Category: British Columbia and Pacific Northwest

Coastline, mountains, weather

THE TRAILER (It can’t be done)

 

I love taking my dog Jack for a walk first thing in the morning. His full enthusiasm for all things is cathartic and inspires me to think freely. Some mornings I gain special insights. Jack loves patrolling the feral waterfront in Ladysmith. It is all former coal mine terminals; there is still plenty of coal laying about. Now covered in blackberries it is home to vast numbers of rabbits. Some days Jack has to choose which one to chase. Their population rises and falls in cycles. I’ve noticed that when their numbers become excessive the rabbits tend to be less wary and are dull and careless. They become stupid. I think it may be part of nature’s way of thinning down their numbers. You know what I’m going to say next.

I think the same is true of people. We’re clearly in a state of overpopulation. Here’s an example.

I’ve previously written blogs about a friend’s classic sailboat which I rebuilt. Transported to Gabriola from Oregon it came on a custom-built trailer which was part of the deal. For eight years the trailer languished in the weeds at the back of a farm. Consequently the import documents became stale-dated. Finally a decision was made to sell the trailer and the paper chase was on. Travel permits had previously been obtained to move the trailer about on Gabriola Island. No problem again; we thought.

Now it had to go to the big island for a visual review by Canada Border Services. Suddenly there were grave doubts that permits could be issued to take the trailer off of the island. I pointed out that a road in British Columbia was legally the same no matter where in the province it might be. All that logic did was provoke a copious round of head-shaking and eye-rolling between desks in the insurance office.

Then, after a half-hour of “Can’t be dones” and various other “Yeah buts”, while I simmered outside, the exact same permit as ever was issued once again. Huh? Then off went my friend and I to a local lawyer where in ten minutes we hand-written a ‘Power of Attorney’ document, stamped it, signed it, copied it and got on with the remains of the day.

The Trailer This is the potential threat to Candian civility, order, national security and especially minor bureaucrats
The Trailer
This is the potential threat to Candian civility, order, national security and especially to minor bureaucrats

I hauled the trailer across to Nanaimo on the ferry. Knowing the trip back, when you pay the fare, would be very expensive, I intended to deal with matters at the office of the Canadian Border Services, then take the trailer on to the local Canadian Tire Store for (what I was assured was a mere formality) an approved federal inspection confirming correct tire inflation, working lights and brakes and so forth. That was required before the final conformity decal for the previous provincial inspection could be issued. Confused yet?

Those ladies at CBS were very kind and gracious despite one surly colleague who went to visually inspect the Vehicle Identification Number on the trailer. I had clearly told him where the number was stamped into the frame. He returned declaring nothing was there but rust. I gently offered to take him back to the trailer and show him. His two colleagues rolled their eyes at me, waved him off and filled in their papers with the number I had given them. If I was that confident, so were they. It was a jumble, but there were copious documents saying duties and fines had previously been addressed.

Now, instead of going for the final inspection as planned, I learned that I’d have to wait to hear from a federal agent in Ottawa who would issue me a numbered RIV inspection form. (RIV is the Registrar of Imported Vehicles) It actually arrived online in a few days and before I could address the matter I was advised that the permit application was about to become stale-dated, perhaps I should request an extension. If that lapsed the entire process had to begin again. The problem was that the trailer had been put to work by the purchaser to store a valuable classic sailboat which first needed to be unloaded and there were several reasons that couldn’t happen. But finally the day arrived.

The lane into the boat house is uphill, steep, soft and sloped to one side. ‘Dorothy,’ the boat, had been loaded in a hurry and was sitting too far back on the trailer. That imbalance caused the hitch to want to lift violently and so we chained it down to the tow bar of a 4×4 truck. In turn, the hitch wanted to lift the back of the truck and we almost managed to tip old ‘Dorothy’ off into the woods on the downhill side of the lane. Our second attempt had the trailer hitch flipping up and destroying the tailgate of the truck. But no one was injured, well, perhaps our pride took a beating.

Using jacks and chain blocks strapped to various trees we were able to winch and push the boat, an inch at a time, into its cradle in the boathouse. The hours flew by. Finally the trailer was free and off I roared to Canadian Tire. This time, I had decided to forget the temporary road permits and simply borrowed the license plate from my own trailer. It was a dangerous risk should I be caught but I’d had enough of hearing about what can’t be done.

The end was in sight. Yeah right! No way. The builder’s plate was too badly weather-worn to be legible. I mumbled that it would have been easier to grind of the VIN stamps and declare the trailer as being home-built. NO! I was warned that would precipitate an entire new convoluted process even more frustrating than the present situation. Hey folks, it’s only a trailer we’re trying to legitimize here, not a fleet of Russian submarines. No-one in this story is being cheated, exploited, assaulted, raped or otherwise abused. I have imported boats and aircraft into Canada. As a logging and construction equipment salesman, I bought and sold big yellow machines internationally as far away as the Philippines. Never have I know such amateurish bungling.

I’ll repeat myself: IT IS ONLY A DAMNED BOAT TRAILER!

Defeated for the moment, I hauled the trailer off to Ladysmith and parked beside my own little trailer. The VIN plate on my trailer is new and clearly legible. The wheels and tires are exactly the same as those on the boat trailer. In a moment of inspiration I transcribed all of the data from one trailer to the other. I used an electronic tape printer, then covered everything with clear tape. The empirical data was about gross weights, axle weights, tire pressure and so forth. There are no lies, the category and capacity of the trailer’s running gear are well within limits. I towed the trailer to the Canadian Tire store in Duncan for a fresh attempt. I decided to stick to the truth and explained what I had done. Fail! No tampering could be tolerated. Tampering? The VIN is clearly stamped in the frame in two places. What has been tampered with? I let your imagination cover the range of four-letter expletives now raging in my brain. It was also pointed out that there should be additional side lights installed. I drove off in a fog of defeat. But not for long.

With little left to lose I returned to the first Canadian Tire Store with a careful story. There was a line-up at the service desk and I noted the raised eyebrows when I was recognized at the back of the queue. My yarn was that with the aid of an infrared viewer I was able to barely discern the original lettering on the sticker and decided to re-apply those markings on top of the originals. And by golly, another US-built trailer with the same size wheels had exactly the same values on it’s builder’s plate. Go figure! Without going out to inspect my data, the man with the stamp said “Good enough” and clunk bump went his rubber stamp. Then the document was in the fax machine to the folks at RIV. I paid my token fees and as I turned to leave I heard, “Oh darn! I forgot. The trailer is supposed to have a spare tire.” There was a long pregnant pause as I scowled like a frustrated bull. I was waved on.

Feeling faint from the latest round but not daring to feel smug, I raced off to the Gabriola Ferry Terminal, paid a huge fare for the trailer and made it to the auto shop before it closed for the weekend. “NO! We can’t issue you the approval decal without another inspection. It’s been too long since the trailer was last here. Don’t know what you’ve been using it for.” I’m proud to say that I didn’t lose my temper but instead gently explained that the trailer had not been used on the road until today. That was after being charged a huge sum to put things right. Now I was being asked for more money to inspect their own work. Everything was back in the crapper again.

Fortunately the tiny office was beginning to fill up with other customers and I clearly wasn’t leaving without my little decal. I won. The trailer was delivered to its new owner, I received the balance due, which I needed for my next adventure, (see my following blog) and went off into the sunset, exhausted but content to think I had completed an endeavour which folks repeatedly said could not be done.

The phone ran next morning. The trailer’s buyer was at the Gabriola insurance office. Uh huh!

“Can’t be done!” Despite having an official government transfer/bill of sale document signed in all the right places by the vendor, the agent was now asking for a bill of sale between the vendor and the purchaser on a single separate document. The vendor was working in Peru, I had to leave town in another day. They also required a copy of a bill of sale between the vendor and the fellow in Oregon he had bought it from.

Somewhere, regularly all these folks must get together over a pint or ten and gleefully compare stories about their bureaucratic impositions. VAC: the Vexatious Agents Club. Well, with yet more shenanigans, I believe everything has been put right to everyone’s satisfaction. All’s well that ends. The trailer, by the way, once finally licensed is never going to leave the new owner’s back yard.

Non-epilogue! Wrong yet again! The beat goes on. Now it has been decided that ALL copies of ALL documents must be submitted, even though it is obvious which copies of which documents have already been entered into due process. The serial number of the trailer has been officially inspected and confirmed by official documentation three times, this local agent wants to visually inspect it again. Problem is, there’s another boat sitting on the trailer now. An email arrived from RIV saying that all the process was complete and that they were sending an official decal to be attached to the frame of the trailer. When the new owner presented that information to his local agent he was told that the entire process had to be started again because she insisted on having all of the papers she demanded, instead of simply saying, “Oops, guess I was wrong, so sorry.”

Nope! When my friend challenged her negativity and her “Bullshit” he was thrown out of the office. An ensuing call to her head office confirmed that the documentation as provided was in fact adequate and no more was required. Eventually a contritious call from the now-chastised local agent is bringing the entire lugubrious affair to closure. There was however, no apology for inventing and attempting to enforce her own rules.

The poor frustrated friend who bought this sack of trouble, sent me the following.

Bureaucracy 101, Lesson 1

Instructor to students: “Repeat after me, this cannot be done.”

Student raises hand: “Why can’t it be done.”

Instructor to student: “You are obviously not cut out to be a bureaucrat, please hand in your books and leave now”.

Instructor to rest of students: “Repeat after me, this cannot be done!!! Any questions?”

Somewhere in the background, is a sad voice softly singing “Nobody knows the troubles I’ve seen.” As other countries like China and Mexico, for example, slowly work their way toward a democratic, humanitarian and reasonable system of government and administration, it seems that Canada is determined to retreat in the opposite direction. This sad tale of the trailer is one small example of a system which is top-heavy with minor bureaucrats. There is a federal election coming this fall. For God’s sake, VOTE. It is our apathy that has allowed this infection of stupidity to invade our entire state of being.

Trailer for sale or rent ...remember the song? Just wait until I show up to register this puppy. don't laugh, she's almost paid for.
Trailer for sale or rent
…remember the song?
Just wait until I show up to register this puppy.
don’t laugh, she’s almost paid for.

This just reappeared out of my archives. It came, years ago, from a friend. The timing is perfect.

“Sometimes things don’t go from bad to worse, some years the Muscadet faces down frost: sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well. A people sometimes will step back from war, elect an honest man: decide they didn’t care enough, that they can’t leave a stranger poor. Some men become what they were born for.

Sometimes our best efforts don’t go amiss. Sometimes we do as we meant to. The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow that seemed hard frozen.

May it happen to you. …anonymous

"When in fear or in doubt, raise your sails and bugger off out." ...Tristan Jones In the straight of Georgia heading north for an new situation. More to come in the following blogs.
“When in fear or in doubt, raise your sails and bugger off out.”
…Tristan Jones
In the straight of Georgia heading north for an new situation.
More to come in the following blogs.

 

The Barefoot Yacht Tinker, Wyatt In The Culvert And The Womanist

Welcome to Ladysmith. An early morning birdbath. Any place with a downtown roundabout has something going for it. The anchor was salvaged from the harbour bottom.
Welcome to Ladysmith.
An early morning birdbath. Any place with a downtown roundabout like this has something going for it. The anchor was salvaged from the harbour bottom.

The proverbial ‘Barefoot Shoemaker’ is someone who is so busy plying their trade that they have no time (or money) to make shoes for themself. This old yacht tinker is in a similar boat. (yes, that’s a pun) I’m so often at work in someone else’s boat. When there is so much to do on my own. When living aboard ‘Seafire’ I don’t have the energy at the end of the day to work on my own upgrades if it is possible at all while living in that same small space. I bought the boat four years ago and immediately had lists of “To do” lists. As soon as one item is crossed off, two more are added to the bottom. Some days it is just not fun and sadly the best days for working on your boat are also the nicest days to be out sailing. But it does beat mowing a lawn. Always!

A dog's breakfast. Beginning of the project to tidy and rewire engine room looms and refinish the cabin sole
A dog’s breakfast. Beginning of the project to tidy and rewire engine room looms and refinish the cabin sole
Lard liftin! look ow tick this ting is. That's an interior locker face, an inch thick. The whole boat is built this massively
“Lard liftin! look ow tick this ting is.” That’s an interior locker face, an inch thick. The whole boat is built this massively

It is the time of year when people are stumbling down onto the docks to see if their boat has survived the winter and is yet afloat. I’ve been moored in the Ladysmith Maritime Society Docks since Christmas. I am there nearly every day and can confidently state that many boats have not had a visit by their owners in all that time. Now the May long weekend is coming and there is a panic to get the old bateau ready for voyaging. “Damn boats, fix, fix, fix, nothing but a hole in the water to shovel money into.” Yuck, yuck, yuck! There are some frantic requests for me to “Git ‘er dun for the weekend” but I’ve decided that, for once, my own boat comes first. Love your boat, she’ll love you back.

The Golden Rivet The ship's lucky coin, fibre-glassed in when the boat was built, rediscovered during my recent refit.
The Golden Rivet
The ship’s lucky coin, fibre-glassed in when the boat was built, rediscovered during my recent refit.
How old is this matchbook? It was printed the same year I graduated from high school. I found in the bottom of a wooden tackle box that came with the boat. I've been using the box as a foot rest since I bought the boat and finally decided to empty it out. some lures, still in their original packages sold for 29 cents!
How old is this matchbook? It was printed the same year I graduated from high school. I found it in the bottom of a wooden tackle box that came with the boat. I’ve been using the box as a foot rest since I bought the boat and finally decided to empty it out. Some lures, still in their original packages, sold new for 29 cents!

As I write this somewhere in the Indian Ocean, my friends Tony and Connie, are aboard their boat ‘Sage’ between the southern Maldives and the East Coast of Africa. They expect to be out of touch for up to eight weeks. My thoughts and best wishes sail with them on their long crossing.

With news of the horrific earthquake in Nepal, Deadly hail storms in Texas, a monster volcano in Chile, Israeli military strikes into Syria and renewed drug wars in Mexico, I am happy enough in my own bilge. I’ve had to go backward by about three thousand dollars with the necessary installation of a new charger/inverter. This is a machine that not only keeps the batteries charged when the boat is at the dock but converts DC electrical power to AC power when at sea. This allows the use of power tools and other luxuries like microwave ovens and even, if I want, an air conditioner. If I have to make my way south by fixing other boats, I do need AC power away from the dock.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA
OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

There was a time when a small gasoline engine in a sailing yacht was a decadence used only to move the boat in and out of marinas. They were aptly called auxiliaries. (For many years, part of my criteria was that the auxiliary had to have a back-up hand crank to manually starting the engine… just in case) Engines were also used to charge a battery for starting and to run another luxury, a VHF radio. Boats have become much bigger, the list of appliances and gadgets is extensive as is the amount of power required to run it all. Now some sailboat owners brag about their turbo-charged diesel. There is far more than enough power to charge the electrical system and propel the boat but excess is now often a normal state.

'Avanti' This is a 1966 Cheoy Lee Frisco flyer, 26 feet long, which in its day was a grand offshore boat. Whole families went off to see the world. Big enough to stand up in, big enough to lay down. What's changed?
‘Avanti’
This is a 1966 Cheoy Lee Frisco Flyer,
26 feet long, in her day she was a grand offshore boat. It’s a boat I rebuilt for a friend. Whole families went off to see the world in vessels like this when seamanship was a prerequisite. Big enough to stand up in, big enough to lay down. What’s changed?

During my years on the tugs, sailboats were often referred to as “Blowboats” or “Stickboats.” We jokingly used them as a wind monitor. While the sails were up and flapping, wind was nil or light. When the sails were stowed, it was getting a bit breezy. Seriously! If a sailboat was motoring with only the mains’l up, chances were good that someone was trying to declare their right-of-way as a sailing vessel, a perverse misinterpretation of collision regulations. Sometimes I took a lot of flak from the rest of the crew because they knew I was a “Ragboater.” There are also those who are determined to prove their saltiness by insisting on, and trying to sail, no matter how light the wind and no matter how they interfere with other marine traffic. In fact I suspect that is part of the fun for them.

All is calm, all is not right Dog Patch, the Ladysmith water squatter's community
All is calm, all is not right
Dog Patch, the Ladysmith water squatter’s community

An undue sense of entitlement, or perhaps a quest for empowerment, seems to a prime motivator in our culture. It is often displayed as an attempt to shoulder everyone else aside or to hold as many people back as possible. You can see this behaviour any time on the roads or in the supermarket and at times on the water. We are saddled with a media culture that attempts to diminish our sense of self-worth unless we look like, smell like, live in, drive one of those and generally consume ourselves into a wretched existence. No wonder so many folks subconsciously crave empowerment, entitlement and recognition simply because they exist.

An Audi advertisement on the television this morning stated their automobiles were about “Presence” and provided a statement of “Dominance and intimidation.” Really?

What about reliability, economy, and safety? Oh yeah, and environmental sensibility?

A few days ago I had an adventure with a dog stuck in a culvert. Neighbours were complaining about ongoing barking and howling that had kept them awake. I assumed that someone had left their spoiled-rotten dog alone in a nearby house. The noise continued and, hours, I finally went to investigate.

Wyatt's Culvert Where dogs, fools and dog-lovers crawl right on in!
Wyatt’s Culvert
Where dogs, fools and dog-lovers crawl right on in!

I found an old, very large Labrador retriever stuck in a culvert, about twenty feet in. He had been laying in cold, running water for at least twelve hours. Then this old fat boy hisself wriggled into the pipe. For a moment I worried about also becoming stuck but all’s well that ends. Slowly both of we old dogs came out backwards, me dragging the other an inch at a time until we both emerged, wet and mucky, into daylight. We must have quite a sight! Then came a trek with the rescued dog over my shoulder until I could get him laying on a blanket in the sun. He probably weighed seventy pounds and was of course soaking wet, chronically hypothermic and totally exhausted. He couldn’t even lift his head.

Eventually, reluctantly ,some of the neighbours were persuaded to help. Soon after the ubiquitous self-acclaimed expert dog whisperer arrived to demonstrate her superior knowledge. She had little actual sympathy for the dog, he was merely a platform for her warped ego, and yes I finally lost my patience with her arrogant declarations about how much she thought she knew. I cannot abide someone trying to capitalize on another’s misery. Things got quite ugly but eventually I got Wyatt to a veterinary hospital. That was his name as it turned out. (Wyatt Twerp) The vet called me today to say that poor old Wyatt had had to be put down and thanked me profusely for my efforts. Not a word of appreciation from the locals, which I didn’t expect, but ain’t folks funny? If Wyatt had expired in the culvert, I wonder how long it would have taken someone to go find the source of the smell. And if I’d expired in there too…yeeech!

On a back street in Ladysmith. a late 50s Vauxhall Victor Super One of my first cars was one of these. God, it's ugly!
On a back street in Ladysmith. a late 50s Vauxhall Victor Super
One of my first cars was one of these.
God, it’s ugly!

I recalled this story with a fellow dog lover/walker whom I met out on the trail. I said something about militant feminism. “No, no,” she said, “You were dealing with a womanist. They are the female equivalent of a misogynist and loath men in general. Their perspective is as archaic as the notion of nuns and priests.” Her view was refreshing, but I don’t like to genderize the behaviour of people who live with the sad, desperate need to constantly pee in other folk’s corn flakes.

The edge of town, behind the Ladysmith RCMP detachment
The edge of town, behind the Ladysmith RCMP detachment
Up the creek. Miner's dam on Holland Creek
Up the creek.
Miner’s dam on Holland Creek

It seems that I’ve found myself recently dealing with folks who are easily upset, determined to take offence and speak condescendingly. It happens at times to all of us and when I find myself in that groove I see myself as the common factor and sit in front of the mirror and review what the hell’s happening. I always tend to feel responsible for whatever might be wrong and acrimony leaves me upset for days after.. This time I can’t figure what’s up. Later, I was talking with someone else who remarked that he had just seen an article describing recent, extra large solar flares and their effects on this planet, including electrical grinds, communication systems, and yes, people’s moods. Apparently there is a general wave of hostility and aggressiveness in human behaviour that might be attributed to celestial influence. Dunno! Maybe? We do know that lunar cycles effect human behaviour among many other things so let’s just keep an open mind. Blame it on the sun.

The Shack Out Back Now a backyard storage shed, this may well have been an early home in downtown Ladysmith
The Shack Out Back
Now a backyard storage shed, this may well have been an early home in downtown Ladysmith

In the face of all the recent miseries of the world I’ve been wandering around Ladysmith with my cameras looking at what we have right here. Don’t we take so much for granted? It is a lovely little town. One of my constant joys in this community is how young families are buying up the older miner’s, logger’s and fishermen’s houses and lovingly restoring them. Many of those house are small, but if previous generations could raise large families in them, surely, one-point-something baby yuppies will do just fine there. The bonus is the large yards, many with mature fruit trees and space for large gardens and room for kids to stay at home and play, physically outdoors. I’m loading this blog with photos of Ladysmith and the local area. A popular bumper sticker here reads, “Ladysmith, where you’re never over the hill.”

A Favourite One of the many lovely restored old miner's houses in Ladysmith. It's probably close to 100 years old and may well have no framing but built of good solid, clear, rough-cut old growth fir planking
A Favourite
One of the many lovely restored old miner’s houses in Ladysmith. It’s probably close to 100 years old and may well have no framing but built of good solid, clear, rough-cut old growth fir planking
Heart Break Hotel On The Hill You can only imagine its history
Heart Break Hotel On The Hill
You can only imagine its history

There is a movement afoot for many folks to downsize their homes to the point of silliness. There seems to be a notion that they are re-inventing the concept of minimalism and living with less is a great new idea. The trendy yachting magazines are now glorifying those who’ve dumped their grand yacht and are enjoying life with trailer-able sailboats. They’re discovering a new sort of freedom where their possession are truly serving their interests rather than ruling their life.

Sunset on Main Street Ladysmith
Sunset on Main Street
Ladysmith
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Looking the other way. What wonderful light!
An alley detail Casting date on handle is 1896, this may have been the old coal shute.
An alley detail
Casting date on handle is 1896, this may have been the old coal chute.
What views have been seen by what eyes through this leaded glass?
What views have been seen by what eyes through this leaded glass?

Of course a lot of this is rationalization which comes in the wake of recent economic disasters in North America which have decimated the middle class and the notion of our identities being determined by the stuff we accumulate. We are all out of touch with reality in this part of the world and really have no idea of how most of the world’s population lives, forcing itself to be content with rudimentary shelter and no clear idea of when or what their next meal might be. Gluten? Trans-fat? Yes please.

Another Ladysmith classic (Damn those wires!)
Another Ladysmith classic
(Damn those wires!)
More wires! Ladysmith Harbour, aka Oyster Bay, beyond.
More wires!
Ladysmith Harbour, aka Oyster Bay, beyond.
Ladysmith Maritime Society, the news clubhouse. What a splendid endeavour, proof of what volunteers can achieve.
Ladysmith Maritime Society, the news clubhouse. What a splendid endeavour, proof of what volunteers can achieve.

By the way, a happy note from this old cynic. I often slam modern technology and express my dismay at our growing dependance on machines. But today I reviewed a wonderful application of that technology. A blind pregnant woman in Brazil, entering her third trimester, received an ultrasound of the foetus. Those images were then transferred to a 3D printer and so she was able to feel the face of her unborn baby. That made my face leak.

The town had tiny houses but great plumbing! Water supply line to Harmac Pulp Mill
The town had tiny houses but great plumbing!
Water supply line to Harmac Pulp Mill

 

One last note from the media. We’ve long known that dolphins are one of the few other species which indulge in recreational sex. Now we’re learning they also partake in recreational drug use. I’ve just just watched a video which clearly shows a pod of dolphins gently harassing a puffer fish. Once it defensively inflates itself it floats on the ocean’s surface immobilized . The spiky little bugger than begins exuding neurotoxins, which in large doses can be fatally toxic. In mild doses you get stoned so in turns the dolphins nuzzle the little guy and the effects are obvious. One the part is over, the puffer deflates, heads back to its life on the bottom and the dolphins find other distractions. Interesting!

White Bike when I die, hang me on the gate and put flowers in my arms
White Bike
When I die, hang me on the gate and put flowers in my arms.

I’m reading two wonderful books at the moment. One, ‘The Shadow Of the Sun’ is by Ryszard Kapuscinski, a Polish journalist who in the late 1950s witnessed the end of colonialism in African, the rise of independent states and the ensuing madness which still grips most of that continent. He affords a graphic explanation of so many things I didn’t think about and certainly did not understand. It is a wonderful essay on Africa and I am glad to have read it. Social studies aside, his writing style is beautiful and I heartily recommend this book for those who like to learn and understand.

Spring stream, clear and cold. Let's enjoy it while we have it.
Spring stream, clear and cold. Let’s enjoy it while we have it.

The second book is ‘The Inconvenient Indian’ by Thomas King. I believe this is a fine and even exciting text for anyone who wants a better understanding of native perspectives about their place in contemporary North American culture and how they got to their present situation. It is of course, biased, but forgivably so, and the wit and insight this writer offers is refreshing and very enlightening.

I’ll close this blog with a quote from that book.

“Most of us think that history is the past. It’s not. History is the stories we tell about the past. That’s all it is. Stories.”…”I simply have difficulty with how we choose which stories become the pulse of history and which do not.”

Thomas King

Jack on track. Heading for what's around the next bend. Esquimalt & Nanaimo rail bridge over Rosewell Creek
Jack on track.
Heading for what’s around the next bend.
Esquimalt & Nanaimo rail bridge over Rosewell Creek

Grid Work

Grid Work

Yesterday was a glorious weather day. Clear and nearly calm it was perfect for doing anything outdoors. I gave old ‘Seafire’ some long overdue loving. Early in the morning, when the tide was at high slack I eased her over the grid at the Ladysmith Fisherman’s Wharf to clean her bottom, polish up the propeller and replace the sacrificial zincs.

I should explain that sacrificial zinc anodes are designed to absorb stray electrical currents that affect every boat, especially in salt water. The process,, called electrolysis will destroy underwater metal fittings such as bronze thru-hulls to the point of them becoming a crumbling powder. The zincs, easily replaced, do the crumbling instead of the important metal bits on the hull. The dangers of an open hole in the bottom of a boat are obvious. Despite copious scientific dissertations there is a mystery to the process which we do not fully understand. Stray electrical currents in marina docks, and from other poorly wired boats are the most common culprits as well as the minute or severe fields created by each boat itself. Regular maintenance to check the thru-hulls and replace the zincs is essential. There are ongoing, sometimes heated, debates about what the mystery of electrolysis really is and what causes it. I have my own theories but awareness of its effects is more important, just like respecting lightning without understanding what causes it. It is also worth noting that all those folks who tell you how much they love sailing (Hint, hint) don’t ever show up to help with the dirty work. “Call me when you need crew.” I do, where are you now? Yeah, right!

On the Grid 'Seafire gets a shave and a haircut while on the grid at low tide.
On the Grid
‘Seafire gets a shave and a haircut while on the grid at low tide.

Instead of using a mechanical lift to take a boat out of the water, a centuries-proven method for working on a boat’s bottom is to position it over a grid at high tide. This is a platform of concrete, or treated wooden timbers, which supports a vessel’s weight when it settles with a falling tide. The boat leans against pilings to stay upright. When the tide falls low enough to allow work to begin, you go like crazy to get everything done before the returning tide prevents any further efforts. There is never enough time.

A backyard cabin on Vancouver Island. Someone's fascination with Mexico is clear. Note the guitar and the piñata on the porch. "Hola senorita! Donde mi margarita?
A backyard cabin on Vancouver Island. Someone’s fascination with Mexico is clear. Note the guitar and the piñata on the porch. “Hola senorita! Donde mi margarita?

Of course all of this has to be co-ordinated with the vagaries of the monthly tidal cycle. One first needs enough water to position a vessel over the grid and a tide which falls enough to allow the maximum amount of time to get your work done before the tide returns. It is also important to have enough water to float free on the next tide. Other factors affecting the tide’s height and duration are local winds and even distant storm systems.

Under the front. Variable spring weather. This row of lenticular clouds ran up the Eastern shoreline of Vancouver Island. It didn't move for hours
Under the front. Variable spring weather. This row of lenticular clouds ran up the Eastern shoreline of Vancouver Island. It didn’t move for hours

Barometric pressure, wind and run-off from local rivers and streams due to heavy rain or spring freshets may also affect the tide’s vagaries. There are tide books and computer programs to help with your planning but ultimately they are only guides. You must use your own experience and local knowledge to calculate. Here in the Pacific Northwest we have semi-diurnal tides which means that we have four tides a day to deal with. There will be a high tide and a low tide followed by a lower high and low tide. Tides are therefore approximately six hours apart, or twelve hours between useful high tides.

Old boys like to have fun too. Wrong number, no return.
Old boys like to have fun too. Wrong number, no return.

Due to phases of the moon you may find yourself working in the dark as each day’s tides lag the preceding day by thirty to forty minutes. Tides with minimum rise and fall are called Neap tides. Ones with maximum range are called Spring tides and occur at or near the full moon and also the new moon. Before grids folks “Careened” their boats by laying them against a steeply sloped soft bank, doing one side of the boat each day.

The required understanding for careening involves also knowing how to position the boat so that it floats free instead of filling with water as the returning tide creeps up. Nothing to it.Right!

Old Jack. Every day is a happy adventure.
Old Jack.
Every day is a happy adventure.

I’ve heard questions from landlubberly people who don’t understand tides. While rushing around at work while on other grids there have been variations of “However did you get that boat up there?”

Swamp creature. Mud, rinse, mud, rinse, but save some mud for the vehicle seats!
Swamp creature. Mud, rinse, mud, rinse, but save some mud for the vehicle seats!

The best comment was from a friend who overheard two old souls tottering along a seawall with one exclaiming, “I could have sworn there was a beach here yesterday!”

Hoo dunnit? The wooden owl fairy strikes again.
Hoo dunnit? The wooden owl fairy strikes again.

The grid in Ladysmith is next to a log sorting ground and a sawmill. The harbour-bottom around the grid is a foot thick in viscous black, reeking, sucking muck of organic origin. Standing in one spot requires a desperate struggle to retrieve your wading boots. Eventually water and muck creeps into your boots. You simply must keep working trying not to stand in the same spot for more than a few moments. It makes for a glorious mess and a desperate struggle to get the essential work done. Thank God I didn’t fall face-first into the ooze. I’d still be there, feeding the crabs. I scrubbed the bottom as best possible in the circumstances and removed any clumps of mussels and other fauna. The propeller was cleaned and polished and the zinc anode was replaced. Then came the usual interminable wait for the tide to return enough to float the boat free. The book time for high tide passed without enough water to float free. It was almost an hour late. Cold, wet, hungry and exhausted I had to remind myself that tide books are only guides and that reality writes its own course. The next high-slack always seems to be later and lower than predicted but eventually the same mystery which floats a vessel over an abyss floats it with only a fraction of an inch of sea under the keel. And so finally I returned to the dock in the last bit of daylight. Then the cleaning up must be done before you take the rest of the day off. God that mud stinks! But I scrubbed it off before it glued itself to the decks. The poor old boat has not received a lot of attention this winter while I’ve floundered at other things. Now she’s showing me her contempt for my neglect and there are a few projects to address before ‘Seafire’ is back in top shape. Once again, the old quote of Lord Nelson can apply, “Ships and men rot in port.”

The beauty of the beast. An old Baldwin Logging Locomotive ever so solely returns to the earth it once came from
The beauty of the beast. An old Baldwin Logging Locomotive ever so slowly returns to the earth it once came from
Recycling the slow way, textures among the rivets
Recycling the natural way, textures among the rivets

I was once famous for being anal about keeping things shipshape. After returning from a trip I’d stay with the boat until everything was ready to go to sea again. I’ll admit that pain-in-the-ass has gone somewhere else now but I still check my boat regularly and keep it shipshape, if not entirely shiny, at all times anymore. Still, despite near daily checks and a heater murmuring away constantly which kept the boat reasonably warm and dry through the winter, there are electrical issues. The dampness works its way into everything and without regular use some components begin to fail. I know these are simply symptoms of lack of use and the old girl and I need to sort this out. Of course everything in the lockers, which was stowed with a good logic, has somehow migrated elsewhere and soon the boat is knee-deep in stores and tools that need to be re-stowed as you look for the widget that you know was right here.

Old Tristan Jones famously said, “When in fear, or in doubt, raise your sails and bugger off out.” You have to keep a boat seaworthy in order to be able to do that.

A bridge over bubbled water. Tranquilty in the spring backwoods.
A bridge over bubbled water. Tranquilty in the spring backwoods.

And so spring advances. Early morning temperatures still hover down near the freezing point but the afternoons are pleasant if it is not pouring rain. The leaves and flowers are bursting out. Some are quite early this year, I saw Dogwood flowers already which is almost a month early.

See! dogwood blooms in April
See! Dogwood blooms in April

Perhaps it’s due to the “Blob.” This is a name applied by climatologists to an above normal temperature mass of warm water first noticed in the North Pacific last year. It is currently hugging our BC coastline. There is much anticipation about its cause and effects. We have warm years, cold years, wet ones, dry ones and various combinations thereof. The only constant is change and yet everyone is determined that no matter what happens, it is living proof that global warming is upon us and it’s our fault. Old time accounts from Vancouver Island of over a century ago have it that when Tofino was settled, the climate was much different. Tropical fruit plants were introduced there because it was that warm. People could easily swim in the sea, there were seldom pervasive fogs and fish stocks were quite different. Now Tofino is well known for its rain and fog and damp cold. It’s still temperate enough for Gunnera Manicata to grow prolifically. Indigenous to Areas between Columbia and Brazil, the giant rhubarb-like plant, with huge leaves over a metre wide, is now being eradicated here because it is not indigenous and tends to overrun other native species. It is like broom, gorse and bamboo, other introduced plants here which overwhelm their new environment, much like the non-native people who brought them here. What an interesting question! Why do people in quest of a new identity and opportunity, whom for good reasons chose to leave their native environment, have a need to bring along pieces of the old world they escape? We all have this missionary complex to some degree and often miss the value of assimilating a new environment with two ears, two eyes and one mouth. Anyway, I don’t believe that any of the foreign flora we’ve introduced here has done much to change the climate. The planet and the universe are in a constant state of flux and while we are an alien virus here, we need not be so arrogant as to believe we have an influence on things which we’ve never had any control over. Especially, when we tend to ignore the things we can change.

Another abandoned bridge in the woods
Another abandoned bridge in the woods

This morning, while Jack and I walked our Ladysmith waterfront patrol, I heard a sound which froze me to the spot. I’d just heard the call of a Northern Loon. A harbinger of spring the sound instantly recalled pleasant moments in my youth. Instantly I again knew magic mornings in cedar strip and canvas canoes, the soothing, gurgling coil of water behind each paddle-stroke, gentle banks of mist, light laddering down into clear water where fish could be seen gliding among sunken stumps. Echoing along the shorelines quavered the eerie cries of loons in chorus. Those calls will haunt me forever.

My father used to listen to bird recordings on lp vinyl. Damn, how I hated them! Dwibble, blap tweet, then a nasally dweeby man’s voice would declare something like: “Pink-bellied Flute Snoot, spring mating call.” One, called I think, ‘Birdsongs of the Northwoods’, suddenly emerges in my memory. I recall the narrative which I heard too often. “Across the rich gold ribbon of the rising moon’s reflection on the water, drifts a shadow. It is the shadow of a loon. It lifts its head and from its throat comes the cries of souls in torment.” Fifty-plus years back and now I remember that! What the hell did I have for breakfast? Now let’s see! Oh yeah. Nope. Hmmm!

Maple Flower
Maple Flower

“If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favourable.”

…Lucius Annaeus Seneca

The Empty Signifier, Eva’s Loo and The April’s Fool

Feeling Frisky? Feral Gabriola road runners do their spring fan dance.
Feeling Frisky? Feral Gabriola road runners do their spring fan dance.

(To enlarge images, click on each picture)

March zoomed past in a frenetic blur. And I can’t see much that I’ve accomplished. I have finally finished a home renovation project for a friend and now I’m trying to move on toward my own goals. There has been a round of medical appointments which have left me puzzled and a bit angry. After copious testing and consultation the end result is yet more prescriptions. I’m becoming convinced that it is a mix of all the damned pills that has me feeling so poorly. I quit taking them and soon felt much better. The type II diabetes I allegedly have is something I can beat with diet and exercise and perhaps my other health issues will abate as well. With several prescriptions mixing around in one’s plumbing, I’m not sure what chemical combinations are formed nor what their effects are on an individual. I can say that the tentacles growing out of my back can be darned near as itchy as the third eye which appeared on the top of my head. Whadya mean it’s only a bald spot?

Flock this! gorging gulls enjoy the annual herring spawn.
Flock this! Gorging gulls enjoy the annual herring spawn.

Once again, it appears, our Western medical acumen is eager to treat symptoms rather than address cause. It is good for business and I wonder how many Porsche SUVs I help keep on the road. I’m researching my health issues very thoroughly and am now beginning to pursue more natural sensibilities. If I’m going to sail away I need to be healthy and one doctor at least, bless him, has told me that the sailing away is on its own the best cure. Certainly, the prescription I received for diabetes soon had me feeling near death and I do want a solution more positive than that. I flushed my pills down the loo. Much better! I suppose one should consider the environmental effects of doing that, but what is the proper way to dispose of medications?

We are a culture of excess. I know I have certainly allowed myself to be programmed to consume far more than I need. Now I pay for my foolishness. This bog trotter’s research about diabetes has turned up some interesting approaches. Insulin is a hormone which the body produces to help cells absorb glucose. A lot of the crap food we eat and drink, over time, reduces the body’s ability to produce sufficient insulin hormone, which causes an increase of belly fat which in turn further degrades our ability to produce enough natural insulin. The spiral deepens.

From this. Showing old window opening and new windows framed in.
From this.
Showing old window opening and new windows framed in after walling-in an adjoining closet then opening the back to enlarge the bathroom.

Speaking of loos I have, among other things, been busy refinishing a friend’s bathroom for his wife Eva. Both go to work in far off places so communication has not been the best. The job has lasted far too long, punctuated with long delays. Now it’s done. It has turned out well and my efforts to do something exotic with affordable materials has proven a grand success. I’ve decided, however, that I am finished with this sort of work. I’ve earned my bread rebuilding boats and doing home renovation work but I’m having to concede that I’m now too stove-up to continue peddling my talents. My hands have become so arthritic that I have difficulty holding my tools at times. Working on my knees and contorting myself into awkward places is really becoming challenging. I’m not complaining, just explaining. All those years that I wasted trying to prove how tough I was. And I was! But the geezers of that time warned me. Yeah right!

To this... Heated tile floor, wainscoting, acrylic clawfoot tub, recycled shower glass becomes toilet divider. Well I'm chuffed about it!
To this…
Heated tile floor, wainscoting, acrylic clawfoot tub, recycled shower glass becomes toilet divider.
Well I’m chuffed about it!

Now it’s my turn. I recently found myself cautioning a cocky young fellow to never mess with an old bull. I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.

WET! Gabriola Organic taxi. Some folks proudly refuse to wash their cars.
WET!
Gabriola Organic taxi. Some folks proudly refuse to wash their cars.

This brings me to a new grammatical term I’ve learned. ‘Empty signifier,‘ apparently a word which absorbs meaning rather providing some. Wikipedia delves into a description using words like semiotics and postmodernism, which always has me back-pedalling rapidly. Apparently words like race, gender, oomph and mana are floating, or empty, signifiers and are said to possess “symbolic value zero”. If this is what having a degree in literature does for you I’m glad I missed it. It is not one of the things which keeps me awake at night. Most people to whom I’ve mentioned this respond by saying “Yeah I know some people like that.” I have to be careful that this doesn’t become an empty signified blog. If I don’t leave the dock soon, it will be. God knows there is plenty enough emptiness out there already. What a name for a boat! ‘Empty Signifier.‘ I’ll bet there’s one somewhere!

Say no more!
Say no more!
The bakery on Gabriola Island. It is wood-fired, the bread is delicious. Many people say they expect to see Hobbit folks scurrying about
The bakery on Gabriola Island. It is wood-fired, the bread is delicious. Many people say they expect to see Hobbit folks scurrying about.

The job site where I’ve been is a prime waterfront location with a priceless view. It has allowed me to watch the annual drama of the spring herring fishery. It appears that in these waters it was a good year for the herring fleet. Seine boats and gill netters made some spectacular sets. I saw several big seiners heading for the packing houses with decks awash, they were so deeply laden. Often, there will be an incident where an overloaded boat enters the Fraser River. Buoyancy in fresh water is considerably less. The vessel promptly sinks.

Beach Caviar with a hint of kelp. Mounds of Herring roe accumulate on the beach after the spawn
Beach Caviar with a hint of kelp.
Mounds of Herring roe accumulate on the beach after the spawn
Rows of roe. Wake up and smell the sea Billy!
Rows of roe. Wake up and smell the sea Billy!
Big Boats for Tiny Fish. Tensions rise as the weeks pass while waiting for the arrival of the herring
Big Boats for Tiny Fish.
Tensions rise as the weeks pass while waiting for the arrival of the herring

The annual herring spawn occurs later in the season further north up the coast. The Heiltsuk and Haida nations are demanding a moratorium on the herring fishery. They say the stock is too low for the extensive harvest of a datum species. Herring are a link in the marine food chain, both up and down, to which everything else relates. Ninety percent of the herring volume harvested volume does not feed any human. It all becomes fish meal and fertilizer while the highly prized roe is sold to Japan. After the herring spawn, and the fishing boats are gone, there are streaks of milt in the water. Then, after the next spring storm, mounds of herring roe, or eggs, wash up on the beach to decompose in a rich, heavenly reek. The gulls gorge themselves until they can barely fly and there is a frenzy of activity along shorelines of British Columbia. In turn, all that fish fornication and decomposition provides a huge nutrient base for marine life.

The herring arrive. At low tide one line of sea foam, one line of herring milt.
The herring arrive. At low tide one line of sea foam, one line of herring milt.

I would like to see a two or three year moratorium placed on the herring row fishery. I can hear the howls of outrage! Catch what you want for food, take the roe for personal consumption as the natives here have always done. Many fisherman claim they make little profit from herring, despite the very expensive speciality equipment they use to maximize their catches. Somebody is turning a profit when a modern aluminum herring skiff can cost several hundred thousand dollars and fishing openings, which some years, run for less than an hour.

Salmon Berry Bloom
Salmon Berry Bloom

Coincidentally, I was fortunate to recently catch a BBC documentary about a seventy-one hundred hectare reserve at Cabo Pulmo on Southern Baha, Mexico. The Mexican Government imposed a moratorium on this once heavily fished area. To the north, and to the south, rapacious sport and commercial fisheries continue, yet this reserve now again teams with fish at original population levels. It is spectacular to see. Locals are making a decent living now from eco-tourism instead of the meagre existence they knew as fisherman in this once fished-out area. The experiment is proving so successful that the Mexican government is seriously considering similar conservation strategies for up to ten percent of Mexican coastline. It is obvious once again that nature needs no help or manipulation. It just requires being left alone. We must learn that we are an alien influence on this planet. The natural planet does need our constant interference. There is a huge difference between need and greed and we all have to learn the joy of taking as little as possible instead of how much.

Port San Juan
Port San Juan

Tonight I’m spending my first night in my trailer. Jack and I are warm and cozy and dry inside while huge blobs of rain fall from the limbs of monstrous Sitka Spruce towering above us. The wind is incessant and there is fresh snow on the mountains. There is no hint of spring tonight. Less than a hundred meters away surf from the open Pacific thunders on a broad shoreline. We’re staying at the Pacheedaht campground. It is located on a long sandy beach running between the mouths of the Gordon River and the San Juan River next to Port Renfrew. It is spectacular. In the distance lies Cape Flattery, land’s end for continental USA. The two kilometre beach is rightly part of the local native reservation and I believe provides a steady source of income. The surfers come year-round. Despite the intermittent cloudbursts and the subsequent boggy trail beneath the trees, the facility is nearly full. It is not hard to imagination times past when huge dugout canoes would be hauled up on the beach, resting between fishing, whaling and warring expeditions. They had to have been amazing sea people. To manouver one of these cumbersome vessels through the surf with paddle-power only would take amazing skill. I have difficulty remembering native names correctly so here ‘Pacheedaht’ becomes ‘Patch this, patch that, there’s a leak in your canoe”. I know. It’s silly but it works.

The confluence of the Gordon River and the Pacific Ocean. This is the southern end of the famous West Coast Trail
The confluence of the Gordon River and the Pacific Ocean. This is the southern end of the famous West Coast Trail

It’s Good Friday evening. The place we are camped is on the bank of the Gordon River where it runs into the sea. I think it is that outflow at certain points of tide that makes the surf so appealing. God knows I’m a sailor, surf is something I don’t want to know a lot about. At this point in my life, being deliberately cold and wet with a chance of drowning is losing its charm. At dusk, in the salt marsh across the river, a huge heard of elk came out to graze. Now in the darkness, the surfers crowd around huge bonfires despite the pelting rain. The old days of van camping are apparently gone. These surfer dudes have a convoy of generic white travel trailers with pop-out portions and huge diesel pickup trucks. So much for counter-culture. I’ll bet most of these characters don’t even know who Dick Dale is. I couldn’t see one VW van parked anywhere.

The things we do for a few moments of bliss. Surfers off the beach at Pacheedaht
The things we do for a few moments of bliss.
Surfers off the beach at Pacheedaht. Cape Flattery in the distance, open  Pacific beyond.
Camping at Pacheedaht. Jack loved the mud.
Camping at Pacheedaht.
Jack loved the mud.

The drive here from Mesachie Lake on Lake Cowichan is a piece of cake. It is paved all the way now and is named ‘Pacific Marine Road.’ I remember when it was all gravel, a series of connected main logging roads. Public use was then lowly regarded. The dust and rocks flew and you were noted as someone from out of town if your windshield wasn’t broken. All too often, out of the swirling dust, an off-highway truck would appear with a grill eight feet tall and a load of logs that loomed as big, it seemed, as New York City. How times have changed! Once it was considered prestigious to be a white, male, heterosexual making a living as a logger. That is now politically incorrect. I recently saw a logger’s truck with a logo describing his enterprise as “Vegetation Management.”

BIGFOOT Harris Creek Giant Sitka Spruce over 4 metres in diameter
BIGFOOT
Harris Creek Giant Sitka Spruce over 4 metres in diameter
Look up, waaay up!
Look up, waaay up!
GUN CONTROL
GUN CONTROL
Downtown
Downtown
Pink Fawn lily
Pink Fawn Lily

Now then, all of you who eat bread made from selectively harvested grain please raise your hands. WOT!? Good help em. Those freakin’ clear-cuttin’ gluten farmers. Send in the owls! Or is it spotted gophers? Well, so long as it’s somebody else’ fault. Well it’s Easter. Hope you’re not eating too many hot-cross buns and chocolate eggs. And if, like me somedays, you’re stricken with a flickering memory, which is certainly no joke, perhaps you can have fun hiding your own eggs.

“Adventure is dealing with the unknown while moving toward the unknown.” …anon

Island in the Rain Forest
Island in the Rain Forest

Yoho The Coho

The bell of the Coho It's gleam says everything about the vessel and how she's run
The bell of the Coho
It’s gleam says everything about the vessel and how she’s run

It seems, for me, that many great trips begin with a passage on the M.V. COHO to Port Angeles Washington. With a minimum of fuss she backs and turns her 341′ length neatly from her berth in Victoria’s inner harbour, then manoeuvres nonchalantly out for the channel and idles her bulk past the rocks for the open Strait Of Juan De Fuca. Today we cross on a calm sea under a lowering sky. There is a gentle swell on our beam, that siren call of the open Pacific. At least to me it is. The old girl rolls gently and seems to enjoy herself. (You can easily pick out the landlubbers. “Weah not in Iowa no more Doreen!”)

Ogden Point Leaving Victoria Harbour on the Coho southbound across Juan De Fuca Strait for Port Angeles
Ogden Point
Leaving Victoria Harbour on the Coho
southbound across Juan De Fuca Strait for Port Angeles

This old beauty is the remnant of the famous Black Ball Line. Built in 1959 she is in immaculate sea-worthy condition. Clean and clearly loved by her non-uniformed crew this old ship is privately owned and actually makes a profit; she keeps on running year after year. The crew perform their duties with practised ease and in far fewer numbers, it seems, than on a BC Ferry. (We’ll blame crewing regulations!)

Her modest self-sufficiency flies in the face of our BC Ferry fleet. This provincially owned and individually manipulated (Note I did not say managed) corporation has older vessels as well as near-new European-built luxurious super ferries. Often rust streaked and grimy, the fleet is run by massively overpaid executives who are constantly trimming services and increasing fares. One recently appointed board member, whom I know, was previously at the helm of a very successful family logging business which had been founded by his father. He ran the business into total bankruptcy. He was soon accepted to help manage our provincial ferry fleet. I’m sure we would find that his annual BCF remuneration package, including benefits would have most of us feeling set for life. Yes a single year’s worth! Yet the corporation consistently tries to increase fares on its patrons. For those readers who are not familiar with life in this corner of the world all I’ll say is that other ferry services, including the one run by Washington State provide efficient, safe and reliable transport. Enough said. It can be done.

African Swan Yet another load of prime raw logs leaves the Pacific Northwest. What the hell are we doing?
African Swan
Yet another load of prime raw logs leaves the Pacific Northwest.
What the hell are we doing?

I am off once again to the annual Fisher Poets Gathering in Astoria. It seems that the last one was only a few weeks ago. Despite several health issues and my hopeless finances I am able to attend thanks to the very generous support of my wife Jill. Once home again, I must find new sources of income, finish refitting and outfitting old ‘Seafire’ and the little trailer then get down to Mexico. Two doctors have now suggested the move. Despite my general disdain for quacks I intend to take their advise this time. I’ve been talking about this dream for long enough. Einstein once said that you can’t solve a problem by using the same thinking that created it in the first place. Maybe, if I put on a tie, BC Ferries would consider me. My financial prowess would certainly put my in line for a position on the board of directors.

On the upside! Astoria is home to several wonderful micro-breweries
On the upside! Astoria is home to several wonderful micro-breweries

Four days later I’m back on the Coho northbound for Victoria. Events at the Fisher Poet’s Gathering are all a happy blur. My performances were all a splendid success and my duties as an MC went without a hitch. My ego has been massaged, my writing and reading talents have been affirmed and I’m heading back to the old dogfight with a slightly swelled head.

The Astoria Column There is a great aerobic clamber to the top on the spiral staircase inside. The view is fabulous! A local history is inscribed on the outside of the tower
The Astoria Column
There is a great aerobic clamber to the top on the spiral staircase inside. The view is fabulous! A local history is inscribed on the outside of the tower

On the first night all the performers have a dinner where we share some of our new work with each other. By coincidence, I found myself seated next to a California fishermen whom has the same last name. It was our first meeting.

“No shit, your name is Bailey too!”

“Yep, even the same spelling. But then it’s a common name. I doubt we’re at all related.”

“Probably not but do you know Uncle George?”

“Oh yeah, you know him too!”

“God yes! He must be one ancient old fart by now! How is he?”

“Same old dick he ever was.” And the so the improv banter went much to the amusement of the rest of the table. It’s a great joy meeting other birds of a similar feather and the time passes in a rush as we visit with each other and present our work to the public, some of whom come great distances to see and hear what we have to offer.

House halfway up a hill. An example of how many homes in Astoria have been restored
House halfway up a hill.
An example of how many homes in Astoria have been restored

I spend my free time there touring and photographing the town which is a lovely place self-resurrected from the ashes of its demise after both the fishing and the forest industries collapsed. Spring is arriving a bit early this year, blossoms were out everywhere and there were some warm, clear sunny days much to everyone’s delight.

Lots of rooms with lots of views
Lots of rooms with lots of views
See!
See!
Original paint This one is actually older than I am. note the bullet hole above the driver's window.
Original paint
This one is actually older than I am. note the bullet hole above the driver’s window.
Astoria's Liberty Theatre It is even more breath-taking inside
Astoria’s Liberty Theatre
It is even more breath-taking inside
The amazing fish stocks drew a large influx of Finnish immigrants. Now that's finished.
The amazing fish stocks drew a large influx of Finnish immigrants.
Now that’s finished.
On the way to the bottom you'll meet somebody on the way to the top
On the way to the bottom you’ll meet somebody on the way to the top

I’m posting plenty of photos which help describe Astoria and some of its charms. I’m looking forward to next year already. I’m also happy to report that I have finally successfully posted one of my books, ‘The Water Rushing By’, on Amazon/Kindle where it is available as an e-book or as a print-on-demand paperback. I’ve several other books to upload into their inventory so there’ll be no dull moments. Sideways Ho!

The last cannery to be seen out on pilings. There used to be dozens.
The last cannery to be seen out on pilings. There used to be dozens.
Out of Ballast, ready to load some more raw resources
Out of Ballast, ready to load some more raw resources
The din and the smell are amazing. "Who farted?"
The din and the smell are amazing. “Who farted?”
EXCUSE ME! That spot's reserved!
EXCUSE ME!
That spot’s reserved!
Aren't you glad they can't fly?
Aren’t you glad they can’t fly?
Rusty checks his pee mail
Rusty checks his pee mail
Shift worker's window
Shift worker’s window
River's edge at low slack
River’s edge at
low slack
"Let's do lunch." Some wildlife hanging around outside the motel room door.
“Let’s do lunch.”
Some wildlife hanging around outside the motel room door.
Pier 39 A cannery now turned museum. This is a former Columbia river gillnetter. The net was shot and retrieved off the bow. There were once hundreds working the river.
Pier 39
A cannery now turned museum. This is a former Columbia River gillnetter. The net was shot and retrieved off the bow. There were once hundreds working the river.
State of the art, once upon a time.
State of the art, once upon a time.
When men were men
When men were men
Cold Stream Dave and Renee hold an open boat day for the Fisher Poets weekend
Cold Stream
Dave and Renee hold an open boat day for the Fisher Poets weekend
An Unapus Creative sculpture adorns the streets of Port Angeles
An Unapus
Creative sculpture adorns the streets of Port Angeles

 

“When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem starts looking like a nail.”…anonymous

Mind The Gap

Escape. A winter sunrise in Ladysmith Harbour
Escape. A winter sunrise in Ladysmith
Harbour

In the London Underground a recording of a woman’s gentle voice with a clipped British accent, chides passengers to “Mind the gap” whenever they are stepping between the train and the platform. Gift shops sell a variety of souvenir clothing items including boxer shorts with the logo and the phrase “Mind The Gap” emblazoned across the backside. I recalled that this morning while driving to the Gabriola Ferry as an anxious young lady hurtled past me on the right and then squeezed through the decreasing gap between me and the massive truck lumbering along in her lane. I was already driving well above the speed limit but, apparently, not fast enough. This person’s superior agenda was calling on her to risk her life to gain a few seconds of the day. She was risking mine too but that was certainly not a consideration I’m sure. It happens every day no matter where one drives. I used to drive like a maniac myself until I realized that for all the dangerous franticism, I never arrived more than a few minutes less late for all those ubiquitous meetings. It was exhausting, hard on the vehicle, burned lots of extra fuel and the only favourable argument was that all the adrenaline kept me awake while on the road. Yeah right! I also used to consume several packs of cigarettes daily.

An old collision, an abandoned bicycle slowly recycles itself
An old collision, an abandoned bicycle slowly recycles itself

So many folks through the years have remarked on the dangerous things I like to do at sea and at one time as a pilot. I’ve often pointed out the odds stacked against us all on the roads, where our fate is determined by the twitch of someone else’s wrist, are incalculable. It is a miracle that hundreds don’t die on the roads daily. Of course there are also those who wander, and drive, about in traffic while intent on their texting, or movies, or GPS. The police rocket about with a cell phone stuffed in their ear, at least one police radio and at least one laptop computer glaring into their face. One of their duties is to provide tickets to motorists for distracted driving! Modern gadgets have managed to displace even our most primal instinct, fear.

In Mexico, it seems that dying on the road is an honourable way to die, and at each fatal crash site crosses are planted unabashedly. The crosses line Mexican roadsides by the tens of thousands. It is clear at some places, there are numerous repeated accidents in the same spot. Next please! Driving there, or anywhere in Latin America I’m told, is certainly not for the slow-witted or the faint of heart. The experiences deserves at least a blog all on its own.

Los Cruces Camino, another fatal crashsite on the roadside next to a sugar cane field. Mexico's strong sense of family and a fatalistic approach to driving in God's hands.
Los Cruces Camino, another fatal crashsite on the roadside next to a sugar cane field.
Mexico’s strong sense of family and a fatalistic approach to driving in God’s hands.

Next week I’m driving to Astoria Oregon for my annual Fisher Poet’s Gathering. It is an event which draws folks who make their living at sea from all over the planet. Predominantly, the writers and musicians there fish in Alaska but some of us outsiders are invited to help flavour the stew. It is an orgy of blue-collar eloquence, a celebration of the working water person. Some of the work and the music is amazing. So are the products of the several local micro-breweries. Astoria is the gateway to Coastal Oregon and a truly breathtaking drive south to California on Highway 101. This route begins in Lund BC and eventually ends at the Mexican border in Tijuana. It ought to be as famous as Route 66 and is a wonderful, beautiful, trek that meanders southward along the Pacific Coast.

The Artful Dodger, all but invisible even when you've see him cross the road.
The Artful Dodger, all but invisible even when you’ve see him cross the road.

 

Happy Dory A 1930's fishing boat still going strong
Happy Dory
A 1930’s fishing boat still going strong

I won’t tempt the fates with any cracks about surviving the drive. See ya in the movies! Included is a preview of one of the pieces I’ll be reading in Astoria.

More hints of spring
More hints of spring

“Behind every succesful man is a woman rolling her eyes.”

…Jim Carrey

La Bomba An abandoned navigation buoy at forest's edge on Gabriola Island...yet another untold story
La Bomba
An abandoned navigation buoy at forest’s edge on Gabriola Island…another untold story.

 

Breakfast By Desdemona’s

Pouring rain; Astoria, late winter, late morning. I’m hung-under. Ragged black pot-bellied clouds low over the river looking as rough as I feel. Fisher Poet’s time of year, somehow I see it as a hint of spring, an annual ritual for me, an affirmation of proliteriate elocution and blue-collar sensibility, birds of a feather flocking together. I’m from out of town, up the coast, and don’t really know my way around here but I like this place. It’s full of real people, ones who work for a living and say what they mean and mean what they say. We can relate.

My old truck sloshes down the street and across from Firehall Number Two I see a hand-made sign that reads “Breakfast Burrito.” Something about its rustic flare reminds me of real Mexico so far away this morning. I turn in. A wet power steering belt squeals as I park.

Slapping wipers grunt to a stop. I survey the immediate neighbourhood. Next door, ‘The Desdemona Club’ has settled firmly into the ground. It intrigues me. Instead of windows it has a row of bronze portlights along the front. That’s very salty. Another sign a few doors away announces ‘Annies’.There are no clear windows I notice, bars on a solid heavy door with a sign forbidding minors. The faded Neon sign sports a reclining blond and beneath is the weary lettering, ‘Dancers.’ I’m not confused, there’s little diversity, sometimes that’s the way it is. It doesn’t matter, some of the comfort provided is in their universal sameness; a sense of home. I’ve been to biker bars, and every town has at least one ‘Hard Luck Bar and Grill’. Astoria, I’ve noticed, has a few. Annies, and Desdemona’s, I can tell, are places where you’ll find fishing crews hard aground. I wonder how many Alaskan summers have been blown away here in a few nights, or maybe even one. A whole tuna season perhaps gone in a game of poker in one of these places. I’ll bet there’s a fistful of broken teeth out back among the splintered glass,used condoms and cigarette butts. I’m not inclined to visit either place. Two doors up, a sign announces a health food store calling itself ‘The Center Of Balance.’

I’ve seen these sort of places too many times and I’m not keen for more. Sometimes I’ve been persuaded to reluctantly join a friend or a crew, “Ah c’mon let’s just go in; check it out”. They are never a place to go into straight-up sober and you should always make sure to take a seat that puts your back to the wall. I can imagine the purple terry-cloth table covers, held in place wtih elastic under the round edges. Those covers are often beer-wet soggy yet have cigarette burns in them. Chances are the chairs and stools have purple naugahyde coverings tacked in place with heavy metal brads. The walls around the joint will be covered with ancient ball team photos and soon you notice that some of the old fart regulars leaning on the bar were once those same young men in those pictures. There’s a ressemblance, much-faded, but it’s there. You wonder about their lives and what stories they have to tell.

The heavy beer pitchers and glasses are pitted and chipped. You know they’ve been thrown and dropped more than once. Some sorry young woman may be gyrating on a small stage to an incongruous tune. She’ll look weary and bored and plain as she undresses. You can see what she’ll look like when she’s old, in another ten years or so. There might be needle-marks on her arms. You can’t tell if that far away look of disappointment in her eyes is because no-one is watching her, or perhaps because a few are. I wonder what stories she can tell. There’s always an air of menace in these places, especially if you’re not local.

A hand-lettered sign tacked to the back wall, beneath the one that reads ‘Gents’ , reads “No Touching The Ladies.’ There’s a thick patina of nicotine tar on the ceiling and the grey pickled eggs in the jar on the bar look like they’ve had a few anniversaries. There’s a rancid taste to the place in every breath. ‘Seen one, seen e’m all’ I muse, bending myself away from my gloomy vicarious preview. I remember a waitress dealing with a gang of rowdies in a dive somewhere far up the mid-coast. A table of drunks was growing out of hand. One final affrontery lit her temper but this big Haida girl calmly said, “Look you guys, you know I’ve been out there on my dad’s boat for years. You’re not impressing me. You’re all the same. You’re always talking when you should be listening. You catch all your fish in the bar and chase all your women whenever you’re out on the boats.”

When I was wrenching on the packers a fellow engineer, (Shrek, we called him) , closed the bar in Zeballos, talking as usual when he should have been listening. A big old logger tuned him up magnificently. At dawn’s early light Shrek was out on the street where he met his assailant of a few hours earlier. “Y’any smarter today?” Shrek’s face looked like a bowel of plumbs all battered and purple. He leered his classic broken-toothed grin. ‘Hah, ya didn’t get one by me didja.”

A local fisherman in Astoria told me about the good old days. Desdemona’s was known as the “Dirty D”. There was a seiner’s bar and a trollers bar and a draggers bar and so on. I think I’ve been to a few dragger bars in my time.

In the restaurant the coffee is fresh and rich and black. The air is thick with aromas of culinary bliss. I order a shrimp burrito with heuvos rancheros. A belly-full of good food may help stave off the effects of too much rum. Or was it simply some bad ice ?

The waiter comes back apologizing. “Nada fresh shrimp this senor”; perhaps I’d like some ‘Langostino’ instead.

‘Si senor, por favor. Muy buen. Gracias.’ He smiles bravely at my mutilated Spanish and scurries off. Soon a plate is delivered that’s the size of a hatch cover. It’s heaped with steaming goodness and I eat till I’m full. Then I clean the plate. In happy agony I step outside where the sun now ladders down through the gloom. Out on the river, sea lions bellow and an old seine boat bucks up the river against the beginning of the ebb. I watch until it finally dissappears behind a desserted cannnery. Two pickup trucks are parked on the street beneath the faded blond. One has a load of crab pots, the other, a heap of roughly stowed gill net. Fishermen, at one of the bars. It’s hardly turned eleven o’clock. The rain begins again. I turn the key in the ignition. The starter only clicks. Dead battery! I realize I’ve left the headlights on. My front tire is in a pot hole. No hope of a rolling start. Four-lettered expletives!

Water cascades again down the windshield as I consider my options. That doesn’t take long, I don’t have any. First stop Desdemona’s . It’s closest.

I was wrong. It is clean and bright and friendly inside. The freshly varnished tables have no covers. There are no fishermen. I head for Annie’s.

 

The Dog Has A Gun

The sign read, “DANGER! The dog has a gun and refuses to take his medication.” To me, any expression of humour is an invitation to get closer but in this case it is clear that somebody has a claim on a piece of the earth and wants me to stay outside the fence they built. OK fine!

The longer I live the less I accept this notion of owning a piece of the planet. I do understand the aboriginal concept of respecting the earth and sharing it and thanking it sincerely for resources you need to stay alive and feed your family. Remember the animated film, “Finding Nemo?” All the gulls screamed “Mine, mine, mine!” That powerful metaphor was profound and describes our human nature as well as anything. Our time here is so fleeting. How can we possibly think we have an exclusive right to something which we are merely visiting? Somewhere I have a photo from the Gulf Islands of a lovely sign on a tree announcing a Bed and Breakfast. Spiked immediately beneath it was a larger sign declaring, “Private Property No Trespassing.” With that mixed message I’m not sure those folks enjoyed a brisk trade.

First flowers of spring. January Snowdrops on Gabriola Island
First flowers of spring.
January Snowdrops on Gabriola Island

Many of the Gulf Islands were a haven to hippies and draft-dodgers back in my good old days, the sixties and seventies. They arrived with nothing and I recall their whiny rants about peace and love and “Share the wealth man!” Once mom and dad passed on and they could acquire the turf they had so long squatted on, the “Private Go Away, My Land” signs began to appear on every tree. I’ve heard a capitalist defined as “A socialist who’s found an opportunity” and maybe that’s so. When I see someone with long white hair wearing a headband, and stepping out of their European SUV wearing designer gumboots, I’m really tempted to stroll over and say “Peace man! Share the wealth?”

Elgie Road in the morning, Gabriola Island
Elgie Road in the morning,
Gabriola Island

There are stories about new landowners appearing next to a neighbouring property where llamas or other exotic creatures roamed on that piece of already-cleared land. There were almost shooting wars about the newcomer removing his own trees to suit his needs and changing the view of those who were there first. I recently saw an old Western movie about the battles between cattlemen and sheep ranchers. Both sides were indignant about their “Rights” to overrun the natural world for their own needs. There were times when guns were drawn over the notion of fencing the open range. Of course, we‘re now understanding that “Leave it as you found it” has always been right but the fences won’t be coming down anytime soon. MY LAND!

The pioneers went to great lengths to import European cattle which still don’t really suit their new world. Now some agricultural circles are recognizing that the yield per acre in a given time period, factored in with the ability to be self-sustaining, from calving to finding water and enduring severe weather, indicates that bison are best-suited to live in their native habitat and can produce both profit and minimal environmental impacts. Who would have thunk? Wow! That’s amazing. Fields used to produce grain to feed cattle in feedlots, can be reverted to the natural grasslands they once were when the bison thrived splendidly in massive herds. We won’t need to burn any diesel harvesting the grain. And just think, ruminants were never intended to eat grain like birds. So, we could have “Gluten-free” beef. I admit I’m over-simplifying to make my point but nothing is perfect and nature has never needed our help, or interference, especially if we can be content with our truly simple needs. Now I just have to get my head around the bison being raised here on the Westcoast islands of BC. Shouldn’t we be raising elk here? They’re indigenous. Oh God here we go again sailor!

I often have the television on while I sit and write and sometimes there is something to draw me away from my keyboard. A few days ago there was a BBC program about a group in England who replicate various historical situations and film their efforts. At the moment they are working at the lives of tenant farmers on the land of a Tudor monastery, even complete with authentic costumes. “Hey Cedric, nice codpiece!”

If you were upper class you could afford to eat a varied diet with plenty of meat. The peasants and priests all lived on a near-constant diet of home-made bread and ales. Their concept of time was very different and they would work as daylight and weather permitted. There were few holidays or weekends off. Their lives as bipedal donkeys were usually over at age thirty-five to forty.

Kinsol Trestle Built by the railroad over the Koksilah River near Duncan on Vancouver Island. An amazing piece of engineering, no computers, just blood, sweat and brains.
Kinsol Trestle
Built by the CN railroad over the Koksilah River near Duncan on Vancouver Island.
An amazing piece of engineering, no computers, just blood, sweat and brains.

It occurred to me that their prime nourishment was almost purely gluten and I’m sure there weren’t many obese farm workers. Of course nor were there many geriatric ones. We’ve endured the paranoia about cholesterol, sodium, glucose, trans-fat and now gluten. This is especially poignant to me this week; I’ve just been diagnosed as being diabetic. That came as a shock! Most of those whom I know are diabetic were once chronic drinkers. I’m a bit portly but I stay very active and while I love good food and drink I have also worked on curbing the excesses which I once did embrace heartily. (Or is that heartlessly? How about mindlessly?) In the redneck world I knew for so long being a glutton was a mark of manliness. “Work hard, play hard!” Being overweight largely contributes to the onset of diabetes and one of the symptoms of diabetes is the weight gain it brings on. Cause and effect, round and round. The simple fact is that too much of anything, even water or air, can be a bad thing.

The rebuilt bridge sports miles of shiny sailboat rigging!
The rebuilt bridge sports miles of shiny sailboat rigging!

So the odyssey of Seafire and her crew takes an added twist. I must quit talking about healthy lifestyles. It’s time to do or die. I promote free original thinking and it is humiliating to admit I’ve fallen into a common state of mindless consumption. Maybe it is just the luck of the draw but there are things I can do to rectify the situation. Perhaps this is another example of my mantra about responsibility being the price of freedom. Another documentary titled “Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead” decries our collective dietary lemming race to the grave and also promotes the advantages of an all-juice diet for weight loss. The narrator also happens to be the owner of Breville, a company which markets juicing machines along with copious other kitchen gadgets. Hmmm! Do the potential plots ever end? Meanwhile my daily intake of pills is increasing and yes, I do have a conspiracy theory about that. There was a time when buying shirts, my concern was finding something my arms would fit into. Now it’s my belly. Yeah, I’ve got a lot of guts. Could you pass the chips please? Wannanother beer? This too shall pass. When I grow up I want to be a flat-bellied geezer.

Coincidentally, I finally saw parts of the famous documentary “Super size Me.” I’ll confess to indulging in fast food and that it is indeed both toxic and addictive. With the growing numbers, of people in poor health and the availability of instant malnourishment, we’re destroying ourselves in a gross and painful way. McDonalds, whom I can recall advertising, “Over a million served” now serves over forty-six million a day! And that’s just the big M. What of all the other purveyors of crap on a cardboard? We love the stuff! The marketing strategy seems to be “Eat shit, a billion flies can‘t be wrong.” And we buy it.

Koksilah River from Kinsol Trestle. Bungy-jumping? Kayaking?
Koksilah River from Kinsol Trestle.
Bungy-jumping?
Kayaking?

One of my childhood icons has died. Don Harron was a Canadian actor and CBC Radio personality. Remember the wonderful voice of Peter Gzowski on CBC radio’s Morningside? Harron preceded him. He also developed a wonderful character named Charlie Farquharson. He nailed the mannerisms of an old Ontario farmer almost perfectly and, in his costume, was a dead ringer for my own  Canadian grandfather. His charm was in the way he misspelled things, writing them down phonetically. “Anyways if yer ready, put yer feet in the stove and we’ll git started with my oriole histry of Canada..that jist means it was took down by the wife Valeda, writin’ fast as Billy-jo jist as it come outta my mouth. I woulda writ it down myself, but Valeda says nobody’s gonna read writin’ when it’s written rotten.” Off he’d go about pre-Cambrian Shist and yer Plastocine Period.

He‘d ramble on about esoteric things Canadian, gently mincing it up such as describing the early fur traders as voyeurs-de-boys and if something needed special explanation he’d mark it with an “Astrix” and continue in his feetnotes. “RCMP means Roman Catholic Members Of Parliment and what they was doing with pillboxes, nobody knows”. His humour was dated and parochial and wonderfully innocent. Don Harron is gone, another piece of a lost era. An era, I’m afraid, of which I am part. Yeah I know, back in the good old days. I just don’t get yer CBC 49 and guys like Jeans-on Gomeshme. (Only Canadians have a hope of getting that! And he’s gone from there now because he was supposed to be a nasty piece of work.) Then there’s that George Stompsonalotofus!

My pals Tony and Connie from Victoria have arrived in Sri Lanka after sailing the Andaman Sea and the Bay of Bengal on the way from Phuket. These guys are intrepid and have a wonderful way of mixing journey and destination into equal parts. They take the time to smell the flowers and produce a fantastic blog about their adventures. See the link in my right sidebar which will take you to ‘Sage On Sail’. Between two different boats this pair have now spent over ten years sailing the South Pacific. Other friends, Bob and Deb are somewhere in the American Southwest exploring in their Mercedes van which they did a magnificent job of turning into a modern gypsy caravan. They are apparently having a grand old time travelling in a land where everything is larger than life.

The earth awakes as January ends.
The earth awakes
as January ends.

Other friends are wintering at home in Australia. As soon as Ali recovers a bit from back surgery, she and Rodger will be back to their beloved wooden baby, “Betty Mac” presently moored in La Paz, Mexico. Off they’ll go again. The world keeps spinning ’round.

In a bay called Dogpatch, another old beauty dies a horrible death
In a bay called Dogpatch, another old beauty dies a horrible death

Meanwhile, here on the West Coast, it’s still too wet to plow and I’m laying by the door like an old dog waiting for the mailman. I’ve got some loose ends to tie up and then hopefully, will be soon be posting a blog from somewhere south. I’ll be busy this month preparing to participate in another annual trek to Astoria Oregon for the Fisher Poet’s Gathering. This is a fantastic event and celebration of those who work at sea. You’re all invited. Check out the Fisher Poet’s link on this blog’s right hand sidebar.

Astoria Oregon on the Columbia River looking out to the Columbia Bar and the open Pacific.
Astoria Oregon on the Columbia River looking out to the Columbia Bar and the open Pacific.

It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: It would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.”………C.S. Lewis

Tracks

Recently I watched a Netflix called film ‘Tracks’. It is also available elsewhere online. Based on a book of the same title written by a woman named Robyn Davidson, it is a great movie. The world first learned of her in a National Geographic article in 1978. As a young woman this tenacious character decided to trek 2000 miles of the Australian Outback in the company of the few camels she needed to pack her supplies and gear. Managing the camels was no small feat let alone enduring the ordeal of desert survival. It is a brilliant film and the sort of folks who read this blog would enjoy seeing it. A quote from that film says “Some nomads are never home and some always are.”

A bumper sticker I’ve seen says “Not all wanderers are lost.” If I find one, I may smack it onto the back of my little trailer which is now essentially complete. I must throw in a plug here for a small RV dealer in Southwestern Ontario. They’re so down home-small that they don’t have a website. In 2015 that’s an accomplishment! I discovered them on Kijiji while looking for some small windows for the doors on my trailer.

Nor-O-Tech Trailers Inc. (519-468-8772) are located in Norwich Ontario, a little east of London on Norwich Rd. Google Map shows that when you pass through Hinks Corners, you’re getting close. Mine was a small order, due in part to their very reasonable prices, but they treated me like a king. The windows were carefully packed and shipped safely lickety-split via UPS (Three days from east of Hinks Corners!) It is sad that integrity and good service are remarkable and noteworthy. Victoria and Don definitely deserve kudus. If you need RV stuff (That I couldn’t find online in BC!) check these folks out.

My new back door windows. The lower fitting on the door allows it to be locked open
My new back door windows. The lower fitting on the door allows it to be locked open

I’m now ready to do south again with a trailer. I’m supposed to be a sailor and this blog is about getting my boat ‘Seafire’ south but somewhere along the way I became distracted by the idea of teardrop trailers. One day by chance I saw a lovely home-made one for sale and I was hooked. I rationalized that I could also use the teardrop to haul my tools between jobs. The deal was completed and soon I was tinkering up that little wagon to suit my needs.

My beloved teardrop on the beach in Mexico last year
My beloved teardrop on the beach in Mexico last year

Along the way I met a lot of truly wonderful people who were drawn to the little trailer and it was easy enough to pull behind my four-cylinder truck. Despite some blunders on my part, it was a wonderful trip down to Jalisco State and back. Waking up on the beach in Mexico in that mobile bed was marvellous but I began to rationalize. Tip-toeing barefoot in the dark to appease Captain Bladder among the scorpions wasn’t really that romantic and I began to think of the decadence of standing up inside a trailer to enjoy the luxury of a bucket. On the drive home I began to consider converting a small cargo trailer or even a horse trailer. It was not an original idea I soon learned, other people commonly refer to these as “Stealth trailers”. The teardrop sold and I began to peruse online marketing sites.

The New Rig. Apart from the windows and the awning, it doesn't shout "Look at me."
The New Rig. Apart from the windows and the awning, it doesn’t shout “Look at me.” The yellow thing is a security device that came with the trailer.

 

Eventually I found a 6×12 almost-new trailer with dual axles and torsion-bar suspension, perfect for towing off-road. It had been camperized by a dealer and came with an awning, a screen door, windows, insulation, wiring, some nice cabinets and a fair price. It would tow easily and was far more road-worthy than any recreational trailer I looked at. With the versatility of a cargo trailer I could also use it as a mobile work shop, storage shed and general haul away to hide away. I’ve had some time on my hands lately and so I’ve finished the trailer to suit my whims. I’ve panelled the sides to match the existing cabinetry and installed a little laminate flooring forward to make it seem homier. The main portion of the huge bed doubles as a workbench with a smaller portion on one side which lifts up or can be stored away as required. My little windows are now fitted in the back door so I have a view directly out from the bed as well as a little more passive ventilation. I’ve installed a drop bar on those doors. I can secure them from inside. A lock for the door handle outside prevents being locked in. That bar also clips onto the top of the open doors. With a simple curtain I have a private shower area.

The interior. The bed/workbench with removable portion in place, storage underneath. Shelving with reading lights overhead. Curtains and mattress coming soon.
The interior.
The bed/workbench with removable portion in place, storage underneath. Shelving with reading lights overhead. Curtains and mattress coming soon.

There are now overhead shelves along either side over the bed each fitted with LED reading lights. There is massive storage space on the shelves beneath the bed/workbench. The centrepiece that inspired the whole project is a portapotty which nestles inside a reworked wooden box. It doubles as a foot stool and seat. Everything must be multi-functional. That, of course, will be known as ‘Pandora’s box’. There’s a stereo and a small 12 volt refrigerator. As much material as possible was salvaged from places like ‘Restore’. One of those treasures is a table I found and adapted as a removable outdoor table which clips onto the side of the trailer. Two drywall jacks have been cut down and transformed into adjustable legs. I’m quite pleased with the overall result.

Pandora's Box revealed. The pop-up table is where future blogs will be written
Pandora’s Box revealed. The pop-up table is where future blogs will be written

I nag myself that the expense and effort should have been focused into the boat but I’ve discovered that there is a wonderful world inland beyond sight and smell of the sea. Last year I watched as the gringo cruising boats anchored in beautiful little bays dictated to their crews about what they could not do if able to go ashore. Security, surf and holding ground for the anchor made for a classic situation of how stuff ends up owning and controlling the owner. I love my boat and the idea of having a home afloat in which I’m free to go when and where I like. It is a financial albatross. Certainly, I’ll admit, I do consider compromises but this old salt can’t imagine a landlubber’s existence and for the moment, maintaining the foundation of my dreams is imperative. Every day I go aboard, inhale her fragrant unique aroma and see all that I’ve put into her, I know that I am the willing slave of old ‘Seafire.’ Eventually I hope to have both boat and trailer south. They will compliment each other so that this gringo could stay all year.

Forward storage. I had to find and finishing panelling to match. Fridge and stereo work great!
Forward storage. I had to find and finish the panelling to match. Fridge and stereo work great!
A recycled table bought as if made to order for $15. I added the mounting clips and modified the drywall jacks for adjustable legs. They fold and lock away for storage. A few margaritas and cervesas will be spilled here.
A recycled table bought as if made to order for $15. I added the mounting clips and modified the drywall jacks for adjustable legs. They fold and lock away for storage. A few margaritas and cervesas may be spilled here and a novel written as well.

That being said, I marvel at folk’s determination that bigger is better. Huge cruising boats still have an average crew of only two and seem to spend a majority of their time incarcerated in a marina with all the other look-at-me-boats. It’s the same on the highway. Huge mobile condos are dragged along behind a monstrous diesel truck. Bus-sized motor homes tow suvs or boats. Usually these RVs carry only two people. Some holiday! I am certain that for many people, owning one of these monstrosities is more about making an impression on strangers than it is about travel and discovery. Look at my big box! Maybe it makes them feel manly. Certainly you can’t get far off the pavement into the real world without getting stuck or shaken to bits. There must be a huge contingent of Rvers who travel only from Walmart to Walmart. It’s safe, convenient, free and dreadfully monotonous. It certainly does not look like an edifying or pleasant experience for me.

View from Manzanilla toward Tenacatita. The sunsets are incredible.
View from Manzanilla toward Tenacatita. The sunsets are incredible.

Minimalism, alternate lifestyles and under-the-radar discretion. Good enough. Freedom is understanding how little you need. With adequate room to stand up, lay down, and be safe from the elements what else do you really need? Someone to love, something to do, something to look forward to…while doing as little harm as possible.

There’s a lot to be said for a camel and a blanket.

The road less travelled. on the way to Barra De Navidad
The road less travelled. On the way to Barra De Navidad

Winter Monkies

Winter Tranquility After a week of wind, rain, the fog seetles over an islet in the mudflats at the head of Ladysmith Harbour, originally known as Oyster Bay
Winter Tranquility
After a week of wind, rain, the fog settles over an islet in the mudflats at the head of Ladysmith Harbour, originally known as Oyster Bay

Eight AM. It was pitch dark fifteen minutes ago. Now the day is taking on a reluctant grey hue. The sky monkey is tinkering with the switch, give him a banana. The rain monkey doesn’t get a damned thing though and don’t even think about the snow monkey. And now we have a fog ape who’s come to visit. It’s all in the forecast at once. I torture myself daily with a visit to the web cam on the beach in La Manzanilla. I swear at times that I can smell the lime and fried fish aroma from Pedro’s Cantina. It’s January and some days I imagine that our daylight minutes are getting longer. It is not my favourite time of year.

Thus inspired I toil on at turning my small trailer into a grand little home for the road. Mexico or anywhere south seems very far off at the moment from that back-alley work site. I’m braced for an unfriendly encounter with a neighbour. Every time I need to make some noise with a saw or a router I first have to fire up my Honda generator. It has a nerve grating clatter and I feel like the bane of suburbia. Then I plug in my compressor to add to the din. Fortunately for the folks living close around there are only about six hours of useful daylight at the moment so they get the evenings off. As the noisy work comes to completion a couple of neighbours have dropped by to see if I’m OK. Nice folks!

I’ve resolved my technical issues on the boat. “Ships and men rot in port” is a line attributed to Lord Nelson and it’s as good an explanation as any. I find that as soon as a boat is left to sit it begins to rebel by revealing various weaknesses. I discovered that the circuit breaker originally installed for the auto helm has only half the rating called for, a great discovery before heading out on a long trip. Often sailing alone, I use that little black box to steer the boat. It is a much better helmsman than any human and allows me the luxury of tending to other ship’s duties while underway. It does not however, have eyes. Maintaining a constant vigil is always required. Radar is not to be relied on for objects just afloat on the surface. It is amazing how quickly junk in the water, as well as other boats, can materialize if your look-out is interrupted. You too can become junk in the water!

The fuel issue was embarrassingly simple. Once in a while you have to put fuel in the tank! Diesel engines will not run with even a miniscule amount of air in the fuel lines. One tank tends to run down before the other and the level was lower than I had assumed. To assume anything is often dangerous as I’ve once again proven. It is no big deal so long as I keep some fuel in that tank but I need to rebuild the entire fuel supply and filtering system. It has been on my must-do list. The horrific cost of a bank of new filters has held me back but having an unreliable fuel supply can be much more expensive. Procrastination can be yet another deadly sin. It was drummed into my brain early in my flying carer to never, ever, trust a fuel gauge. The port tank gauge was showing a quarter tank when it was actually low enough to let air into the lines. Most of the boats I repair are ones which seldom leave the dock. Now, my boat is one of those!

The shore power matter is resolved now that the breaker for my slip has been turned on. My batteries need to be replaced which I want to leave until just before the boat heads south. Fortunately the inverter/charger is unharmed, a major expense avoided. All’s well that ends and I’m confident that the old prune barge is in a state of full seaworthiness.

Flaps 40 degrees! Ladysmith where you're never over the hill!
Flaps 40 degrees!
Ladysmith, where you’re never over the hill!

All of this is going on in Ladysmith, a picturesque little town with a vaguely English, or perhaps East Coast, feel to it. Built on a steep hillside it has magnificent views to the East, The best views are on the streets which run straight down the grades to the main street. Sensibly, they’re closed on slippery days but on any day it’s easy to get a vehicle airborne without the prudent early use of brakes.

Head-Smashed-In-Skateboarder-Jump Christmas decorations still surround the salvaged ship's anchor in the downtown traffic circle
Head-Smashed-In-Skateboarder-Jump
Christmas decorations still surround the salvaged ship’s anchor in the downtown traffic circle

Some communities spend millions to build an Olympic-class ski jump, we have one downtown. I have visions of a blue-haired wide-eyed senior flinging themselves in their little Asian car into footless halls of air and landing grill-first into someone’s roof or at least, front yard shrubbery. Of course that could also be a baggy-panted, hat-on-backwards dufus on a skateboard. I can see the sign ‘Welcome to Ladysmith, home of Head-Smashed-In-Skateboard-Jump’. Just past Him Tortons (I love dyslexic humour) look up, way up.

Another view to a kill up another hill. Beyond the careening car, in the first yellow building, is world-class Robert Street Pizza... NOT gluten free, yum!
Another view to a kill up another hill. Beyond the careening car, in the first yellow building, is world-class Robert Street Pizza… NOT gluten free. Yum!

I know some of my imaginings are sick but it is fun to visualize. So far as I know there have not been any runaway vehicle events and I hope everyone stays safe but some days I think there’s just not enough chlorine in the gene pool. Town workmen had a project half-way down the steepest street so they correctly put up a barricade at the top. This happens to be at an intersection which is a four-way stop. At the bottom of the very steep grade, complete with two level bumps at more intersections, is a lovely traffic circle with a fountain and a huge old ship’s anchor in the middle. It would not make a happy ending for a failed brake story. Twice within a minute I watched vehicles stop then turn to go down the hill despite the very obvious fluorescent obstacles erected immediately at the edge of the street. Each driver lurched to a halt at the barrier and sat pondering what was wrong with the picture. It would have been great fun to set up a video camera. If a motorist cannot plan fifty feet ahead while sitting at a stop sign one can only wonder what their awareness is when hurtling down the highway. And some folks think a life at sea is scary! It is. The dangerous part is the drive to the docks.

Meanwhile I sit here tying up loose ends and dreaming and scheming and waiting for the phone to ring. A job I committed to finishing before Christmas has twice been pushed back for various reasons. While I wait I work on the trailer and the boat and the writing.

Lichen or not. Slowly, all resources return to their source.
Lichen or not.
Slowly, all resources return to their source.

On the subject of writing, I am sadly interrupted, at least in spirit, by the grim news of the brutal terrorist attacks in Paris against the staff of Charlie Hebdo. I had not ever heard of this publication but I’m wiser now. Just Google it up and see for yourself. If you’ve read some of my blogs you know I’m not afraid to speak my mind, and that I indulge in stirring the pot to deliberately inspire criticism and dialogue. I certainly cherish the right to freedom of speech and expression but I certainly do not condone violence; it only leads to more. That vicious circle never ends. So, if you discover a hornet’s nest would you escalate the situation by repeatedly mooning it? Chances are, every pun intended, that you and your silly arse will realize a very bitter end.

I am sceptical of any religion yet I cannot condone categorical denigration. There are plenty of nasty Muslim people just as there are copious numbers of evil folks calling themselves Christian. There are also a great many human beings who are compassionate, gentle and peace-loving regardless of their religious persuasion. Charlie Hebdo, under the guise of “Journalistic Satire”, claims to be anti-racist yet it certainly appears to antagonize all religions and politicians blatantly and consistently. It produces vulgar and deliberately offensive images which unsettle even my rough blue collared sensitivities. I cannot get past their incredibly offensive cover pages to want to explore the content. To persistently insult people, and knowingly promote division which exacerbates hatred, bigotry and fear, is not journalism in any sense. It is an incitement to indignation and violence. Ultimately hate literature is as deadly as any bomber or gunman. Wars have begun over less. Surely France has endured plenty enough bloodshed in the past few centuries to not understand cause and effect.

Here, in Canada, we have laws against hate-mongering. Most of us abhor legislation but while freedom of the press is a sacred right, the price of any freedom is responsibility. Unfortunately Charlie Hebdo has consistently written a tragically self-fulfilling prophecy. They have paid a high price for their indulgence in irresponsible liberty and the business of creasting enemies. Their next publication will appear again next week. There is apparently a healthy market for more of the pathetic innuendo they produce. Sales figures will now leap. How thoughtless and selfish we humans are! Meanwhile all our information is via the global media machine which I hope no-one is naive enough to swallow whole. And with all that intense media focus and speculation, guess how many other nutters are scheming as I write to go out in a blaze of limelight.

Well, this blog is supposed to be for dreamers who call themselves sailors. “Into the ocean are all things resolved.” We have our own ways of distancing ourselves from the world. I spent today scrubbing mid-winter verdigris from the boat, hoping to placate the old girl and show her that she is still much loved. Thin sunlight broke through the fog for a few minutes but the distant howl and throb of foghorns rang out all day. Still, I swear, there were moments with a sniff of spring in the air. Soon baby, soon we’ll sail south toward the arc of the sun’s daily transit until it passes directly overhead. Meanwhile I scrub, I ponder, I dream.

Sleepy Time. Mid-afternoon in the Ladysmith Maritime society Marina, 'Seafire' hibernates with the rest of the fleet
Sleepy Time. Mid-afternoon January in the Ladysmith Maritime society Marina, ‘Seafire’ hibernates with the rest of the fleet

We’re just entering the second week of January and I’ve already seen two incredible films of this new year. One film is ‘The Theory Of Everything’ and the second is also a marvellous multi-layered comment on many issues and is also brilliantly acted and directed. I recommend them both. Heartily. Here are two quotes from the second film ‘The Imitation Game’.

“Do you know why people like violence? It’s because it feels good. But remove the satisfaction and the act becomes hollow.”

“It’s often the people that no one imagines anything of who do the things no one can imagine.”

Suspense
Suspense

Wot A Day!

Sky swimmer. Winter morning calm.
Sky swimmer.
Winter morning calm.

Christmas Eve, the weather today was fabulous. It was so darned fine I went for a swim. But I’ve discovered free diving in a rain parka is a bit awkward.

Today I moved the boat. My new berth at the old shipyard proved to have problems with the electrical service. There was low, fluctuating voltage which is death on “Smart” electronic devices like the large (As in expensive) charger inverter in my boat. Low voltage is as nasty as too much; my heater is now producing that scorched wiring aroma. It’s toast. Because there are massive development plans afoot for the old shipyard, nobody is about to put money into ancient wiring systems which will be soon ripped out. I found a temporary berth at the Ladysmith Maritime Society and decided to move today.

I spent last night on the boat in Nanaimo with no heat but slept well under a copious layer of wool blankets. Mr bladder blew his whistle at 03:00 but it was warm and snug in my nest and I reluctantly emerged up to address the call one toe at a time. I guess that’s one of the gold marks of approaching geezerhood; waking up warm and…dry.

Bark Owl. Some twist makes these wooden owls and attaches them randomly throughout the forest. They're quite startling at first glance,
Bark Owl. Some twist makes these wooden owls and attaches them randomly throughout the forest. They’re quite startling at first glance,

The day began with a mug of stout black coffee. Then it was time to twist the old girl’s tail. Those old batteries, cold as they were, ground the good old Lehman over and she sputtered into life ready as ever to take on the world. It’s funny how a man can be in love with a lump of assembled metal parts but I truly do hold great affection for this old-school menagerie of basic up and down, round and round simplicity. Bugger electronics! Thirty seconds after flash-up, she spluttered into silence. There was air in the fuel system which I soon bled out and the faithful old beast purred contentedly while I prepared to cut loose. Off we went bound for the fuel dock to slip a little dinosaur juice into one tank and with one more item to add to the repair list.

This boat holds well over a thousand dollars of fuel. So I’ve yet to ever fill her up. And yes, this old aviator well knows the evils of condensation in partially filled tanks. One hundred dollars put eighty-four litres in the port tank, which raised the fuel gauge only a flicker but at least I knew the engine was not sucking any air from the tank holding the least fuel. There was a nasty, dirty dock hickey on the hull which I decided to scrub off given the opportunity, so leaning over a metal pipe dock rail I scrubbed vigorously, pushing hard on the hull. It inched away from the dock, I inched out to finish the job.

There was no kerplunk. Damn, that new raincoat is slippery! It all happened in slow-motion and I participated in disbelief. No, it can’t be, just relax and pull back yourself in. But down i slid. God! The water was clear. My glasses squirted off of my face and began a falling leaf descent to the distant bottom. I desperately groped for those beloved goggles and swam myself deeper and deeper. That’s when the full body ice-cream headache hit. I turned back for the light up top. Screw those bi-focals. There’s some crab down there sporting his wire-rimmed Christmas present as I speak.

You know, it’s funny. I’ve been pretty down and out lately, wrestling with the winter blues, lack of money and other personal problems to the point where the old Hari Kari demon begins whispering dark suggestions. I left him down there. One simple deep gulp of ice-cold water could have quickly ended my problems in an apparent innocent tragedy. No-one would have been the wiser, just another old fart doing something stupid but there was a choice that was beyond my reasoning. Back to the top for more of this thing called life. My slow motion adventure probably lasted less than two minutes but when I broke surface with my pockets full of water I was amazed to realize that I was already becoming hypothermic. I had no strength and couldn’t haul myself out. There were some folks attending another boat at the dock and I began with an escalating voice, “Hello, excuse me. Hello, helloo!”. (Bloody stupid polite Canadians!) All’s well that ends and here I am tonight, warm dry and sipping the very last of my Jamesons.

As I backed the boat away from the dock I noticed a ladder on the end of the dock and around a corner not fifteen feet from where I floundered. Damn that pump jockey! I am so glad I didn’t ruin his Christmas. After all my years at sea, and fully aware of how it is the little things that getcha, little reminders still come now and then.

Heading out of the harbour I flipped the auto pilot on. It died in a heartbeat. Something bloody else to fix! It was going to be an Armstrong steering situation and so it was that I came south. It turns out there were a million logs in the water because of the winter solstice and the spring, or extreme, tides. The auto pilot would only have caused more trouble had it been working. The day was glorious and clear and warm and the goddamned sun was right in my eyes most of the way! Turning to miss one log lined the boat up to hit another two and so the trip to Ladysmith went. I’m still half- blind from following that bright path and happy that I rammed only two logs. Finally in the marina in Ladysmith, I backed perfectly into my new berth, made all the lines fast and doubled, plugged in my shore power cord and discovered that someone forgot to turn on the power for my slip. So why did I leave Nanaimo?

Ditch Drops
Ditch Drops

Well some days that’s how the pickle squirts. Unless, you’re too poor for pickles. Bugga!

It’s Christmas and may your priorities fall in the correct order. Here’s to life, however it unfolds.

The beginning. Cold, dark, sodden, even in the depth of winter life continues.
The beginning.
Cold, dark, sodden, even in the depth of winter life continues.

The alternative is pretty dark. And cold! Isn’t it interesting? Whether we are wealthy or poor, happy or sad we all share a common priority….our next breath. The moment, no matter what we choose to believe, it is really all we have.

Wishing us all very many moments, and happy ones at that.

Happy Christmas everyone.

Thar be monsters in these waters!
Thar be monsters in these waters!
A star in the east
A star in the east