Morning Glory after a night’s heavy rain. Bailing can be a daily routine in winter.
My wife has a great idea. She’s come up with what she calls a B.N.D. or, Buy Nothing Day. In our consumer culture we nearly all have the craving to spend money. We’re incessantly prompted and programmed to do it. “How do you like it? How do you like it? More. More! More!” was a jingle for a local supermarket chain. In remote locations yachters who’ve been confined to their boats for a few days have an overwhelming compulsion to buy anything, something, as much as possible even though it may be useless, over-priced crap that they never needed until they saw it. I know that when I’m down and out, it makes me feel momentarily better to buy something. Prozac is a prescribed medication for compulsive shopping disorder. Yep, it’s considered a medical condition! The compulsion to acquire is a certain symptom of depression just surely as Prozac is a common drug for that illness. And tomorrow is Black Thursday which precedes the Black Friday and Pink Monday sales events.
Anyway I’m happy to recommend B.N.D. as a means of achieving some empowerment and control over one’s life. It sounds easy but I dare you to try it. For those of us driven to spend on credit I recall an old Welsh lady who once asked me, “If ye canna pay for it once, how will you pay for it twice?” That is sage thinking that I still have difficulty with.
Anapaya has risen again, this time to be broken up. The breaker’s crane and barge mark the spot. Meanwhile someone has tried to burn the beached wrecks. The boathouse in the back ground is a newcomer. Will this squatter be the scene of the next fire
Anyway, I’m often informed that sailors are cheap buggers the world over. Sailing is often described as being like “Standing in an ice cold shower while ripping up thousand dollar notes” and that the word boat is correctly spelled with two T’s. Break Out Another Ten Thousand. I’m one of those backwater types who really doesn’t care about impressions. Let’s just say that I’m not a snappy dresser but I keep my old boat seaworthy if not always shiny. If it is a choice between new underwear or a box of flares, you know what will be burned. So, it’s not that we sailors are compulsively cheap, it’s just that all our money goes into the boat. If anything, we’re compulsively broke. And before someone spews out the weary cliché about boats being holes in the water I’ll reiterate that houses are holes in the beach to shovel your money into, and the scenery never changes. You can’t untie your house and sail away when you’ve had enough of your neighbours. See ya later!.
Frost on the skylight. With much of the province buried under snow, this is a small price to pay for a rainless morning.
The last one, I promise. A final shot of autumn colours. The rain and wind have knocked down most of the leaves by now.
Another symptom of depression is hoarding. I was recently horrified to realize that maybe I’m inclined toward hoarderism myself. I’ve been living on ‘Seafire’ for years in remote locations. I wear only work clothes and can destroy outer wear sometimes daily. When in town I cruise my favourite second-hand clothing store and acquire shirts, jeans and other outer wear “just in case” I run out of togs. My brother once said of me that “Somewhere there goes a naked clown!” Today was spent unloading the boat. Sacks of manky clothing, bedding, towels, extra tools and never-used boat parts filled my truck. And there’s more to come! I realize that when I go south I won’t need nearly as much “stuff” crammed into every locker. I’m sure only one parka will do. I swear the boat has visibly risen on her marks. If hoarding is a symptom of depression then our culture is seriously ill. You can’t go far without finding extensive storage facilities. Folks have so much “stuff” they can’t cram it into their too-big houses so they rent space to store even more “stuff.” Once, all I owned could be fit into a backpack. Then it became what went into a pickup truck. After all the years wasted acquiring “stuff” now my joy is getting rid of it. If you see an old geezer on the roadside, stop and offer a ride; it could be me.
On Autumn Pond. An all-day downpour in Victoria. Wet beyond words.
Now ‘Seafire’ is safely tucked into a berth for the winter. The space is available permanently.
That is a frightening prospect. I won’t let her sit and gather green, but for the moment there are no voyages planned. November wears on. I tidy out my tool boxes, tend to little jobs around the house and wonder where the money is coming from. When I first arrived I never wanted to see the boat again and I’ve forced myself to stay away from her for over a day at a time. Now there is a building tension. I check my lotto numbers; yeah right! I check the weather; yeah right. The rain and wind continue.
Last week I visited with my friend Pär Domeij. He was passing through Victoria on his way home to Sweden for the winter. His beautiful boat ‘Sjoa’ is stored in Shearwater and he’ll return in the spring to continue filming and exploring the mid and north coast. His short films are stunning. You can see several of his works on YouTube. The camera skill and editing are brilliant. His narration is gently understated and the final result is superb. One of his recent films is posted as “An Ode To An Estuary.” His work and his deep enthusiasm for the backwoods of Coastal B.C. will inspire you.
Less than two weeks after my return, I’m becoming antsy. I’ve worn out the blog themes of autumn colours and yet another storm. Now there’s a part of me that wants to shout “Bollox” in sheer frustration. I’ve tidied up my tools, which was no small job, and now I’m beginning a serious clean up of old “Seafire.” We’ve removed the cooking-grease-stiff curtains which were also coated with coagulated dust. I was disgusted to realize how badly things had become. I do regularly clean the boat but after a few years of living aboard I have to admit to some root-bound grime in my hermit’s man-cave. Jill is helping me bring things back to life and I’m very grateful. If nothing else, the curtains were a serious fire hazard as Captain Olive Oil sizzled up yet another one-dish meal. When the boat’s interior is again immaculate, there’s plenty of writing to dust off, edit and market. There are certainlyno excuses to ever be bored.
And that’s how it is in my world for the moment. No dramas, no thrilling events. I’m not dressed up, nor sitting out in the pouring early morning rain waiting for any trains. I know I’ve missed the last one. There’s even plywood on all the station windows. Haar! Life goes on.
The abandoned railway and train station at Ladysmith. The E&N railway should be a vital artery on southern Vancouver Island and it is genius that it is seldom used.
Looking to the south at high noon. The urge is overwhelming.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Switzerland and see what the army does with those wee red knives.” … Billy Connolly
Wednesday Afternoon Southbound in the Strait Of Georgia Looking east toward Mainland Canada at 2 pm
Something felt very different Wednesday night. I was in the galley cleaning up after supper and mused how the boat looks the same inside no matter where she is. It was inky dark outside and if I were to step off the side of ‘Seafire’ there would no longer be a dock there. I’ve cut her loose and am on my southward, unfortunately only as far as Ladysmith for the time being. Still it feels so very good to be away from the dock.
My work in Comox is finished. Now I’m anchored in False Bay on Lasqueti Island. I tip-toed through the rocks into the bay an hour after nightfall. I have fond memories of this place and two iconic people who based here. They have both passed away. Allen Farrell was a famous wooden boat builder and his wife Sherry was a lovely and charming lady. I have plenty of yarns about them, how I befriended them and times we shared. I often describe them as the only real hippies I’ve ever known. The world is a sadder place without them. In the morning as a creeping grey dawn slowly illuminated the bay, plenty of signs showed that people have staked out everything possible. I remembered Allen’s comment once that the system these folks had come to escape was not nearly as bad as the one they brought with them. Why can we not simply respectfully share the beauty and bounty of the planet without laying claim to it and desecrating it. My ocean! Mine! This remote island was once a mecca for draft-dodgers and folks who believed they could reinvent the world. Their descendants live on here. “Peace man, share the wealth” was once a mantra. Now “No Trespassing” signs seem to be everywhere.
Beautiful downtown False Bay… Thazzit! Wood smoke hangs in the air as the ‘Centurion VII leaves on the first run of the day. This water taxi is the only link to Vancouver Island and the world outside.
My Scottish mother-in-law, may she rest in peace, once called me a “Bloody Bog Canadian.” I accepted it as a wry term of endearment. Now I think she may have been right. It’s interesting how one can go an entire lifetime with an idea fixed in one’s head, right or wrong; even worse, how about no idea at all?. I reviewed a documentary about Russian history and remarked to my wife that the Russians seemed to have been under siege by Napoleon for a very long time. He even set fire to Moscow once. My wife replied that there were three Napoleons. The second was a son and the third a nephew. What they did and did not achieve, where and when, is irrelevant. You can look it up yourself. I was gobsmacked to realize once again how history is written, what is not written and what is embellished or even invented. It doesn’t really matter how many Mao’s or Mohameds or Jesus’ or Hitlers there really were. Some academic, I’m sure, can prove how important it is that we understand how the sum of three Napoleons affects our modern existence.
I couldn’t resist! I don’t know who deserves credit for the original photo but hopefully I’ve mutilated it enough. There seems to be a resemblance to someone else, maybe it’s the hair!
Frankly, I don’t much give a toss about history and who wrote what about anything. I’m not that confident in the accuracy of any history. I’m sure we can all give examples of blatant lies we were led to believe. We just don’t learn anything from history. We’re still the same nasty creatures we’ve always been. No amount of information changes our compulsion to be destructive and hateful. It has nothing to do with geography, gender, religion or just cause. We’re all assholes. Until we accept that hard reality about our nature, nothing will ever change. And don’t go blaming it on anyone’s Satan. Look in the mirror. We must change.
We the pumpkins. A post Halloween tradition is to amass your Jack ‘O Lanterns to decay together in the cold, wet weather of autumn.
For example, in the wake of the recent mass shooting in a rural Texan Baptist church, a local politician offered the solution of posting armed guards in every church. Jesus loves me, now pass the ammunition. Remember that Christianity uses a symbol of capital punishment as an icon for peace and love. Instead of a cross, it could well be a hangman’s noose, an AK-47 or even a hockey stick. There are no doves on any bible I’ve seen. Whether you agree with my slant, or not, you have an obligation to yourself and your species to exercise your expansive abilities as a thinking organism. Ask questions. It is that simple.
An old rusted rail shed matches the autumn russet of maples and alders.
Nothing lasts forever. Heavy autumn rain and wind will soon knock the leaves from the tree. Then, after a long winter, new green leaves will bud in spring.
I am now back in Ladysmith writing on a drizzly November 11th. It is Remembrance Day across much of the world. A squadron of WWII military aircraft just flew over. My old pilot’s heart skipped a beat. I wonder as their sweet throbbing thunder fades in the grey sky, how much we believe and remember is truth, how much is myth and what it is we choose to forget.
More raw logs leave our country. They are being loaded onto the ship from a working sawmill. The orange mounds are chipped cedar which will be processed into paper. That we export any raw resources is ludicrous.This bright beauty popped out of a tidal narrows I was about to enter. I can’t claim I didn’t see it.
Going with the flow. Dodd Narrows is a tidal pass with currents nearing 10 knots. Here I’m running with the ebb about one hour before slack water.
Thunk. Sunk. One of the dangers in this churning tidal narrows. My boat is plenty tough but a log in my propeller could be interesting.Several good reasons to not travel by boat at night. Winter waters are often choked with logs.
In 2017 politicians and religions of the world still mesmerize millions into embracing nonsensical stories, conflicted values and convenient lies. People still eagerly sacrifice themselves for other people’s myths and profits.
Ladysmith Harbour as seen from the next town south.
I’d rather just go sailing.
“Religion is what keeps the poor from murdering the rich.”
(Note: All photos can be enlarged by clicking on them. In this blog, all images were taken with my cell phone.)
Skyfish. I’ll let you figure it out.
Last blog found me apologizing for the dull content I was producing. Well, isn’t it interesting how mundane drama can punctuate routine? And Oh Lord, how i hate routine! It does not have to be an international crisis, any little bump in the road will do. I bought a used Ford truck earlier this year from friends whom I trust. I know I have a way of stumbling into bad luck but “Geez Louise!” Other friends have raved about their Ford trucks and I was confident I’d done something right this time.
My truck is one of the nicest vehicles I’ve ever owned. It drives nicely, looks good, is easier on fuel than my previous small SUV and pulls and stops my little trailer with ease. I’ve been upgrading it a bit and preparing for a driving trip southwards this winter. Then began a intermittent herky-jerky idling issue. OK, I’m a mechanic. I did my homework, poked about a bit and decided the issue was with something called VCT solenoids. I could easily deal with the job myself although unfamiliar with this particular engine. I believed that it would take less than an hour to put things right.
Pushing rope. Towing a broken-down charter boat to safety. Just as I snapped this frame, the tow rope shifted on the overhead tow bit. Note the crack-the-whip bight in the towl line.
I’m “Old School” and well aware of the fact. I’m reluctant to mess with modern hi-tech computerized engines because I don’t fully understand how they work and I do not possess the computers I need to diagnose and adjust them. I may be a mechanic, but I’m no motor head. My reasons to exist have nothing to do with knowing the latest in automotive technology. For me, a ride is just a ride. My ego is not influenced by the way my camshaft is ground.
Manshadow photographing bicycle in morning light. Life moves slowly for some folks.
When all my parts finally arrived I dove in under the hood. There is an external seal around these solenoids which sit in a pocket in a valve cover on either side of the engine. My new seals looked slightly larger. I assured myself that it was only my imagination and removed one seal. Damn! They were different and I assumed I’d acquired the wrong parts. Then I learned the rest of the story. The Ford dealer was soon able to determine that the factory had “upgraded” the valve covers at the time the truck was built. With the new, smaller seals much of the top of the motor has to be disassembled so the valve covers can then be removed in order to change the solenoids. Air conditioning lines, along with various sections of plumbing and wiring need to be disconnected and stripped off to achieve this. A forty-five minute job has become eight hours.
Having no choice but to proceed I left the project in the hands of a local repair shop whom I trust. Fortunately I’d conceded the matter before I’d starting disassembling anything. Mechanics absolutely hate someone bringing in a job that they’ve already messed with. I certainly do. Because of extreme corrosion (due to road salt damage) the bolts holding the valve covers had broken. That’s a misery at any time. Theses bits were only available as part of a kit which includes new valve covers. Then, also due to corrosion, even the transmission dipstick has broken. So much for Ford’s “Better Idea.”
I’m amazed at how calmly I’m taking all this but I’ve learned that foaming at the mouth accomplishes nothing. I’m becoming an old fart and have learned that everything passes. It does seem to be a classic tale of two conjoined events, Sod’em and Go for more. Haar! I think of the clanky-bangy $4500. Nissan truck with which I dragged a trailer to Mexico and back. I believe I’m inclined toward Japanese vehicles from now on. In actual fact, everything on the road is over-priced junk and while they are bliss when running properly, the costs to buy and operate a vehicle are stunning. All that money which should be going into ‘Seafire.‘ The cost of this one repair (almost $1800.) is much more than I’ve paid for many vehicles in the past.
Manyberry season. Despite the dry summer, we have a bumper crop of succulent blackberries. These vines have enveloped a cherry tree.
So, language. We understand that language is the foundation of culture. We also understand that the English language is corrupted with many Americanisms. That’s understandable due to the overwhelming global influence of the US. See, I’ve just used one. Abbreviations are increasingly popular to the point that sometimes I don’t know what the hell folks are saying. As I write, my radio is on and I am intrigued at how careless radio announcers are with language. There was a story just aired about a school which will not permit children to bring sugary drinks to class. The announcer said, “From now on students will only be allowed to drink water.” What, no studying? I think the statement should have been “From now on all that students will be allowed to drink in school is water.” Yeah, yeah, I know we know what she meant but my point is that every word and combination thereof actually means something specific. Anything else is babble. Say what you mean, mean what you say. And don’t, like, LOL get me going on slang and texting. OMG! I mean yeah no because like I totally do. Whatever dude! Shaddup! Good clear communication is the art of saying as much as possible with as few words as possible. That’s what makes for good writing. Flowery digressions are not what people want to read; even when you’re writing about flowers.
The public piano. This sits on the waterfront in Comox. Some folks, like this woman, play it very well.
When I was in school penmanship was an important class. Not only was legible handwriting import, but spelling, grammar and formatting a letter were all part of a basic regimen. I enjoyed exchanging letters. There were always distant relatives to share news with as well as “Pen pals.” Blogging, I suppose, is an extension of that lost art. Nearly every exchange of information is now done with a bleep and an emoji. We descend toward gibberish. Perhaps one day we’ll all speak dog. Being “Barking mad” will have new meaning and I’m not looking forward to the bum-sniffing.
Happiness times five. Dog spoken here. A Comox parking lot moment.Ziggy. The boss’s dog. He’s a beauty and dignified too. Not just the dog!Jack surveys part of his kingdom. This photo is looking northwest toward Comox and Cape Lazo. We’re on top of a mountainous coal pile that extends fro many acres. It was once part of a coal-loading terminal. Imagine the foreshore being ringed with full-rigged sailing ships.
On a final note about communication, I’ve just heard from my friends who are in the Caribbean with their boat. They’re fine and that’s a relief. I thank them. I’m intrigued at the coverage of Hurricanes Hugo and Irma balanced against that about the massive earthquake in Mexico. Both disasters are horrific and incomprehensible but it seems however that there is not a lot of interest in the aftermath of the events in Mexico. I cheered to learn how Mexico has withdrawn it’s offer of aid to Texas in response to Trump’s lack of reciprocal interest. Mexico was not asking for help, it just wanted the minimal dignity and support of recognition. You don’t insult Latinos. I’m told that the most popular pinata in Latin American these days is an effigy of Donald. Apparently, when you finally get one broken open, there’s nothing inside. Much gusto!
When wild roses go bad. I’d like to learn what this sort of blight is called.
Here on the coastline of BC, where we’re once again reminded that we sit in a paradise on top of a major earthquake fault, we luxuriate in the last sultry days of summer. For the moment, we are safe from the misery out there beyond the smoke. But any minute now…
Sunup once again.
“I like to think of myself as a natural disaster. If you really piss me off, naturally there will be a disaster.” … anonymous
SQUINT! Another cell-phone photo of daybreak in Dogpatch
Here’s how my luck has been going. I bought two lottery tickets at the local grocery store. As usual, the clerk, after checking my old ones, asked me if she could chuck out them out. By mistake she must have chucked the new ones, which I didn’t discover until several days later. So, bin divers, there’s a 99 trillion dollar winning ticket floating around out there somewhere. Yeah right! I was at the airport when my ship came in. And then I found myself in the hospital. After going to visit the surgeon who “hacked” my leg, I answered a call from my GP. My pulse rate was stuck well over 130 and I was persuaded to go to the hospital for a “couple of hours” to get things checked out.
Moon Bombing DogpatchAnother Fawn Lily
I swear that the only thing done in a hurry at a hospital is how they manage to get you into one of those open-backed bum flapper gowns and to get an intravenous needle jammed into your arm. Then they’ve got you! The first night was spent in a corner of the Emergency Department on a rickety gurney with a severely worn-out mattress. I lay and waited and waited for doctors who never came. Nurses stood in small groups chatting and joking while I felt like yesterday’s roadkill mouldering in the corner. Other inmates groan, cough, weep and bleed. Your personal plight seems to be the least of priorities and of course, you are the most important, don’t they know that? Eventually I complained gently and endured an explanation of why I should write a letter to the government. It is all their fault.
I’m sure everyone who chooses a career in a hospital must start out with the best of intentions. Some just become a bit jaded along the way. It certainly takes a special courage to put in daily long shifts inside those beige walls breathing that stuffy beige air and becoming imbued with beige thinking. (I can hear Billy Connolly shouting about “Feckin’ Beigists) I know I could not do it, my brand of courage lies elsewhere. The complex infrastructure from maintenance people, cleaners, porters, technicians, dieticians, nurses, doctors, to desk pilots and all the others is stunning. I can’t really comprehend the parameters of even one hospital which, to my sentiments, is as complex the Battle Star Galactia. “Gravity engineer please call the switchboard.” The staff is all there to ultimately serve folks who are mangled, slashed, terminally ill, mortally worn-out and infectiously diseased. (And those are just the visitors) Truly, I was generally treated with compassion and respect but I sure am glad to be writing this back at home. At least here the walls are not bloody beige!
I‘ve cooked for a living at times but can’t imagine what is involved in preparing meals in a hospital. It must be horrific. There is a school somewhere for hospital cooking. There must be. Every meal I’ve ever had in hospital, anywhere, all tastes the same, if it has any taste at all. Bleech! If the food is not bad enough, it is delivered in dung-coloured plastic containers which really gets the palette twitching with anticipation. But I can’t imagine how else anyone could do it three times a day. “Ward C, please proceed to the buffet area for your daily gourmet lunch.” Not likely. Good food is a foundation of cheer and well-being and even a little garnish on top of your chunk of rubbery farmed fish would certainly help. I suppose a sack of parsley just can’t fit the annual budget. And wait until someone decides that all that plastic-infused food we eat is a major cause of cancer! That’s another subject. Eh wot, no wine!
At least they fixed me. Apparently electric shock is used to stop the heart, then again to restart the old muscle. I had a vision of jumper cables hooked to each nipple, a horrific zap, then a quick reversing of positive to negative and another Duracell moment. Actually a very large electrode was stuck to my chest and another to my back. That’s all I recall. Thankfully, I was knocked out for the procedure, I don’t remember a thing. It’s rather like defragging and rebooting a computer, all in one swell foop, but it feels like the timing was reset and new spark plugs were installed. I’ve been rebooted. There IS a smell of burned bacon. Whatever transpired, my pulse is back down to a normal rate and I’m beginning to feel like life is worth living. These dreamy pills are intereeesting…..
Abandoned locomotive in Ladysmith. The promise of a working steam museum and a tall ships yard drew me to Vancouver Island in the mid-80s. It never happened.Spring morning light at the roundabout at the foot of the main street in Ladysmith. The monstrous anchor was dredged out of the harbour.
The only other note I’ll offer on ending up in the “horspital “ is that one needs to be aware of the moment. It is all you have. There is no “In a minute,” no “Tomorrow,” no “Maybe next year.” This is it. This very moment is all you’ve got and no one knows what’s coming down the pipe. We DO NOT know what the next moment will bring. It is a thought I often express in this blog but I’m beginning to feel hypocritical spouting about it out. This is blog 100 for me… and I’m still tied to the bloody dock! I can offer whinges about poor health and the resulting low finances but I feel that would be just making excuses. This is the year.
It has to happen within the remaining three quarters of 2016. No more piddling about. Old ‘Seafire’ either finds her way to Southern waters or has to be put up for sale. I want to be writing blogs from within the shade of a cactus or a palm tree. One way or another. It’s got to happen. Somehow!
I know I don’t want to end my days shuffling down a beige hall in a puce bum-flapper pushing a trolly with an IV drip on it with flakes of dried rubber salmon clinging to my beard.
Unwittingly I recently wrote this little bit about exactly that.
RUM AND TEA
Some drink dark rum straight down
others stir weak tea round and round
wondering ten lumps or twelve.
Some cling to the bottom
feeding on whatever drifts by
others soar in the cold dark sky
exploring their passion to fly
so absorbed with life
they have no thought about when they’ll die.
Some worry about dying so much,
they never live.
Some worry about tomorrow
always missing today
some only work
having forgotten a gift called play.
We only have this one moment
and can only regret
what we don’t do.
The Nurse Stump. Life goes on.
Slumped in front of the television last night I watched a silly program about a California couple who had won $180,000,000.US in a lottery. After the IRS was done with them they probably had to scrape by on the remaining half of their winnings. A realtor was leading them around by the nose showing exotic properties. Eventually they settled on a decadent shack (16,000 square feet) on a mountainside to the tune of $5.6 million. All the while they were orgasming their way through this ridiculous faux palace, wifey kept complaining they were over-budget! They finally bought the place, then the bison ranch below them and ultimately all the land to the summit of the mountain above them. It totalled 800 acres. Mother’s final complaint was about the winding steep road. These were the same two hefty folks who were living contentedly in an average suburban home before their windfall. The area surrounding their new dream home sure looked like one of those Californian infringements that loves to explode into flame. I wish them bliss. Yes, I’m jealous, at least for the potential of all that cash.
I know that if I ever found myself immersed in unaccustomed wealth, sure as hell-in-a-handbasket, I might easily wander astray. For the moment, I believe there are people I’d help and causes I’d support, others whom I’d make a point of ignoring and quite probably there would be another certain boat I’d acquire. That is the true value of a lottery ticket, all those dreams to keep you going through an existence such as working in a hospital. Lotteries are indeed the poor man’s tax. To put our Western lives in perspective, there are billions who’d love the decadence of knowing where tomorrow’s groceries are coming from and that the shooting will stop. The notion of going to a hospital for any reason, incomprehensible. Not having to worry about the cost, beyond belief.
We just don’t get it. Do we? I know I don’t, even when I write about it.
Jack out standing In his field. Dogs can teach us so much.
“DO NOT REGRET GROWING OLDER, IT IS A PRIVILEDGE DENIED TO MANY.” …anonymous
Are you aware of this story? Many are not. The shooting of Lavoy Finicum in a FBI ambush near Burns Oregon and all the events leading up to that moment are complex, confusing and frightening. I don’t know what to believe, especially as most of my information comes from the media. Strangely, while the battle wears on between select ranchers and the US Bureau Of Land Management, and also the FBI, the mainstream media seems to largely ignore the issue. It is a sensational story, the very essence of American romanticism and courage. I am suspicious of why there is not more attention to this drama and of course, that leads toward conspiracy considerations.
Uncle Sam loves you, just do as you’re told!
My research on this story has left me with plenty of unanswered questions. All I’ll say is that if you’re messing with a bully who clearly has you outgunned, then it is best to back up and reload for another day. I’ve spent more time watching interviews with Shawna Cox, who was one of the people with Finicum when he was shot repeatedly. The story is chilling. Clearly we live in a police state where might is right and citizens had better tow the line. This is a country which imposes its military will wherever it chooses on the planet and it ain’t going to tolerate any non-conformity at home. Mr. Obama wants to impose stricter gun control. Rightly so! Perhaps he should start with his own goon squads. To hell with the Sheriff Of Nottingham!
Yes I live in Canada but as it has often been said, when Uncle Sam sneezes, Canada catches a cold. Check out infowars.com and also Libertys Champion on this story. I’ve also watched the last video of Lavoy Finicum before his death. He is being interviewed by The Oregonian. It is a poignant few minutes. I did notice that he is wearing a shoulder harness for a concealed weapon. It is all on You Tube. Watch these interviews and form your own opinions. The aerial footage of the event as released by the FBI was taken by a drone. That a drone was even present raises some obvious questions and why is the film’s quality is so low? This equipment is capable of very high resolution and so more riddles arise. Why was this film provided so expediently?
As the dust settles there will be books and movies and maybe the truth will become clear.
I am, of course, inclined to side with the ranchers and their declared determination to preserve their enshrined constitutional rights in the USA, the land of freedom. I am an old farm boy, I’ve also spent my time on and around ranches and I am a sailor. So this farmer/cowboy/sailor has a typically strong instinct to resist bureaucratic suppression. An impingement on my freedom as a human being and a citizen, so close to home, raises an urgent concern. It is amazing how any creature, when cornered, can become an irrational and extremely dangerous force. I think Finicum, with his wit and calm, rational intellect may have had old Sam feeling cornered. Finicum, true to his convictions, died with his cowboy hat firmly in place and quite possibly a copy of the US Constitution and a Mormon Bible in his pocket. He may even have been trying to draw fire away from the passengers in his vehicle when he was shot down. He has now become a far more formidable foe to Big Brother as a martyred legend. The Feds have pissed in their own cornflakes. I suspect that Mr. Finicum knew his value to his cause was far greater dead than alive and so deliberately put it all on the line.
To have a conviction that you are willing to speak out for is a rare and wonderful thing. To be willing to die for it is a facet of the human spirit which is a mysterious quality. Finicum did not have any bombs strapped to his chest, he was not out to hurt anyone. In fact he apparently advocated non-violence. Yet there were allegedly several loaded firearms in the vehicle that carried him and his passengers to his moment of execution. That’s what concerns me.
People often express dismay that I drive the back roads of Mexico and wonder why I’d do such a dangerous thing. I feel no less endangered there than I do driving on Vancouver Island. I do pucker up when travelling in the US where there is, on average, at least one handgun in every vehicle. I’ve spoken to so very many self-righteous gun-toting US citizens who feel carrying a weapon is as natural a right as having a navel. I’m not sure whether to avoid eye contact or to employ full facial contact. Do I smile or not? What triggers a personal indignation? What endears one person infuriates the next. I certainly don’t give anyone the finger nor express any indignation. You just never know what might set somebody off. I can still hear the granny in southern Arizona drawling on about how “I don’t go nowhere without a pistol in my purse!” “Even to church?” I asked. “Uh Huh!” she replied calmly. It seems to me that millions of US citizens are imprisoning themselves, and executing each other, with their own paranoia. This is in a country which embraced President Franklin Roosevelt as he famously declared, “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore Dorothy!
Turtle Valley Part of the ranch where I lived. I helped clear this field, tree by tree, stump by stump.The old ranch house that was once my home.My old ride. I bet she’ll still run. It was bloody cold on a winter morning.
I once travelled the US regularly on business. When old George Bush and the boys waded into Kuwait there was a massive display of patriotism. In a roadside rest area north of Seattle a small red car pulled in beside me. It was festooned with American flags and several bumper stickers saying things like “Support Our Troups” The car carried an elderly couple and as the driver emerged it was clear he was an ex-marine. There was no mistaking the crew cut, the tattoos and the steely glint in his eye. I was impressed with the patriotic overkill and frivolously remarked that I didn’t really believe it all. “Why not?” he demanded levelly, fixing a magnum glare on me. “Well sir, because you’re driving a Hyundai.” There was a pregnant silence.
“Of course” I added, grinning like an idiot, “I understand the Smith & Wesson under your seat was made in America.” The hard lines in his face relaxed a little as he replied, “Actually it’s a Colt .45.” Then he smiled.
What I didn’t know then! It’s hard to believe I was once this flat-bellied ranch hand. I did learn how ranchers think.
I always imagined that Oregon was one of the more laid-back states in the union. I’m on my way in a couple of weeks to read at the Fisher Poet’s Gathering In Astoria, Oregon.
Dang!
“It’s not a gun control problem, it’s a cultural control problem.”
Nature Organized A wintery walk for Jack. The snow lasted a day.
One of my dog Jack’s favourite places to ramble is in a piece of Parkland along the Nanaimo river. We meet nice dogs who come with nice people, the paths are gravelled and open. There’s no slogging along muddy trails under the dripping branches of dank woodlands. It is the place where the eagle dropped the duck at Jack’s feet. (see blog dated Nov. 11, 2015 ‘A Scent Of Apples…) There are rabbits and squirrels to harass and open forest for Jack to explore while I can keep him in sight. Once this was virgin fir forest before it was logged and turned into farmland. Now it has been planted with pine, in straight rows. It is called an “experimental forest”. Perhaps I’ve had my head in the bilge for too many years but I don’t understand the persistence that we can improve nature. If the climate and terrain have determined over millions of years that a specific species is best suited in a particular area, how the hell do we think we can improve on that simple wisdom? I’ve spent many years in and around the forest industry and am dumfounded by this practice. But then, there are many things which, to me, seem either blindly foolish or deliberately twisted, just like the movies.
Replanted Forest Pine and Fir. Spot the alien!The rest of the story. We insist on fiddling with nature. Can you hear Joni Mitchel’s lines about the tree museum?
I’ve acquired a term recently: CGI: Computer Generated Image. Well, it’s new to me. I’ve learned it from watching two recent films, ‘The Revenant’ and ‘The Finest Hours.’ These images are so good, so believable, perhaps it is inevitable that breathing actors will be replaced with computer generated characters. Extrapolate that thought to sports, we could have virtual athletes and hey, what about politicians? If characters like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Donald Trump, or Sarah Palin (I won’t touch on Canadian politicians) have caught serious attention on the political stage, then what is for real? Cartoon characters are just as credible and at least we know what we’re looking at. How about Wiley Coyote for president? On television old Arnie is picking up some extra pocket money advertising a new cyber war game so it all makes sense in an abstract sort of way. We can drink a lot of beer wading through this subject. Real beer that is, with lots of gluten. I just tapped out a typo, perhaps a Freudian slip, with the word ‘plotiticians’. We can have some fun with that one too.
I digress.
I am not beginning a film review in my blog but both of these current flics have a few glaringly obvious oops. ‘The Revenant’, filmed in four countries, has no continuity in its scenes. Set in the early 1800s it begins near the edge of a camp with men stalking elk through the waters of a spring flood plain in a coastal second-growth fir forest. You can hear bull elk bugling, although elk make their mating calls in the fall. The camp comes under attack by local natives. Eventually the survivors make for a raft moored on the banks of a high-country river. The same camp, now thousands of feet higher in altitude! How’d they do that? As they drift down the river, you can see clear-cut logging blocks in the background, several times. Those scene incongruities occur constantly throughout the entire bladder-bursting film. There’s a lot to be said for intermissions, and think of all that extra crap food the theatre could sell.
The story is built around the protagonist being severely mauled by an angry sow grizzly bear. That long scene is amazingly believable. I wonder how they can dub-in a very realistic rampaging bear, yet not dub-out modern scars in other scenes. I thought that film makers employed people to keep a tab on continuity and realism. I’d love that job! I did not see any jet contrails and I did very much like how the first nations characters and their mistreatment were portrayed in this story.
‘The Finest Hours’ is a Disney effort made by landlubbers for landlubbers. Actually, the CGIs in this film are also incredible but I was left jaded with some simple oversights. Lifeboats can run fully submersed for brief periods, they must be able to do that, but they are not submarines. Once fully afloat again, with the wheelhouse torn away, the crew is soaking wet. The North Atlantic is freaking cold anytime of the year and especially in a raging winter storm. No one seemed even near hypothermia, despite hours of exposure to extreme conditions that would kill the average person within a short time. Hell, you couldn’t even see their breath! In reality their hair and clothing would be frozen instantly. I was born a few months after the events of this true 1952 story and I’m not so sure that folks were that much tougher back then. Even casual conversation was possible despite the supposed raging elements. Having experienced the actual conditions being represented in this film I can tell you that the simple act of breathing is a challenge. Speech is reduced to single screamed words. At the end of the film, the returning lifeboat is conned into harbour to the six-volt headlights of those old cars. Apparently nobody thought to run and start the generator in the lighthouse. Hmmm! I know, picky, picky, picky. All those missed details, I think, detract from the credibility of the story.
Well, I can give each of these movies an IDFA award. (I Didn’t Fall Asleep) And anyway not many folks give a toss about reality these days from what I can see. In fact, we all seem determined to find some sort of distraction from it; after all that’s why we go to the movies. No I didn’t buy any of that trans-fat-sodden popcorn or sugary drinks and yes, I returned my 3D glasses at the end of the show.
Just as I was about to post this blog I learned of a third movie now being released. ‘The Lady In The Van’ stars the venerable and wonderful Maggie Smith. It depends solely on good acting and a good story. I’ve seen the trailer, it looks promising. This was first written as a play based on a true story. Interestingly, I saw this on stage in London in January 2000. It starred, yep, Maggie Smith. I think she knows her lines. So there, I’ve said something positive about a new movie.
Hope Grows.
It’s mid-winter and the blahs are upon many people although there is noticeably longer daylight in the evenings, when it is not overcast and bucketing rain. The buds are beginning to swell. Patches of early flowers show their colours in the sheltered spots and this morning I saw some shoots of skunk cabbage in the swamp. Hope is in the air. We’ll make it through.
Crocus time
Speaking of parks, and hope, an agreement has finally been reached to put eighty-five percent of the woodlands of the Great Bear Rain Forest into permanent conservation. I think that’s truly great but would like to point out that there is a reason why much of that timber has never been logged. It is just not commercially viable. A lot of that timber is of low quality and has been left on the stump throughout our province’s rapacious history because it wasn’t of sufficient quality to be of commercial interest. So wahoo!
The Great Bear Rainforest There are endless miles of untouched forest. It’s lovely to see.The Seaweed Camp Thick, tangled, inpenetrable. Much of the Great Bear Rain forest is covered with decadent jungle. A wonderful eco-system fortunately of insufficient commercial quality to harvest and haul away.Look the other way. No-one however notices the loads of high-value timber being hauled southward from other regions through the Great Bear Rainforest. The aroma of this load of red cedar was wonderful, even this far from the barge.Subterfuge! Hidden behind the harbour-front clutter in Nanaimo, another forest-load of raw logs, and jobs, is ready to head out of the country. Two or three loads regularly leave the harbour every week, right under our noses. There are many other points of export.
While the media bandstands the Provincial Government and the First Nations Peoples for this wonderful accord, nobody notices anymore how many shiploads of raw logs will leave this province this week and every week. I can show you foreign ships loading raw logs while moored to the former docks of sawmills now closed, allegedly, because there were not enough logs available. The questions are obvious…and so are the answers. It’s all smoke and mirrors.
A load of beautiful second-growth fir at the new timber export facility in Astoria Oregon
If our provincial government wants to do something meaningful, stop the export of our raw resources and all the related jobs! Eco-tourism is touted as the economic future of the Great Bear Rainforest, yet sport fishing continues there at an unsustainable rate and all along the British Columbia coastline. What I saw last summer while working in that region disgusted me. I can’t return to be part, in any way, of the ongoing rape. A typical conversation I repeatedly heard went like this. “How was the fishing today?” “Great! We really slayed them!”
Our federal Department of Fisheries shows a minimal presence during this annual orgy. Few folks seem inclined toward personal responsibility for what they take. There is still an archaic notion that everyone can take as much as they want because there is an unlimited stock. That abundance is dwindling, as we know it is around the planet at an alarming rate. If trophy-hunting bears is now a moral transgression, especially in the Great Bear Rainforest, what about fish? An eco-system is a sum of all its parts and you cannot exploit one component without affecting everything. We’re repeatedly told how salmon are the bio-foundation of the entire rain forest. The sport fishing industry is a multi-billion dollar machine but until there are no fish and so no whales or bears or wolves, folks will not learn from the sad examples already set so many other places. There is a clear line between need and greed. We refuse to acknowledge how we personally trespass over that boundary. It’s always the other guy. Sadly, legislation and strick enforcement is the only answer.
Done for the day! One salmon…. enough to for me to gorge on for several meals. The head was used as crab bait.
I’ve raised my objections, here are some possible solutions.
The sport of fishing should again become a sport,and stop being a meat harvest. All those electronic gadgets should be gone from boats so that skill and knowledge are the sole means of catching a fish. If I, one of the world’s most hopeless fishermen, can bring home some tasty protein that way, so can anybody else. If spending obscene amounts of money to have photos taken with a really big fish is a measure of manliness…well, I’m perfectly happy with who I am and no, I don’t have plastic testicles hanging from the rear of my vehicle.
Change the catch limits. Once you land a fish of any size of a specific species in its season you are done for the day. So one salmon, one halibut, one ling cod, one snapper, etc. If that is not enough for one day for each person, nothing will be. Once you’ve caught a fish and released it, regardless of size, chances are good that it will not survive the trauma of the catch so take it home and eat it.
The commercial herring roe fishery should come to an end or at least be put in moratorium for a few years. Herring are the prime datum of the marine food chain and unless we all acquire a taste for them ourselves; leave them alone. Hell, everyone complains that they are not making any money anyway. Let’s call their bluff.
The concept of the by-catch must come to an end. Fish of the commercially wrong size and species are routinely discarded from a catch and thrown away dead or dying. If those tons of wasted seafood were retained as the fresh healthy edible product they are maybe we’d need fewer fish farms. It seems incredibly stupid that we do this. Perhaps we should put all aspects of our Westcoast fishery into moratorium for three to five years. I am confident we would soon demonstrate what the factor of imbalance really is. Howl all you want about these ideas, but you are either part of the solution or part of the problem. The way things are going now is not a path toward sustainability. We love to talk about what we should have done when it’s too late. Let’s do something now. At least ask a few questions.
Of all the food items we can produce here in BC, we now import most of those from somewhere else; so why not seafood from somewhere over the horizon? Just think of all the diesel that gets burned solely in the importation of fresh food we should be growing right here. Is this thinking green?
A Thriller Photo! Well it is to me. After years of intent I’ve finally got around to installing a new fuel filtration system in Seafire. The filter bases are all used ones . I can now switch from a clogged filter, primary or secondary, just with the turn of a valve. This means that I can change filters on the go without missing a beat. This is still no substitute for clean fuel,
On that note, I’ve one final rumination. It is about the breaking up of HMCS Protecteur and HMCS Algonquin. These are both vessels retired from our Pacific Naval fleet. They will be towed, via Panama, all the way to Halifax! A ship-breaker there won the contract with a bid of $39,000,000. I can’t discover if that bid includes the cost of towing each ship half-way around the continent. I understand the issues of safely removing environmentally nasty materials but can’t we resurrect a shipyard here in BC to do the work? Why not simply sell the ships as scrap to the highest bidder and take the cash instead of paying for the dismantling? Vancouver-based Seaspan International, part of the enormously successful Washington Group, takes its retired vessels to China and brings back new ones. Hmmm!
I don’t have all of the information and I certainly don’t have any answers but I raise my weary question once again about the chicken farmer who goes to town to buy eggs. Computer Generated Images? I’m not sure what’s real and what is common sense in daily life. Is anyone? Have we become too stupid to know how stupid we’ve become?
See ya in the movies.
Dogpatch Dawn
“ Every creature is better alive than dead, men and moose and pine trees, and he who understands it aright will rather preserve its life than destroy it.”
Saturday morning I awake in my bunk which I soon realize is dripping with condensation. It is winter time on the Northcoast and my boat was built for more southerly latitudes. There are puddles under the mattress and all the efforts I’ve made to insulate and keep a dry bed are in vain. I’ll rip the forepeak apart in the spring and rebuild it but I realize I must move the boat south even before I arise. Enough! Neither of us can endure this sort of winter climate my old bones scream in protest. I’ll sleep in the main cabin for the duration of my tenure here.
Snow below. Hunter Island, November 11th
I get up, put the kettle on for coffee, wipe thick condensation from the windows and see soggy heaps of hail on the dock. There is snow low-down on the not-so-distant mountains. I can smell it in the air. There was a time when I would have revelled in this on-the-edge living but the romance went out of that a long time ago and I’ve decided being warm and dry has certain acceptable nuances as well.
Coffee made, I check my e-mail and open one from Twisted Sifter which has a video-clip of a pianist playing “Imagine” on the sidewalk in front of a concert hall in Paris, France. It is only then that I learn of the multiple horrific terrorist attacks the night before. At the hour those dark events were unfolding I sat in this boat watching a movie about a Buddhist monk and his novice who live on a floating temple in the middle of a lake. The ironic contrast of that overwhelms me. So I write this:
The Harbour Light, looking out from Silva Bay to Howe Sound across Georgia Strait
Thank you! It’s working. My Flickr photostream is becoming easier to find due, in part, to your interest. https://www.flickr.com/photos/flickrfred/ will get you there; I have over two hundred forty frames up so far.
The Morning After
I’m hoping to earn some income from my writing and photography as I travel. In today’s world, if you have no cyber presence, you don’t exist. It would be much nicer to sit with pen and paper beneath a palm tree writing the world’s ultimate novel but that is only fantasy long lost. I know that I cripple myself by avoiding the mad scrum of twitter, titter, squeak, squack and honk yet I have to do something to validate my creative existence in the cyber world. A few years ago a publisher told me that e-books weren’t “Real”. Now it seems, writing is not legitimate if it isn’t an e-book. So, that’s what I’m up to with all this effort at seeking attention.
The old and the new
I’ll admit I’m a dinosaur in this modern world of computer-everything but I’ll hold my low regard for the sheep-like manner in which people eagerly accept persuasion to follow corporate marketing innuendo. Our culture has become hopelessly addicted to cyber devices. It seems that even a primal survival instict, fear, has a declining sensitivity. We are rapidly loosing the ability to fend for ourselves to the point of wandering into danger’s way while texting, tweeting and gaming. People drive and walk with head-down texting focus as they stumble through traffic, crowds, the woods and even on the docks. Kerplunk!
More old and new
Amazingly, in our enlightened age, few ask questions. Our thumbs keep twitching out unimportant messages and we stumble along without looking where we’re going. Letter-writing has become a lost social art. Correct spelling and grammar are a foundation of clear communication. Language and communication is a cornerstone of civilization and we apparently don’t much give a toss about those basics. I recently saw a dictionary of texting abbreviations. (Lol ddba wm yy2.) No! I don’t want to have children with you! Huh? Coincidentally, as I write, a radio announcer reads a story about how people “Are married to their smart phones”.
Don’t we see how addicted and reliant we have become? Whenever the electricity goes down or we lose one of our devices we panic. Even in the backwoods of Mexico people appear entirely dependant on their cell phones. It seems like a deadly epidemic to me and I’ll admit that like it or not, I’m infected with the cyber bug as well. But I do care and will maintain a questioning attitude. You wouldn’t imagine the blank look I got in the cell phone store when I said I wanted a phone that only made calls, took calls and messages. Neanderthal!
I will readily admit that I heavily utilize the internet for research. A few minutes online can easily replace a day in the library. But, it doesn’t replace the collective intellectual energy of a building full of books.
It is important to remember who is slave and who is master.
Honey Bee evening patrol
Most offshore sailboats don’t even have a sextant aboard anymore. We DO have access to all sorts of satellite rescue systems when our incompetence prevails. If Uncle Obama flips the switch and there is suddenly no GPS available it will be a total disaster. I’ll admit that my sextant lies dormant in its case and I’ve forgotten how to use it. Mind you, leaving the dock is the first step to needing it. Here comes an embarrassed, pregnant silence.
Think Green
I’m having a bout of writer’s block and as I poke away at my laptop the tely is on playing the 1961 movie ‘The Misfits’. It is a beautiful film made on location in Nevada. Marilyn Monroe is outstanding, her acting is incredible and Clark Gable is grand. He utters lines like “People can get so afraid of dying that they don’t ever live. Of course there’s danger in most worthwhile things”. In real life he died within days of finishing this film. Eli Wallach, Thelma Ritter and Montgomery Clift all turn out stunning performances. A believable script encompasses human longing and weakness within a parable about greed versus the environment. I love the clever use of light in black and white films and this one is certainly no exception.
The old Waco biplane had me lusting heartily. John Huston was the director and the messages about fiscal wealth versus integrity and compassion, from over forty years ago, are stunning. Not surprising, it was a flop at the box office. Few know of it. I think it should be re-released.
Quacks
Now it’s Sunday, a week before Easter. Another stellar weather day dawns. We will almost be able to hear the leaves bursting out and see the flowers opening. Fluorescent white flesh is on display everywhere and I smugly flaunt the remains of my Mexico tan. Then as the evening sun settles behind the trees, it’s back into our woolies. Drifts of fir and maple pollen fill the air and everyone’s sinuses. Folks are finally back on the docks checking to see if their boats have survived the winter. They offer the usual annual cliché yucks about how boats are holes in the water that you shovel full of money. I offer my standard responses about how a “Stitch in time saves nine” and that houses are holes in the beach that you shovel money into while the scenery never changes. A few visiting cruisers are appearing at the marina now. Next weekend the marina circus will begin for another year.
Step into the picture
A friend en route with his yacht to Easter Island and then the Marquesas stopped at the Galapagos two days ago, for forty hours! He had a passage From La Paz, Baha with light winds and he ran low on fuel but forty hours? I’m sure he has his good reasons but I can’t imagine how hard it would be to put to sea again without a decent rest and a long reconnoitre of that fabled place.
Jimmy has his daughter Karmin aboard and I hope they find a place to stop and can make their marathon a wholly pleasant odyssey. He’s put so much into preparing for this journey.
Gabriola Pass Light
Other friends have left their boat ‘Sage’ in dry storage for the monsoon season in Northern Phuket and are coming home to Victoria for a break away from the heat and humidity where they have been sailing. Connie and Tony did this once before on a tiny Vancouver 27. They spent seven years exploring the South Pacific and Japan. Their blog ‘Sage on Sage’, is what prompted me to start my own. I am deeply inspired and humbled by folks who are able to achieve their dreams.
Good on you all.
Now it is Monday morning. As the sun rises in the East (As usual) a high thickening overcast is rapidly approaching from the South. The barometer is holding steady, for the moment, but it looks like rain to me. It didn’t rain. In fact this afternoon my pallid shanks were sticking out again beneath a pair of tattered work shorts. This evening there is a new overcast blocking any view of tonight’s lunar eclipse.
It was quite a day. I don’t know why but I’m experiencing a massive lethargy and depression accompanied with all sorts of strange pains, swollen glands, and a generally pathetic state of being. I know, I know, it shows in my writing. Spring fever, allergic reactions to all the pollen in the air, a chronic attack of self-pity, I can’t explain it. Other folks report they are laid low with flu so I’ll go with that.
In the midst of this gloom a friend recommends going online to a ‘TED Talk’ and looking up an essay by a conductor and classical musician named Benjamin Zander. “Yeah right”, I thought as I typed in ‘The Transformative Power Of Classical Music.’
It was spell-binding, a midday epiphany.
This brilliant man explained things about classical music which I never understood and then leads the viewer on to some wonderful concepts. “Who I am being, if my children’s eyes aren’t shining?” Who am I being, if other people’s eye aren’t shining?”
His message, I think, is to apply your unique gifts in such a way that other people are inspired and enlightened.
“Become a bird that flies above the fields. Fences are no longer obstacles”.
Now it is Tuesday morning already and I’ve awakened cynical and jaded as ever. That might have to do with the aches and pains of my battered old frame. (I used to wonder why old folks were so often grumpy!) Jack the dog is out on deck surveying the world and absorbing the moment in the light of the rising sun. He has, as usual, the correct philosophy and is immersed in the moment. I’m sitting with my morning coffee pecking away on this blog trying to find a clever ending. Perhaps a final quote from Zander will work.
“Never say anything that won’t stand if it is the last thing you ever say!”
Hmmmmm. Flap, flap, flap, bang!
Skunk Cabbage is blooming all through the woods A hydroponic aroma hangs in the trees, but then that smell is common on this island in a lot of places!
It has been two weeks since my return from southern latitudes. I do live in a beautiful place right here and finally winter is losing it’s grip. Most of that welcome-home blizzard is now gone, only piles of debris remain where huge trees and limbs blew down. It is obvious that this was an extraordinary storm. There are green buds, snow drops, daffodils, and the odd crocus beginning to appear. Last evening I photographed plum blossoms. It is now about time to go collect the early spring crop of nettles. They’ll sting the hell out of your unprotected hands, but once boiled they become a delicious tonic of greens.
Plum blosomPlum pretty
Russia has marched into Crimea. Obama has rightly condemned the action. ( No one had dared to respond by asking about the US in Afghanistan, or Iraq, or Vietnam. Oh right! No ranting! ) Meanwhile the Para Olympics are in progress in Sochi, Russia just to the east across the top of the Black Sea. A Malaysian Air Boeing 777 with a load of passengers has vanished into the sea somewhere off the southern tip of Vietnam. We think. There is also speculation that it may have gone down in the Straits Of Malacca, in the opposite direction. Implications of hijacking and terrorism are rife. There is tremendous innuendo about each of these stories. Of course, media speculation leads to more stories and so someone’s misery is milked for maximum profit. While perusing these areas on Google Earth I discovered some fantastic islands of the SE coast of Vietnam. It is an archipelago known as Con Dao. I’ve never heard of it before and wonder how to get there. It is beautiful, exotic and almost unknown, yet another destination for the bucket list.
Lichen or not
Life goes on, no matter who lives or dies. A week ago I was writing about how clearly I could see the world after my little sabbatical. For some reason, only a week later, I’m feeling desperately low and aching to be south again. It is an absolute puzzle to me that despite my questioning mind, it has led me back to the labyrinth that I hoped escape on my short sojourn. A certain type of personality, once released from prison, soon deliberately commits a crime that puts them back into the familiarity of the incarceration they have come to accept as normal and comfortable. Life outside of the box is too much to bear.
Alder bark
I used to live within a prison of busyness. It didn’t matter what I was accomplishing so long as I was distracted from the torments of my soul by staying busy to the point of utter weariness.
My manic father taught me indelibly that indeed, “Work shall set you free.” (That is the infamous epitaph above the gates of the death camp of Auschwitz) This is all an affirmation of my previous notion that we are a manic race desperately in need of distraction so often achieved by our incessant doing versus being. Suddenly I see travelling as yet another form of doing, a distraction from our unrest and insecurity. It is not necessarily a pilgrimage of discovery and enlightenment.
Pollinate me baby, it’s spring!
I suppose that’s what becoming a monk is all about. Trash all ambition and immerse yourself in an endless routine of simple existence; no creativity, no lust, no abstract pleasure, just work, prayer, meditation and other self-inflicted penances. I’ll never be a monk. Then again, with all of the self-denial, maybe I’m one already.
Hope
Mind you the pounds so proudly lost, have almost instantly reappeared like putting on a fat shirt and yes, I have been careful about diet. My Mexican program of fish and beer was working so well! I simply must get back down there! To do that, I need to develop a mental fortitude that is also required to permanently lose the excess baggage.
Jack stands the dog watch, happy in the sun on a level deck
I’ve I have researched ghost towns of the North American Southwest. With numerous ancient native ruins and all the natural wonders of Western North America I realized that therein is a lifetime of exploration. A friend today suggested that my fascination with the ocean and my new infatuation for the desert begs a simple solution. Take my boat down to the Sea Of Cortez where there is an abundance of both. A good idea, and my original plan.
Checklist: Blanket, white wine- chill in stream. Pastry, cheese, chocolate. Leave mobile phone at home. Oh yeah, significant other!
So, the time has already gone ahead an hour to Daylight Savings, the first quarter of the year has blipped past and here I sit. This has to be the year, there is no doubt about it.
Well, the rising sun is in my eyes, it’s time to get off the boat and do something on this fine early spring morning. I close today’s blog with a quote. It’s a bit abstract but, if you wade through it, entirely appropriate to my musings.
– From Ernest K.Gann, ‘Fate Is The Hunter’
“... I was suddenly very lonely. And I found it agreeable.
For loneliness, I thought, is an opportunity. Only in such a state may ordinary minds, spared comparison with superior minds, emerge victorious from thoughts which may prove perilous to explore in company. Loneliness presents no challengers to undermine by argument and stipulation those comforting theories born of it. Loneliness is not deadening, even for dullards who contrive against the condition because it forces them to think. Unless men are transformed into true imbeciles and simply stare at nothing, or play with their physical toys, then loneliness can form a magic platform which may transport the meek to thoughts of courage, or even cause the scoundrel to examine the benefits of honesty. Mere physical separation from other human beings can energize new conceptions for those usually incapable of any mental experiment. Yet to be thought lonely is automatically to be pitied, which is an insult, since pity is most loudly offered by the patronizing and hypocritical. Pity for the lonely speaks of uncleanliness and rejection (Poor fellow, he is not as admirable as I know myself to be); thoughts so often nursed by those terrified of separation from the mass.”
I swear I have been passed on the road by a shiny Hummer with a ‘Think Green’ bumper sticker. All this enviro-speak is very trendy but when if comes to giving up personal comfort, well yeah but…! I saw a photo recently of a fat man jovially sporting a T-shirt saying “I beat anorexia.” Yeah, it’s funny, but underscores how we love our extremes. We want to drive 300hp SUV’s and also get fifty miles a gallon. People’s vehicles are bigger than ever and obesity is worn by many as a badge of well-being but I’m just not that interested in global stupidity, I’ve got a full-time job dealing with my own.
A growing number of folks are taking pride in living fully by enjoying a fresh awareness of how little they need. Perhaps in result of recent economic events, it is a refreshing turn away from our perversion for lemming gluttony. After living in a boat for years I can claim the benefits outweigh the inconveniences. Not much room for clutter here and if something aboard hasn’t proven its worth within a year; it’s gone. Use it or lose it! Forty-one feet up one side of the boat and the same down the other gives me eighty-two feet of untaxed waterfront property. I can change the view and the neighbours any time I want and, Yeehaw! You won’t find a damned lawnmower anywhere in this boat. Yes, I’d love to have a workshop aboard and I can think of other essential amenities but soon enough I could could end up with an aircraft carrier and still be wanting a little more room. Some of my happiest memories have to do with canoes and rowboats and backpacks; enough said.
Home on the bay. How much do we really need?
I recently bought a teardrop trailer and that has led me onto some interesting paths of research. There is a quiet trend toward downsizing homes, vehicles and RVs with folks taking pride in learning how little they realty need. That path helped me discover the tinyhouseblog.com which is a site dedicated to compiling stories about people who are discovering the joy of living in as small a space as possible. Boats, trailers, gypsy wagons, yurts and small buildings are all there. Not only are many designing, building and living in sensible homes, they are joyfully discovering the freedom of shedding the burden of being owned by mountains of “Stuff”. It is a trend which I hope gains momentum and flies in the face of consumerism. That is an insidious religion we have all been programmed to embrace. We worship in the malls and plazas that are our mosques and cathedrals. Blind consumerism is as evil and deadly as any other fundamentalist dogma.
A matter of choiceFloathouse community in Cowichan Bay
For years I have noted some folks stepping backward when they learn that I live in a boat. I can almost hear the thought at times, ‘He’s one of those!” That’s fine, your waters are too shallow for me; I doubt we’d have become friends anyway. This old boat hippy does however firmly believe that the price of freedom is responsibility. No-one has the right to impose their personal preferences on others. I maintain my boat so that it is always tidy and seaworthy and self-sufficient at all times. There’s no point expecting respect from others unless you demonstrate you have some for yourself. I’m also learning that perhaps it is better to do big things in a small boat instead of little things in big boats. It is too easy to lose sight of the plan if you starting getting bigger boats and acquiring more stuff. Soon you are buried in a hole where your possessions own you. I know all too well! Not so long ago entire families went off to see some, or all, of the world in boats that were seldom over 30′ in length. Now the average cruising couple often has a boat at least 40′ long. Interestingly, each day’s dead reckoning is still calculated at a speed of 5 knots.
Home is where the boat is…41′ of waterfront on either side!
Minimalism offers the joy of being able to go now. The encumbrance of stuff and where to keep it all, and the associated debt, is gone. I have wasted a huge portion of my life preparing boat after boat. Many of those have gone on to sail away over the horizon with a new owner. The first boat I owned could have taken me anywhere. I can’t openly admit any of the excuses which have kept me tied to the dock and which I thought were so important at the time.
“When in fear or in doubt, raise your sails and bugger off out”…Tristan Jones
Emotional depression is an epidemic in the Western World. Sadly it is, I believe, a symptom of a huge malady relating directly to our consumerist culture. We all feel inadequate if we don’t look like this, smell like that, drive one of those, live in a faux castle and surround ourselves with other similarly deluded souls who desperately try to maintain a facade of bottomless wealth. Of course we can never catch up to those expectations imposed on us by a lifetime of spin doctors and marketing wizards. So very many of us become bogged in a swamp of despair because we have been convinced that we just don’t measure up. Rising crime rates, fiscally foundering governments? It is only an emulation of the mindset so prevalent in our own homes. If you have no self-love, it it is damned hard to respect and love anyone else. If the nation’s individual personal finances teeter on bankruptcy, how is it surprising that we have a national deficit?
Cheung Chau Harbour, At least three generations seemed to live on each boat and… half the fleet was out fishing at any given time!
I’m bending toward people who live in so-called third world conditions. There is a lot to learn from them. For all they don’t have, sometimes not even shoes, they have dignity and self-esteem. They can look you in the eye and actually smile. They understand, because they live so close to the wire, that you only have the moment. They are not emotionally constipated by worrying about investment portfolios or many of the problems of the future. They have not bought the myth that they are somehow immortal. If they can feed their children today that is their best expectation; feeding them tomorrow, a bonus. Most of the world lives like this; we are the privileged few. If only we could remain aware of that single fact as our middle-class erodes.
People who are not busy trying to build a personal empire have a lot more time and mental space to be philosophically and spiritually aware. A documentary I recently enjoyed, ‘La Camioneta’, is about the new life of a recycled American school bus as it moves from an auction yard in the US to a new home in Guatemala. A man there, who has a small business refurbishing buses for local commercial use is asked why he decided on his particular career. I paraphrase his reply in part, “The thing about a bus is, even if the passengers are not all friends, it is a place where for a little while, people share their journey through life together.” That thought is profound. Consider that the whole planet is a place where we must share our journey through life. There is so much we can do to make our journey together better for each other.
I woke up yesterday morning in a new year. The world was still here and so am I, not even hung-over or under. Again today, it is the usual drippy, grey dawn where thick darkness gradually gives way to medium gloom. By mid-afternoon the day will slowly slink back into a palpable darkness which invades your being a bit more with each breath.
So in this new year I have a great boat and a little trailer with which I intend to use the remains of my little existence to go unravel some of life’s mystery and rediscover basics we have left behind. (“Something to do, someone to love, something to look forward to while doing no harm”) No matter how much philosophizing and analyzing one does, a balanced life can’t be refined better than that…. in my opinion. My little odyssey will be described in part through this blog. In some small way, I hope my discoveries help enlighten others. The journey began long ago. Soon I must shut-up about “Gonnado” and actually leave town. The blogs will continue. Bring some good boots along if you like but, no bigger than you need.
