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.
Putting the coffee on, a sunrise view through the galley portlight
I’m determined to squeeze out one more blog this year. It’ll be blog twenty-four, an average of one every two weeks. There’s been an excess of introspection and navel-gazing and I’d love to end this year on a cheery, warm and fuzzy note. Despite the blahs about lack of cash and daylight and warmth there has to something positive and uplifting to share on this dark night at the end of the dock. It’s late, I’m yawning, my toddy mug is empty and I’m reluctant about the inevitable clamber into the large cold empty bunk up front in the boat. Doggy, and his warm snuggly self, stayed in town this week where it’s warm and dry.
My bunk buddy, warm, dry and safe, the boat softly rocking, dock lines squeaking gently
Last Friday I stood in a cashier’s lineup in a Chapters store. A small wide-eyed boy just ahead of me looked up to his mother and asked with deepest longing how many days there were until Christmas. I looked at him and smiled despite being the crotchety old curmudgeon I seem to have become, especially at Christmas. In that brief moment I was the saddest, loneliest man on earth. How had I become so insensitive to the mysteries and joy and warmth that come at the coldest, darkest time of the year? I had become Scrooge!
Jack Frost, the joy of Christmas past
Time swirled back fifty-eight years to the first Christmas I can recall. I was three years old. Suddenly that wide-eyed look was mine, from inside. I won’t burden anyone with fruit cake memories but one of the two things that are indelible above all was the incredible intensity of the Christmas season. Maybe it’s because it began then in Mid-December, instead of August like it seems to now, but here I go again being jaded and cynical. The other thing I recall about Christmas was the wonderful smell of it all. Evergreen fragrance, snow, woodsmoke and kitchen aromas, wet wool mittens, wintery thick car exhaust, the hayloft, the livestock and the barnyard were among all those rich and real and delicious aromas. I remember how slowly time dragged by loaded with the weight of anticipation. I compare that infinity to the incredible passing blur of this present year and the one ahead which seems a package already open and partially spent.
Of course we know Christmas is about a lot of things among which is innocent child-like wonder and belief in magic. All year-long my blogs have been, essentially, about the energy to set and achieve goals which grow from sheer faith and willpower. It occurs to me that it is the same thing as Christmas in esoteric, adult terms. Believing in something before you can see it, perhaps even in spite of the negatives thrown at you by other people and events, is what sets humans apart from the other critters. We can dream and we can work toward our ambition. We can also convince ourselves of impossibility and so do nothing. But…“Can’t catch fish if you don’t go fishing.”
Suddenly, as I write, I recall a fellow salesman back in a time when I sold logging equipment. Old Tom was in his late seventies then and absolutely loved every aspect of the logging industry. He was always a tough act to follow. One night, (Remember the spotted owl years?) we were in an Oregon tavern entertaining a group of our clients. Tom regaled them with tales of his early days in the woods. As the evening wore on, one smart ass asked him if he could describe the best sex he’d ever had. Without missing a beat, Tom replied, “Dunno, haven’t had it yet!” Tom’s logger humour reflected his approach to life. Every day was a fresh adventure and he had more plans than he could ever achieve in two lifetimes. He inspired everyone who knew him and probably still does. Setbacks were merely challenges to keep things interesting.
‘En Theos’ is ancient Greek for ‘God within’. (My spell checker suggests “In thermos!”)
So that is what I wish for everyone, “Enthusiasm”. May our new year be filled with it as well as joy, peace, confidence, fulfilment. And this time next year, may we all meet in a palm-fringed anchorage where the water is clear and warm, the beer is clear and cold, laughter fills the air while the best will be yet to come.
Holly Flower
Happy Christmas Everyone.
Christmas Express, a long way from that tropical lagoon
I’m writing at the moment entirely for my own sake. Truth be told, that’s why most writers write but that’s another story. Any creative effort is an affirmation of life and hope. Home is where the boat is and tonight I’m aboard without even my beloved dog for company. It’s dark out and it is cold. It seeps into the boat and into my bones. I wonder if I feel the cold because I’m getting older and arthritic, or if it is a psychological issue and I have a sense of coldness.
Certainly there was a time when cold was nothing to hold me back. I once hitch-hiked around Northern Ontario job-hunting in January. All I owned was in my pocket and in my backpack. That’s the time of year, in that part of the world, when it can warm up to minus forty degrees and then blow a days-long blizzard. I have interesting yarns about that ordeal and how I lived to talk about it. Let’s just say I truly understand being cold, and being hungry, and feeling utterly alone. Thank God for a few kind people.
I was the guy who always tried to prove he was tougher, be it about cold, or heat, or endurance of long hours, moving heavy objects on my own and generally taking unnecessary chances to prove how manly I was. I should have been dead at least ten times before I was twenty-five… that I’m willing to remember. I didn’t expect or want to live into senior years. Others were too wise to attempt similar feats of stupidity and quietly went about managing their lives and their finances so they could enjoy an easier life time in later years. Of course, I finally understand that I was merely demonstrating a monstrous insecurity. I am now suffering physically and financially for all that younger recklessness. That empathy does not relieve the price I continue to pay for those days. Sadly, those who have loved me have had to share my misery. I will always carry a guilt above those whom I have hurt.
I’ve declared at times that I’m not nearly as afraid of dying as I am of not living. To paraphrase some lines from a movie I recently saw, the protagonist said that there’s a place somewhere between living and dying where some folks get stuck and it’s not a happy place to be.
I know what he means. I’ve also said that the greatest distance any sailor can travel is the six inches between one ear and the other. Tonight I wonder if I have actually made that crossing.
Other quotes have to do with how living one day as a lion is better than spending a thousand as a sheep and how the moment is all we have. Keeping your “Pecker up’, as the British say, is the key to surviving but damn! It’s hard some days. Bad attitude brings bad luck which inspires more gloom until one very quickly finds themselves in a deadly spiral.
I know many other people have bouts of melancholy and regret, especially in winter. I wish I could offer magic words which could be an instant anecdote and at least bring contentment during the dark tunnels of life’s journey. All I can say at this point in my life, when I have more years behind me than ahead, that nothing is forever. This gig we call life leaves the station and constantly accelerates toward an inevitable wreck. The journey becomes a blur. Suddenly events of a half-century ago seem like mere weeks past. One day, somewhere, a clerk asks if you qualify for a senior’s discount. Shocked and horrified you go home and spend a long time peering at the wrinkled physog in the mirror. What a dark epiphany!
Then soon, you resolve that time and tide do not wait. You begin to capitalize by asking for senior’s discounts. Sadly no one asks to see ID. You really DO look that old! But, if you don’t like the look of things today, try missing a few. Sadly one absolute realization that comes with getting older is the value of seizing the moment. Friends and acquaintances start to fall ill and die ever more frequently. Time is of the essence.
I’ve spent the last year with my head down doggedly determined that I will realize my dream…..now. I haven’t yet, but things are a lot closer than if I’d done nothing and yet it has never looked bleaker. One wisdom of becoming an older bull is that you understand how often things look the most impossible just before they begin to fall into place. Sometimes you’ve got to stand your ground.
“Could you spare some sugar?”
I don’t need a bucket list; I have the same ambitions now that I have held for the past thirty years. Nothing has changed there. I know I’m missing too many joys of the moment for the hope of delayed gratification. Then I think about the utter waste of abandoning several decades of denial and singular focus. It’s a frustrating balance of perspectives and I wonder if I’ve learned anything.
I had a buddy with whom I learned to fly when we were in our teens. We would regularly try to twist the wings from whatever we were flying, as happy to be inverted as right-side up. Once we returned to the rental base with a two-foot piece of tree-top stuck in the fork of the nose wheel. When I last saw him I was recovering from heart surgery and lamenting about how I’d squandered my life flitting from one adventure to another. He had enjoyed an illustrious career as an airline pilot and had then become a successful businessman. Yet he said he’d trade histories in a minute. It’s the ubiquitous tale of far-away pastures looking greener. He’d had decades of boredom and thought I was the one who’d had all the fun. Go figure!
Winter Harbour
Well I’m now finishing up this blog on the morning of December 1st. Time is going by so fast I’d best confirm what year it is! Work on the boat progresses according to the weather. A set of folding steps is slowly rising toward the masthead. I go up and dangle in my bosun’s chair whenever it is not raining and two or three more steps appear. I’m almost to the spreaders. It’s a job I’ve been avoiding since I bought the boat and once finally done will be the last of the major projects
The interior in the little Cheoy Lee is beginning to take shape and my teardrop trailer will soon be ready for me to head south. So like the thin light and warmth of a winter dawn, the dream burns on. Best wishes and bright dreams to all.
The sun finally rises above Tugboat Island. It will transit a low arc in the Southern sky and disappear below the trees in the Southwest by 15:30. Darkness will return by 16:30. We have sun and a clear, calm sky. The sea is like glass and steams in the cold air.
In the ‘Tao Of Sailing’ by Ray Grigg, there is a description of fog:
“The air silently becoming water,
water silently becoming air.”
Every minute this morning seems especially precious.
The docks are empty and silent. Surfaces glitter with frost. There is clarity everywhere. The chaos of summer gringos in garish clothing and their selfish acrimony seems a distant memory.
Jack Frost
Jack indulges in the plethora of scents borne on the crisp air. Even I can smell a tang of fish and there is a faint perfume of alder smoke. Millions of herring and needle fish dart and flash beneath the docks. Horned grebes dive after them, filling themselves until they can barely fly. Sea lions bark far in the distance. Everything and everyone else have gone south, or are about to leave. I think of friends on their boats much nearer the equator and wonder about their weather this morning. But, I am alone here and I savour the moment.
Remember the ship’s spider
Two nights ago, the darkness seemed eternal. Buffeting rain and vicious wind slammed the boat all night. The rigging moaned and shivered. Jack crushed himself in my arms and shared my sleeplessness. Now I bath in the crisp golden peace of perfection and serenity. For now, there is no other place I’d rather be. The day is mine!
In my last blog I began with a photo of a then-mystery flower. Kate and Laura, two local ladies, each identified it as a passion flower. Thus armed, I was able to research and confirm that and also learn there are around five-hundred varieties of passion flower (Or passiflower) and this particular one originates in the mountains of South America, growing from Venezuela to Chile at altitudes to twelve and thirteen thousand feet. Noted for its beautiful and hardy bloom, indigenous people also use the flower, leaves and stem for various medicinal purposes. The leaves can also be dried and smoked. Cool huh? Interesting where a simple question can lead.
Last of the passion flowersBlackberry blooms in October!
Well, some self-centred arse picked the few blossoms there were. I hope those last rays of summer were needed for a life-saving potion or, as a friend suggested, perhaps some child and their grandparent now has those blooms carefully pressed into a strong lifetime memory. As it turns out, a few days later, higher on the vine, another batch of these amazing flowers burst into bloom to herald our first frost. What else can I say?
It is another affirmation that this old grump needs to go sailing.
Meanwhile my buddy Jim Poirier cleared customs in Ensenada, Baha and headed for La Paz, non-stop. He rounded Cabo San Lucas with plenty of offing after the threat of a late season hurricane. I’ve never set foot there but I’m told Cabo is best avoided as it swarms with gringos on vacation and is an absolute mess. He’s taken the usual beating most cruisers do while clawing up into the Sea Of Cortez. Then his daily spot report showed him with the hook down in the Mogoté off downtown La Paz. He’s e-mailed me since and is settling in for a visit, trying to adjust to all the open hands trying to skim a little more out of his cruising budget. It’s called Mordida, which translates as “The bite.”
My Australian friends, Roger and Ali, whom I wrote about in an earlier blog, were back aboard their beloved Betty Mc for a few days here in the marina after a grand summer adventure in the Arctic. As usual they’ve managed an impressive set of exploits and now possess a more intimate knowledge of the Arctic and its people than the average Canadian will ever care to have. They’ll be back up there in the spring where they have stored their boat in Inuvik. They have plans to join their new friends in a hunting camp. Now back in Australia taking care of business the pair are already in preparation for next year. “Good on ya mates! ”
Waitng on the fog, and waiting
Another pal, Dave Densmore, an Alaska fisherman and fellow Fisher Poet, telephoned me recently a few hours from rounding Cape Flattery. He’s heading south to Astoria, just inside the Columbia Bar. Earlier this year I helped him with the early stages of the purchase of a 53′ Frank Fredette ketch. It’s one of the best-built ferro-cement hulls I’ve seen. The big beauty had to languish here in Canada after the purchase while he and his partner Renee fished the season through in Alaska. Finally they were able to come to their new old boat and get it ready for the trip home to Oregon. Everything was a battle. Engine troubles, plumbing, wiring and stove problems. Blocked toilets, dead circuits, missing items, it seemed a foolish battle. He needed to rig a second helm inside the pilothouse . Then genset wouldn’t run. I took some tools down to Cowichan Bay where the boat was moored and tinkered a day away but like everything else aboard, it wanted to fight. I began to think about calling a priest for an exorcism. The boat had sat for a very long time and, as old Nelson said, “Ships and men rot in port.”
s.v. ‘AQUARIAN’
Dave reported last night that he was very happy. He was at sea and under way. He reiterated that all boats have souls and this one was in a sulk for being abandoned and ignored. “She finally got the idea we were trying to save her,” he explained, “suddenly everything started to light up and work. Soon she’ll be in her new home where she’ll get the loving she deserves.” I’m sitting aboard my boat, refit number bloody eight. I know all too well what he means. Boats do have souls and like rescuing puppies, the initial curve is steep but the payback is usually astonishing and well worthwhile. In the rush to get underway, Dave inadvertently hooked up the plumbing to the inside helm backwards. All the way home that wheel worked in reverse. Lefty Starboard! We’ve agreed it’s a trip which deserves a poem. I’m happy for Dave and Renee.
On the ways in Cowichan Bay
To underscore that anecdote, I learned
Cowichan Bay skyline
yesterday that a former acquaintance, whom I confess that I expected would never go anywhere, has now sailed her small boat ‘Puna’ to San Francisco.
Autumn by the bay
A new blog arrived from my pals Tony
Cow Bay floathome
and Connie about his jaunt up to Bangkok. Yeah, his jaunt. He leaves Connie home alone on their boat ‘Sage,’ currently in Phuket, to re-varnish the interior of the boat. How does he manage that? These two continue to amaze me as proof that couples actually can function successfully on a continuing basis. They’ve been doing this for many years and their last boat, a tiny Vancouver 27, was home for them in the South Pacific for seven years. (See the link to their blog site in the right sidebar.) I live alone with my dog in a 41′ boat and some days this doesn’t feel big enough! Especially with the darkness and cold damp of winter. There again is the key, go south! A regimen of consistent light and warmth of lower latitudes seems to be the prescription. Even my doctor agrees, but…he didn’t offer to help fund my therapy!
Meanwhile I linger on here, now travelling to an adjacent island to help another friend. After a dinghy ride, Jack and I traverse the island in a shortcut through the woods, packing tools and supplies in an effort to get a small house winter-proofed and an old truck running. It’s an amazing and wonderful trek. The weather this fall has been perfect for mushrooms, they’re pushing up everywhere by the millions. I don’t know which are edible and which are not, I suppose the ones the deer have been eating are fine but I don’t relish sampling the after-effects of a toadstool omelette. I’m taking photos only.
Bite me!
It is amazing to see the incredible variety in all shapes,
No, bite me!
sizes and colours. I marvel at how these delicate organisms push their way through cement-hard ground and shoulder aside sticks and moss to expand into their full glory. Soft sunlight ladders down into the fog sifting through the trees. Creatures scuttle or crash off into the undergrowth. Damp rich aromas fill the air and occasionally there is the faint perfume of woodsmoke from some distant chimney.
Pick me, pick me!
In the distance fog horns wail and roar from the marine traffic out in the Strait. We were fog bound for twelve days with only tantalizing glimpses of blue now and then. The fog is only about fifty feet thick and the usual splendid clear October weather is just up there. The autumn paint chores will just have to wait.
Autumn blush
Well now, all this hand-wringing and angst and envy gets no-one anywhere and it’s time to resolve myself to hunkering down for the winter or finding a way to take my little trailer and go south for several weeks. I’m beginning to think that it might do me and those who have to endure me a lot of good to take a sabbatical and refresh my perspectives. Refitting ‘Seafire’ and grubbing for a living seems to have become an ordeal instead of the adventure it should be. There’s a part of me that just wants to get away from all boats for a while and recharge, or “Back up and reload” as a former employer used to say.
A view to the south
I do have one huge piece of gratification. A friend rescued an old Cheoy Lee sloop from behind a woodshed in Oregon and dragged it home to Gabriola. It is called a ‘Frisco Flyer’ and was built in Hong Kong in 1966. It was a time when boat builders were transitioning from wood to fibreglass. The designer was Tord Sundén, the same man who designed the Nordic Folkboat and several subsequent folkboat variations. If there is a single pivotal sailboat design this must be it. There are very many other boats drawn by various naval architects which are, in my opinion, all plagiarized variations of the ubiquitous Folkboat. The Frisco Flyer was a collaboration between Cheoy Lee and Sundén and it is a brilliant boat. Originally available with a hull of teak or fibreglass this boat is one of the latter with lots of teak overlaid on the cabin, inside and out, and on the decks.
Avanti strutting her stuff, Cliff Robb at the helm
Originally I installed a replacement diesel engine in ‘Avanti’ while I worked in the shipyard. The owner works globally and isn’t home a lot. Consequently, the little sloop languished again for a couple of years until I was persuaded to lend a hand as I could.
Well, she’s finally rigged and seaworthy enough to leave the harbour. There’s a ton of work yet to be done, but we had to affirm our labour of love and put her through some sea trials before a winter cover was fitted. What a boat!
Again!
There is an amazing amount of room inside this little 26′ gem and she sails on all points like a witch. The helm is light and responsive and easy to trim. The hull is very tender but the boat stiffens up at about fifteen degrees of heel and zooms off like the thoroughbred she is. She steers herself and tracks beautifully. She is pleasing to the eye from all angles.
It has been pointed out to me that fifty years ago, when this was a state-of-the-art yacht, families would clamber into a boat like this and sail off together to see the world. A VHF radio and electric depth-sounder were ultimate accessories and inboard engines in sailboats were called ‘Auxiliaries’, meant to be used only when manoeuvring in port or in dire circumstances. There were no banks of batteries and electrical equipment to keep fed with electrons. In fact, most auxiliaries were equipped with a hand-cranking handle. Engines were valued in large part by how easily they could be hand-started.
If you were at sea and there was no wind, well…you were on a sailboat and you waited. You travelled at a speed nature intended.
Cruising sailors were self-sufficient, independent and generally disdained following the herd. What a different world we live in now!
I’m not sure it’s a better one but we’re here (Because we’re not all there) and that’s the way it is. Yesterday a winter storm arrived with nightfall. Rain hammered the boat as the wind shrieked and thrummed in the rigging. This morning, as the tide rises, the swell from the open strait reaches into the bay and sets all the boats rolling crazily. Doggy won’t leave his bed.
Somewhere over the southern horizon, far, far away there is a clink of glasses and I can smell lime and tequila. I’m on the scent!
