Maritime Archives - Page 7 of 9 - bc-bog-trotter.com

Passing Cloud, Food Poisoning and Heavy Rain

Soggy Rock yet another rainy day on the midcoast — Soggy Rock
Yet another rainy day on the midcoast

Well yeah, I knew what I was getting into. During the summer I had every anchorage to myself. Now the whole coast is mine for the taking. It has everything to do with the weather.

The first day of autumn has already passed. It feels to me that it has been winter for weeks already and impossible to understand that a short while ago this coast was enduring a drought. Now the rain is incessant. This is normal local weather. I knew that. Vertical rain, horizontal rain, drizzling water, mist and fog, it is bloody wet, wet, wet and it keeps coming. The daylight is a little less each day and those long summer evenings, when there was still light in the sky near midnight, are long past. Today the rain was cold and there was that wintery smell in the air. Snow? Even when the skies brighten, with patches of blue, there are sudden bursts of rain. Locals tell me that October can often be a month of lovely weather. We’ll see. I regularly passed through this area on tugboats for years and only ever saw Shearwater as a glow in the fog and rain. Yes, I knew!

Behind the chains. September sunrise at low tide.

The mystique and spirit of this coast take on a new dimension now. This is its normal state, its true self, the raincoast. The infinite miles of grey-green dripping jungle offer a fog-bound respite from the hurtling culture in which most people are swept along on the south coast. The individuals who make their homes in these backwaters often recoil at the idea of even visiting the civilization down there. The notion of living in that chaos on a daily basis is beyond their comprehension or ability. I suppose we live up here within their urbane notion of wilderness. Perhaps it is the solace of that notion which in part sustains their tense urban sanity.

Being alone in this boat every night for the months ahead, through the long dark hours, often storm-buffeted while trying to write positively and creatively after grinding days of work, all the while enduring the pain of arthritis and old injuries…I could stay here in dank, dripping-slime solitude. Nope! Can’t do it! My finances demand that I stay and work but I’ll soon have to head south. I know that finding a job down there for a guy my age is damned hard but if I hang up my dream, I’m done. With my physical impediments, the short days and persistent rain, getting outdoors for some good extra curricular exercise is challenging. Sitting in the boat and eating compulsively is an easy pattern to fall into. That, in every sense, is a dead end.

Mexico seems so very far away at the moment. Will I ever see palm-fringed anchorages through the windows of this boat? Ordeal or adventure, the choice is mine. There has to be a way. As I sit at this computer I look up and all I see is my reflection in the dark window and a right goofy-looking old bugger at that. Haar! I was reminded recently that some folks choose to sail to polar regions and deliberately let their boats become frozen-in for nearly the entire next year. Who am I to ridicule another man’s dream? There is a fellow from Slovenia who calls himself Big River Man. He has swam down the lengths of four of the world’s major rivers including the Amazon. He’s now planning on swimming around the world. “The dream never dies, just the dreamer.”

Limber Up! A mutant branch in the rain forest/ — Limber Up!
A mutant branch in the rain forest.

Green. I believe this is called Lungwort

It has recently occurred to me that all substances are poison if consumed in excess. Even nasty stuff like cyanide and arsenic are deadly because their wicked potency is taken in too large a portion, no matter how miniscule that may be. There was a man in France, Michel Lotito, who bizarrely ate things like bicycles and even an airplane after they had been ground up and imbibed in portions small enough to be non-lethal; apparently a kilogram each day. How do you eat an airplane? He consumed nine tons of machinery in his lifetime. I don’t know, but there may have been a lot of wine involved. Too much air, too much water, too much exercise, too much inactivity, anything in excess is poison. I’ve decided that I’m suffering from food-poisoning. It makes me swell up. Especially around my middle. I’m eating too much. But, I promise, I won’t start eating anyone’s boat; certainly not this old prune barge.

This little light of mine. A customer's bright idea. — This little light of mine.
A customer’s bright idea.

The Tipping Point. A beer keg can be a slippery thing. — The Tipping Point.
A beer keg can be a slippery thing.

I’m still trying to do repairs and upgrades despite the weather. One of my davit bases failed recently due to a manufacturing flaw. The bow portion of my inflatable boat filled with a torrent of rain. That weight proved too much. It’s a big job and trying to do some fibreglass work between cloudbursts is quite a challenge. I’ve been meaning to upgrade the davits before heading to Mexico but after my immediate repairs the welding will have to wait until I’m back to where supplies are readily available. Everything up here has to be ordered in. Not only is that exorbitant, there is no guarantee that what one orders and prepays is what will arrive, if it ever does.

Aftermath, the confirmation of Newton's Law. At 3000rpm a piston came to a sudden stop. The rest of the engine kept on going... for a moment. In other words, pissed n' broke. — Aftermath, the confirmation of Newton’s Law. At 3000rpm a piston came to a sudden stop. The rest of the engine kept on going… for a moment.
In other words, pissed n’ broke.

Meanwhile at work there are exploded engines to deal with as well as endless computer glitches in the modern diesels in all our water taxis. I’m learning to employ a patience I didn’t know I possessed. That’s a good thing. Now that the Tupperware squadrons have all gone back south, and most of the fishing fleets are gone, the boats visiting now are serious cruising vessels, some still doing late-season charters who are hosting the last of the bear watchers.

One of these is a vessel which has long held a piece of my heart, ‘Passing Cloud’. This is beloved British Columbia-built boat and is a quintessential Westcoast icon. She is a seventy foot bald-headed wooden pilot-house schooner. For you land-bound folks this is a wooden sailboat which is seventy feet long on deck. A two-masted schooner has its main mast aft. Being bald-headed means she carries no bowsprit (That pointy spar which sticks out horizontally on most traditional boats) The pilot house is the cabin with big windows from which you can steer in any weather. That is almost essential for navigating these waters.

Two years ago I was blessed to tour the boat shed where ‘Passing Cloud’ was built. I was there to pick up a mizzen mast as the shed had been sold. It was being cleared out prior to demolition. What a tragedy! The place was a temple to me and many others I’m sure but times change. The location on Portage Inlet in Victoria had incredible value as waterfront property. New noise bylaws forbid any further industry, no matter who was there first. Some monstrosity yuppie box now occupies this hallowed ground. When I was there, a band saw still run by a Ford Model-T sat beside a large forge. The tools and artifacts were amazing. The place was a living museum. ‘Passing Cloud’ had been launched from this building in 1974. The boathouse is gone, right or wrong, but the boat, now over forty years old, sails on as a successful charter business and is maintained lovingly in as-new condition. Google up the schooner’s name and drool over the amazing photos of the vessel, inside and out, and of her voyages in these waters where she plies her trade.

A vision of glories past In the boat house where 'Passing Cloud' was born — A vision of glories past
In the boat house where ‘Passing Cloud’ was born. Note the nameboard stencil.

In The Temple. The old boathouse on Portage Inlet. It's gone now. — In The Temple.
The old boathouse on Portage Inlet. It’s gone now.

While I’m recommending online links, here’s one for those with social-political interests. www.friendsoftheconstitution.info. It is American but suitably appropriate for Canadian interests, especially in the middle of this damned dreary election campaign. I’ll take a big breath and quote two sentences from an editorial on this site.

“There will not be a recognition of the extent of poverty in the United States and the dire need for government action; there will not be any effort to correct the stagnation of wages and this nation’s extreme income inequality; there will not be a successful effort to control the deliberate abuses of the Fourth Amendment of the Constitution by a surveillance state; there will not be corrective actions to reverse the pervasive racism of this nation, there will be no corrective action on the proliferation of discriminatory voter identification laws, the endless and territorial limitless war on terror, including the violation of sovereignty by our illegal use of drones; there will not be any attempt to control a defence industry that markets 50 percent of the world’s arms and whose best interests are served by continued warfare. We accept that a habitual thought process is comfortable, but when it comes to our “democracy,” we cannot accept that it is productive, ethical, or anything but insane.”

Phew!

That was from an editorial written by Roger deRoos, recently deceased. It was only two sentences, believe it or not, but there’s a headful of thinking there; if you’re so inclined. However, one of the nice things about getting out and about on a boat is that you can easily immerse yourself in the moment and leave all the shore shit and heavy thinking behind. We’re here because we’re not all there! And that’s the whole point.

“On the Trans-Atlantic Single-handed race Mr Owen Smithers has been disqualified for using both hands.”……Heiki Luoma

Keep On Slugging, the steady slime will get you there.

SOUTH

September 13^th ; already! It has already been fourteen years since we were staggering in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. Time flies, whether you’re having fun or not. There are teenagers starting high school this month who were then yet to be born and are now thinking about what sort of first car they might have. (Well, George Bush said to go shopping!) It seems we’ve learned nothing from those dark days except to be permanently afraid. The news has not really changed much. So seize the moment, it’s all we have.

Here in the remote archipelago where I live, the only radio available is good old CBC. They are the masters of tedium and nonsensical mindless interviews. While they do manage to produce the odd nugget from within their manure pile of rhetoric, one is soon wearied of incessant coverage of the same subject. Having already gone on for too many months, the primary babble is about the upcoming federal election, yet another damned month away. It has been dissected every possible way. That topic has now been dread-locked in with the Syrian refugee crisis. CBC’s undying, numbing perspectives are guaranteed to eventually harden even the softest heart.

All of the above has been interspersed this past week with a sudden zeal of reporting about sex education within the public school system. CBC has managed to turn even that subject into something as arousing as calculus. Their reports, interviews and forums are endless. It used to be such a tender subject. Openness is one thing. Desensitizing folks to their children’s interest in their own human biology is yet another. Allegedly some of those unborn of 9/11 are now already hardened porn viewers before they’ve left grade school. It is certainly a long way since I reviewed the woman’s underwear section in the Sears catalogue under the covers with a flashlight. Ah c’mon. Admit it! Yes, some of you did it too. That aside, CBC often manages to neither inform nor entertain although the occasional report of a beaver flooding a road is rather uplifting and, at least, real news.

An old buddy drops in. Rick drops in as the pilot of this Kamov 32. Russian-built, it is an incredible heavy-lift helicopter. — An old buddy drops in.
Rick drops in as the pilot of this Kamov 32. Russian-built, it is an incredible heavy-lift helicopter.

We’re still a week away from the calendar end of summer but clearly winter is approaching with a vengeance. The signs are clear. In a region that often only knows two seasons, we’ve already had two winter-class storms. The numbers of gringo boats are dwindling at the docks. The ones here now are southbound from a whole summer somewhere north. Many of those are lovely seaworthy boats skippered by people who are serious mariners instead of the white-knuckled weekend warriors in their Tupperware look-at-me bobbers.

Good enough! Definitely not Tupperware. A home-made console and who the hell needs two axles on a boat trailer? We're not going far anyway. — Good enough! Definitely not Tupperware. A home-made helm. And who the hell needs two axles on a boat trailer? We’re not going far anyway.

Now a motley gaggle of gill-netters clings to the dock , rafted six abreast at times, in hope of another fishing opening or two. Locals call this the “Stamp” fishery. If these fishermen can put in enough weeks trying to catch some fish, which involves endless waiting for another DFO opening of a few hours, then they qualify for employment insurance benefits to carry them through to next year. Judging by the obvious lack of maintenance on many of their boats, (Not all) these fellows are desperately impoverished. They are certainly not short of time to work on their boats although even scrubbing the decks seems too much for them. Yet they always have beer and cigarettes and often party into the wee hours of the night, waking up those of us who go to work in the morning. They don’t pay moorage, but do certainly contribute to the local economy in the pub and the liquor store which is why they’re tolerated but they’ll soon move on. Now the seine boats are showing up, to clean up the fish the gillnetters miss.

Waiting...and waiting. This photo was taken in July, some of these boats are stiil here. — Waiting…and waiting.
This photo was taken in July, some of these gillnetters are stiil here.

In the small lagoon where I am moored a school of Coho have circled relentlessly for the past week, apparently intent on somehow spawning in a culvert discharging fresh water several feet above the sea. Their condition is deteriorating visibly as nature takes its inevitable course. This is not where their life cycle began, their presence is a mystery to me.

The sky is now regularly dotted with flocks of cranes flying southward. Their wonderful resonant rattling calls are a haunting sound. These birds can stand four feet tall and have wingspans over six feet. They migrate from as far as Eastern Siberia to the American Southwest and Northern Mexico. Damn their beaks!

Spread your wings. we'll see you down south dude! — Spread your wings.
We’ll see you down south dude!

I’ve spotted several pair here during the summer. They’re furtive and damned hard to photograph. They circle and whoop to others resting in the local bogs but always they wing on out of sight as if following invisible lanes in the sky. Interestingly, they fly the same headings as the jets passing far above them. Some fly so high they are barely visible, others pass low enough so that you can clearly see them. Yesterday, several dozen circled and called while the sun glinted on their massive, powerful wings. They stir urges in me which can be simply expressed. South!

The cabin from whence my Seafire blogs flow.

“The cabin of a small yacht is truly a wonderful thing; not only will it shelter you from a tempest, but from the other troubles in life, it is a safe retreat.”

– L. Francis Herroshoff

Here are the photos I promised in my last blog.

Fungi Gigantis. This old fungus growths are huge. — Fungi Gigantis.
These old fungus growths are huge.

Don't stand still... something g will start growing on you! — Don’t stand still… something will start growing on you!

Seafire in heaven. Cultus Sound anchorage — Seafire in heaven.
Cultus Sound anchorage

This gang of ravens followed me everywhere I hiked. Their aerobatic skills and amazing vocabulary kept me spellbound

A Stellar encounter. This Stellar Jay harrassed me until I pointed my camera and took this one shot — A Stellar encounter. This Stellar Jay harrassed me this closely until I pointed my camera and grabbed this one shot

There's no shell like an old shell — There’s no shell like an old shell

Out of the jungle and down to the sea. A secret bay with a hidden entrance

A jewel in the sand. Worn abalone shell — A jewel in the sand.
Worn abalone shell

Hanging in there. Bull Kelp and cedar snag — Hanging in there.
Bull Kelp and cedar snag

Think green. Moss and witches hair on a Spruce limb

Lush Life. Wandering out of the forest on Gosling Island — Lush Life.
Wandering out of the forest on Gosling Island

Lion's Mane jelly fish. It's sting is vicious — Lion’s Mane jelly fish.
It’s sting is vicious

Colour on a grey day. Wild peas growing in the beach sand in the Goose Group — Colour on a grey day.
Wild peas growing in the beach sand in the Goose Group

Out of the rock grows a forest. A fresh perspective on the meaning of life.

I'd see a doctor about that! The old tree is about three feet in diameter. Grow baby, grow! — I’d see a doctor about that! The old tree is about three feet in diameter. Grow baby, grow!

There's always another corner to explore. What a place to visit. I'll be back to the Goose Group. — There’s always another corner to explore. What a place to visit. I’ll be back to the Goose Group.

Wolf tracks for company. What a wonderful thing to see these fresh paw prints. — Wolf tracks for company.
What a wonderful thing to see these fresh paw prints.

Bubbles in the sand. sung to the tune of "Strangers in the night". — Bubbles in the sand. Sung to the tune of “Strangers in the night”.

Happy feet. Gull tracks in the sand — Happy feet.
Gull tracks in the sand

A gentle dawn. Labour Day sunrise, Gosling Island

A perfect arrangement. The beauty everywhere is amazing — A perfect arrangement.
The beauty everywhere is amazing

And so I moved on, my tracks being erased behind me. — And so I moved on, my tracks soon erased behind me.

Götterdämmerung

It means twilight. The title that is. A new word for me, found in the English dictionary while looking up another definition, it describes the situation I find myself in here. Daylight is shortening dramatically, autumn rains have set in with a vengeance. Summer and my aching old bones are both in twilight. An e-mail from a cousin in England described someone as being a “two-faced wazzack” my grasp of British slang is increased. It’s another word for idiot and can go on the shelf beside pillock and git. I wonder if the term doesn’t describe me, loving the territory here and aching for the embrace of southern climates.

Looking back from Goose Island Anchorage to a bleak sunrise over mainland Canada and the islands that line its foreshore.

The seasons have turned. Now the rain comes incessantly, sometimes horizontally. A horrific weather system passed through recently with walls of blasting rain and waterspouts that flipped over dinghies and created general havoc. Even when the sun appears, there can be penetrating rain showers every few minutes. The streams roar constantly and it is part of the cycle which allows salmon access to their home waters where they will spawn and die. Bears and wolves will gorge on the fish in preparation for the long, long winter ahead. This morning a dank fog holds the world in it’s penetrating grip. Summer is over here, winter is coming.

Things that go bump in the night. From a distance it first appeared to be a shipwreck. The blue barrels are part of the massive amount of plastic flotsam found everywhere along the open coast.

Rosie the dog disappeared two days ago. Her owner had taken his small tug north to a job in a place called Butedale. He’s been gone for about a week. The general assumption was that Rosie had wandered off looking for him. As it turns out, perhaps she had. Rosie had got herself aboard a local water taxi southbound for Rivers Inlet. There was a load of school children going south and Rosie joined their company and that of another dog. A telephone conversation with the skipper finally revealed, casually, what had happened to her but not until the whole community began a quest. Posters appeared all over and folks took time out to literally go and beat the bushes. It is uplifting to see an entire population actively concerned about one dog.

Rosie’s master, unwilling to leave her in the company of anyone so unconscionable, made the long trip south to retrieve her. When that water taxi returns home, there may be some interesting confrontations about the abduction of Rosie.

Skoiern, a gorgeous wooden Bermuda-rigged ketch appeared in Shearwater. What a boat! Registered to Marseilles France, she was built in Norway and launched in 1918. She is over 54 feet in length overall, draws almost 9 feet, displaces 24 tons.

and romps all over the world with good old-fashioned tiller steering. She’s not glitzy, just all business. She’s very, very salty. The man and wife crew are charming people, speak several languages and are now bound for the vessel’s 100^th birthday in Norway; via Chile! Typing in the vessel’s name will produce several sites on the internet. Their personal website is simply Skoiern.com. What a treat to see the real thing and to have an affirmation that dreams can be realized. Imagine this, she’s had the same owner for 35 years. Wow!

All that boat, with tiller steering! A vessel for real sailors!

What a gorgeous bow! Like any good boat, Skoiern is pretty from all angles. — What a gorgeous bow!
Like any good boat, Skoiern is pretty from all angles.

Now I’m writing from a place I’ve dreamed of visiting for a very long time. It is Saturday morning at 11 am on September 5^th. The anchor has just been set in twenty-five feet of water in Goose Island Anchorage. I spent last night anchored in a lovely tidal pass by Latta Island. (It seems that every nook, rock, bump and passage has been named, there’s even a Seafire Island nearby at the mouth of Kildidt Lagoon) Up at first light, I photographed a brassy sunrise which followed a brilliant sun dog in last evening’s sunset. The forecast and barometer confirmed deteriorating weather with winds to 30 knots on their way today.

Gosling Island, Goose Group. Empty white sand beaches in all directions.

I'm watching you! A comic-looking driftwood log. — I’m watching you! A comic-looking driftwood log.

Mick Jaeger's false teeth. A chiton's shell. A chiton is one of the planet's oldest animals, unchanged in millions of years. — Mick Jaeger’s false teeth.
A chiton’s shell. A chiton is one of the planet’s oldest animals, unchanged in millions of years.

I weighed anchor and heated a cup of coffee in the boat’s microwave. That in turn scrambled the brain of my onboard inverter. (I like to call it a perverter) It is a device which converts 12 volt DC power to 120 volt AC so I can run things like power tools and microwaves. My battery banks are old and tired and the inverter drained them almost instantly. Fortunately the engine was already running but it took some loud cursing and frantic switch-flipping to get all systems back on line and charging. All the while I was thinking that my long-planned weekend was finished almost before it had started. All’s well that ends and I have had fair warning that yet another major boat expense is imminent. (I’ll bet they don’t have this sort of crap installed aboard Skoiern)

Lowering sky, rising tide. The anchorage at Goose Island. — Lowering sky, rising tide.
The anchorage at Goose Island.

The crossing of Queens Sound (See! They were gay folks even back when they charted these waters….such respect!) took two hours to cross the thirteen and a half miles. Not bad! The weather went to hell. I let the anchor down just as a heavy horizontal rain began. I am now surrounded by broad white sand beaches which are punctuated with beautiful tree-studded islets. Hopefully the weather and the light will improve to allow some acceptable photos. Mainland Canada and its archipelago necklace have disappeared in the gloom to the east. I have this place all to myself. I’ll try to savour the solitude but damn! I am weary of discovering new wonders all on my own. Somewhere in the back of my head I can hear the twangy female voice of a country singer drawling out “Make the world go away.” Yassuh, I knows dat feelin’. Now I’ll go have a nap and then see what the Gods have in store.

Goose Island, wonderful sands, clear water, total solitude.

If they were fresher, these tracks would still have the critters standing in them

Saturday evening, Goose Island Anchorage. This place is breath-taking, even on a gloomy day. Apart from the ubiquitous plastic flotsam dotting the beaches there is little sign of modern human presence. The forest here has clearly not known the demon scream of chainsaws and it is easy to imagine this group of islands as they have been for millenniums. All the summer nature lovers have gone back to their cities and will not know the timeless cold slanting rain and the howling wind which is singing in my rigging as I write. (The new wiring in the mast is not slapping about like the old stuff did. What peace!) The sky lowered as the seas rose and I had a difficult time taking photographs in the dull light but there will be enough to convey the feeling of this place.

A wolf's view of the beach — A wolf’s view of the beach

Coastal rainforest the way it always was

Flashes of white surf against a distant black reef were the only thing I saw as I looked for other boats throughout the day. At nine pm it is pitch dark and I am utterly alone but not lonely as I am in Shearwater surrounded by the truck and commerce of folks making money and spending it. Sunday morning was released by the night reluctantly and although the wind is calm the boat rolls anxiously in a swell. That is a harbinger of an approaching storm and I shall cross back to the mainland side of the sound so I can be sure to be back at work on Tuesday. Wazzack! Clumps of cloud cling to the peaks of the shore. The weather is not going to be pleasant. First I take a final trip ashore to wander the beach again as the tide falls. Perhaps there will be a few more photos in the dull light.

Wolf Tracks! Fresh ones, a pair have been here, minutes earlier. They criss-cross on top of the remains of my footprints from last evening and seem to follow the path I took, although now long erased by the tide. To actually glimpse a wolf is such a fleeting moment, always as if imaginary. These tracks are tangible, real evidence of these wonderful creatures and I thrill as I realize that they may well be watching me while I take photos of their spore. My day, yes, the whole weekend, has been blessed by this simple evidence.

Moon Jelly Fish, about 8" in diameter. Yes, they provide a very nasty sting. — Moon Jelly Fish, about 8″ in diameter. Yes, they provide a very nasty sting.

The short return crossing of Queens Sound was across a rising beam swell but as usual, the call of the open sea had me wanting to turn southward and seek my fortune over the horizon. There was a spout and flash of a Humpback’s tail a half-mile away, that sight yet another fleeting gift to be savoured in days ahead. Its massive black back appeared once more as it sounded and then twenty minutes later a final spout of vapour now far away. The sight of these massive creatures, second largest on the planet, who appear and vanish so mysteriously, is always a wonderful gift. The coastline here is a labyrinth of bays, inlets and passages, rocks, reefs, a tree-studded mystery of pinnacles, mountains cloud and fog. Even when close to the entrance of a pass or sound, it may require an intense effort of pilotage to find a safe entry. There are few lights for reference and to make one’s way accurately is no casual endeavour. The very thought of approaching this deadly shoreline in the dark leaves me with a lump in my belly. Once again, my thoughts go to the early explorers in their ungainly vessels and how any of them survived the perils of this place. Then my thoughts stray to the natives who plied these waters in dugout canoes. I peruse my intricately marked chart and compare it to my GPS plotter and feel very humble indeed.

Find the entrance to the sound. A challenge even on a good day.

Once safely inside the entrance to Cultus Sound I find a beautiful un-named bay with a broad sandy beach. The lure of it is irresistible. I drop the anchor. A short hike on a very rugged trail through massive, untouched timber brings me to another beach on a hidden nameless bay. Stellar jays and ravens mark my progress with raucous calls. The trail, and some discreet campsites betray regular visits to this sacred place and I feel privileged to be here. I cannot, however, use the word pristine. Sadly, as ubiquitous as the driftwood which lines our shores, one cannot go anywhere without finding plastic flotsam. It is everywhere. Bags, shoes, fridges, pipes, floats, bottles, rope, nets, barrels; it is endless. Some day archeologists will refer to our time in history as the polyethylene age. What a sad legacy!

Plastic, bloody plastic everywhere. Somebody has tried to collect some of it here... a hopeless task. — Plastic, bloody plastic everywhere. Somebody has tried to collect some of it here… a hopeless task.

Now it is already Monday morning and a rich, cold drizzle is the measure of the day. It is time to return to the soulless drudgery at Shearwater where I will plot my next escape aboard

Junk never-ending. There is no end to it. — Junk never-ending. There is so much you soon don’t see it. Sad huh?

Seafire. Last week the press turned its focus on the plight of the millions of Middle-eastern refugees inundating Europe as if it were something new. It has, in fact, been going on for a long while and how the media adjusts its focus is a mystery to me. One caller to a CBC open-forum pointed out that it was our military aircraft dropping bombs in places like Syria that was helping to drive these souls out of their homelands. And now we wring our hands in token sympathy. Meanwhile, similar massive holocausts are occurring elsewhere on the planet but they are not “trending.” Our problems are so trivial.

Beach, Fred's Bay. Well...there's no name on the chart! — Beach, Fred’s Bay. Well…there’s no name on the chart!

Monday evening sees me back in my berth at Shearwater.

Lamma Pass, the route home from the south was blocked by a large fleet of gill netters setting their nets at random for miles across the whole pass. Even the ferries were held back while the fishing chaos went on. I chose to slalom between back and forth between the long nets and finally broke free of the maze to the north, probably much to the consternation of the crews. All is well, another week of bilge bliss lays ahead.

BC Ferrie's 'northern Expedition' in her berth at the Bella Bella terminal. she was held there today while a fleet of fishing boats blocked the passage with their gill nets — BC Ferry’s ‘Northern Expedition’ in her berth at the Bella Bella terminal. She was held there today while a fleet of fishing boats blocked the passage with their gill nets.

My next blog will follow shortly and will once again be a simple photo essay of shots selected from all those taken this Labour Day Weekend.

Here are a few quotes from comedian Steve Wright:

-“I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

– “A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.”

-” If you want a rainbow, you’ve got to put up with the rain.”

-”All those who believe in psycho kinesis, raise my hand.”

-”Experience is something you get just after you need it.”

-”A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking.”

Ain’t Complaining, Just Explaining

Find the Orca! The wonder of this coast is the magic moments that pass as if they never happened. — Find the Orca!
The wonder of this coast is the magic moments that pass as if they never happened.

It is August twenty-second. I have been planning to attend a barbeque party tonight which was intended to be the christening of a new sun deck at the house of my supervisor. I slogged back from the public showers in a driving rain. I should have just sat in the cockpit with my soap. My dinghy, which I’m intending to take, is filling with rainwater. Two tiny swallows sat huddled together in the middle of an overhead wire, looking forlorn and miserable. There are few insects on the wing to eat when it’s pouring rain and the little birds will have a long night ahead of them. They’re still here but soon the swallows be on their way south. At work, I’m beginning to winterize boat engines in preparation for their storage through the long, long winter ahead. At five pm the dock lights are already on, it is that dark this afternoon.

Unchained. A bald eagle breakfasting on a salmon carcass at low tide near my dock. The chain is a relic of the airbase days. — Unchained.
A bald eagle breakfasting on a salmon carcass at low tide near my dock. The chain is a relic of the airbase days. All the docks here are moored this way.

I’ve been upgrading the wiring in my mast. The boat is thirty-five years old, it’s due. It is an unpleasant chore, clambering up and down the spar, working alone and unaided. Standing on the top two steps, hanging back from a safety harness, the time up there is limited by the pain in my legs and back while scrunched in under the head of the backstay. There’s no room left there to have a bosun’s chair to sit in. Oh to again be that flat-bellied, willowy fellow who’s clothes I once wore. I was one tough monkey; then. As soon as I pulled out the old wiring and prepared the new, the rain began. Now I’m waiting for a break in the deluge to get to the party. It’s like beginning a painting project and having the sky open up. Sailors even joke that when the rain begins, somewhere, someone has just opened a can of paint. So blame me. Haar! Meanwhile I’m starting this new blog post while I wait on the weather.

Crossed wires. My first attempt at a new harness for the mast. The cross-ties are intended to keep the wiring from rattling inside the mast. It was a good idea! NOT!

The party proved a grand success with heaps of delicious food and crowds of happy people. Nobody talked shop and the rain ended with a lovely double rainbow. Sunday became another mast marathon. Up and down to the top, pulling on the harness of new wires, tugging it back down, then up a little more, until I’d exhausted all the ways that it was not going to work. Finally, in the early evening, the new wire emerged from the head of the mast. Just another jaunt or two up on the folding steps and that part will be finished.

Standing Headroom A thing of beauty, from the inside on a nasty day. There's even a heater. — Standing Headroom
A thing of beauty, from the inside on a nasty day. There’s even a heater.

Shipshape. Paint is the glue that holds old .boats together — Shipshape.
Paint is the glue that holds old .boats together

Now I’m writing over my Monday morning coffee. It is a ritual that I take a few minutes of “my time” before going off to work. It leaves me with a sense of empowerment and being in control before abandoning myself to the demands of the job. Apparently we start the week with three, out of six, water taxis with broken engines. The fleet manager with be wringing his hands anxiously. Some miserable days lay ahead. Of course there will also be some transient boaters each with the most important problem in the world. I just want to get my mast project done. That’s the most important problem! Right now! All those personal perspectives and I know where my priority will fall within the lineup of woes. End of the line son!

What do you see? After months of staring out my galley portlight at these old logs, I've begun to see a mummified pirate. Is it time to move on? — What do you see?
After months of staring out my galley portlight at these old logs, I’ve begun to see a mummified pirate.
Is it time to move on?

Tuesday morning coffee. A day older, more of the same. I was back up the mast last night, a brute for punishment to the bitter end. I borrowed a soldering torch but while up the mast, it broke, the nozzle and control fell to the deck with a load bang and then careened overboard with a dramatic splash several feet away. Remarks of a fecal context thundered down as a rain squall began to splatter my perch in the sky. For now I’ve finished my penance at the masthead, at least until new wiring connectors and a new vhf antenna and another torch arrive. That job should take only a few minutes and it will feel so good to know I’m finally done up there.

Now a recurring back injury is producing crippling pain but it’s up the ramp and hobble off to another delightful day. “Work shall set me free”. Haar! By first coffee break my back was in such a dreadful spasm that I went off to the Bella Bella hospital clinic for some la-la medication. It was closed. After a round in the emergency ward I finally emerged with a few pills that will help ease me through the remains of the week. This is the second visit to that small hospital. Both times I’ve been bemused and somewhat horrified by a character who sits in a dark corner in a wheelchair croaking repeatedly in a loud demanding parrot-like voice “I want my pampers!” It is bizarre yet strangely amusing; for a while. I admire a staff who can endure that daily grind. There are many types of courage which I do not possess.

Once back aboard ‘Seafire’ my e-mail included a video produced by Orbital Mechanics (you can find it on YouTube) which visualizes all of the world’s nuclear detonations since 1945. There are 2153 portrayed in total. It doesn’t sound like many. Right? It takes over thirteen minutes to watch them all flicker rapidly by! A staggering proportion have occurred in the US Southwest and the mid Pacific. Climate change? Dunno. Thirty dead whales (that have been found) in Alaska recently. Dunno! I do know that we do not fully understand all of the dynamics and properties of electricity yet all the while we’ve been messing with atomic energy for well over half a century. Nobody knows what the hell to due with all the atomic waste which continues to pile up. “Let’s bury it in your county!” Children quickly learn not to burn their fingers twice. What goes wrong with our brains?

Yep she’s all bluebirds and rainbows folks.

'Wonder' passing Bella Bella docks. A Disney brings fantasy past reality — ‘Wonder’ passing Bella Bella docks. A Disney cruise ship brings fantasy past reality. Note Mickey Mouse on the exhaust stacks.

Economy Cruise. Someone's boat seat floats away. — Economy Cruise.
Someone’s boat seat floats away.

My internet is performing well enough now to acquire Netflix movies. Last night I watched ‘Mr. Turner’ starring Timothy Spall. No explosions or gun play, but a rich portrayal of England’s famous painter. It was a refreshing interlude from the drudgery of life in a shipyard. It is one of the few films I ever recommend and while I’m at it I’ll also plug another splendid movie named ‘Whiplash’.

Wednesday. Another day of trying to be three places at one time. Transient boaters who have a breakdown soon lose sight of the charms of this place when the necessary parts don’t arrive on time, or at all. They pay even more moorage and tediously wait and wait. It’s this old dog in greasy coveralls who has to placate them until their boat is finally ready to chug away around the corner to head for the next place, a hundred miles or more in any direction, where they can have yet more repairs made if required. I’m always bemused at how incapable some folks are of making even basic adjustments and inspections on their boats. They can’t grasp that self-sufficiency is a basic tenant of seamanship. To come into a remote area and throw yourself on the abilities of strangers seems, at least, naive. It is a recurring rant of mine.

Air Dried Lumber cascade fresh. — Air Dried Lumber
Cascade Fresh.

I think back to when boats had no engines or electrical gadgets. Sailors then were a very different breed. It was a time when, ashore, you got around by horse. Many of today’s white-knuckled warriors wouldn’t know which end the hay went in! At least the horse knew!

Bog Trotter Day — Bog Trotter Procrastinators Club Day

I am also fascinated at people who have an addiction to spending. I’ve been making my observations about this for many years and I swear it is true. For days they’ve been away from any place that will take their money and here they find a few small stores, a restaurant and an engine shop to help them satiate their urges. They’ll buy anything and seem quite happy to complain about the price. The other frantic activity involves cell phones. Folks will spend hours, head down, poking away at their “devices” trying to contact the outer world. The signal here is very weak and their frustration is a sadistic pleasure for me. I’ve asked a few people if they did not come up here to escape all that frantic urban claptrap. Their blank-faced responses are, well, blank. Text, text, text.

Heiltsuk Dugout Canoe Bella Bella dock — Heiltsuk Dugout Canoes, traditional and modern
Bella Bella dock

In the late afternoon today a pair of Orca whales suddenly and dramatically appeared at the docks where Seafire is moored. Only the whales know why they ventured into this shallow lagoon at low tide but I’ll accept the visit as a good omen. The adventure goes on.

I am a rock. Move me. — I am a rock.
Move me.

Friday night finally arrives with a promise of steady rain for the foreseeable future. My latest transient neighbour at the end of the dock is a 1947 vintage Cessna 195. I’m probably one of the few people here who knows what it is. It was a new-tech civilian aircraft at the time. She’s looking a little worn for all her years but still possesses a bull-nosed beauty representative of that post-war era. Come to to think of it, so do I.

A 1948 Cessna 195 Businessliner. 67 years old and still flying regularly!

All steam gauges, no video games on this instrument panel. Notice the handle for the crank-down window. — All steam gauges, no video games on this instrument panel.
Notice the handle for the crank-down window.

Saturday, August 29^th, rain, low cloud, wind warning. The forecast was correct. The rain and humidity are horrific. The old Cessna leaves in mid-afternoon. It vanishes into a gray squall but is back at the dock within the hour. Apparently, hundreds of miles to the south Vancouver and Seattle are experiencing a massive wind storm and are bracing for torrential rain. People have died because of falling trees. Flood warnings are posted. Forest wildfires still threaten huge areas in the interior of the province but with the breaking weather, campfire bans are now being lifted in some areas. It is still August but we seem to enduring our first North Pacific autumn low pressure system. As I write, old Seafire is slammed against the dock by a violent burst of wind. It is only eight pm but the evening is already nearly pitch dark. We wear on into the next week.

Wishes and fishes — Best Wishes and Big Fishes

“We do not really know what draws a human being out into the world. Is it curiosity? A hunger for experience? An addiction to wonderment? The man who ceases to be astonished is hollow, possessed of an extinguished heart. If he believes everything has already happened, that he has seen it all, then something most precious has died within him… the delight in life.”

Ryszard Kapuscinski ‘Travels With Herodotus’

“That’s The Way The Pickle Squirts”

It’s a metaphor which a friend, now long dead, used to express the vagaries of life. It makes a wonderfully descriptive image for me. More than once, as we stab at it with our fork, the ubiquitous pickle of life squirts us in the eye or stains our best shirt. We never know which way it might go, just like everyday life. We may as well find some humour.

Planetary system A tiny shell from a tiny beach with tiny barnacles for stars and palnets — Planetary system
A tiny shell from a tiny beach with tiny barnacles for stars and planets

Almost a week ago I was at work in a sooty, greasy bilge desperately trying to get a sailboat engine back together. The client had been tied to the dock for over a week while we waited for parts. They were very nice folks but did not understand that to do finicky work, a mechanic needs to be left alone to focus on the process.

The following hand-held video is intended to leave you with the sense of wonder I hold for the mid-coast of British Columbia. Note the stream running down the beach, the distance surf and the call of an eagle. If you can’t open it, the still photo below is from the same location.

Looking East onto Seaforth Channel from Fisher Point

It was one of those shoehorn engine jobs which requires a fully articulating third hand, on a three-foot-long arm with an eyeball in one knuckle of some very nimble fingers. My hands are two bunches of arthritic bananas. I hate asking folks to leave their own boat while I work but surely one shouldn’t have to ask for something so bloody obvious! Once I even explained that this particular job was rather like trying to do brain surgery through the rectum. They still had a way of pouncing on me just when that last one and only special-thread nut or bolt was almost in place and again went ka-ping down into the bilge. Murphie’s law says that nothing in an engine room falls straight down and that magnets will retrieve every bit of metallic debris before finally clicking on to the missing item. It happens over and over. Grrrrr! Finally the engine was back together, a second time, everything was good, all their ancillary problems were resolved, the bill had been ‘edited’ as tightly as possible, they left the dock next morning.

Seafire in Mouat Cove I'd just flushed a a pair of Sandhill Cranes here — Seafire in Mouat Cove
I’d just flushed a pair of Sandhill Cranes here

Three hours later they were back.

I had carefully explained that with their particular cooling system they would have to check the air bleeding valve regularly during the first day of operation. They now raged that the engine had overheated. They had charged off until the engine boiled over and then finally bled out a copious amount of air. Fortunately with no new harm done, the temperature had returned to normal, but now they were “gun shy” and were determined something might still be wrong.

GRRRRRRRR! With some folks you just can’t win! July was a blue moon month (Two full moons within one calendar month) and the boat with the engine trouble was named ‘Blue Moon’. This leads to yet another song title, “There’ll Always Be Another Blue Moon.”

Oliver cove Marine Park Someone wanted the sign for their bedroom wall. This spot, near Port Blackney is aleged to be where Vancouver careened his ships for repairs. — Oliver Cove Marine Park
Someone wanted the sign for their bedroom wall.
This spot, near Port Blackney is alleged to be where Vancouver careened his ships for repairs.

Is this it? Between two adjacent coves, this is the sandy nook which seemed most likely to be the place to careen a ship. Imagine the crew working with muskets and sabres handy, wondering who might come rushing out of the thick forest. — Is this it?
Between two adjacent coves, this is the sandy nook which seemed most likely to be the place to careen a ship. Imagine the crew working with muskets and sabres handy, wondering who might come rushing out of the thick forest.

If my guess is right, this venerable Sitka spruce would have been a verdant tree looking down on the events in that nook. — If my guess is right, this venerable Sitka Spruce would have been a verdant tree looking down on the events in that nook long ago.

The mid-coast area is not a place for weekend warriors who don’t understand the basics of boat and engine maintenance. But still they come. It’s how we make our income. One gets worn down as the summer grinds on. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of quitting at least once in frustration with either a customer, my employer or both. Clearly my days as a marine technician are nearly over. Physically and emotionally, I’m too worn, bent and busted to keep doing this. My finances are at an all-time low but I can’t go on like this. I was sure that I was on my way to Mexico from here but now I’ve got that old dead-end feeling again. That’s got to be yet another blues song! The problem is that when one turns a passion into a career, the risk of becoming jaded is very real. And here I am. Thankfully, I can untie the boat on weekends and re-affirm my sea lust is real and entirely reasonable; at least to me.

A strange sky in Oliver cove — A strange sky in Oliver Cove

A day well done,. Last light in Olivers Cove — A day well done,. Last light in Oliver Cove

A bonsai moment, typical small twisted tree found on one of my beloved islets.

A mobile fishing camp. Once a working tug, the 'Glendevon' is splendidly refitted. Here she's moored in the head of Berry inlet. — A mobile fishing camp. Once a working tug, the ‘Glendevon’ is splendidly refitted. Here she’s moored in the head of Berry inlet.

Another sort of fishing machine. This friends are ardent anglers. Here they're working the waters at Idol Point. — Another sort of fishing machine. These friends are ardent anglers. Here they’re working the waters at Idol Point.

Gifts at the tideline. You never know what to expect. — Gifts at the tideline.
You never know what to expect.

Passing Squall. a view up Spiller Channel. no worries, fish on ,fish on. — Passing Squall. A view up Spiller Channel. no worries, fish on, fish on.

Buzz job. Later that day there was enough wind at Shearwater to spin the props on the big model Stranraer. I did as rough photo-chop of the supporting pylon to give a sense of what the real thing might have looked like. — Buzz job. Later that day there was enough wind at Shearwater to spin the props on the big model Stranraer. I did a rough photo-chop of the supporting pylon to give a sense of what the real thing might have looked like.

The Goose. This is from the same era as the Stranraer. It was acutting edge aviation technology at the time and 80 years later, she's still working for a living! — The Goose.
This is from the same era as the Stranraer.
It was cutting edge aviation technology at the time and 80 years later, she’s still working for a living!

Hakai Pass from 20,000' on a beautiful day. Looking southward out to sea. Five days of sailng from Campbell river, this Pacific Coastal Beech 1900C had me back there in 50 minutes! — Hakai Pass from 20,000′ on a beautiful day. Looking southward out to sea.
Five days of sailng from Campbell River, this Pacific Coastal Beech 1900C had me back there in 50 minutes!

Since that sooty engine compartment of last week, I’ve taken a quick sabbatical back south to Ladysmith to take care of business, visit home and make sure my buddy Jack still recognized me. I’ve had so many setbacks this summer that my finances are in full tatters. My wife Jill provided tremendous support to get me the hell out of there for a few days. The soot from that last job is almost gone from my pores and I’m heading back to work at Shearwater already. Those few days off have passed all too quickly and I’m pecking this out at the BC Ferry terminal in Port Hardy. The huge hinged-open bow of the ‘Northern Expedition’ looms over me. Up at 04:30 to be here for 05:30 for some verbal abuse from a surly baggage cart attendant, (With arms folded, and head cocked she demanded, “Yeah, let’s talk!) I can’t find a hint of coffee or breakfast anywhere.

And then the aliens transported me aboard! BC Ferries 'Northern Expedition' with bow section raised for loading... and so we waited, an waited. — And then the aliens transported me aboard!
BC Ferries ‘Northern Expedition’ in Port Hardy with bow section raised for loading… and so we waited, and waited.

A tyee skiff meets Mickey Mouse. Disney cruise ship southbound in /discovery Passage at Campbell River — A tyee skiff meets Mickey Mouse. Disney cruise ship southbound in Discovery Passage at Campbell River

The Real Thing. Before cruise ships and tyee skiffs, this is how real mean got around on the waters of the Pacific Northwest. Yes it IS a real dugout canoe — The Real Thing. Before cruise ships and tyee skiffs, this is how real men got around on the waters of the Pacific Northwest. Yes it IS a real dugout canoe.

SEE! And there are no leaks, it's holding rainwater. What an ultimate art, form and function! — SEE! And there are no leaks, it’s holding rainwater. What an ultimate art, form and function!

This paragraph now comes from aboard. I’m sitting in a luxurious cafeteria waiting for the breakfast gate to open at 06:30. We’re supposed to sail at 7. The vessel is lovely and I know this wannabe cruise-ship is a jewel in the crown of the BC hospitality industry but speaking for coastal residents, I think a little less glitter and more accountable, affordable regular service would be grand. Features like a high-end gift shop selling cheap reproductions of Haida silverware has nothing to do with basic transportation. I’ve already ranted in previous blogs about the ineptitude of the entire BC Ferry Corporation so I’ll leave this alone. However, there was a time when this Northern coastline was much more heavily populated and served by various private carriers. I’ve never heard anyone recall that they felt at the mercy and whim of a down-south crown corporation board office. It seems the time when people said what they meant, meant what they said and kept their promises is a fiction from some other era. Folks have always been folks but I recall when integrity was a personal mandate. (Engines at full throttle since 07:07, we finally back from the dock at 07:35) By the time we have left the dock, Jill has driven back almost as far as Campbell River. As I sit writing, a “Rubenesque” lady and her clone daughter have reclined and fallen asleep. Their snoring takes me back to some of the tugboat foc’sles I’ve known. When i awoke from my nap, there was nobody around. Funny thing!

Yep, it's the same blog. Jill inspects old 113, a stean engine operated by Canadian Forest Products, who ran the last working logging railroad on the continent. When I last saw this locomotive, 25 years ago, it was shining bright, belched clouds of steam and black smoke, hauled eco-tourists and backed up the diesel locomotives when they broke down. It seems so sad to see this machine pushed out of the way. — Yep, it’s the same blog! Jill inspects old 113, a steam locomotive once operated by Canadian Forest Products, who ran the last working logging railroad on the continent. When I last saw this locomotive, 25 years ago, it was shining bright, belched clouds of steam and black smoke, hauled eco-tourists and backed up the diesel locomotives when they broke down. It seems so sad to see this machine pushed out of the way in her home at Woss Camp on Northern Vancouver Island.

No voice command controls here. no airbags either! — No voice command controls here. No airbags either!

The summer grinds on, the daylight ever shorter, the evenings cooler, the rain more frequent. The list of before winter to-do jobs on ‘Seafire’ is begging attention. How it will end up is anyone’s guess but with all the crap, there has to be a pony somewhere. Yeehaw! There’s got to be a bright side I haven’t discovered yet.

REALLY! Real telephone booths, still working. At the Woss Café. — REALLY! Actual telephone booths, still working
at the Woss Café.

Enough grumpy rambling. Here are another batch of photos. As I edit them, I look forward to the summer when I can come to these wonderful waters and simply cruise. I’ll have my own tools and parts aboard. We’ll see what Murphy can do to me then. I recently explained to a lady on a passing yacht in for repairs that ubiquitous old Murphy was so devious she has us actually believing she’s a man. With a twinkle in her eye, this woman quietly replied, “Yeah, God too!”

God spelled backwards. Jack indulges in a favourite pastime in a pool on the Nimpkish River — God spelled backwards.
Jack indulges in a favourite pastime in a pool on the Nimpkish River

“Being hove to in a long gale is the most boring way of being terrified I know.” …. Donald Hamilton

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.

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

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

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?

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.

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

Degnen Bay

One thing about working on boats has always bemused me. No matter what the repair or refitting job, there is always a requirement to make yet more holes. Whether a drilled hole, or a sawn-out opening, every improvement requires: Yep! More holes. Go figure! A boat is supposed to be a floating vessel which keeps as much water out as possible out. Making ever more holes seems a complete antithesis and sometimes it can indeed go wrong, very wrong.

Chocolate Lily Only for a few brief days in spring. — Chocolate Lily
Only for a few brief days in spring.

Once I was twisted into a tight spot on a beautiful 53′ Spencer sailboat, installing a battery box on a small platform fibre-glassed to the hull. The drill bit was dull but in order to hurry up and get the job done, instead of wriggling out to sharpen it, I pressed on. In fact I pressed and pressed until suddenly I felt moisture. I’ll never forget the feeling of that moment as I realized what I’d done. I did not have to taste it to know it was seawater. In my panic to remove the drill, I broke off the bit which plugged the hole reasonably well until the boat could be hauled out for a proper repair. I certainly recall the chagrin as I sat humbly at the bosses desk and told him what I’d done. Yeah, it’s funny now and once in a while someone will joke “Oops here comes Fred, hide the drills!” Well, we all screw up, no matter how experienced we are and so long as no-one is hurt and a lesson is gained, it’s all good. And, I might add, the only folks who don’t make mistakes are those who never do anything. My brother, an airline pilot, once quoted a friend who said, “All’s well that ends.” Imagine hearing that over the intercom as a flight comes to its conclusion!

Seafire anchored in Degnen Bay behind 'Snug' a Truant 33 I almost bought. Valdez Island across Gabriola Pass in background. — Seafire anchored in Degnen Bay behind ‘Snug’ a Truant 33 I almost bought. Valdez Island across Gabriola Pass in background.

So old ‘Seafire’ and I are on the lam and tonight we’re anchored in Degnen Bay on Gabriola Island. It’s been a lovely day and evening with an invigorating Northwest wind howling. We were immersed in seawater several times on our little passage over from Ladysmith. The various residues a boat accumulates while sitting at the dock are washed away. Actually we’re here because there is some confusion about mooring at the Ladysmith Maritime Society where ‘Seafire’ has spent the winter but one excuse is as good as another and here we are. Monday will look after itself.

Golden moment. 'The wooden schooner 'Aja' returns home at sunset — Golden moment. ‘The wooden schooner ‘Aja’ returns home at sunset

While that is being sorted I have a little job here in Degnen Bay on a friend’s boat. Tonight we’re anchored about hundred feet from the dock where that boat is tied. She is a rare old beauty. A friend purchased an old wooden cruiser with a beautiful layout and the classic lines of a wooden powerboat. ‘Django’ is a 1946 35′ Chris Craft and she’ll be a head turner wherever she goes. There are two lovely GM 4-cylinder gas engines She’s in good shape but like all fine boats is in a state of constant refit and upgrading. The job is a good reason to be here and for the moment I feel whole again.

Degnen Bay is named after an early family who homesteaded here. Degnen is apparently also an old Spanish term meaning ‘to rest’ and I like to think that perhaps the first explorers found and named this lovely spot as a point of rest. It is surrounded by homes and more are being built. They must have splendid views. The bay is littered with mooring buoys and the docks have no empty berths. Yet there is a feeling of tranquillity here. The bay is guarded by a rocky shoreline and the restless waters of Gabriola Pass. Beautiful, wild Valdez Island forms the far side of the pass with miles of trails there to wander and explore as well as an old farm which is now part of a Provincial Park. Sheltered from damaging winds Degnen’s bottom mud is very thin in places and anchoring securely can be a challenge. Hence all the buoys which in turn make anchoring properly even more difficult.

Beauty under wraps. 'Django' a 1946 Chris Craft. — Beauty under wraps.
‘Django’ a 1946 Chris Craft

That's a lot of bronze!A Stephens electric windlass, now a rare find. — That’s a lot of bronze! A Stephens electric windlass, unique in 1946, now a very rare find.

Access! The engine bay in the Chris. It's a joy to work on these with all that room around them. — Access! The engine bay in the Chris. It’s a joy to work on these with all that room around them.

This morning is placid and the sun rises into a cloudless sky.. With my morning coffee I survey the surrounding view. I realize the local public wharf possesses a relic; a telephone booth. It sits beside the dock crane and represents an era now passed. We’ve had wireless mobile phones for thirty years and now pay phones, anywhere, are almost impossible to find. Cellular reception is minimal here so perhaps that is why the booth remains. Dark stormy nights, creeping into the blackness of the bay with the dull glow of the phone booth as a beacon. It is an icon of a lingering welcome-home hug, dry clothes and a warm supper. Then the trudge up a slippery ramp in the driving rain under the baleful glare of a mercury dock lamp. There’s not enough change in your pocket. There’s no-one at home to take a collect call. It will be a two hour trudge in the wet and dark or another night in a damp bunk with only macaroni for supper. Too tired to decide. Been there!

Not all relics at the bay are meant to float. This is a late-fifties Volvo 444. No electronics, no radial tires or fuel injection...25 miles per gallon. Tell me you don't believe in plots! — Not all relics at the bay are meant to float. This is a late-fifties Volvo 444. No electronics, no radial tires or fuel injection…25 miles per gallon. Tell me you don’t believe in plots!

In my last blog I described the art of careening. Today my favourite boat, “Lil’ Abe’ was careened on the beach here. With her hard-chined dory-like bottom she takes the ground well and tonight floats with a fresh coat of bottom paint. she scampered back to her berth at the dock looking as lovely as a new puppy. (See photo in Blog 61, Mind The Gap)

A face only a mother could love... and guys like me. — A face only a mother could love… and guys like me.

Look ma no air bags. Four black feet and factory heat- a basic car. No padded dash, no seat belts, no GPS, no power-steering, no power brakes, not even a radio but those are real leather seats, the smell of them in the sun brings back memories — Look ma no air bags.
Four black feet and factory heat- a basic car.
No padded dash, no seat belts, no GPS, no power-steering, no power brakes, not even a radio but those are real leather seats, the smell of them in the sun brings back memories. That black knob on the dash…it’s called a choke. Pay attention kids, you needed that to start the engine when it was cold. Really!

Lil Abe careened on the beach of Degnen Bay. With the old house in the background this could be a scene from 70 or more years ago — Lil Abe careened on the beach of Degnen Bay.
With the old house in the background this could be a scene from 70 or more years ago.

The tide came back and 'Lil Abe' heads for the dock. A fresh, clean bottom always feels so good! — The tide came back and ‘Lil Abe’ heads for the dock. A fresh, clean bottom always feels so good!

Rhapsody in wood. 'Fraser' a classic salmon troller. — Rhapsody in wood. ‘Fraser’ a classic salmon troller.

'Seafire' me old prune barge — ‘Seafire’
me old prune barge.

Elegance. "If it looks good, it works good."... Allen Farrell A beautiful yacht conversion of a wooden salmon. fishing boat. — Elegance. “If it looks good, it works good.”… Allen Farrell
A beautiful yacht conversion of a wooden salmon troller.

Another man's dream — Another man’s dream

Then came a show of a different sort of nautical ineptitude. A gleaming, huge phallic sloop appeared in the bay, its manufacturer and length displayed prominently on both sides of the hull. It is the sort of yacht I like to call a ‘Fart Parkerson 69.’ For an hour the young couple aboard set and reset their anchor, always too close to yet another boat. Finally they came to rest less than a boat length away from ‘Seafire’s transom. I noticed how pristine everything was, like an ad from a yuppy yachting magazine. The young couple aboard each wore the latest in extravagant yachty fashion, I’d guess thousands of dollars worth. Soon they came over in a virgin-looking dinghy, awkwardly rowing it backwards, to ask if I was content with their proximity. I replied that they were downwind of me and wished them a good night.

'Nootka Rose' A converted life boat being loved to death. (The plastic wrapping prevents desperately essential ventilation.) — ‘Nootka Rose’
A converted life boat being loved to death. (The plastic wrapping prevents desperately essential ventilation.)

Later, in the gathering darkness they were off again trying to find a spot between other boats and buoys. There was a continuous drama and din of their windlass paying out all their chain then reeling it back in again, all the while plowing up more bottom mud. Meanwhile outside of the immediate anchorage there are acres of good, empty anchorage. I guess some folks are determined to be close to the shore. They’re still here this morning! They’ve made it through the night, probably lying exhausted in their luxurious ten-foot-wide bunk, empty champagne bottle sitting beside big fluffy slippers and heavy bathrobes with anchors embroidered on the pockets. “Honey I broke a nail,” he says.

The sloop 'Fart P' on the hook. Neo-decadence beside classic an ultimate boat.practicality and what was once — The sloop ‘Fart P’ on the hook. Neo-decadence beside classic practicality and what was once an ultimate dream.

A few days ago in a muddy parking lot an old man and I were approaching each other as we walked our dogs. Suddenly, between us, hurtled a shining black Lexus, backing and filling a few times before it finally came to rest in two parking spaces. We each held our dogs, well back, until the frantic manoeuvring ceased. “Thanks,” proclaimed the driver,adjusting designer sunglasses as he rushed off self-importantly on foot. As we finally met, the other fellow proclaimed loudly, “Guess just ’cause you can afford it don’t mean you can drive it!”

Who am I to laugh at someone else’s dream? Mucho Gusto!

Down at the bow. a sad end for a once-beautiful fishboat.

"For a good close second look, come back at low tide.' A hazard to navigation in a anchorage of sunken dreams. — “For a good close second look, come back at low tide.’ A hazard to navigation in a anchorage of sunken dreams.

Wot Lawnmower? The outboard motor raises some obvious questions.

Waterfront Condo. Purple Martins in the nesting boxes. — Waterfront Condo. Purple Martins in the nesting boxes on a piling.

The Ramp "Damn ye all whom have passed this portal." — The Ramp
“Damn ye all whom have passed this portal.”

At the corner of telephone and telephone. "Degnen Bay Harbour Authority" says the green sign. Phone boxes and hand cranes will all soon be gone forever. — At the corner of telephone and telephone.
“Degnen Bay Harbour Authority” says the green sign. Phone boxes and hand cranes will all soon be gone forever.

Another view of Degnen which the Regional district will find a way to eradicate.

Old Fish Face. This rock looks to me like a spawning humpback salmon.

Icon of Gabriola. This petroglyph isw often used as a log for things Gabriolan. It was carved on the sandstone beach of Degnen Bay where it is covered at high tide. Sadly, it is eroding rapidly. — Icon of Gabriola. This petroglyph is often used as a logo for things Gabriolan. It was carved on the sandstone beach of Degnen Bay where it is covered at high
tide. Sadly, it is eroding rapidly.

“All I ask is a chance to prove that money can’t make me happy!”

“ A sure cure for sea-sickness is to sit under a tree.”

… Spike Milligan

IT IS FINISHED

Into The Mystic Sea trials on 'Avanti' in the fog — Into The Mystic
Sea trials on ‘Avanti’ in the fog

(And so am I)

My little boat project has been completed with rave reviews and even a kudu from the marine surveyor. Fellow yacht tinkers have expressed their approval which has left me very chuffed indeed. It has been a very expensive ordeal for the owner but he now has a head-turner that will take him everywhere he wants to go. She sails as well as she looks. ‘Avanti’ is a 1966 Frisco Flyer Mk III, built by Cheoy Lee (Hull1691) and designed by Tord Sundén, creator of the famous Folkboat. Essentially this Cheoy Lee is a Folkboat with standing headroom and a very cleverly designed interior. She sails like a dream and with all her teak she has very traditional feel. She may be tiny but she’ll never be a sandwich at anyone’s banquet.

Now another Cheoy Lee has arrived at the dock. Oddly, just like ‘Avanti’ I installed an engine in her while I worked in the shipyard. Here we go again! A new owner has brought her back to Silva Bay and yep! He wants me to do a bunch of work on her. I don’t want to see another Cheoy Lee at the moment, but a monkey on my shoulder is whispering something about looking a gift horse in the mouth. We’ll see.

From this ...an old bulkhead — From this
…an old bulkhead

And where do I want to go from here? I’ve been here on Gabriola Island for nearly four years. I came for a job offer and what I thought would be a great opportunity. I truly believed it was where the gods were leading me and that soon enough it would

make sense. It’s all turned sour; well at least I certainly have. I love the beauty of this place and the wonderful friends I’ve made. There are also a few folks here at the end of the road at the end of the island who

make living here a misery. Without any grand prospects ahead it maybe time to move on. My personal life is under deep duress and I’m becoming a bit over-reactive to foolishness and rudeness. Of course when your karma is dented it seems some people have an acute predatory sense. I’m sure that somehow signals are unconsciously sent and received. Suddenly “Punching Bag” seems to be tattooed on your head. If one’s personal spiritual health is good, the normal bumps of life go virtually unnoticed. When you’re bruised, every touch and poke is painful and it is hard not to react. It can be a spiral or a growing experience and some lessons seem to need to be relearned.

Every morning now comes with a heavy dew and the rainstorms are becoming more frequent. Soon they will be a daily or week-long fact. Boat owners are busy finding and repairing the leaks which have developed through the long, hot summer. I find myself marking the passing rush of time by the ‘Best by’ dates on the milk cartons I buy. We’re into October dates already, November soon. It was September 1^st a blink ago. The evenings are cool and dark and damp. The tree frogs are beginning to sing. Mist and fog are common now and there is wood smoke in the evening air. Soon the clocks will go back to “Daylight Savings” (Which, I think, is yet another piece of stupidity we accept.) It is time think south.

My buddy Jimmy Poirier has arrived home from his great South Pacific marathon on his Corbin 39 cutter ‘Noroue’. He’s deeply tanned, grinning broadly and minus a lot of weight.

Sailing is something you do because it feels so good when you stop. My pal Jimmy hope from his South Pacific marathon

He looks great despite not having cut his remaining hair(s) for the whole adventure. It is an inspiring personal achievement and I’m happy that he’s happy. I don’t know how many miles he’s travelled in less than a year. I’m much more of a flower-sniffer but I’m looking forward to sharing a jar or two with him and hearing the whole story. I’m also delighted that he repeatedly offers praises for Donna, the steadfast wife who has been his base support all the way. This is yet another story about how there’s a good woman behind every successful man.

Noroue One fine boat — Noroue
One fine boat

My friends Tony and Connie are about to finish a wonderful adventure in France and go back to their boat ‘Sage’ where it is dry-stored in Phuket. Check out their blog ‘Sage on Sage’ which can be accessed through the sidebar of this blog. The photography is wonderful.

I am left feeling quite frustrated that I’m not making any apparent progress toward my own goals. It is now the beginning of October and old ‘Seafire’ should be on the move down to Mexico. After the devastation of Hurricane Odile a few weeks ago I’m sure I can find gainful endeavours there.

I know that dreams are realized when things look bleakest and one refuses to quit. That is often when a glimmer of new possibility begins to glow. But like the old buzzard said, “Patience my ass, I want to kill something!” I’ve got another month’s work here on Gabriola so I must soon make some important decisions. Ordeal or adventure, it is a matter of choice in how we deal with life. The hardest part of a voyage is untying the knots in the dock lines.

Capricio a sailing dream begins — Capricio
a sailing dream begins

Now here I am at 04:00 on the final day of September. I’ve just returned from an exploration under the pilings on the jetty. A few weeks ago I lost a treasured silver pendant through the cracks of the deck above. It is the lowest tide of the month this hour today and so there I was beneath the slimy, dripping pilings, slithering over the barnacles with a flashlight and one gumboot full of seawater. I knew it was a hopeless quest but I had to go look. I’m always fascinated at the night life in the shallows and so it was not a wasted venture. The shrimp with their fluorescent red eyes, big Dungeness crabs, little fish in an inch of water and other wriggling creatures were all out in the middle of the night. Jack has gone back to bed, disgusted I suspect, with my nocturnal interlude. “Nutter human!” After a couple more hours of sleep, Jack the dog is on deck enjoying the sunrise in a clear blue sky. The DeHavilland beaver woke us as usual as its engine clattered to life for the first scheduled flight of the day. Not many people have a float plane for an alarm clock. There is a load of chores to address on this beautiful morning, life goes on.

Just when you were tired of boat photos! A Hawk, Canada's fighter training aircraft. You never know what you'll find in the back of a hangar. — Just when you were tired of boat photos!
A Hawk, one of Canada’s fighter training aircraft.
You never know what you’ll find in the back of a hangar.

It has been few weeks since the last blog. There’s not a lot to talk about, it has been mostly head-down drudgery. Enough said, ‘Avanti’ is finished. There was a hangar-tour at the Victoria Airport which stirred this once upon a time helicopter mechanic into nostalgia and even regret for leaving that industry. The absolute hi-light of the month was a concert in Nanaimo. Carlos Nunez is a Spanish piper from Galicia. If you are interested in Celtic culture you may know that it’s influence was spread from Spain and Portugal north to Brittany and as far east as the outer islands of Ireland and Scotland. We tend to think of Bagpipes as being unique to Scotland but they are in fact a fairly new arrival there of only a thousand years or so. Bagpipes, of varying design and sound were once common across Europe. In many areas the instrument is enjoying a renaissance even in places like Sweden and Syria and India.

If you don’t appreciate the sound of tortured cats (As many people describe traditional Scottish piping) you may be blown away, (Yes, that’s a pun) to learn how piping, including flutes, whistles and other wind instruments have evolved into contemporary music genres including rock and jazz. Carlos Nunez, Susana Seivane, Cristina Pato as well as many others are all on Youtube and well worth checking out if you have eclectic musical tastes. For humour check out our own Johnny Bagpipes from Vancouver Island who can play ‘Thunderstruck’ as well as AC/DC. There’s also a dude who calls himself the ‘Bad Piper’ who actually has flame throwers built into his pipes! And while we’re in the mood for exploration let’s go the extra inch and explore some Portuguese Fado music. Names like Mariza, Madredeus and Cristina Branco will lead to some rich, mesmerizing entertainment. It’s musical talent at its basic best. I wandered on to discover Scottish tribal drumming and then a guitarist named Tom Ward. Check out his rendition of Asturia. Which leads to an interesting question: Why dos so much of the music we listen to sound the same? Dull, dull, dull.

Funny how a blog about sailing and boats can include a mini-essay about random musical interest. It’s especially odd coming from an old salt like me who couldn’t carry a tune on a barge. “You are the wind beneath my kilt, You could make a bloody thistle wilt…” that’s where I take the gong. Once a sailor, always a sailor! Gentlemen need not apply.

Thanksgiving on the hoof. Gabriola has loads of these feral turkeys — Thanksgiving on the hoof.
Gabriola has loads of these feral turkeys

I thought that in closing I’d research a clever wee quote about bagpipes. Little did I know!

I have found fistfuls! I’ve refined them to four.

– “Bagpipes– the secret behind crop circles.”

– From the journal of Alvisa da Cadamosto, a Venetian explorer in Portuguese service in Senegal in1455 “The sound of one of our country pipes, which I had played by one of my sailors, also caused wonderment. Seeing that it was decked out with trappings and ribbons at the head, they concluded that it was a living animal that sang thus in different voices, and were much pleased by it. Perceiving that they were misled, I told them it was an instrument and placed it deflated in their hands. Whereupon, recognizing that it was made by hand, they said it was a divine instrument, made by god with his own hands, for it sounded so sweetly and in so many different voices. They said they had never heard anything sweeter.”

– “At a funeral I played, the priest pointed at me during the eulogy and said, “so long as there are bagpipers, there will be free people.”

– “See you, Jimmy…..you’d best throttle that shite down now..”

Auch aye!

Zombie Rap

Clearly! A rising tide in North Cove, Thetis Island.

I have wondered at the phenomenon of folks fascinated with zombies. This fad is everywhere. I turn on a television; there is something zombie going on. Is TV the inspiration? Dunno! Some folks go so far as to deck out their automobiles (I’ve even seen an old bus done up) to look like police vehicles with large logos about being a ‘Zombie Patrol’. Honestly, I have no idea about this large interest in resurrected putrefied psychopathic masses which are really pissed off about something. While my ignorance doesn’t make the continuing fad wrong, it truly seems bizarre when we have so many other important and uplifting things to pursue.

Highway to heaven. An oled causeway in North Cove — Highway to heaven. An old causeway in North Cove

What is the need for silly distraction? Someone, somewhere, somehow is making money out of it all. It’s way over my head. Rap music seemed a passing fad, it’s still here decades later. Just wait, the next mass gaga, zombie rap! Baggy pants on backwards, head with hat on backwards under your arm, skateboard under other arm.

Gulf Island Serenity. ‘SEAFIRE’ on the hook.

Then I had an epiphany as I negotiated around two very gormless, apparently semi-brain- dead folks shuffling along the docks. They held no awareness of anyone else. “Like goddamned zombies” I muttered to myself and suddenly I got it! Zombies exist! The light is gone from so many eyes. There are swarms of breathing bodies of all ages waiting to die. As old Churchill said, “Epileptic corpses”. We go through life consuming as fast as we’ve been programmed. We burn out and die trying to run a course we can never complete because it is always designed and extended by someone or something else trying to establish control over us. To live and love at a pace where we can sanely stay in touch with our society and our planet is a speed which sees us run over by a mindless culture in constant acceleration. And so we become zombies, faceless and easily controlled. I watched a documentary on the rock star Lemmy recently. Frankly, this old fart had never heard of this other old fart, or his band ‘Motorhead’. But Lemmy, an icon of dark excesses and self-abuse, and damned proud of it, is idolized by adoring throngs around the planet. What is this evil that invades our longing souls? Zombies!

Rust to dust. Nothing lasts forever. — Rust to dust.
Nothing lasts forever.

Slowly, inexorably, machines take control of our existence. People cannot seem to function without texting or without bumbook and instant information about anything no matter how trivial. Not so long ago windshield wipers, automatic transmissions, am radios, power steering and power brakes were decadent options for any car. Now many folks wouldn’t consider buying a car without an on-board computer to show them the way to the nearest mall. There are serious efforts being made toward a reliable driver-less car. “Wot the….? I thought you were driving! Where the hell are we?” I hope I can die peacefully in my sleep as a beloved old grandfather, quite unlike his five screaming passengers. In a cell phone store I recently asked for a phone that sent calls, received calls and messages only. The clerk’s stunned look required no further words. “Zombie! Where ya bin pappy?”

I’ve argued with myself that there is also a growing fascination with spirituality, metaphysics and a quest for grounding with the planet and the universe but I don’t think inner exploration is going to be the next mass fascination. Well, in any event, don’t let your karma run over your dogma. The only way to make sense of it all is to quit trying and live in the moment. It’s all we have.

Tonight I’m writing in a very calm Gulf Island anchorage called North Cove. It’s raining. Yes our summer drought has broken. The desperately needed showers will end and in a few days, when the kids should be back in class (But our BC teacher’s strike grinds on) it will be blistering hot again. For those convinced of global warming, I’ve just had an e-mail from my friends Roger and Ali, those intrepid Australian mariners who are in the Arctic at a place called Kugluktuk. They’ll soon be leaving their boat ‘Wave’ in Cambridge Bay for another long winter. The Passage is choked with ice, impassable all summer just like the old days. Hey! What if? And how come that’s not making the news?

My old pal Jim is now on the final leg of his race against himself around the South Pacific and will be back in British Columbia by mid-month. He left here less than a year ago! Other friends are touring the south of France and sending back more incredible photos. But, they’re not here enjoying this amazing morning. It’s wonderful to feel perfectly content with being where you are.

It rained all night. The air is cool and fresh and Jack is demanding to go ashore. It is bliss to sit in the morning here on a secluded beach with a coffee and watch him enjoying being a dog. It is calm, quiet and peaceful. I have no internet out here, I don’t know what’s going on in the world of men. I know there are those out there determined to start WWIII but the earth is still turning, even without my involvement. Ignorance is bliss. Zombie!

Thistle Dew, in the morning after the rain

A few days later, September is whizzing by. Yesterday provided a torrential downpour. Desperately needed for our parched islands it was also a harbinger of the winter ahead.

Wasn’t it breaking spring a mere few weeks ago? Now the mornings and evenings are cool, the afternoons are comfortably hot. It is dark by 8:30 pm. The swallows are gone south. The summer gringos are gone from the docks with their fluorescent clothing, texting and din. The air is sweet again without the reek of exhaust fumes and fish being cremated on barbeques. The docks are no longer cluttered with drunks in portable chairs. The few that pass through now are serious seasoned mariners with good manners and interesting things to say. They also come in some fine boats. My beloved old friend ‘Native Girl’ is back at the dock. Her owners, Jon and Rian, are expecting the arrival of a new deckhand in the coming few weeks. Friends are almost as excited about the impending birth as the parents. I think there’s going to be a celebration. And for what better reason?

I’ll fill this post with photos of boats and local scenes. Hopefully in the next few weeks there’ll be great news of several varieties to share with all my loyal readers. Thank you for your supportive comments. Despite my cynical sentiments about our rapidly evolving world it IS fantastic to have a global audience. Wow!

The first boat photo is of a 65′ (On deck) 63 year-old ketch-rigged steel boat. The present owner is about to leave for the South Pacific via La Paz Baha. My research confirms his story about the vessel’s history. Built in Vancouver in 1951 by Manly shipyards it was the last steamer built in British Columbia. (New steam engines must have been hard to find by 1951) A retired ship’s captain had wanted to do a global circumnavigation under steam but dropped dead shortly after beginning the voyage. Returned to the shipyard, the vessel was repowered with a diesel engine, purchased by the Department Of Indian Affairs, renamed the ‘Skeena’ and assigned to Prince Rupert as home port where it lived out a good and useful working life as a supply vessel, school boat and an icon of the North Coast. In recent years she was purchased by three men who had plans to turn her into a classic luxury charter boat. The hull was rebuilt as required but then the boat was stripped of all useful fittings by vandals during winter storage in the Vancouver area.

The venerable'Skeena' reborn for south Sea adventures — The venerable ‘Skeena’ reborn for south Sea adventures

With almost $300,000 into the project it was given up as a lost cause and sold to the next dreamer. He is now it’s current owner. His vision involved attaching a massive bolt-on sailing and grounding keel, fitting a bowsprit, ketch-rigging the old girl and getting ready to go to sea. The remaining work will be completed in Southern Latitudes.

Another noteworthy vessel is ‘Fifer Lady’. It is a Fifer, or Fifey, designed and often built in Fife, Scotland. Boats there had to be rugged and designed for heavy weather. This one was built in 1959 and imported by a doctor in Victoria a year later. After several subsequent owners it has come into the hands of the current owners who have, it would seem, committed their entire existence to the care and maintenance of this very gorgeous vessel. They are fully proud of their efforts and so they should be. I’ve thought up something I call the “Glass Box Award” for boats so pristine and perfect that they should be kept in a glass box like a museum piece. ‘Fifer Lady’ is one of those rare examples.

Och Aye! The real thing. — Och Aye! The real thing! Complete with a genuine Scottish CQR anchor and Simpson-Lawrence windlass.

'Little Abe' another real thing. Built in the Queen charlottes in the 1930's, she once supported two families. she's still going strong! — ‘Little Abe’, another real thing. Built in the Queen charlottes in the 1930’s, she once supported two families. She’s still going strong!

Another candidate for the glass box award. A classic, immaculate Grenfell 36 complete with Davidson K9 skiff. — Another candidate for the Glass Box Award. A classic, immaculate Grenfell 36 complete with Davidson K9 skiff.

Classic plastic. a former navy launch commercially made-over into a tough boat called an Allweather.

The Sublime and The Ridiculous. My Beloved 'Native Girl' home again, moored under the bow of a 96' 'Look at me." — The Sublime and The Ridiculous. My Beloved ‘Native Girl’ home again, moored under the bow of a 96′ ‘Look at me.”

Not a cliché boat name! Is Nostrilagony is a relative of Nostrodamus? — Not a cliché boat name!
Is Nostrilagony a relative of Nostrodamus?

My boat is clearly the property of a barefoot shoemaker. After looking after other people’s boats, I have little time or resources to care properly for my own. But soon, in a palm-fringed bay, I’ll be working on some little project in the light of the rising tropical sun.
“The dream never dies, just the dreamer.” Zombie!

Everybody Has A Story

Entrance Island. A view from Orlebar Point across the Strait Of Georgia to Howe Sound — Entrance Island.
A view from Orlebar Point across the Strait Of Georgia to Howe Sound

Everyone has a story. Some may not be as exciting, and some may not be told very well, if ever, but everyone has one. Even the homeless person dragging a shopping cart from beneath the bridge where they sleep has a story that is sometimes amazing. How the mighty can fall! It is often true of our stuff as well, certainly old boats. It turns out that the ‘Kaymac’, which I mentioned in my last blog, has had a noble life. This makes her demise even more poignant.

A fellow who has a lovely wooden boat here in the marina is also a fisherman raised in the industry. He stopped by my work site with a very long face. It turns out the old boat is named after his mother, Katherine MacMillan. Built by the famous Wahl Brothers the boat was named and commissioned in 1959. She worked as a collector boat, picking up the day’s catch from the gill net fleet which worked the mouth of the Skeena River. She retired from that endeavour in 1983. Her history since then is unknown. Clearly she has not been loved and is now in a state beyond recovery. I can only imagine the pain felt by my friend. She’s still languishing here at the dock. Her fate is unclear.

Ghost Writers In The Sky Jet contrails in the stable upper air of July...A sure sign of Steady Westerly winds — Ghost Writers In The Sky
Jet contrails in the stable upper air of July…A sure sign of steady westerly winds

Suddenly we are well into the month of July. The number of US boats travelling through this year seems quite low. More’s the pity. I’m still at work with my fibreglass project while a gorgeous Westerly sailing wind blows steadily up to 20 knots under a cloudless sky. Two more days and I’ll have the deck rebuild job done. There’s still paint and spit and polish and fancy woodwork as well as all the fittings to clean up and reinstall but, there’s a speck of light at the end of the tunnel. The temperature is peaking up to 31º C beneath a flawless dome of blue. The wind makes it dangerous to be out working under the sun without a hat and I do feel a bit of sun stroke. (It couldn’t possibly be an excess of cold beer) Masts hum and moan in the breeze as loose rigging thwacks and clanks. Flags snap and crackle like machine guns.

Every fibre of this sailor’s heart is tugging to cut loose and while I work, from the other side of the marina, old ‘Seafire’ whispers sensuously, “Pleease, please let’s go.”

“Soon baby, soon”, I bend back to my sanding. It’s all about the romance of the sea.

Our last rainy day RCMP skiff in Gabriola Pass — Our last rainy day
RCMP skiff in Gabriola Pass

The next day, a dangerous shortcut in a beautiful boat

A Belly full of beer A limpet on thr beach in July — A Belly full of beer
A limpet on the beach in July

I get the occasional gripe about smell and the eternal whine of my vacuum but the itching joy of the job is all mine. Careful as I am, the sparkling, invasive dust of my work comes aboard my boat on my clothes. I wash them regularly, but the scratchiness is still there. It is an insidious torture but the job is coming to an end. Some people do this for a living. I can’t imagine it. One of the few joys of getting older is understanding that nothing is forever. Thus armed, it is a lot easier to patiently persist.

Insecure The lock that locked the locks that locked the lock — Insecure
The lock that locked the locks that locked the lock

Standing out in the crowd. Commander Yacht rendezvous in Silva Bay "That's my boat! Yeah, the white one with the blue trim" — Standing out in the crowd.
Commander Yacht rendezvous in Silva Bay
“That’s my boat! Yeah, the white one with the blue trim”

The ‘Kaymac’ story continues. A fellow claiming to love old wooden boats persuaded the Marina manager to let him take the old relic off our docks. “Be gone foul barge!” He and his two pals appeared rather nautically inept, nice guys, but! The Canadian Coast Guard had stopped by to drain the vcessel of its fuel and engine oil in case it did sank. The poor rotten old boat is a chronic leaker. A swan dive is entirely probable. The new crew fiddled the engine back to life with plans to take her French Creek, a commercial marina 30 miles to the Northwest. That was to be 30 miles of foaming, crashing seas in a tired relic that is clearly opening up her seams and wanting to sink. To my observation these three fellows did not seem to know port from starboard. I’m told they had no PFDs, working VHF radio, flares are any of the other basic pieces of equipment. Sometimes it is that innocence which blindly achieves great things.

With a mighty roar and a cloud of blue smoke the old Detroit diesel pulled the vessel back from the glitter of the docks in a grand curving wake. Then it quit dead. The wind was then gusting upwards to 30 knots and the boat eagerly sailed off sideways into the anchorage, determined to vent her huge frustration with the ongoing abuse. Panic-stricken, one of the trio threw up his hands and shouted,

“We’re dead in the water!”

I shouted back, “No you’re not, you’re making about 3 knots! Throw out your anchor!” He did. Unfortunately whatever hasty knot had been used was the wrong one.

“We’re still moving!”

Throw out more line!”

The trailing dock lines tightened for a moment then fell back in flaccid failure. I think I can find the spot on the bottom where the anchor lies. It’s a classic North Hill, bent and battered, but worth salvaging. Meanwhile the poor old ‘Kaymac’ was vigorously attacking moored boats downwind, broadside. Someone lept overboard with a gnarly bit of line in tow. All’s well that ends. Eventually she fetched up on an empty mooring buoy and was made fast. Somehow the damage was minimal. All the while, folks aboard their own immaculate yachts sat with drinks and binoculars absorbing an afternoon to remember.

Late in the evening she was able to make her own way to the fuel dock. I’d just gone to sleep, for a few minutes. Yesterday morning, with more dramatic shouting and crashing about she finally cast off. Purring unsteadily and trailing a plume of blue smoke she was last seen heading Westward out of the bay. The wind was howling out of the west and the sea was all froth. There was a long, hard passage ahead. They didn’t come back. We can only imagine various endings to this little saga but I can’t conjure a happy one. I do wish them well. The latest word on the morning after it left is that the ‘Kaymac’ is on someone’s private buoy in Pilot Bay, on the North end of Gabriola Island. It is a tiny bight offering scant shelter from the Westerly wind. The local scuttlebutt says there is a fuel pump problem. I do admire the dream, naive as it may be and part of me wants to go help but I know that old boat is a bottomless pit no matter how golden the dream may be. I don’t know anything more except that, for the moment, crew and boat live on. The wind and seas have eased and the heat becomes oppresive. I wish these argonauts well..

The 'KAYMAC' The boat that wouldn't go away — The ‘KAYMAC’
The boat that wouldn’t go away

If only I could offer my own dramatic yarn of an adventure away from the dock right now. My skin and patience are worn thin by my exertions on the little Cheoy Lee, as well as the tiny prickles in my clothing and the big prickles on the dock making sport of another man’s misery. I’m becoming very reactive instead of proactive and it is time for a day or two off…..after the fibre-glassing is finally finished.

This is my last dockside project, ever. I swear it!

“When a man comes to like a sea life, he is not fit to live on land.”

— Dr. Samuel Johnson, Writer