Pages Wednesday, October 24, 2012 As I happily prepare for our new life in India, New Zealand persistently interrupts. I woke this morning to a kind email from John Glennie. He'd just read a post I'd written long ago about his 119-day nightmare adrift with a hardy crew aboard the capsized Rose-Noelle. After they'd washed ashore on New Zealand territory they'd briefly been accused of being drug smugglers. Just what they needed after a life-and-death struggle that nearly destroyed their souls. He wanted to bring my attention to a new piece he'd written about what it takes for the human spirit to survive such an ordeal. The crew of the Rose-Noelle after being rescued. His email, a typically upbeat and unsentimental Kiwi communication, was a welcome hand across the large divide that has arisen between my now and my Kiwi time. Then, in Hindi class, we were handed a newspaper article to read and translate. Hindi still looks like a drug-induced hallucinagenic scribble to me. But, bit by bit, I came to realize I was reading about the mega-earthquake Amy and I had been through in Christchurch . Though we in the class had none of the words in the article, when my teacher asked for someone to translate, I volunteered. I made everything up, of course, but all the words came from my time in Christchurch. Even my old buddy Mayor Bob Parker was quoted, and I knew the sort of thing he'd say. My teacher, accustomed to looking