged lunches, the one that really seemed to make an impression on people was the favourite "Cake in a Bag". 

"Cake in a Bag" was a constant throughout my whole school career. If we had cake at home, for some reason, we would also get some in our school lunches as a special treat. So, if we had your standard birthday cake with icing at home, my mom would cut off a huge piece and stuff it into a zip-lock.

On some unfortunate occasions, the bag would be overstuffed and burst open in your knapsack, covering everything in chocolate and butter icing. Not having a lunch box, these bagged lunches would hastily get thrown in with your books--getting pretty squished up--and becoming pretty unidentifiable.

Maybe the reason Cake in a Bag is the most famous of the Biagi lunches is because of the way you would end up eating it. Since my mom was usually too rushed to remember a spoon, we would end up squeezing the now mostly liquidized cake into our mouth, like a tube of toothpaste.

Unfortunately, these are the habits that seem to get passed down from parent to child: like the time I was working in the A-Team office and took my surprise birthday cake home by squishing it into large zip-lock as confused coworkers and producers looked on. How professional of me.

One of the downfalls of being brought up Biagi is that you eventually begin to think this is the normal way of doing things. It isn't until you notice the wide-eyed stares are that you begin to question it. In other words, until it's too late.

The Kitchen

Or, the land of surprises.

And not good surprises. No fresh apple pies or shiny new appliances. That wouldn't be very Biagi. No, these surprises are more of the Steven King variety.  

Including but not limited to: Freshly boiled(or boiling), skinned and bleached animal bones drying on the kitchen counter. Stiff, dead birds lining the windowsills. Dried out fish bodies on top of the microwave. Tarantulas. Maggots. Larva. Pet lobsters. Microscopes hovering over whatever insect caught dad's attention that day. Jars preserving animal parts or ones simply labeled "DO NOT DRINK". Liquid nitrogen tubs conserving fish sperm. You get the idea.

Whenever we kids visit home, the first time we walk into the kitchen we instinctually brace ourselves. After we meet the new pets(if we're lucky it will be a new fish, other times it will be one of the cozy creatures mentioned above), the real test of bravery comes in opening the fridge/freezer door.

 Bearer of nightmares

Now, since my mother hates to keep food in the house, food-wise the fridge is a wasteland of condiments. Unfortunately, it's not just food that's kept in our fridge.

A Biagi fridge staple is the maggot filled ramekin. The theory is that dad will collect the larva(to feed to his fish) before they become flies and swarm the house. That's the theory. Only too often do we open the fridge and find a ramekin dish swarming with flies. A sight enough to kill even the biggest condiment appetite. At this point, we barely even register their existence and eat away.

Again, because of our mother's hatred for keeping fresh food in the house, mostly everything gets stuffed in the freezer. This means that if we want to eat anything beyond spoonfuls of mayo, we have to go freezer digging. 

One time, as I prepared some pancakes, I asked my friend Baillie to get out the ice cream. Looking over my shoulder towards a strange noise, I saw her standing there, clutching a dripping, blood soaked bag. This bag, no doubt, contained some sort of roadkill my dad peeled off the street and stuffed in our freezer.

In fact, my dad so much loves to collect roadkill and stuff it in our freezer that we have several ice-cream tubs marked "Dead Stuff" laying around. Julian has been known to hide the roadkill on the streets near our house in bushes so my dad won't drag it home. And, if the roadkill is too large for our freezer, my dad will gift it to a friend because, hey, who doesn't like to arrive home and find a dead raccoon draped across their doorstep?

(Everyone)

Our Kitchen of horrors is often the focus of many heated arguments between my parents.

One time I walked into the house to my father demanding to know why my mother "won't learn to be a supportive wife and help [him] build a damn freeze drier!". Her lack of excitement about his new way to harvest even more(!) animal carcasses clearly devastated him. Like that was part of her vows.

My brother just witnessed my mother being scolded for putting my father's worm collection on the deck, accidentally resulting in the worms' deaths. How could a decent person put worms, living creatures, out in the cold like that? As they probably had families and a mortgage.

With a Christmas visit scheduled, I can only imagine what new surprises await us in the Biagi kitchen. No doubt they'll odd, frightening, or just a basic health risk. I don't think it's a coincidence we all have amazing immune systems. But I guess that's just one of the many perks of being brought up Biagi.

The Time the Boys Almost Went to War

And I'm not talking about Afghanistan.

Now, with Afghanistan out of the way, what other war would two young Canadian men participate in ? There isn't one. That's the point.

Back in March 2008, Colombia and Venezuela were on the brink of war, threatening to drag other South American countries into war with them. The Colombian military had crossed over into Ecuador and murdered 16 guerrilla FARC fighters. This really pissed off Chavez, and he sent thousands of troops and tanks to line the border between his country and Colombia. The news troubled my family. My father was born and raised in Colombia, my mother lived there for 8 years, both Julian and I were born there, and Daniel was fake born there.

As much as this news troubled the family, my parents being who they are, couldn't resist the temptation to have a little fun at my brothers' expense. So they e-mailed them and told them they would soon be shipped off to battle, of course.

vs.

Who would you put your money on?

Military service is compulsory in Colombia. This led the boys to believe the Colombian government would, in the midst of a huge scale war threat, track them down in Powell River/Victoria and force them into the front lines.

The boys eventually got in touch with my parents on the phone. Mum and Dad quickly realized that Daniel and Julian were taking this war situation seriously. As any responsible parents would, they confessed their joke and put the boys' minds at ease.

Oh wait, no they didn't

They convinced them they were definitely going to war. Soon too, my parents expected. It was their patriotic duty as well as the law. Consequences for not going would be inhumane. They were definitely going to war.

This, of course, was complete bullshit.

This, of course, was unknown to my brothers.

It was hard not to hear the concern in their voices when the subject was brought up. It had been a while since either of them had been on a hike, and now they were expected to fight guerrilla jungle-dwellers with machetes. I bet Julian now wished he had participated when my dad taught us the basics of knife fighting.

Sadly, it didn't take Daniel or Julian long to conclude that they would most likely not be drafted. After they came to this conclusion, you can bet they denied ever having entertained the idea in the first place. Although I'm sure it came as a relief when the confrontation between the two countries basically amounted to nothing.

I'm not really sure what possessed my parents to convince their sons they were going off to war and, certainly, their deaths. But they thought it was hilarious. I guess that's just what you have to learn to expect when you're brought up Biagi.

Travel Preparations

As I discussed with Daniel, it's hard to find a starting point for this self appointed task. So instead of beginning at the beginning, a tired and boring way to tell stories, I'll start off at some random point in time and leave chronological order for goody-goody writers who care about not confusing readers. And just to keep things really interesting, I'll probably throw in some spelling mistakes and grammatical errors too. Build some suspense.

So...

A little over a year ago, a couple of friends and I decided to go to Europe for 3 months. We were young, curious and wanted to drink for half the price. A trip of this magnitude obviously required some thorough planning. This is where my dad stepped in, to offer some fatherly advice and wisdom.

As any protective father would be, dad was not too happy for his daughter to prance around Europe alone. He knew the real risks involved and needed to make sure we knew them too. He opted for an educational video. This movie, he told us, was a realistic depiction of what we might expect when we got off the plane. He gathered my friend and me together, sat us down, and told us to "really take note". The movie began. That movie was "Taken".

The next two hours were filled watching two girls get kidnapped, forced to do drugs, sold into slavery and prostituted(without forgetting the car chases, murder, and torture tactics) my dad sat with us to discuss this very possible scenario. "This might happen," he reassured us with tear filled eyes, "and I don't have the contacts he had. I'd never find you in time. You'd probably be dead after a couple of weeks". Now in his defense, my dad was raised in Colombia, where people do get kidnapped and are never heard from again. So we can't be too hard on him for probably thinking this was a documentary. He left for home confident we had come to our senses.

A while later, when I went to visit my parents, it became clear to him his documentary didn't change our plans. He decided to abandon scare tactics and turn to reason. He focused on work.

While this was happening, I had just spent the past 10 months working on the movie "The A-Team".

Another documentary featuring Liam Neeson

His major argument was that the film industry was a hard industry to break into. If I took 3 months off, all my contacts would forget about me and then I'd probably be expected to sleep my way back in. Again, with tears in his eyes, he argued the evils of the casting couch and that if I went traveling for 3 months, I would definitely never work again. If I wasn't being sold into prostitution in Europe, I'd probably be expected to pick it up when I got back. This very rational argument fell on deaf ears.

Distraught he couldn't change our minds about the trip, he decided he would chaperon us. He would take 3 months off work to travel with his daughter and her 2 friends. This idea was shot down before it was even completely voiced.

The next morning I was shaken awake by my very excited father. He had finally come up with a solution that would make everyone happy. We could go to Europe, have a good time, and he would come too. I rolled my eyes, the Alzheimer's was setting in early, when he concluded his plan. "I'll come with you to Europe, but you'll never see me!" he said with child-like enthusiasm. He would transform into some kind of middle-aged super spy and guard us from a distance. He would utilize his Colombian street smarts to basically stalk us around Europe. He would lurk in dark bar corners and sleep in alleys outside our hostels. Completely undetectable.

This is what my dad looks like ALL the time.
He is basically the first person you notice in every single situation.
He is wearing three pairs of glasses in this picture. He thinks this is incredibly functional. Note he is driving a car like this.
Also, he has a giant unruly mustache and looks like a criminal.

His spy alter ego plan was quickly killed. That was his final plea. He accepted that I was going to Europe and let it be. He let me go with only one request. That request was to wear a SPOT tracker on my belt at all times, sending him an hourly update of my exact global coordinates.


We settled for me pushing the button once a day. When he needed to come rescue me from drug dealing, prostitute selling Europeans, at least he'd have a starting point. Although it would "really mess up [his] retirement".