An older man travels over sea and land in quest of new adventures
Author: Fred Bailey
Fred is a slightly-past middle age sailor / writer / photographer with plenty of eclectic hands-on skills and experiences. Some would describe him as the old hippy who doesn't know the war is over. He is certainly reluctant to grow up and readily admits to being the eternal dreamer.
He has written several books including two novels, 'The Keeper' and 'Storm Ecstasy,' as well as 'The Water Rushing By', 'Sins Of The Fathers', 'The Magic Stick', as well as an extensive inventory of poetry, essays, short stories, anecdotes and photographs.
His first passion is the ocean, sailboats, voyaging and all those people who are similarly drawn to the sea. He lives aboard 'Seafire' the boat he is refitting to go voyaging, exploring new horizons both inner and outer. This blog is about that voyage and the preparations for it. In spite of the odds against it, the plan is to sail away this fall and lay a course southward. If you follow this blog your interest may provide some of the energy that helps fuel the journey.
Namaste
Contact him at svpaxboat@gmail.com
Old Neptune looks down in Victoria Harbour. I wonder how many folks notice him.
( No offence Billy Connolly) The title line once appeared in a previous blog about a campground in Arizona. I used it again as I left a campground in Sooke. The campground operator was preparing for a Bluegrass festival on the upcoming weekend. He was rolling his eyes already as tents sprouted all round and practising bands picked their way through the morning. “You’re got a a wild weekend ahead I see,” I intoned. “By Monday morning you’ll be saying, I used to like banjo music.” his smile was so forlorn. At least the weather was perfect.
Keep your blinkers on…it’s nuts out here. Some animal-rights advocates want to ban horse-drawn carriages in Victoria because of the traffic danger. My experience with work horses leaves me believing they enjoy their work.If only horses could talk!
The weather has eased into rainy days which we so desperately need. It is cool and variable. Those of us wanting to get some brightwork done on our boats are a bit frustrated but there will be plenty of hot, dry days ahead and every drop of rain is precious. Meanwhile I’m muddling with some major changes in my personal life. It’s a time of darkness. I’m not feeling particularly articulate at the moment but I’m still finding joy in life through my photography.
A lineup of rental/tour bikes. A great way for visitors to see the city, …and no-one seems worried about their safetyWhen I was a kid this was an ultimate accessory.
Here are lots of pictures for my readers, many taken on a recent orbit to the West of Victoria.
“ A true photograph need not be explained.
Nor can it be contained in words.”
… Ansel Adams
The War Bitch Nothing glorious in reality, victorious or not.Now THAT’S a lawn ornament! The old Sheringham Point Light , salvaged to make a small museum in Sooke on Southern Vancouver Island.Through a window, a scene from a woodcutter’s cabin just as it was left.Bath Day, Laundry Day gone byBAT MAN…The time-faded emblem of International Harvester Co.Simple complexity An old gillnet drum quietly returning to the forest it came fromA very happy three-legged dog fetching balls in the clear water of the upper Sooke River PotholesFAMILY Off for an afternoon through an old orchard to the beaches, fields and forest trails of East Sooke Park. The park is huge and delightful.One of many old farm meadows in East Sooke Park. Yes it IS real!The Low Road A well-worn path on the way to Becher PointBecher Point Petroglyph, you’ve got to look for it! Looking out on Juan De Fuca Strait and the shores of the Olympic Peninsula WANow can you see it? It is etched in solid granite.Smooth! Arbutus limbs and a spider’s web.ZORRO was here!Race Rocks Lighthouse in the distance. This granite monolith was pre-manufactured in Scotland, sailed around Cape Horn and assembled on site. Imagine the storms it’s weathered.Mamostratus clouds over the marina. no tricks, that’s the way they were.An all-natural, completely organic light show.
“Take me to your leader…if there’s any intelligent life up there.” A Medusa Jellyfish stuck under the dock. Amazingly, it struggled quite heartily for a while, then relaxed and let the tide take it on its’ way. Captions: ‘Drugs!’ or ‘I think it winked at me!’
They tried to be furtive, at least when they were leaving. The long weekend had drawn to an end. A collective thunder rose as the armada of white fibreglass boats started their engines. A collective funk of cold diesel engine fumes choked the marina and then the shouting began. Few skippers backed or turned their vessel into the dock when arriving. Then began the ordeal of getting pointy ends facing the right way.
Liskable. I love wooden boats, especially if they belong to someone else. All that scraping and varnishing.
Despite the easy manouverability of twin engines, and bow thrusters, even on some sailboats, there was an improv dance involving waving book hooks, tangled lines mis-thrown as some boats were turned by hand. More than one vessel had a matriarch on the foredeck bellowing instructions. Sometimes there was a nimrod on the dock shouting even more orders although he had no attachment to any boat. (I know these fellows are trying to be helpful but I wonder if some don’t go off to the local mall and try to shoulder and tug cars in or out of their parking spaces.) It is all great entertainment. I hope no marriages came to an end.
It rained on their parade but they seemed to have fun.My favourite of the weekend, and she’s one of a kind built in fibreglass. ‘Romance’ arrived with the sweet music of a softly chuffing Gardiner diesel and a Golden Retriever hanging over the name board.Say no moreIn the early morning rainTis so!
Bemusing when it occurs on one vessel, sometimes there are half a dozen boats or more at it all at once. It becomes a scene from a bad movie. “Cirque Du Mer.” Eventually they all slink off toward open water, their cold engines blurping and belching, a mixed din of twin engined vessels
‘Nimpkish’ a converted seine boat
with names like ‘Serenity,’ ‘ Tranquility,’ ‘Zepher’ or ‘Time Out.’ A collective sigh of the regular marina residents rises above the wafting exhaust cloud. They’re gone! Finally! Then today’s new transient armada begins to arrive. This will go on all summer. One new boat, a single engined fibreglass trawler hull, quietly idled in. She spun sweetly into the dock and kissed it, now facing the right way. An elderly couple calmly stepped onto the docks, easily secured their lines and settled in with no drama. It was bliss to watch, poetry in motion. The name of the boat was perfect, ‘Schmoochee.’ Seamanship; yet it lives.
Elbow Grease and love.MV ‘Tum Tum’
A sail charter boat, with a cargo of very-far-inland folks arrived adjacent to my berth and began attempting to back into the night’s slip. The crew, in gaudy storm gear and silly hats, milled about
‘Fifer Lady’ built in Fife Scotland in the 1930’s and shipped to Victoria
on deck, each flailing their own boat hook. The skipper furiously manipulated the bow thruster, throttle and helm, but all manoeuvres proved pointless (Now that’s a clever pun) The tide was slack, there was no wind, it was clear and warm. The more frustrated he became, the more random his efforts proved. Finally one stout lady lept intrepidly and impatiently off the stern quarter and began heaving the vessel into position. A tall gangly fellow, holding the breast line, and who should have been first onto the dock, finally stretched his long heron legs down onto the float all the while continuing to text with one thumb!
LinesCaptain’s Gig
The things I wanted to say! Even my old dog Jack, usually gregarious, wanted nothing to do with this mob. Their karma had run over his dogma. When the portly leaper began effusing endearments at Jack like “C’mere Honey” and “Hi Darling” I looked up from the project I knelt at on my dock and offered “Oh! You’re talking to the dog!” She huffed over to a neighbouring boat where a geriatric St. Bernard reclined on deck and began coo-cooing at him. Bernie’s response was a rumbling throaty growl. “Jeez,” she exclaimed, “Nobody’s very friendly around here!”
A picture of persistent love.Under the hood. A vintage Hercules diesel.” Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble…when you’re perfect in every way.”
The next weekend was cold, wet and blustery, yet the marina hosted a wooden boat gathering. It was bliss indeed to see these examples of much loved old wood, copious varnish and gleaming brass. Despite the poor light, I did my best to take some worthy photographs. Now the weekend has passed, the skies are again clear and calm.Did anyone really expect something different. Sadly, we are experiencing what seems to be the beginning of a severe drought this summer. Every drop of rain is precious. I suspect it might have something to with the US Presidential Race. All that hot air!
Finally I slipped my own lines and left the harbour. A friend on Gabriola had an engine problem in his boat. ‘Seafire’ needed some water rushing past her bottom to clean off the spring aquatic growth and so here I am in Degnen Bay. I awoke after a calm night to the sound of roosters and sheep. Farmland comes down to the tide line and life seems as it should. The bay is allegedly named after a local pioneer but it is worth noting that many nearby place names were bestowed by Spanish explorers. Descanso means “to rest” and I wonder if degnen is not a derivative with similar meaning. In any case, it is hard to shake off the peaceful lethargy here. I’m savouring my coffee this morning well aware of my proficiency at dissecting the Spanish language. Nada!
Degnen BayDegnen Bay petroglyph. It covers at high tide.Peregrine Falcon Nest. a penthouse over a Purple Martin nesting box.Feeling down at the bow? Loagy, sluggish, nail-sick? Are you feeling abandoned and unloved. YOU’RE NOT ALONE!
Back in Ladysmith I plod away at a few projects and wonder what to do for income. I certainly don’t feel like trying to hold a regular job but there are bills to pay and dreams to chase. Meanwhile a third weekend arrives since I began this blog. Now the Maritime Society is holding its annual “Pirate Day’. There are certain folks now wandering the docks dressed in outlandish Hollywood costumes and playing at being children again. I can’t condemn it just because I don’t understand it and know millions of people love festivals and occasions to wear disguises and pretend to be someone else. There’s a bullhead fishing competition for the children. I’ve been warned in consideration of Jack to beware abandoned wiener bait with hooks attached. They were right. I got one stuck in my tongue!
Finally, she cried “JATOBA!” totally in delight. “I thought you’d never finish!” I’ve just completed designing and building a cockpit table for some marina neighbours. It was a challenging design-as-you-go project requiring lots of innovative thinking between steps. Of course, looking at the job now, I’m left wondering what was so difficult working it all out. Yeah right. I did not have to buy any more wood because of an oops and I still have all of my fingers.
Because teak is priced beyond belief and I found some Jatoba lumber at a very fair price; guess what? Jatoba has many names including “Brazilian Cherry” It is a stable wood, very dense, resinous, and very, very heavy, and very beautiful. It is also incredibly hard and is most commonly used here for flooring. Whilebeing milled, the rough lumber repeatedly stalled a friend’s industrial planer. It is also sinewy stuff and destroyed one new $45.00 router-bit in minutes.
The Rum BoardMy Mexican furniture factory. I found the election hat in Sinaloa and needed it here to keep the sun from blistering my noggin. Click on this or any photo to enlarge it. Note how blue the recently-new router bit has become. This is VERY hard wood!Nearly finished. What gorgeous boards!Meanwhile, back on board ‘Seafire’… New Davits…and new cockpit seats. Yep, more Jatoba!
Sadly, this wood comes from Central America and each massive tree taken is a death knell to a rich eco-system of old growth forest. I do feel a twinge of guilt using the wood and I realize that saying the lumber was already in the pile is a lame excuse. I do feel the sacred fibre was used for a noble project and that by flagellating myself in published word I am raising awareness of our consumer compulsions. I hope my humble alter to exploitation is washed in free-trade rum many times in the years ahead. This, the third weekend through which this blog has been written, is blistering hot, airless and languid. Even the summery din of motorcycles on the nearby highway is gone. There are no sirens. I close my eyes and think of Mexico. Then a parrot farts.
Feeling nearly faded as a rose. But still beautiful. Uh huh!
“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”
A Weary Traveller. I found this moth on the hood of my vehicle. His wingspan was about three centimetres. The photo was taken with my cell phone. Some new technology is amazing.
It’s blog o’clock. I haven’t written a blog in a while and, at the moment, don’t really have much exciting to write about but my readers should be warned that yet I live. Each day is pretty mundane. Life is ticking by, my health is improving and the wounded ankle is slowly healing. I’m walking and swimming as much as possible. Part of my dream is to hike along cactus-studded ridges and look down on this boat anchored in translucent warm, green waters below me. Yeah, like the Sea Of Cortez! I want to be in good shape for that and I know that being in big shape is a death spiral. I reckon that I’m packing around the equivalent of a sack of concrete in my Value Village jeans. If any of you flat-bellied folks want to get ready for winter, I’ll make you a package deal on several pounds of blubber.
“Lard Tunderin’ Jasus!” As fierce as it looked, this cumulonimbus cloud fizzled out and faded away. A snap-shot taken with my cell phone while at a stoplight.
I’m also beginning to realize that I imbibe a buffet of prescription medications. I’m sensing that the pills are a toxic stew which does nothingto improve or maintain good health. It may be having the opposite effect and I’m noting how one thing leads to the next. Is my excess weight due, in part, to the influence of my daily drugs? I know that when I’ve sworn off some of these concoctions, the weight loss is soon noticeable. One new prescription’s fine print noted that if mixed with another drug, already in my daily intake, there could be dire consequences. At three bucks a day for this one poison, I declined to participate in someone else’s Porsche payment program.
Profusion. Scotch Broom, an invasive species, seems to have especially brilliant flowrs this spring, much to the delight of thousands who are allergic to its pollen.A free tree in every one! Cottonwood seeds enjoy their say, much to the irritation of those with allergies
It’s my body and it’s up to me what goes into it. A personshould not blindly trust strangers to keep an eye on the details of their health anymore than one should trust a new mechanic with their vehicle. It’s simple. If the flab goes, so do the damned pills and perhaps, if the pills go, so does that excess weight. It’s all connected. And so pass the rum, chum. Now that’s a medicine I understand and can even advocate. Yes I’m aware of the side effects. That’s why I drink it!
“C’mon up to my box baby” Purple Martins at their nesting box beside ‘Seafire’When the summer’s business of raising chicks and eating tons of bugs, the Martins will fly all the way back to Mexico. Enviable I think!
Meanwhile I’m tinkering the boat back into good shape and watching other boats come and go. Damn! That makes for a big itch! There have been some beauties pass through already. One monstrous old Tolly Craft appeared within the painful thunder of two extremely loud Detroit Diesels. (If a tugboat produced that much noise, it would never have a crew.) Everyone in the marina was holding their ears. The geriatric skipper wore an intercom headset and mercifully shut the engines down promptly. The yacht gleamed and although it displayed no name, it caught even my eye. Within minutes of docking, the couple aboard it were out, up, down and around polishing and buffing. That went on until sundown when the flickering blue of television filled the vessel’s cabin. Wot a life! A Fart Parkerson-type sailboat next appeared bearing the name “High Heels.” There are things I just don’t understand. All that money, apparently, with no imagination. Yesterday an old geezer pulled up beside me at a stoplight. He was driving an Audi R8, a gorgeous, rare sports car. Its V10 motor rocketed the car away as if I’d only imagined seeing it. I looked it up on the internet and discovered the price tag is $164,000. And it only seats two! (Maybe the chap was a pharmacist!) I wonder how it would look jacked up in the air with big fat wheels.
Warm and fuzzy snow. For a few days there are drifts of Cottonwood seeds Then .it rains. (These large hardwood trees are also commonly known as alder.) They can grow very large. Each seed is about the size of a small grain of salt.
Just off the end of the marina where ‘Seafire’ is berthed, a local marine contractor is breaking up a decommissioned steel tug. I can hardly bring myself to photograph the process. It seems so very sad. Each day there is less of the tug and a higher pile of scrap on the breaker’s barge. The smell of burned paint and the shower of sparks from the cutting torches are like the effluent of an Indian funeral ghat. In a bizarre way I relate to the worn-out old hulk. I hope that when my day comes there is a more glorious or, at least, discreet ending.
A dissection in progress. The bow stem cap and forebits are lifted away. How many hours I’ve spent off-watch leaning on bits like these while watching the world go by! It was as far away from the noise and the rest of the crew you could get.
Call It Fred
There may well come a time,
When I’ll be shark shit.
I hope, at least, the bottom feeder will be a fish
And not a politician.
How my time in this dimension
Comes to an end I do not know
Except that with luck it will occur while at sea.
Hopefully I can be afforded the dignity of being discharged
in something like a sailbag ballasted enough
to take me quickly to a depth where the big fish are.
Passing through the belly of a gleaming sleek beast
I will become an object of low regard
Yet I will still exist, drifting, dissolving, feeding little fish.
They in turn, as you know, will feed bigger fish and so on
Until a time arrives when I am a shining smiley in your net.
You came name that fish.
Call it Fred,
It’ll all be the same to me.
The aspiration of finding a decent J.O.B. is dwindling. Apparently nobody wants to hire an old fart like me and pay me for my decades of experience. I also do not have a certificate or license for much of anything. You seem to require a document to do anything now and I marvel at all the things I have done in my life without paperwork. As we all know, a ticket is no assurance of competence but I won’t get into that rant now. I also have no interest or social skill to be a box store greeter or a security guard so, I’m desperately looking for a clever and legal means of producing an income, hopefully something I can do while travelling. That of course means working online and this Cyber-Neanderthal has got some adventures ahead on that path. In my heart of hearts, I don’t really want employment ever again, but there are other realities. Living under a bridge is not one of my ambitions.
A boat with no name, all fifty-plus feet of her. It does have an oxygen tent. This glorious, gleaming stinkpot represents values I can’t comprehend. (But I wish I could afford it!)
High Heels …enough said.
It is now past mid-May and proving to be a very dry spring. Hopefully Vancouver Island does not end up burning like Fort McMurray but a serious drought does appear imminent this year. The creeks are dry already and the days are an endless stream of cloudless warmth. Every day, in an effort to stave off the blues and various anxieties I try to find the beauty in the world around me. Some days that is especially hard to see, but not because it isn’t there.
Tubular Bells
Other mornings the amazing natural wealth all around becomes obvious in overwhelming clarity. With the dry spring the wildflowers are profuse. I’m trying to improve my skills with the photo mode of my LG cell phone. It can produce some excellent high-quality images despite the clumsiness I find in using it. I’ve restricted my photography for the moment to that single device. All the photos (Except those of the birds) in this blog were taken with that one mobile phone.
Columbine among the blackberries
So, this blog proves to be another photo essay. “Thar be new adventure to write about just over the horizon Billy! Stay the course!”
The Nurse StumpEverywhere you look!Leaves of grass There is richness and beauty even in the simple symmetry of a clump of grass.Morning cuddle
“There are times when the wolves are silent and the moon is howling.” George Carlin
Cruising in Ireland? Actually it’s Spieden Island in the San Juan Islands (Click on photos to enlarge)Into the mystic. San Juan sunset.
There’s no wrencher like an old wrencher; and a sea wrencher at that. There’s also no fool like an old fool! And so there I was with a dead engine in the tide slop’s rock ‘n roll off Smith Island in the Eastern end of Juan De Fuca Strait. The forecast wind had not developed. I couldn’t sail. The boat was drifting backwards toward the open ocean which is not a bad thing, but the tide would eventually turn and the wind would rise from the wrong direction. I contemplated that if all else failed, I could inflate my dinghy and use it’s outboard motor to tow mother boat toward safe haven. It was looking like a long day ahead. My fuel system was sucking air. Diesels demand an unadulterated supply of clean fully liquid fuel.
How ya doing’ Duen? One of my favourite Canadian charter boats, Baltic built, almost a hundred years old and still earning her way.Arrgh! Furling the headsails, the old fashioned way. Fun in steep seas!Seafire clearing US Customs in Roche HarbourPlastic Galore Part of a Selene Yacht rendezvous in Roche Harbour
Back in February I posted a blog about my new used fuel filter brackets and how, for once, I’d beaten the system by recycling cast-off parts. I’ll never bloody learn! It turns out that those parts should probably have gone into the garbage. This old country boy has spent a lifetime trying to make silk purses out of pig ears or, put another way, spending thousands to save dimes. Another expression has to do with putting lipstick on a pig. No matter how you go about it, in the end you still have a pig. Well, all good sailors have a knife in their pocket and soon enough I swallowed my pride, cut the fuel hoses and bypassed those “free” filter assemblies. A little bleeding of the system and then a very sweet purrr! Albeit I was now running on a single set of filters, but I was under way. I glumly motor-sailed on toward Port Townsend realizing all of my efforts with the new/old filters were for nothing. Now I have to take it all apart and put it back together with new filter assemblies, probably worth about $500. plus all the repeat labour. I was proud enough to have figured out what to do out there, it’s what I’ve done for a living. Most folks would have sat there waiting for salvation. But then most folks would have had it done right the first time. (No tools were lost in the bilge during this adventure.)
Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding. There are several other shops to the school.The whole town of old Port Hadlock. Original tiny houses!The lights were on and someone was home
There’s no point in crying over spilled diesel. I’ve run away from the accrued tedium of health issues and the long weeks of couch potatoing (So now I’ve turned potato into a verb) and immediately discoverd a new bit of hurt.
Clematis cottage, Port Hadlock
Serves me right. I was admonished not to be expecting “Bailing out” if I went to the US with only a pocketful of medications and no health insurance. Because I’ve been in the hospital recently I can’t get traveller’s medical insurance. We all know horror stories about Canadians in the US needing urgent medical attention and not having any medical insurance. They suddenly find themselves with a bill of many thousands and the shit storm is enormous. I travelled in the US for years on business with no medical insurance, which I’ll concede was bloody dangerous and stupid, but I’m following my instincts and hoping for the best. I’ll have to be sure to look both ways when crossing the street. Thank God I’m not a texter! There is, I believe, no emoticon for “I’ve just been hit by a car!”
AJAX CAFE 1977, Apparently a roaring success.Trump yourself a bagpipeSchool for the boatfolk
A piece of my heart is in Port Townsend Bay and the immediate area. It is a very salty place with a long nautical history. The area is a living boat show year round. It is populated by a large number of artsy fartsy boaty nutters like myself. A centre of wooden boat building and rebuilding, sail lofts, nautical foundries and other seafaring fringe industries, it is bliss.
Western Flyer being reborn. Check out WesternFlyer.Org It is one helluva project!All in order. Tools kept5 like this indicate a professional shipwright.that’s a boat name!
The Boat Haven in Port Townsend is a huge Disney-like centre of marine indulgences and you never know what delight lurks around the next corner. Gorgeous boats, old and new, in various states of financial decomposition abound. There is an energy to absorb from all those dreams in varying states of realization. Nearby Port Hadlock is the site of the slowly growing Northwest School of Wooden Boatbuilding where people can develop their sliversmithing skills. It is an apparent success.
Paspatoo foredeck Money can’t buy you everything, but it can pay for all that varhishing
Would you believe that, nestled among its wings, I found a shop selling bagpipes and harps! As it turned out I’d hit a weekend when there was sailor’s exchange on with all sorts of wonderfully priced boat bits (But no fuel filters) I did find a compatible brand-new portlight for my boat, complete with screen for $7. A few other small treasures came home with me as well.
The Sailor’s Exchange Old charts for sale in a puddle in the rain.
Of tremendous delight to me was an open house to view the ‘Western Flyer.’ It is a hulk now languishing in a big boathouse in Port Townsend’s ‘Boat Haven’ Once, it was used in the 1940s voyage of John Steinbeck when he wrote ‘Log From The Sea Of Cortez.’ I had the opportunity to actually touch a sacred icon of both literary and nautical significance. I learned with some chagrin that I had repeatedly passed the boat many times in the Swinomish Canal where it languished as an abandoned hulk and then sank.
THE DIRECTORYFabulous local native art in the old courtroom
Bu odd coincidence, later that same afternoon, I found myself in the ancient basement jail cells of the old Port Townsend Courthouse. It turns out that Jack London was once incarcerated there for a night after a wild turn around the town. My imagination soon created enough horror of what it might have been like in this grim corner. So, twice in one day, a literary pilgrimage! There was a wonderful exhibit of local native art in the old court room upstairs and then a colourful little parade out on the main street of earth day folks..
Jack London slept here
Once the most likely place on earth to be shanghaied, Port Townsend retains some of its former rich colour. (Shanghaiing was the practice of drugging and/or otherwise abducting men to serve as crew on sailing ships.
The Sheriff’s word processor
Some old taverns in Port Townsend still have trapdoors in floors where victims were once slipped down to waiting rowboats. Really!)
The window and the skylight.
Building detail in downtown Port Townsend.
Mainstreet Port Townsend
In the surrounding countryside I was then shown organic farms producing a variety of fine goods from cider and berry wines to cheeses, baking and meats. There is a large effort afoot to return to practical organic farming methods and it seems to be working. Salmon are even returning to long-abandoned streams.
Beach Trash Port Townsend
I sailed for home on Monday morning in a welter of huge steep green lumps and spray. A sou-Westerly wind was building against a large ebb tide. The seas were chaos no matter what the heading steered, ‘Seafire’ endured a long salty baptism and I was very happy to have an inside helm. It was too rough to take any good photos and too briny for the cameras so some images are recorded only in my head. Especially poignant was a beautiful offshore tug westbound while towing a stately old freighter in minimum ballast, trimmed light in the bow, probably off to a breaker’s yard. We passed too far apart for photos so that funereal procession can only be described with words. I dreamed of the sight later that night. This time the tow passed overhead in the sky. The tug and tow were joined by the drooping catenary of the towline, the forward vessel’s twin screws slowly turning. I’ll leave my readers with that fantastic image and post this blog as a photo essay about a grand little voyage which has passed too quickly.
Earth Day paradeWormtrap
Believing my blog was finished, I shut off this laptop and started the engine in preparation for weighing anchor in my final anchorage on Prevost Island. My beloved old Lehman died on me once
“Your mother dresses you funny!”
more. The injection pump is again full of air! After more tweaking, tightening, and several bleedings, it again runs sweetly. So, maybe it is not the new/used bits for which I’ve condemned myself. They’re even not in the system now. Dang! I now have new suspicions and a few possible resolutions. It will be something simple but temperamental mechanical problem is no fun. But then, what’s the meaning of life without its mysteries?
Southbound with a favourable wind…for a few minutesAnchorage at Prevost Island, three more hours to home
“Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.
If either your sails or your rudder be broken, you can but toss and drift, or be held at standstill in mid-seas.”
…. Kahlil Gibran from ‘The Prophet’ as copied from ‘The Soul Solution,’ Bob and Linda Harrington
SQUINT! Another cell-phone photo of daybreak in Dogpatch
Here’s how my luck has been going. I bought two lottery tickets at the local grocery store. As usual, the clerk, after checking my old ones, asked me if she could chuck out them out. By mistake she must have chucked the new ones, which I didn’t discover until several days later. So, bin divers, there’s a 99 trillion dollar winning ticket floating around out there somewhere. Yeah right! I was at the airport when my ship came in. And then I found myself in the hospital. After going to visit the surgeon who “hacked” my leg, I answered a call from my GP. My pulse rate was stuck well over 130 and I was persuaded to go to the hospital for a “couple of hours” to get things checked out.
Moon Bombing DogpatchAnother Fawn Lily
I swear that the only thing done in a hurry at a hospital is how they manage to get you into one of those open-backed bum flapper gowns and to get an intravenous needle jammed into your arm. Then they’ve got you! The first night was spent in a corner of the Emergency Department on a rickety gurney with a severely worn-out mattress. I lay and waited and waited for doctors who never came. Nurses stood in small groups chatting and joking while I felt like yesterday’s roadkill mouldering in the corner. Other inmates groan, cough, weep and bleed. Your personal plight seems to be the least of priorities and of course, you are the most important, don’t they know that? Eventually I complained gently and endured an explanation of why I should write a letter to the government. It is all their fault.
I’m sure everyone who chooses a career in a hospital must start out with the best of intentions. Some just become a bit jaded along the way. It certainly takes a special courage to put in daily long shifts inside those beige walls breathing that stuffy beige air and becoming imbued with beige thinking. (I can hear Billy Connolly shouting about “Feckin’ Beigists) I know I could not do it, my brand of courage lies elsewhere. The complex infrastructure from maintenance people, cleaners, porters, technicians, dieticians, nurses, doctors, to desk pilots and all the others is stunning. I can’t really comprehend the parameters of even one hospital which, to my sentiments, is as complex the Battle Star Galactia. “Gravity engineer please call the switchboard.” The staff is all there to ultimately serve folks who are mangled, slashed, terminally ill, mortally worn-out and infectiously diseased. (And those are just the visitors) Truly, I was generally treated with compassion and respect but I sure am glad to be writing this back at home. At least here the walls are not bloody beige!
I‘ve cooked for a living at times but can’t imagine what is involved in preparing meals in a hospital. It must be horrific. There is a school somewhere for hospital cooking. There must be. Every meal I’ve ever had in hospital, anywhere, all tastes the same, if it has any taste at all. Bleech! If the food is not bad enough, it is delivered in dung-coloured plastic containers which really gets the palette twitching with anticipation. But I can’t imagine how else anyone could do it three times a day. “Ward C, please proceed to the buffet area for your daily gourmet lunch.” Not likely. Good food is a foundation of cheer and well-being and even a little garnish on top of your chunk of rubbery farmed fish would certainly help. I suppose a sack of parsley just can’t fit the annual budget. And wait until someone decides that all that plastic-infused food we eat is a major cause of cancer! That’s another subject. Eh wot, no wine!
At least they fixed me. Apparently electric shock is used to stop the heart, then again to restart the old muscle. I had a vision of jumper cables hooked to each nipple, a horrific zap, then a quick reversing of positive to negative and another Duracell moment. Actually a very large electrode was stuck to my chest and another to my back. That’s all I recall. Thankfully, I was knocked out for the procedure, I don’t remember a thing. It’s rather like defragging and rebooting a computer, all in one swell foop, but it feels like the timing was reset and new spark plugs were installed. I’ve been rebooted. There IS a smell of burned bacon. Whatever transpired, my pulse is back down to a normal rate and I’m beginning to feel like life is worth living. These dreamy pills are intereeesting…..
Abandoned locomotive in Ladysmith. The promise of a working steam museum and a tall ships yard drew me to Vancouver Island in the mid-80s. It never happened.Spring morning light at the roundabout at the foot of the main street in Ladysmith. The monstrous anchor was dredged out of the harbour.
The only other note I’ll offer on ending up in the “horspital “ is that one needs to be aware of the moment. It is all you have. There is no “In a minute,” no “Tomorrow,” no “Maybe next year.” This is it. This very moment is all you’ve got and no one knows what’s coming down the pipe. We DO NOT know what the next moment will bring. It is a thought I often express in this blog but I’m beginning to feel hypocritical spouting about it out. This is blog 100 for me… and I’m still tied to the bloody dock! I can offer whinges about poor health and the resulting low finances but I feel that would be just making excuses. This is the year.
It has to happen within the remaining three quarters of 2016. No more piddling about. Old ‘Seafire’ either finds her way to Southern waters or has to be put up for sale. I want to be writing blogs from within the shade of a cactus or a palm tree. One way or another. It’s got to happen. Somehow!
I know I don’t want to end my days shuffling down a beige hall in a puce bum-flapper pushing a trolly with an IV drip on it with flakes of dried rubber salmon clinging to my beard.
Unwittingly I recently wrote this little bit about exactly that.
RUM AND TEA
Some drink dark rum straight down
others stir weak tea round and round
wondering ten lumps or twelve.
Some cling to the bottom
feeding on whatever drifts by
others soar in the cold dark sky
exploring their passion to fly
so absorbed with life
they have no thought about when they’ll die.
Some worry about dying so much,
they never live.
Some worry about tomorrow
always missing today
some only work
having forgotten a gift called play.
We only have this one moment
and can only regret
what we don’t do.
The Nurse Stump. Life goes on.
Slumped in front of the television last night I watched a silly program about a California couple who had won $180,000,000.US in a lottery. After the IRS was done with them they probably had to scrape by on the remaining half of their winnings. A realtor was leading them around by the nose showing exotic properties. Eventually they settled on a decadent shack (16,000 square feet) on a mountainside to the tune of $5.6 million. All the while they were orgasming their way through this ridiculous faux palace, wifey kept complaining they were over-budget! They finally bought the place, then the bison ranch below them and ultimately all the land to the summit of the mountain above them. It totalled 800 acres. Mother’s final complaint was about the winding steep road. These were the same two hefty folks who were living contentedly in an average suburban home before their windfall. The area surrounding their new dream home sure looked like one of those Californian infringements that loves to explode into flame. I wish them bliss. Yes, I’m jealous, at least for the potential of all that cash.
I know that if I ever found myself immersed in unaccustomed wealth, sure as hell-in-a-handbasket, I might easily wander astray. For the moment, I believe there are people I’d help and causes I’d support, others whom I’d make a point of ignoring and quite probably there would be another certain boat I’d acquire. That is the true value of a lottery ticket, all those dreams to keep you going through an existence such as working in a hospital. Lotteries are indeed the poor man’s tax. To put our Western lives in perspective, there are billions who’d love the decadence of knowing where tomorrow’s groceries are coming from and that the shooting will stop. The notion of going to a hospital for any reason, incomprehensible. Not having to worry about the cost, beyond belief.
We just don’t get it. Do we? I know I don’t, even when I write about it.
Jack out standing In his field. Dogs can teach us so much.
“DO NOT REGRET GROWING OLDER, IT IS A PRIVILEDGE DENIED TO MANY.” …anonymous
I’m baaack! I’ve beaten my long bout with terminal snyphlis. God, three weeks can be a long time! I can take a deep breath once in a while without coughing up any weird biology. Yeehaw! Once in a while you get a sense that maybe, just maybe, things are going to work out. A simple clear breath is such a wonderful thing!
I found a like-new compass on e-Bay, a Dirigo, one of the best names to be had. I made an offer, which time-expired, but I sleuthed out that of all the places on the planet, it was sitting in a pawn shop in Victoria right here on Southern Vancouver Island less than an hour away. I went and bought it for a very good price. The weather was gorgeous and for the first time in weeks I felt fit for living. Jack was along and he deserved a break at his favourite Victoria dog park, Macaulay Point Park, an old artillery fort built in the late 1800s.
For Tony and Connie A spring day view from Macaulay Point to Ogden Point and the Victoria Harbour Entrance. Home Port to ‘Sage.’Jack and the big doghouse. Actually it’s a tunnel providing sheltered access to one of the old gun emplacements at Macaulay Point. Note the build date:1895A view West to Race Point and then the open Pacific. A place which all good things must pass.
Once home the suspense mounted as I headed for the dock to see how well the new compass fit the old box. With some simple inventiveness, one gimbal ring fit inside another and the whole plan fell into place as if it were pre-destined for a long time. A double-gimballed Dirigo! Eat your heart out. Wow! What a feeling after all the weeks of abject misery. Now all I have to do is swing the new compass and we’re ready for sea. What the hell do I mean by “swinging the compass?”
Steady as she goes! My new double-gimballed Dirigo. Even the compass light worked out perfectly. Note the compass points marked around the card
OK, it’s as good a time as any to explain the rudimentary principals of using a good old-fashioned magnetic device and yes, I’ll over-simplify as much as I dare. Contrary to some beliefs a compass does not tell you what direction you are going, nor does it actually even show in what direction True North lays.
Sadly there are a lot of pilots and mariners who don’t really know how a compass works anymore. Once, so long ago, it was the only navigational tool used by many travellers.
We live in the age of GPS which is a network of satellites. By simple triangulation they can very accurately determine where you are on the planet within inches. Unfortunately, all it takes is for Uncle Obama or, God forbid, Commander-In-Chief Trump, to flip a switch, and we loose our Global Positioning Network. With millions depending on this device in their car, boat, aircraft, mobile phone, camera, wristwatch, it would be a disaster. Many folks would be utterly screwed. The military allowed GPS to become available to the civilian world because it has something else even better. It doesn’t need GPS anymore now than muzzle-loading cannons. This becomes part of my eternal essay about how people are rendered dependant on technology. Eventually we become enslaved to convenience instead of having the freedom of relying on knowledge, wisdom and intuition. And so we become very easy to control.I know there are countless sailors who have crossed oceans only using their GPS, and electronic charts are universally accepted now. Many vessels even have a sextant aboard anymore. I don’t ever want to have to find my home in the dark with my eyes closed. I insist that one of the mantras of a real sailor is self-sufficiency. There is some deep value in retaining wisdoms of the old school.
So here’s how a magnetic compass works. There is a simple acrostic that reads: True Virgins Make Dull Company. I’ll explain.
TRUE north is any imaginary straight line on the planet that intersects the equator (another imaginary line) at 90° and crosses through both the North and South Poles (two more theoretical points) These north/south lines are called lines of longitude but I’m trying to keep this simple and we’ll avoid any description of latitude and longitude here. Using one of those lines on your chart you layout your course from A to B and then determine the true course to which you’ll add or subtract your adjusting values.
VARIATION is the local angle between Magnetic North and True or Theoretical North. Unfortunately The Magnetic North Pole is a considerable distance from the True North Pole so depending on where you are on the planet, the angle between the two poles naturally has to change. To further confuse the issue, the Magnetic North Pole slowly moves around. That precession must be accounted for to provide complete accuracy. Any chart or map will have a variation rose which will tell you how much the angle is changing annually. A navigator needs to calculate the current value of variation and then subtract if the variation is Easterly, or add if it is Westerly. Hang in there, it gets more interesting.
MAGNETIC This is the angle, or heading to steer once you have added or subtracted the variation as required.
DEVIATION Within any boat, aircraft, or other vehicle there are various magnetic properties. It may be the engine, electronic equipment, the steel plate in your head, stereo speakers and so forth. This magnetic pull is an influence on a compass and so each compass installation must be “Swung” to determine the amount of deviation, east or west, on every ten degrees of the compass card. It is then all recorded on a deviation card and posted within sight of the compass.
COMPASS Finally, now that you have added or subtracted the deviation closest to the heading you intend to steer, you have the actual number on the compass card to try and steer steadily toward.
Of course, you can set your GPS to steer either true or magnetic and it is not affected by any deviation until it goes bleep and becomes a dark, empty, lost screen. In the old days of sail, when you had to adjust your helm constantly to compensate for the vagaries of the wind in your sails, the helmsman “Boxed” the compass. He did not steer by degrees but rather the point the skipper ordered. A point, for example, of East Nor’East could be altered by the point (11.25 degrees) either way. One point to Starboard would make the heading ENE by East. You had to pay attention, even with the wind rumbling in your ears. The other navigation tool was a sextant, so that you could work out your position according to the angle of altitude to specific stars at a given moment. That required an accurate chronometer but here we teeter on the fine line between art and science and this is a blog and not a navigational tome.
Ropework. Skills which came from when a seaman’s deftness with ropes and sailcloth were part of his trade.A gaff rig. Mains’l detail on the fishpacker ‘Providence’Cutty Sark. The real thing!
A good friend and accomplished sailor just emailed me from Sydney Australia where he had toured the ‘James Craig’ a fully restored and working barque. He was gob-smacked.(A barque was a full-rigged ship, with at least two masts square-rigged) There are very few of these beauties left, especially in seaworthy condition. You can actually buy a ticket to go for a harbour cruise aboard her. I’ve trod the decks of ‘Cutty Sark,’ the famous preserved tea clipper stored in Greenwich, England and I fully understand Jimmy’s enthusiasm. There is a spirit in the fibres of these fabulous old icons. All of the emotion and drama of the long-ago passages, the storms, the rich characters of the crews are an energy which is easy to feel. It is tangible and very real, something much larger than mere imagination.. (A clipper had three masts square-rigged and was very fast.) ‘Cutty Sark’ once logged off 363 nautical miles in 24 hours, with a full cargo. She did that without burning one drop of fuel for propulsion! How’s that for green thinking?
My favourite full-rigger is the Mexican training barque ‘Cuauhtemoc,’ partly for my affinity of things Mexican but also for the love and spirit with which she is sailed and maintained. However, she was built in 1982 as a training ship and is not an original working ship like the ‘James Craig or ‘Cutty Sark.’
In addition to the skill required in simply steering such a vessel without auto-pilot or GPS the ‘James Craig’ apparently has 140 pieces of running rigging each held, or belayed, in place by a belaying pin. Each of those lines has its own name and place, which every crew member was expected to know. In storm or in dark, whether ill, hungry, or off-watch, a seaman was expected to know exactly what to do on demand, on deck, or in the rigging. To make a mistake, either at the helm or in the rigging could cost the ship a mast or worse. Injuries and fatalities were all too common and you didn’t want any on your head.. Many of these men could neither read nor write but the old term about “knowing the ropes” was a high accolade. The confidence in yourself and your shipmates had to be enormous. Men were appointed to their positions by their skill and experience. It had nothing to do with any piece of paper. It was not uncommon for a man in his mid-twenties to have been made captain. One of my two favourite nautical writers, Alan Villiers, (the other being Sterling Hayden) once served aboard the ‘James Craig’ when she plied her trade in the Tasman Sea. I’ve never laid eyes on her, but I feel I know her a little.
A picture is worth a thousand words
I truly believe that sail-training ships are one of the finest ways for young people to develop solid personal character as well as invaluable nautical experience. Sadly, Canada, with the longest navigable coastline of any nation, has only the lovely little old ketch ‘HMCS Oriole’ as our sail training vessel and flagship. Compared to Japan’s ‘Nippon Maru’ or the USCG ‘Eagle’ or Mexico’s ‘Cuauhtemoc’ it is rather embarrassing; eh?
A bow detail of the Australian-built replica of the ‘Endeavour’ Men sailed ships like these around the world on voyages of discovery…and then found their way home again!
Easter weekend has thundered up on us and the weather is grudgingly yielding to spring. Buds and leaves and flowers are emerging and this week I saw a huge flock of swans heading northward. Now there’s an example of real navigators. The dreary business of the US presidential pre-nuptuals wears on and on. As I write, the Ladysmith Volunteer Firehall has just sounded its general alarm once again. In minutes emergency vehicles wail off on their next mission of mercy and self-importance. (They love any opportunity to use their sirens.) Dogs around this little town howl in response to the sirens. Meanwhile, on the television, more horrific terrorist attacks in Europe have the media humming with speculations and innuendo. It’s clearly time to go swing my compass.
The boat house in spring. A backwater in Ladysmith
The 49th Parallel Ladysmith lies on the 49th parallel of latitude. This granite and quartz boulder sits on the beach a little to the south where it was deposited almost perfectly by a glacier during the last period of global warming.Now THAT’S a Boulder! It’s the little guy underneath doing the heavy lifting.
Last post I mentioned the Ides Of March. Now I’m living them. It’s snot funny! After eight days of gasping and gagging I descended into whimpish submission and made a doctor’s appointment to be told what I already knew. The sawbones advised me that I had pneumonia. So now I’m to trust in these colourful wee pills and to “Get plenty of rest.” I can’t lay down without coughing my lungs inside-out so I sit in a suspended state that is neither sleep nor wakefulness and spend all day staring into a garden-slug beige-green mist, rasping out the next breath while sitting in my living room recliner, aka “The Stinky Chair”, and trying to maintain a state of mindless zen; neither dead nor alive. There are many kinds of courage I do not possess and enduring this state of nothingness is one of them. Writing this paragraph is the most ambitious thing I’ve done in a week. How do people endure a long illness? There is far too much time for introspection. I feel a tide of madness advancing up through the lethargy of this illness, the boredom, and the weakness to change anything. Imagine this, old Fred has lost his voice!
The cold rain continues to hammer in tedious monotony. Jack the dog maintains a state of hibernation all the while eager, at a moment’s notice, to bound out into the weather for a change. Any small outing is a grand adventure. I stagger frailly along paths far behind him, my chest squeaking and bubbling pathetically. How we take the fragile, teetering miracle of good health for granted! How I hope to be doing exactly that again soon. Last night my wife took me to a local Chinese restaurant for a bowl of wonton soup, a perfect tonic for my state. I opened the car window to spit another bit of lung out into the pelting wet of the night’s gale. The window wouldn’t close again! We returned home, I fixed the window, we went for another try at the soup. The fortune cookie was utterly inaccurate, I returned to my stinky chair. Everything on the television is beyond my idea of edification, enlightenment or simple non-offensive entertainment. Meanwhile, old ‘Seafire’ continues to languish at the dock, sadly tugging at her lines waiting for the next adventure. Coming soon, coming soon.
Don’t shout at me! A very old arbutus tree, and still alive.
A week later, I’m still honking like a flock of geese. Things are improving slowly and I can actually sleep lying down again. Now Jill is sick, I’ve shared the wealth and she has spring break to recover. Gee thanks huh! I suppose a benefit of the misery of an illness is to be reminded what a truly fragile species we are. This is only a flu virus that is striking people down locally, it could easily be some other deadly microcosm wiping us out by the millions. It has happened before, many times. I maintain that there is one non-indigenous organism on this planet: us. If we don’t learn how to co-exist as the guests we truly are here, we may well come face to face with antibodies which will erase us from our tenuous and infectious invasion of the earth, the host we insist on exploiting far beyond our minimal needs. There is a natural order to the universe which will be ignored for only so long.
The dead end…speaking of bikes and feeling poorly!
All the while, my illness seems to have extended a negative karma elsewhere. Problems with my vehicle have had me crawling, repeatedly, underneath on the garage floor doing some nasty work over and over until the gremlin decided to quit fighting. The job was certainly not a cure for a chest infection! It’s extraordinary how a low time seems to attract problems. On a check of ‘Seafire’ I find the big compass at the main helm now has, mysteriously, a split bowl. There is mineral oil leaking all over. One of the joys of getting older is knowing all things pass. Life can be an ordeal or an adventure, it is all about attitude.
Don’t go to sea with an empty compass box, and don’t buy a Sam Yang compass. Now I need to find a new compass that fits the box I made.If you like rainbows…you’ve got to go out in the rain.What duck? Some lovely brightness despite the winter gloom.The Vortex. Dark faces in the sky.Caw! The crows of spring waiting for something to happen, or something to die.
Well isn’t it funny how the pickle squirts! A lady in Queens, New York was doing a general search online of the term “Ides Of March” and stumbled on ‘Seafire Chronicles’. She liked my photo of a bicycle leaning on a post at surf’s edge and so now we each have a new friend. Justine Vallinotti posts her own blog. http://midlifecycling.blogspot.ca which is built on her passion for bicycling. It’s a lovely and informative sight, well worth checking out. You’ll find a link to her site on my Blog Roll in the right hand side bar. Another fabulous sight linked there is Sage On Sail, friends of mine from Victoria here on Vancouver Island. They have sailed from Victoria across and up and down the South Pacific. Now they’re sending incredible photos from South Africa as they methodically work their way Eastward along its coast. They are also avid bicycle folks and I believe they are heading up and across the Atlantic for the New York area. So heh! You never know what will happen when you pusha da button! I once set foot in New York for about an hour in the late sixties. I flew in and out of JFK as crew and vowed never to return there again. This old bog-stomper was terrified at the endless city I could see from the air and I’m sure it is even more horrific half a century on. Here rises that issue again about different types of courage. I much prefer the backwoods and wide-open ocean, the thought of which, I know, freezes other folk’s blood. Different strokes for different folks.
Still on the theme of how one little thing can lead to another, the bike business led me to thinking of “Fat Man On A Bicycle”, a BBC 4 travelogue and cooking show hosted by Tom Vernon. It was a good enough show that I still remember it and of course that leads me to recalling “The Two Fat Ladies”, another BBC 4 cooking show featuring two obese women who travelled Britain in their motorcycle and sidecar cooking up wonderfully rich food wherever they stopped. They were deadpan hilarious. While researching the above I stumbled on a site called “Fat Guy Across America” It is about a fellow named Eric Hite who weighs in excess of 500 pounds and is biking across the continent in an effort to regain his health and his marriage to the woman he loves. So all of that comes from taking and posting one photograph of a bicycle.
Spring seems reluctant here. There has been snow on the mountains since mid-September and although there are buds and flowers it remains chilly, even on sunny days. I know it won’t be long until the bitching about “Hot and dry” begins again and every layman can prove global warming. The world economy thrives on paranoia and while many things are in a sorry mess I do get weary of the masses allowing themselves to be steered in someone else’s profitable direction without asking obvious questions. Which leads to this one. Donald Trump!? C’mon folks, really? Is our Western Culture so ruptured that this dude continues to get anyone’s serious consideration as a presidential candidate, even for one day? That terrifies me.
All the more reason to run away to sea. I’ll just have to remember when crossing the US border to not have a black, bushy beard, to not be in the company of any dark-eyed children, to not wear a cowboy hat and when dealing with Homeland Insecurity to never, ever, employ any sense of humour. ON A CLOUDY DAY: Despite another gloomy day, both health and weather-wise, it’s uplifting to go and find some photos in the dull light. Here are a few from today.
Classic Jack. Just add water, Jack is a happy dog.A view to another world. The Holland Creek Tunnel in Ladysmith built by the railway over a hundred years ago.A Caterpillar among the daffodils. Mainstreet Ladysmith where kids love to play on old tractors.Pamela’s dock. The foreshore of property inherited by Pamela Anderson. Ladysmith is her hometown. She is the community’s most famous export, among coal, lumber and oysters.Under the Slime Light. Winter verdigris can grow anywhere, even between your toes!Shipwright built. Not a straight line anywhere. A beautiful piece of work.
If you like blues music check this out. A friend emailed me some Youtube links with a guitarist named Hank Shizzoe, another named Sonny Landreth, and a band calling itself “Loose Gravel”. It is all good stuff and I’m always amazed at these very talented people who can produce unique sounds. This from a guy who couldn’t carry a tune in a fish tote. Hopefully the next blog has me bounding around like a very frisky Easter rabbit. I’m due for surgery on a bum ankle in a few days and after that who knows? Perhaps I’ll end up with a band named “Wooden Leg”… or “Stumble Gumboot.” The possibilities are endless, the dream is alive.
Walk a small dog who chews a big stick.The whole shituation! For those with bugs…get well soon. Did you notice the old shitehawk has only one leg?Well put!
“Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.”
It is March 2nd already, almost a month since my last blog. The pinnacle of my winter is past now, I’ve just returned from my annual pilgrimage to the Fisher Poet’s Gathering in Astoria Oregon. As usual the event was wonderful, reading and listening to the work of over ninety of us, an affirmation of our blue collar love of the sea, the environmental and political issues and the simple raw passion of being on and near the water. The drive down this year seemed long and tedious, with several detours on the roads and an expired passport, but it is all over now with more fond memories filed away.
The most westerly bicycle rack in the USAThe disciples Longbeach WashingtonThe Baptist
I’ve managed to bring home some insidious virus and I’m not feeling particularly energetic. I’m sitting here in my bunny slippers with a schnozzy nose and bleary eyes so this blog will not hold any creative considerations or polemic perspectives.
In my last blog, ‘The Cowboy Jihad’ was written only with available information, which I confessed at the time. There has since been a lot more digging on the subject among myself and my peers. While in Astoria I managed to share brunch with a lady who has an intimate knowledge of the Burns and Malheur Lake areas in Oregon. There is a very different slant to the story when taken from a local perspective. It seems that the radical ranchers who came from various other states to establish the standoff with the feds were not much welcomed by local folks. The community was/is harshly divided, schools were closed as the event heated up, the National Guard was on standby. Apparently the general local consensus was that folks just wanted these outsiders to go back to their home ranches, pay up their overdue taxes and range lease fees (The arrears total many millions) and let the residents of the epicentre get on with their disrupted lives. Many of the facts we received through the media are grossly slanted or blatant lies.
Old Blue Lips Some Astoria flavour
I am a Canadian and a US insurrection is none of my business so long as I can cross through my neighbouring country without being shot or imprisoned without just cause. There are plenty of issues here at home to poke my beak into. My resolve is to maintain and inspire the value of a questioning mind and to
Downtown Train A very old wooden railway caboose on mains street in AstoriaA restored tram car in AstoriaAstoria Dawn Rainstorm A view from my motel room
be aware. For example, two days ago when boarding the ferry M.V. Coho for the crossing to Victoria, I reviewed the Canada Customs form I was handed. I noted that items like switchblade knives and bear spray are “prohibited.” Hand guns are “restricted.” What the hell?
All I want to do is go sailing. The muddy waters of our own greed, apathy and resulting misgovernment are leading us into our own figurative Ides. For me, it’s all reason enough to move along and just be, instead trying to make sense of things. If I can’t be part of the solution then I am part of the problem.
Ready to go Prawn traps in a back alley of AstoriaThe Liberty Theatre a lovingly restored relic of the 20s and 30s It is gorgeous insideRooked An amazing chess set in an art gallery window. The board is about five feet square.Another art gallery window. This metal sculpture is about four feet long. The tail, the jaws, the fins and the eyes move. They’re cleverly recycled motorcycle lights.Yes Really! A car lot in Port Townsend. The cars are all 60s vintage Morris MinorsLook ma! No airbags, no seatbelts, no radial tires, Wot? No GPS!Real wood! A little English Oak.An Oscar Meyer Weiner, the old flasher. Even I find this image slightly vulgar. “Mommy, what’s he squirting on his head? For some reason he lurks on the edge of the Morris Minor car lot.
Well it’s not exactly the cover of the Rolling Stone but that’s me, the Fisher Poet’s poster boy. Reproduced with permission of the “Coast Weekend’
Are you aware of this story? Many are not. The shooting of Lavoy Finicum in a FBI ambush near Burns Oregon and all the events leading up to that moment are complex, confusing and frightening. I don’t know what to believe, especially as most of my information comes from the media. Strangely, while the battle wears on between select ranchers and the US Bureau Of Land Management, and also the FBI, the mainstream media seems to largely ignore the issue. It is a sensational story, the very essence of American romanticism and courage. I am suspicious of why there is not more attention to this drama and of course, that leads toward conspiracy considerations.
Uncle Sam loves you, just do as you’re told!
My research on this story has left me with plenty of unanswered questions. All I’ll say is that if you’re messing with a bully who clearly has you outgunned, then it is best to back up and reload for another day. I’ve spent more time watching interviews with Shawna Cox, who was one of the people with Finicum when he was shot repeatedly. The story is chilling. Clearly we live in a police state where might is right and citizens had better tow the line. This is a country which imposes its military will wherever it chooses on the planet and it ain’t going to tolerate any non-conformity at home. Mr. Obama wants to impose stricter gun control. Rightly so! Perhaps he should start with his own goon squads. To hell with the Sheriff Of Nottingham!
Yes I live in Canada but as it has often been said, when Uncle Sam sneezes, Canada catches a cold. Check out infowars.com and also Libertys Champion on this story. I’ve also watched the last video of Lavoy Finicum before his death. He is being interviewed by The Oregonian. It is a poignant few minutes. I did notice that he is wearing a shoulder harness for a concealed weapon. It is all on You Tube. Watch these interviews and form your own opinions. The aerial footage of the event as released by the FBI was taken by a drone. That a drone was even present raises some obvious questions and why is the film’s quality is so low? This equipment is capable of very high resolution and so more riddles arise. Why was this film provided so expediently?
As the dust settles there will be books and movies and maybe the truth will become clear.
I am, of course, inclined to side with the ranchers and their declared determination to preserve their enshrined constitutional rights in the USA, the land of freedom. I am an old farm boy, I’ve also spent my time on and around ranches and I am a sailor. So this farmer/cowboy/sailor has a typically strong instinct to resist bureaucratic suppression. An impingement on my freedom as a human being and a citizen, so close to home, raises an urgent concern. It is amazing how any creature, when cornered, can become an irrational and extremely dangerous force. I think Finicum, with his wit and calm, rational intellect may have had old Sam feeling cornered. Finicum, true to his convictions, died with his cowboy hat firmly in place and quite possibly a copy of the US Constitution and a Mormon Bible in his pocket. He may even have been trying to draw fire away from the passengers in his vehicle when he was shot down. He has now become a far more formidable foe to Big Brother as a martyred legend. The Feds have pissed in their own cornflakes. I suspect that Mr. Finicum knew his value to his cause was far greater dead than alive and so deliberately put it all on the line.
To have a conviction that you are willing to speak out for is a rare and wonderful thing. To be willing to die for it is a facet of the human spirit which is a mysterious quality. Finicum did not have any bombs strapped to his chest, he was not out to hurt anyone. In fact he apparently advocated non-violence. Yet there were allegedly several loaded firearms in the vehicle that carried him and his passengers to his moment of execution. That’s what concerns me.
People often express dismay that I drive the back roads of Mexico and wonder why I’d do such a dangerous thing. I feel no less endangered there than I do driving on Vancouver Island. I do pucker up when travelling in the US where there is, on average, at least one handgun in every vehicle. I’ve spoken to so very many self-righteous gun-toting US citizens who feel carrying a weapon is as natural a right as having a navel. I’m not sure whether to avoid eye contact or to employ full facial contact. Do I smile or not? What triggers a personal indignation? What endears one person infuriates the next. I certainly don’t give anyone the finger nor express any indignation. You just never know what might set somebody off. I can still hear the granny in southern Arizona drawling on about how “I don’t go nowhere without a pistol in my purse!” “Even to church?” I asked. “Uh Huh!” she replied calmly. It seems to me that millions of US citizens are imprisoning themselves, and executing each other, with their own paranoia. This is in a country which embraced President Franklin Roosevelt as he famously declared, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore Dorothy!
Turtle Valley Part of the ranch where I lived. I helped clear this field, tree by tree, stump by stump.The old ranch house that was once my home.My old ride. I bet she’ll still run. It was bloody cold on a winter morning.
I once travelled the US regularly on business. When old George Bush and the boys waded into Kuwait there was a massive display of patriotism. In a roadside rest area north of Seattle a small red car pulled in beside me. It was festooned with American flags and several bumper stickers saying things like “Support Our Troups” The car carried an elderly couple and as the driver emerged it was clear he was an ex-marine. There was no mistaking the crew cut, the tattoos and the steely glint in his eye. I was impressed with the patriotic overkill and frivolously remarked that I didn’t really believe it all. “Why not?” he demanded levelly, fixing a magnum glare on me. “Well sir, because you’re driving a Hyundai.” There was a pregnant silence.
“Of course” I added, grinning like an idiot, “I understand the Smith & Wesson under your seat was made in America.” The hard lines in his face relaxed a little as he replied, “Actually it’s a Colt .45.” Then he smiled.
What I didn’t know then! It’s hard to believe I was once this flat-bellied ranch hand. I did learn how ranchers think.
I always imagined that Oregon was one of the more laid-back states in the union. I’m on my way in a couple of weeks to read at the Fisher Poet’s Gathering In Astoria, Oregon.
Dang!
“It’s not a gun control problem, it’s a cultural control problem.”
Nature Organized A wintery walk for Jack. The snow lasted a day.
One of my dog Jack’s favourite places to ramble is in a piece of Parkland along the Nanaimo river. We meet nice dogs who come with nice people, the paths are gravelled and open. There’s no slogging along muddy trails under the dripping branches of dank woodlands. It is the place where the eagle dropped the duck at Jack’s feet. (see blog dated Nov. 11, 2015 ‘A Scent Of Apples…) There are rabbits and squirrels to harass and open forest for Jack to explore while I can keep him in sight. Once this was virgin fir forest before it was logged and turned into farmland. Now it has been planted with pine, in straight rows. It is called an “experimental forest”. Perhaps I’ve had my head in the bilge for too many years but I don’t understand the persistence that we can improve nature. If the climate and terrain have determined over millions of years that a specific species is best suited in a particular area, how the hell do we think we can improve on that simple wisdom? I’ve spent many years in and around the forest industry and am dumfounded by this practice. But then, there are many things which, to me, seem either blindly foolish or deliberately twisted, just like the movies.
Replanted Forest Pine and Fir. Spot the alien!The rest of the story. We insist on fiddling with nature. Can you hear Joni Mitchel’s lines about the tree museum?
I’ve acquired a term recently: CGI: Computer Generated Image. Well, it’s new to me. I’ve learned it from watching two recent films, ‘The Revenant’ and ‘The Finest Hours.’ These images are so good, so believable, perhaps it is inevitable that breathing actors will be replaced with computer generated characters. Extrapolate that thought to sports, we could have virtual athletes and hey, what about politicians? If characters like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Donald Trump, or Sarah Palin (I won’t touch on Canadian politicians) have caught serious attention on the political stage, then what is for real? Cartoon characters are just as credible and at least we know what we’re looking at. How about Wiley Coyote for president? On television old Arnie is picking up some extra pocket money advertising a new cyber war game so it all makes sense in an abstract sort of way. We can drink a lot of beer wading through this subject. Real beer that is, with lots of gluten. I just tapped out a typo, perhaps a Freudian slip, with the word ‘plotiticians’. We can have some fun with that one too.
I digress.
I am not beginning a film review in my blog but both of these current flics have a few glaringly obvious oops. ‘The Revenant’, filmed in four countries, has no continuity in its scenes. Set in the early 1800s it begins near the edge of a camp with men stalking elk through the waters of a spring flood plain in a coastal second-growth fir forest. You can hear bull elk bugling, although elk make their mating calls in the fall. The camp comes under attack by local natives. Eventually the survivors make for a raft moored on the banks of a high-country river. The same camp, now thousands of feet higher in altitude! How’d they do that? As they drift down the river, you can see clear-cut logging blocks in the background, several times. Those scene incongruities occur constantly throughout the entire bladder-bursting film. There’s a lot to be said for intermissions, and think of all that extra crap food the theatre could sell.
The story is built around the protagonist being severely mauled by an angry sow grizzly bear. That long scene is amazingly believable. I wonder how they can dub-in a very realistic rampaging bear, yet not dub-out modern scars in other scenes. I thought that film makers employed people to keep a tab on continuity and realism. I’d love that job! I did not see any jet contrails and I did very much like how the first nations characters and their mistreatment were portrayed in this story.
‘The Finest Hours’ is a Disney effort made by landlubbers for landlubbers. Actually, the CGIs in this film are also incredible but I was left jaded with some simple oversights. Lifeboats can run fully submersed for brief periods, they must be able to do that, but they are not submarines. Once fully afloat again, with the wheelhouse torn away, the crew is soaking wet. The North Atlantic is freaking cold anytime of the year and especially in a raging winter storm. No one seemed even near hypothermia, despite hours of exposure to extreme conditions that would kill the average person within a short time. Hell, you couldn’t even see their breath! In reality their hair and clothing would be frozen instantly. I was born a few months after the events of this true 1952 story and I’m not so sure that folks were that much tougher back then. Even casual conversation was possible despite the supposed raging elements. Having experienced the actual conditions being represented in this film I can tell you that the simple act of breathing is a challenge. Speech is reduced to single screamed words. At the end of the film, the returning lifeboat is conned into harbour to the six-volt headlights of those old cars. Apparently nobody thought to run and start the generator in the lighthouse. Hmmm! I know, picky, picky, picky. All those missed details, I think, detract from the credibility of the story.
Well, I can give each of these movies an IDFA award. (I Didn’t Fall Asleep) And anyway not many folks give a toss about reality these days from what I can see. In fact, we all seem determined to find some sort of distraction from it; after all that’s why we go to the movies. No I didn’t buy any of that trans-fat-sodden popcorn or sugary drinks and yes, I returned my 3D glasses at the end of the show.
Just as I was about to post this blog I learned of a third movie now being released. ‘The Lady In The Van’ stars the venerable and wonderful Maggie Smith. It depends solely on good acting and a good story. I’ve seen the trailer, it looks promising. This was first written as a play based on a true story. Interestingly, I saw this on stage in London in January 2000. It starred, yep, Maggie Smith. I think she knows her lines. So there, I’ve said something positive about a new movie.
Hope Grows.
It’s mid-winter and the blahs are upon many people although there is noticeably longer daylight in the evenings, when it is not overcast and bucketing rain. The buds are beginning to swell. Patches of early flowers show their colours in the sheltered spots and this morning I saw some shoots of skunk cabbage in the swamp. Hope is in the air. We’ll make it through.
Crocus time
Speaking of parks, and hope, an agreement has finally been reached to put eighty-five percent of the woodlands of the Great Bear Rain Forest into permanent conservation. I think that’s truly great but would like to point out that there is a reason why much of that timber has never been logged. It is just not commercially viable. A lot of that timber is of low quality and has been left on the stump throughout our province’s rapacious history because it wasn’t of sufficient quality to be of commercial interest. So wahoo!
The Great Bear Rainforest There are endless miles of untouched forest. It’s lovely to see.The Seaweed Camp Thick, tangled, inpenetrable. Much of the Great Bear Rain forest is covered with decadent jungle. A wonderful eco-system fortunately of insufficient commercial quality to harvest and haul away.Look the other way. No-one however notices the loads of high-value timber being hauled southward from other regions through the Great Bear Rainforest. The aroma of this load of red cedar was wonderful, even this far from the barge.Subterfuge! Hidden behind the harbour-front clutter in Nanaimo, another forest-load of raw logs, and jobs, is ready to head out of the country. Two or three loads regularly leave the harbour every week, right under our noses. There are many other points of export.
While the media bandstands the Provincial Government and the First Nations Peoples for this wonderful accord, nobody notices anymore how many shiploads of raw logs will leave this province this week and every week. I can show you foreign ships loading raw logs while moored to the former docks of sawmills now closed, allegedly, because there were not enough logs available. The questions are obvious…and so are the answers. It’s all smoke and mirrors.
A load of beautiful second-growth fir at the new timber export facility in Astoria Oregon
If our provincial government wants to do something meaningful, stop the export of our raw resources and all the related jobs! Eco-tourism is touted as the economic future of the Great Bear Rainforest, yet sport fishing continues there at an unsustainable rate and all along the British Columbia coastline. What I saw last summer while working in that region disgusted me. I can’t return to be part, in any way, of the ongoing rape. A typical conversation I repeatedly heard went like this. “How was the fishing today?” “Great! We really slayed them!”
Our federal Department of Fisheries shows a minimal presence during this annual orgy. Few folks seem inclined toward personal responsibility for what they take. There is still an archaic notion that everyone can take as much as they want because there is an unlimited stock. That abundance is dwindling, as we know it is around the planet at an alarming rate. If trophy-hunting bears is now a moral transgression, especially in the Great Bear Rainforest, what about fish? An eco-system is a sum of all its parts and you cannot exploit one component without affecting everything. We’re repeatedly told how salmon are the bio-foundation of the entire rain forest. The sport fishing industry is a multi-billion dollar machine but until there are no fish and so no whales or bears or wolves, folks will not learn from the sad examples already set so many other places. There is a clear line between need and greed. We refuse to acknowledge how we personally trespass over that boundary. It’s always the other guy. Sadly, legislation and strick enforcement is the only answer.
Done for the day! One salmon…. enough to for me to gorge on for several meals. The head was used as crab bait.
I’ve raised my objections, here are some possible solutions.
The sport of fishing should again become a sport,and stop being a meat harvest. All those electronic gadgets should be gone from boats so that skill and knowledge are the sole means of catching a fish. If I, one of the world’s most hopeless fishermen, can bring home some tasty protein that way, so can anybody else. If spending obscene amounts of money to have photos taken with a really big fish is a measure of manliness…well, I’m perfectly happy with who I am and no, I don’t have plastic testicles hanging from the rear of my vehicle.
Change the catch limits. Once you land a fish of any size of a specific species in its season you are done for the day. So one salmon, one halibut, one ling cod, one snapper, etc. If that is not enough for one day for each person, nothing will be. Once you’ve caught a fish and released it, regardless of size, chances are good that it will not survive the trauma of the catch so take it home and eat it.
The commercial herring roe fishery should come to an end or at least be put in moratorium for a few years. Herring are the prime datum of the marine food chain and unless we all acquire a taste for them ourselves; leave them alone. Hell, everyone complains that they are not making any money anyway. Let’s call their bluff.
The concept of the by-catch must come to an end. Fish of the commercially wrong size and species are routinely discarded from a catch and thrown away dead or dying. If those tons of wasted seafood were retained as the fresh healthy edible product they are maybe we’d need fewer fish farms. It seems incredibly stupid that we do this. Perhaps we should put all aspects of our Westcoast fishery into moratorium for three to five years. I am confident we would soon demonstrate what the factor of imbalance really is. Howl all you want about these ideas, but you are either part of the solution or part of the problem. The way things are going now is not a path toward sustainability. We love to talk about what we should have done when it’s too late. Let’s do something now. At least ask a few questions.
Of all the food items we can produce here in BC, we now import most of those from somewhere else; so why not seafood from somewhere over the horizon? Just think of all the diesel that gets burned solely in the importation of fresh food we should be growing right here. Is this thinking green?
A Thriller Photo! Well it is to me. After years of intent I’ve finally got around to installing a new fuel filtration system in Seafire. The filter bases are all used ones . I can now switch from a clogged filter, primary or secondary, just with the turn of a valve. This means that I can change filters on the go without missing a beat. This is still no substitute for clean fuel,
On that note, I’ve one final rumination. It is about the breaking up of HMCS Protecteur and HMCS Algonquin. These are both vessels retired from our Pacific Naval fleet. They will be towed, via Panama, all the way to Halifax! A ship-breaker there won the contract with a bid of $39,000,000. I can’t discover if that bid includes the cost of towing each ship half-way around the continent. I understand the issues of safely removing environmentally nasty materials but can’t we resurrect a shipyard here in BC to do the work? Why not simply sell the ships as scrap to the highest bidder and take the cash instead of paying for the dismantling? Vancouver-based Seaspan International, part of the enormously successful Washington Group, takes its retired vessels to China and brings back new ones. Hmmm!
I don’t have all of the information and I certainly don’t have any answers but I raise my weary question once again about the chicken farmer who goes to town to buy eggs. Computer Generated Images? I’m not sure what’s real and what is common sense in daily life. Is anyone? Have we become too stupid to know how stupid we’ve become?
See ya in the movies.
Dogpatch Dawn
“ Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.”