Where's Wilson?

In the Millennium year it was Castaway Tom Hanks who befriended a volleyball on an island in the South Pacific. Fed-exit 12 years into the future and I have became just as attached to an inanimate companion, a frisbee called Wilson.

Wilson is no ordinary airborne object. He is in fact a hollow ring or ‘Aerobie Pro’ to his flying mates. Effortless when hovering and a climber of clouds, he can loop to the left or right with ease, and circle work the sand when he lands. This svelte piece of sporting equipment is listed in the Guinness Book of Records after flying 406 meters with a single throw. Look out London!

Far from following the movie script, hurtling into the ocean and washing up on the shores of a deserted island, the setting could not have been more serene for my friends, Wilson and me to bond on a beach south of Batemans Bay. We hit the sand armed with surfboards, surf skis, footies, fishing rods and enough toys to leave the Pixar prop department empty at Easter time. But amongst all the paraphernalia, it was Wilson who flew above the pack and became the centre of attention.

For three days Wilson was a ring of confidence who cheated death at every rotation. Thrown and pulled in all directions, he remained in surprisingly good shape during a frenetic 30-minute game of beach-frisbee netball. No sooner had the full-time whistle blown than Wilson was found hanging from an ocean cliff top ringed by razor-sharp rocks. He was rescued from a grassy landing strip in fading light and even managed to escape stray fidos’ snappy jaws.

There was nothing Wilson could not accomplish, except float. Wet Wilson was no Thorpedo. On dozens of aborted flights and 'splashdown' into the surf, his metal skeleton sent Wilson spinning to the ocean floor quicker than a diving bell. In response, my friends, their kids, even Tilly the labradoodle, duck dived in between the breakers like a squadron of cormorants desperately searching for our buddy. Caught in a rip and Castaway in the direction of New Zealand, if it wasn't for his fleuro-green attire, Wilson’s watery end would have come much sooner.

A cat might have nine lives, but a wayward frisbee enjoys no such luck. For Wilson it was three strikes and you’re out with the tide. Vale poor Wilson. You were an ace pilot and everyone’s best friend but your swimming sucked.