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Passing Cloud, Food Poisoning and Heavy Rain

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

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

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

Behind the chains. September sunrise at low tide.

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

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

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

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

Green. I believe this is called Lungwort

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Phew!

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

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

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

SOUTH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The cabin from whence my Seafire blogs flow.

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

– L. Francis Herroshoff

Here are the photos I promised in my last blog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Think green. Moss and witches hair on a Spruce limb

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gentle dawn. Labour Day sunrise, Gosling Island

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

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

Götterdämmerung

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coastal rainforest the way it always was

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday evening sees me back in my berth at Shearwater.

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

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

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

Here are a few quotes from comedian Steve Wright:

-“I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

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

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

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

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

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

Ain’t Complaining, Just Explaining

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yep she’s all bluebirds and rainbows folks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bog Trotter Day — Bog Trotter Procrastinators Club Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wishes and fishes — Best Wishes and Big Fishes

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

Ryszard Kapuscinski ‘Travels With Herodotus’

Invisible Rocks And Hard Butter

Westward Ho. Part of a pod of Orcas gorging on salmon. Sure wish I could swim like that! — Westward Ho. Part of a pod of Orcas gorging on salmon.
Sure wish I could swim like that!

If tonight I die in my sleep, it will be as a happy man. Lately nearly everything has been going wrong, and I am not content, but today was wonderful, a respite from other realities. I left immediately after work yesterday afternoon with the intention of sailing around Campbell Island, final homeland of the Heiltsuk. I awoke this morning at my leisure aboard my beloved ‘Seafire’ while anchored miles away from where I work. I eased into the day.

Mysterious, poignant, inspiring, this Heiltsuk pictographs have many possible meanings. I hope it doesn't mean "Honest Henry's good used canoes!" — Mysterious, poignant, inspiring, this Heiltsuk pictographs have many possible meanings. I hope it doesn’t mean “Honest Henry’s good used canoes!”

It is now Saturday night and I am well along my route. I’ve picked my way past submerged rocks invisible to the eye but noted on the chart. I wonder about all the ones not noted but I’m always amazed at how intricately accurate modern navigation charts are. Today, for reasons of tide, the waters were often clogged with huge mats of forest debris. It is all natural, but floating logs are always a hazard to navigation. I’ve seen spectacular new country, found three beautiful Heiltsuk pictographs, spent the afternoon surrounded by a pod of killer whales gorging on salmon and am now anchored in an incredible secluded and peaceful anchorage. A light westerly wind blows at the correct speed and angle to work out four random chords with some fitting on the mast. It warbles and flutes exquisitely. I find it lovely and very relaxing; a zen wind.

On and on, the ripple never ends. Seefire's wake in very calm water. — On and on, the ripple never ends. Seefire’s wake in very calm water.

We're watching you! — We’re watching you!

Polka Dot Rock. Who knows what it means. — Polka Dot Rock.
Who knows what it means.

There is an archipelago of islets at the south end of Campbell island. Once anchored I decided to go exploring with my inflatable tender, as I often do, and soon meandered my way into an infinite maze of convoluted waterways at low tide. JR Tolkien would have loved it. It was very shallow in places, and still ebbing, rapidly, but I picked my way finally back to the west side of the maze where I’d earlier travelled with Seafire. I decided to return by simply circumnavigating the whole group of islets. It was close to sundown and getting cooler. I have a rule about always taking plenty enough clothing, surplus fuel, as well as survival gear, a VHF radio, some food and water and a chart of the immediate area. I did not plan on going far, or for long, and so did not bring the chart and extra gas.

How'd they get up there to paint the pictograph? — How’d they get up there to paint the pictograph?

The fish shack, Soulsby Pt. Campbell Island. I’ve learned that apparently the locals call this the “Seaweed Camp”.

The bay where I’m anchored has an islet bearing the remnants of a native fish camp. There is a fish trap and a cabin as well as the remains of a dock and a few out buildings. It is an idyllic spot, secluded with a narrow rock-studded entrance. It is also easy to miss. I did exactly that. I must have glanced away for a moment and kept on going.

A few miles beyond I realized my mistake. The shoreline is so indented with bays and islets that I zoomed right past the entrance to where ‘Seafire’ is anchored. I was getting mildly hypo-thermic , and realized with a stab of panic that I must also nearly be out of gas. (The outboard motor too!) I knew that I was ill-prepared to spend a night on the beach if the engine did die. Fool! The chagrin about my stupidity was exceeded only by the cold rapidly creeping into my old bones. I would be in for a very unpleasant night if I didn’t make it back to ‘Seafire’.

The fish shack out back. Fish trap at low tide.

Into the labyrinth near low water slack. Yes, I tried it but the dinghy propeller fouled in the kelp — Into the labyrinth near low water slack. Yes, I tried to get through but the dinghy propeller fouled in the kelp

All’s well that ends. I’m back aboard ‘Seafire’ writing this with yet another mug of hot chocolate at hand. I hope to be fully thawed out by morning. My own mantras are ringing in my head about prudent single hand seamanship. I keep wondering how it would be at the moment on some dank dark piece of shore trying to keep a fire going while shivering the night through. There’s no fool like an old fool!

These moments of carelessness so often lead to a debacle which can rapidly assume epic proportions. It is how people disappear, or even die, because of a simple missed turn. And, I should add, I’m no novice at this trekking about business. It even happens to old salts! The sun’s warmth is now beaming through the windows as I write. It is Sunday morning and my core temperature is back where it should be. A hot coffee sits by the laptop and the promise of a fine-weather day lays ahead of me. The butter is hard this morning, a sure sign of summer’s inevitable passing and a promise of what lays ahead. Stan Rogers is playing on the stereo, his profundity and timelessness always uplift me. Sadly, like most of my favourite singers, he’s dead but then, that’s how one becomes immortal. He, at least, was much beloved before his tragic passing.

A gift from Japan. In days past these net floats were blown green glass balls and highly prized by beachcombers.

Last night at midnight I went topside to check the anchor’s set. The sky was black and cloudless. Stars shimmered and burned across the dome of infinity. In the entire Northern quadrant of the sky the Aurora Borealis provided a surreal and spectacular show. A pale green light waned then pulsed and grew brighter again as curtains of radiation danced slowly to a bizarre rhythm. What a way to end a spectacular day. My only regret is that there was no-one along to share it all. Well, maybe not that nearly lost bit. I did sleep well and I’m warm again.

Smell the cedar! A barge load of cedar logs heads south, hopefully to a BC sawmill and not to be loaded on a ship as raw logs. I could smell the cedar aroma from where I took this picture. — Smell the cedar! A barge load of cedar logs heads south, hopefully to a BC sawmill and not to be loaded on a ship as raw logs. I could savour the cedar aroma from where I took this picture.

How I savour mornings such as this! No one knows where I am, I’m indulging in the pleasure of writing and I’m aboard my wonderful old boat in a beautiful anchorage. I’ll soon have to reluctantly head back to Shearwater for another dreary week of greasy bilges and rusted bolts while aching to be out here. That too shall pass. I’ll move on.

A backwoods solution. The fuel lines had no screens inside Seafire's fuel tanks. These pickups are made from generic hardware store items including a stainless steel scrubbing pad. — A backwoods solution.
The fuel lines had no screens inside Seafire’s fuel tanks. These pickups are made from generic hardware store items including a stainless steel scrubbing pad.

Slowly the boat progresses toward readiness for Mexico. I’ve just installed a replacement control head for my auto pilot. It is a used one which arrived from Florida within a week. It performs flawlessly. The old one died a slow death and I haven’t been able to trust it for a long time. Sailing any distance alone, for me, requires a reliable auto pilot and now I’m back with all guns on that deck. The dream is alive.

I'm warnin' ya, I'll peck yer eyes out! A blue heron indignantly defends his bit of dock to the bitter end. — I’m warnin’ ya, I’ll peck yer eyes out! A blue heron indignantly defends his bit of dock to the bitter end.

Before I weighed anchor I went back into the labyrinth with the dinghy. A few hours before high tide, it is safe enough , there is no urgency about being stranded in there…unless the outboard quits. It is as confusing and disorienting as before and I marvel at how the hell I made it out of there on an ebbing tide. Even with the flooding tide there are swirling, narrow tidal rapids, a perfect place to break a propeller on a rock. My curiosity satiated, for the moment, I head for another week at Shearwater.

“There are three sorts of people; those who are alive, those who are dead, and those who are at sea.”

– From an old capstan chanty attributed to Anacharsis, 6^th century BC

“That’s The Way The Pickle Squirts”

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

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

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

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

Looking East onto Seaforth Channel from Fisher Point

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

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

Three hours later they were back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slap Therapy

shearwater morning at the 'Hobo' dock. A fleet of gillnet boats waits for the sockeye opening — Shearwater morning at the ‘Hobo’ dock.
A fleet of gillnet boats waits for the sockeye opening

In a recent conversation with another local, our conversation evolved to discussion about one, of many, aberrant personalities here. These sorts of places attract off-beat characters with a plethora of personal issues. God knows I’m one of them. In places like this if you aren’t a social anomaly at first, you will be should you linger long enough. It’s a survival mechanism. We all tend to assimilate our environment.

The Idol Point Light with Mount Gowlland in the background. (The logged-off hill looks like and elephant's head to me!) — The Idol Point Light with Mount Gowlland in the background. (The logged-off hill looks like an elephant’s head to me!)

In our discussion my co-commiserant said that the fellow in question probably needed some “Slap therapy.” I found his bush eloquence hilarious. That I found amusement in the remark is perhaps a symptom of my own advancing warpage and this morning I feel in need of some of that treatment myself. I’m lonely and depressed after a string of disappointments and shattered hopes. I need to cheer myself up.

Hurry Up and Slow Down. Shearwater road signs. — Hurry Up and Slow Down.
Shearwater road signs.

As I sit writing this, on the settee across from me is a carving I commissioned to a local Heiltsuk artist, Ivan Wilson. He is renowned for his jewelry and has turned out a fabulous piece of art for me from the old yellow cedar root of a few posts ago. (See Fraggle Rock) It will be mounted as the cap on Seafire’s bowsprit, also doubling as a sort of figurehead. I’m thrilled with it. I believe it may bring me a change in luck. There are eagles which roost in the treetops above the boat and just now a piece of eagle down has drifted down into my cockpit. According to local native lore,that has to be a good omen.

The Heiltsuk Harrier. 'Seafire's" new bowsprit cap. — The Heiltsuk Harrier.
‘Seafire’s” new bowsprit cap.

A few kilometres away last week, up Burke Channel, a forest surveyor was attacked by a grizzly bear. The attack is not really the story but rather that this fellow survived with minor injuries. That is a miracle. Not many people live to talk about their encounter with such a force of nature. When a grizzly attacks, it must be like trying to wrestle with a locomotive. I don’t ever want to find out first hand. Apparently, the conservation authorities are now out hunting that bear. Often, the “conservation” people employ extermination when dealing with similar situations and that thought can lead to interesting considerations. We’ll never know how their adventures turns out. The media is never very good at follow-up on yesterday’s hot stories.

Now a week later, we’ve had wonderfully welcome rains and some steaming muggy interludes in between. Thehorseflies reappear each time the thermometer rises. This morning I got my own slap therapy. One of the local service contractors managed to back his work truck into my new satellite dish. Gonzo! Bust! A bent receiver dish with a twisted wire hanging down is all I have to show for my great new link to the rest of the planet. It will be replaced but for now I’ve got no internet once again. The local installer is away for an indefinite period and I’ll have to go back to lurking about in quest of a decent connection and repeatedly attempting to bring up the sites I need .

My new dish. Was it something I was watching?

So, this may be the last blog I’m able to post for a while. I’m posting it from the grubby shop where I work via the local gumboot internet. There was a wonderful response to my last two blogs where photos and captions took the place of prose. Maybe I’m on to something!

Vessels inbound from Seaforth Channel. A high spot along the road.

The stoop. Run ios at the the abandoned BC Packers Cannery, Old Bella Bella — The stoop.
Ruins at the the abandoned BC Packers Cannery, Old Bella Bella

Wake up and smell the bread. Imagine" The aroma of wood smoke and baking bread, steamy kitchen windows, rain beating on the glass, a table set for ten and someone named Hank on the crackling radio. "Yer cheatin' heart...." — Wake up and smell the bread. Imagine: The aroma of wood smoke and baking bread, steamy kitchen windows, rain beating on the glass, a table set for ten and someone named Hank on the crackling radio. “Yer cheatin’ heart….”

Betty Manyberries boarding house. she knew them by numbers, not names! — Betty Manyberrie’s boarding house. She knew them by numbers, not names!

Someone actually paid money for that wallpaper at one time!

Now THAT'S Weird! don't step on it. — Now THAT’S Weird!
Don’t step on it. They could be aliens.

CLOSE THE DOOR! You're letting the flies out. — CLOSE THE DOOR!
You’re letting the flies out.

Lamma Pass and Bella Bella from Old Bella Bella — Lamma Pass from Old Bella Bella

She doesn't live here here anymore. — She doesn’t live here here anymore.

Still her ghost waited in the upper room.

Stairway to the past. I can hear rubber boots in the rasin clomping and squelching down to another long day in the cannery. What stories must lurk in the shadows of Old Bella Bella. — Stairway to the past. I can hear rubber boots in the rain clomping and squelching down to another long day in the cannery. What stories must lurk in the shadows of Old Bella Bella.

What man shall not wither and pass like a lowly blade of grass?

Where are they now? A union sticker on a window in Old Bella Bella.

An open window policy. A final view from old Bella Bella. — An open window policy.
A final view from old Bella Bella.

On the beach...for good. An old wooden boat slowly becoming forest again. — On the beach…for good.
An old wooden boat slowly becoming forest again.

SS Organic. Yet another fishboat gives itself up to the alders. — SS Organic.
Yet another fishboat gives itself up to the alders.

I’ve now walked the full length of all the roads on the island. There must be only eight to ten kilometres in all. The roads are gravel and in fairly good repair. They certainly have their twists and turns around bays and bogs as well as up and down one bloody hill after another. Camera on the ready I trundle along and am constantly amazed at the beauty all around. The roads are rather dreary but there are sudden stunning vistas of the surrounding countryside. Then a visual treasure appears right at your feet. I’m posting some of those photos from the latest jaunt.

WTF? Scotty/ Scotty! you up there? Scotty!! A Fart Parkerson 169 The Look At Me Galactica — WTF? Scotty? Scotty!
You up there? Scotty!!
A Fart Parkerson 169
The ‘Look At Me Galactica’

Here I am. Pist'n Broke and nailed to a telephone pole. — Here I am. Pist’n Broke and nailed to a telephone pole.

Ferry Moment BCFV Nimpkish approaches the Shearwater dock — Ferry Moment
BCFV Nimpkish approaches the Shearwater dock

Meanwhile ‘Seafire’ gently tugs at her lines eager to journey on to new discoveries and adventures. There is so much to see here and then, a few miles beyond, the open ocean calls incessantly. I can hear it from here; clearly.

Cape Swain, open Pacific beyond. — Cape Swain,
open Pacific beyond.

“Land was created to provide a place for boats to visit.” … Brooks Atkinson.

Mysterious Forest

(Click on each photo to enlarge independently )

Where there are trees and wilderness there are eagles. — Where there are trees and true wilderness there are eagles.

In a recent post I considered dedicating one blog entirely to the forest in this region. Here it is.

I am intrigued with the forest that grows here. With thin soil, often bare rock, long months of gloom and darkness, pounding wind and incessant rain it is a harsh life for any living thing. Yet the coastal geography is lush and verdant. These trees have adapted to this climate and cover the steep country with an often impenetrable jungle. They survive endless cold and wet, snow, fog, droughts, insects and the rape of humankind. They live on.

There is mystery in everything here. How can forests grow like this? What is within the thick underbrush? How did the native peoples find sustenance here? What’s around the next point? It all goes on and on. This is where the vast North Pacific Ocean meets the hard edge of a continent that runs eastward for thousands of miles

An ancient one — A sacred elder. In the background, a family of loons practised their lonely calls.

All that beauty as well as the mystery always around the next corner.

These branches catch the wind and rain as it arrives from the open Pacific — These branches are some of the first to catch the wind and rain as it arrives from the open Pacific.

The stone dodo. With a little imagination, this monolith looks like a giant stone bird looking out from the shoreline — The stone dodo. With a little imagination, this monolith looks like a giant stone bird watching outward from the shoreline.

Landfall Walter Islet, near Port Blackney. The forest manages a firm grasp every place possible. This islet is in Port Blackney and is only a few metres from a cove where Captain Vancouver careened his vessel and took on a deck load of spars. — Landfall
Walter Islet, near Port Blackney. The forest manages a firm grasp every place possible.
This islet is only a few hundred metres from a cove where Captain Vancouver careened his vessel and took on a deck-load of spars.

Beneath a Sitka Spruce at the edge of a beach. Hot out there is was cool and lovely in the shade. — Beneath a Sitka Spruce at the edge of a beach.
Hot out there, is was cool and lovely in the shade.

Deep in the forest, a tiny meadow, filled with fragrant ferns was a refuge where deer came to rest and feed. — Deep in the forest, a tiny meadow, filled with fragrant ferns, is a refuge where deer come to rest and feed.

'Seafire' anchored in the distance at the back end of Blair Inlet. — ‘Seafire’ anchored far in the distance at the back end of Blair Inlet.

Battle Bones After a long war with the sea for a bit of border, this cedar died to leave its beautiful bones on display — Battle Bones
After a long war with the sea for a bit of border, this cedar died to leave its beautiful bones on display.

Where a giant fell. This rotting stump is the evidence of the glory of the old-growth forest. The notch is where a springboard was inserted to cut the tree above the hollow base. Then with axe and saw, men worked like termites to bring the monster to the ground. Then the tree would be cut up, by hand, into manageable logs which were winched to the sea where they could be towed away to distant sawmills. — Where a giant fell. This rotting stump is evidence of the glory of the old-growth forest. The notch is where a springboard was inserted to cut the tree above the hollow base. Then with axe and saw, men worked like termites to bring the monster to the ground. Then the tree would be cut up, by hand, into manageable logs which were winched to the sea where they could be towed away to distant sawmills.

No burial here. This log left as economically unviable. Under the moss, the old cedar is still useable and makes excellent shingles. — No burial here. This log was abandoned as economically unviable. Under the moss, the old cedar is still wood is still sound and makes excellent shingles.

In the quiet of the fallen forest, there is a sense of life and a feeling of being watched.

A Troll's Den. Is this a portal to a dark underworld where gremlins and trolls and nasty creatures lurk? — A Troll’s Den.
Is this a portal to a dark underworld where gremlins and trolls and nasty creatures lurk?

Limbs Grotesque Mutant and struggling, new trees try to replace their ancestors — Limbs Grotesque
Mutant and struggling, new trees try to replace their ancestors

Weird Woods. Some nights, under the light of the moon, and with a moaning wind, the trees and creatures with glowing eyes came out to chant and dance. Those who dared to trespass there on nights like that were never seen again — Weird Woods.
Some nights, under the light of the moon, and with a moaning wind, the trees and strange nocturnal creatures with bright eyes swayed and chanted and danced. Those who dared to trespass there in those hours were never seen again.

The rain slowly becoming forest and ocean. The rocks slowly becoming forest and soil. The ocean slowly becoming rain.

Each day the sun rested after infusing its energy into the transformation of the elements of ocean, wind, rain, land and forest. — Each day the sun rested after infusing its energy in the transformation of the elements of ocean, wind, rain, land and forest.

A voice whispered, "Plunge into the sky." — A voice whispered, “Plunge into the sky.”

And so they did, soon finding themselves in a beautiful new world. — And so they did, soon finding themselves emerging into a beautifully different world.

Finally one day, the guardian said, "There are things which must be. I must stay, you must leave." — Finally one day, the guardian said, “There are things which must be. I must stay, you must leave.”

“Cruising has two pleasures. One is to go out in wider waters from a sheltered place. The other is to go into a sheltered place from wider waters.” ……. Howard Bloomfield

Raven Cove

Ahhh! The drought ends. Damn! It feels good. — Ahhh!
The drought ends. Damn! It feels good.

Classical Spanish guitar music plays softy beneath the patter of rain. The oil lantern lends a gentle warmth to the after-dinner ambiance. I sit alone, pleasantly overfull. Now there are some sea-salt chocolate cashews with mint tea for desert as I write. Yes, rain I said! What a blessed thing. I don’t know if this means the mid-coast drought has broken but it truly feels wonderful to be back in the dripping rainforest I’ve know for so many years. Tonight I’m in Raven Cove and tomorrow I’ll fish my way home. Hopefully my virgin fishing rod will bring me luck.

Your love is like a lantern in the night. HUH? Clearly, a life alone has its price. This is the beloved oil lamp in the main cabin of 'Seafire.' — Your love is like a lantern in the night. HUH?
Clearly, a life alone has its price. This is the beloved oil lamp in the main cabin of ‘Seafire.’

Flooding tide, Raven Cove. Time to weigh anchor — Flooding tide, Raven Cove.
Time to weigh anchor

My favourite camera lense has died and so I’m going to let this blog to simply be a photo-filled post with captions. God knows there are plenty on file. So far my time here has been a wonderful and endless photo opportunity. It is very frustrating to feel that one can never quite convey the sense of this incredible area to my readers, but it is certainly a worthy pursuit to continue. Wish you were here.

“Goin’ to the vet? Hope you’re not gonna get get tutored.” Along the walk from the dock to the hospital/clinic in Bella Bella.

The Bella Bella “Cop Shop,” across the street from the little hospital. After a medical appointment I had hours to kill before the pharmacy opened. It was time well spent. I went off to visit the Heiltsuk Cultural Education Center located inside a lovely high school

Along the way, Bella Bella's many ravens marked and announced my progress — Along the way, Bella Bella’s many ravens marked and announced my progress

The following short amateur video illustrates one of many raven calls. I was being severely admonished for coming too close to the berry feast where this character had been gorging himself .

On the way to the principal's office — On the way to the principal’s office

That's easy for you to say! — That’s easy for you to say!

How's this for mixed messages? — How’s this for mixed messages?

Beautiful heat. A gorgeous stove in the Koeye Cafe — Beautiful heat. A gorgeous stove in the Koeye Café

Nobody home. An abandoned beach house in Bella Bella.

“Oie!” said the vicar’s wife.” Look at the pecker on that one!”

Dryad Point Light Station and to the south in Lamma Pass, Bella Bella. — Dryad Point Light Station and Bella Bella to the south in Lamma Pass.

Impressive in clear light, hese Alaska line barges can come out of the fog rapidly and deserve a wide respect. This is how Alaska receives most of its goods. Note the trucks on top of the load. — Impressive in clear light, these Alaska line barges can come out of the fog rapidly and deserve a wide respect. This is how Alaska receives most of its goods. Note the trucks on top of the load.

Some westbound commercial traffic in Seaforth Channel

Canadian Coast Guard Vessel 'Bartlett' delivering supplies to the Ivory Island light station. Note the whaler, or tender, alongside. — Canadian Coast Guard Vessel ‘Bartlett’ delivering supplies to the Ivory Island light station. Note the whaler, or tender, alongside.

Ivory Island Light Station marking the corner of Seaforth Channel and Milbanke Sound. Its light is a reassuring sight on a stormy day heading in from the sound.

Bonsai burial Islet, Blair Inlet, behind Ivory Island

How about a burial islet with a sarcophagus?

The Roaring Islets. Ivory Island. Open ocean beyond, just Haida Gwaii in the distance. — The
Roaring Islets. Ivory Island. Open ocean beyond, just Haida Gwaii in the distance.

I'm watching you! a poor grabshot of an active eagle's nest in Blair Inlet — I’m watching you!
A poor grabshot of an active eagle’s nest in Blair Inlet

Old School. Now a rare sight, this traditional trawler is eastbound out of Milbanke Sound. — Old School. Now a rare sight, this traditional trawler/gillnetter is eastbound out of Milbanke Sound.

'Northern Light' The new BC Ferry northbound fro Prince Rupert — ‘Northern Expedition’ The new BC Ferry northbound fro Prince Rupert

Alaska State Ferry 'Columbia' northbound for Alaska — Alaska State Ferry ‘Columbia’ northbound for Alaska

Ivory Island astern, fishing my way home under sail. Bliss!

Damned fish! My new rod and real are no longer virgins. I had top defrost my little freezer to make room for all that salmon. — Damned fish! My new rod and real are no longer virgins. I had to defrost my little freezer to make room for all that salmon.

Damned good fish! Fisn'n rice, what poor people eat. Bugga! — Damned good fish! Fish ‘n rice, what poor people eat. Bugga!

The pounder. Some folks are built for speed, I'm more for comfort. — The pounder.
Some folks are built for speed, I’m more for comfort.

It never ends, there's always another picture. — It never ends, there’s always another picture.

“ If a man is to be obsessed by something, I suppose a boat is as good as anything, perhaps a bit better than most.” … E.B.White

Defeat Point and Beyond

Western blink Seaforth Channel, Westbound, 9:30 pm. Getting the hell out of Dodge — Western Blink
Seaforth Channel, Westbound, 9:30 pm.
Getting the hell out of Dodge!

The writer's Buzz A heap of horseflies begins to pile up with the first morning coffee — The Writer’s Buzz
A heap of horseflies begins to pile up with the first morning coffee

I’ve killed my first horsefly of the day. That is the only sign of time’s passing here. The damned things only come out once the temperature has risen to a certain point. Everything else is the sort of silence you can hear. If you think that statement is silly then you’re overdue to get the hell of of town for a while. Of course some folks couldn’t survive without a din of some sort to drown out the voices in their head. I feel blessed to be able to savour solitude and quiet. My voices prefer it like that. It is where I write and think best. The notion of going back to work and mechanical problems and other folk’s agendas and impositions leaves me feeling selfish and anti-social. I like it here! I don’t want to leave.

Conjuction Reflection. Look closely. Jupiter and Venus aligned to make one very bright star just after sundown — Conjuction Reflection.
Look closely. Jupiter and Venus aligned to make one very bright star just after sundown

Bambi on the beach, my partner for breakfast

Last post I mentioned the squeeze put on native people and even the ungracious allotment of reserve land. I’ve dug into my archives and pulled out an old photo of the crumbling edifice at Church House between the mouths of Toba and Bute Inlets. I remember the glow of the light that shone over the entrance to the church.

The last I saw of the old church at the Church House Village on Raza Island, 2006

I was happy to see how that symbol of oppression had finally earned an obvious contempt. But, more than once, that feeble glow in the cold winter rain was a beacon which offered a gentle solace while passing in the dark aboard various tugboats. Then the village was abandoned, the lights went out, the church eventually fell down. Now, right down to the border of the tiny piece of reserve land, logging has denuded the forest. The photo says it all.

Respect The borders of the tiny reserve are easy to spot. Treaty? Yeah rightT! — Respect
The borders of the tiny reserve are easy to spot. The village is gone. Treaty? Yeah right!

I’m starting this blog while anchored in Kynumpt Harbour which, more correctly in Heiltsuk pronunciation I’m told is more like Ki-nump. No matter, I’m most content to be here all alone. I stood in the cockpit with the sun warming my body while eating my morning orange and watching a deer ashore leisurely grazing her way along the forest’s edge above the tide line. She nibbled at the flies bothering her and then de-materialized into the brush as if I’d only imagined seeing her. These are moments of feeling an intrinsic part of nature’s mosaic and its wrong that they be so rare. Then the horseflies arrives.

The last rose of Kynumpt ...and just look at the hips on that beauty, rosehips that is. some say that big rose hips are a sign of a long, hard winter ahead. — The last rose of Kynumpt
…and just look at the hips on that beauty, rosehips that is. Some say that big rose hips are a sign of a long, hard winter ahead.

Lunch in a sweaty hat with an infusion of crushed ferns.

One Sheet Hung Low Seafire in Kynumpt Harbour — One Sheet Hung Low
Seafire in Kynumpt Harbour

This harbour clearly houses the site of a former native village and I’ll go exploring ashore in a while. It is located inside a spot named on the chart as Defeat Point. I’ve no idea if that refers to a native battle or some explorer’s navigational flub. I’m beyond it and after yesterday’s debacle the name suits me fine. I worked on the July 1^st holiday and took yesterday off in lieu to attend the local medical clinic and to enjoy a three-day weekend. It was a blistering hot day, by local standards, and the wait in the little Bella Bella hospital seemed interminable. I did certainly meet some very nice people on staff there. Finally I bought some groceries, stowed them away and the fun began. The engine started, but without tachometers and any sign of electrical charging. I tightened the alternator belt, checked the wiring harness, decided to replace parts of it, could find no other problem, and started out again. Kapoof! Within minutes, the engine temperature was out of sight. The belt had broken.

The waters here are very deep and anchoring just anywhere is not an option. The tide was taking me toward a steep rocky shoreline and so with tools and sole plates cluttered about, I sailed with just the jib toward a neck of shallower water. It was slow going but I didn’t want to complicate things with more sails and more lines strewn about in the mess. One of my tricks when in such a situation is to let out a hundred feet of anchor chain so that as the boat approaches shallower water there is an audible alarm of the chain on the bottom as well as having ground tackle already down to catch and keep the boat off the beach. That way, I can go about my repairs without popping up topside to constantly check my drift. And so I bent to my crisis. The new belt had broken and flung itself into the bilge. The engine was crackling hot, the air was crackling hot and so was the attack of the horseflies. They love heat, the smell of engine fumes, and sweaty human bodies, especially ones where the victim has both hands fully engaged. New belt installed, charging system still defunct, engine cooled enough to add coolant, off I go again now worried about having enough reserve battery power to hoist the anchor chain.

Pecking Order. Officers of the watch on snag lookout. — Pecking Order.
Officers of the watch on sundown lookout snag.

Yep, you guessed it, kapoof again! The brand-new belt had jumped a lower pulley and jammed itself against the engine. Now I had to pry that out from the hot, hot, hot engine, swatting at flies and cursing the gods in general. I had one more spare belt, slightly heavier than the previous ones and so much harder to install, but all’s well that ends. Greasy, scalded, fly-bitten, I cursed myself for thinking I was any sort of mechanic, for owning a goddamned boat, and for ever coming to this bug-ridden corner of the godforsaken world. I hobbled back to Shearwater but couldn’t bring myself to go to the dock. I was close to parts and extra tools should I need them, good enough! I anchored , out and began to change more wires and connectors, feeling utterly defeated. All’s well that ends. At 9 pm, permanent repairs complete, greasy, tired but determined, I headed off into the lingering sunset, hoping to put the day behind me. It was a good decision.

I realized my bittersweet luck was that I hadn’t found myself in the same situation on some distant rocky lee shore miles from the hope of parts and help. Once again, self-sufficiency is the mantra of the cruising sailor and yes I’ll have an armload of new belts put into ship’s stores right smartly. Murphy will find something else to dump on me. That thought has me alluding to the incredible ineptitude of many of the yachters passing through Shearwater on their way to and from some distant point on this wild, uninhabited coast. However, that’s one of the reasons Shearwater Marine is here and how I make my living but there’s at least one blog due to be written about the amazing ,inability of people to wipe their own bottom in any sort of imperfect situation. HOW do they survive? Well the sun is rising, there is a growing mound of swatted horseflies at my feet and I’ve just heard the wonderful din of Sandhill cranes which must have just arrived somewhere nearby. More later.

On the fold It seems that everywhere you want to go is on the fold in the chart. Unfortunately, there'll never be a boat in my life with a full-sized chart table. — On the fold
It seems that everywhere you want to go is on the fold in the chart. Unfortunately, there’ll never be a boat in my life with a full-sized chart table.

The clearing proved to be an old native village and more recently, a logging camp, with old machinery bits on the beach, cherry trees growing in the middle of what was a large clearing. I’m also told that this was once the site of a Nordic pioneer settlement. The mystery is sweet. The ugly evidence of old-style logging (Hand saw and axe) lingers on the hill behind. The self- regenerated forest is very eerie. I may post a blog of those photos alone. On the way back to the beach I picked a hatful of succulent berries on the edge of an old clearing. They were delicious and I savoured them in the heat of the day as well as the cool aroma of crushed ferns under my feet. Now I’m in a place Called Blair Inlet and that too may well deserve a blog for itself. I’m now well beyond Defeat Point and as happy as an old clam can be.

Now it is Sunday morning and the air warms as the tide ebbs. The colours are surreal. My photos cannot capture the glacial-like topaz of the water, the source of its colour is an absolute mystery. The trees add their greens, the sky its blue. The thick ancient forest, as usual, appears dead and deserted but little birds twitter and eagles watch silently. You know a deer or a bear or wolf can appear anywhere at any time. Instinctively one begins to move quietly and cautiously with the hope of a glimpse of wildlife. There is always a sense of being watched. I’ve tried, unsatisfactorily, to photograph a massive eagle’s nest, currently in use. The inhabitants watch over me as I write. I am utterly and wonderfully alone. There is no sight or sound of any other people having been here. No drone of motors on the water or in the air, no contrails, no logging. Just a view of the jungle and ocean the way it has been for a very long time.

Well except for the horseflies. They rise early in the morning and ply their trade of absolute fiendish anarchy throughout the heat of the day. Thankfully they vanish in the early evening. Trying to nap when they are about is impossible. They employ strategies. Sometimes they come alone and attach silently. Other times they have a sonorous buzz. While one distracts you others attack from behind. The only way to kill them is to wait until they settle and lock themselves into a painful bite. Then, if you are quick, you can smack them and feel the satisfying crunch-squish of vengeance. They still seem able to revive if you are not willing to smear them into eternity. They could be called Lazarus flies. Eventually as the day wears on, one is harried to a manic mindless slapping, even at imagined flies. Perhaps they are disenfranchised souls and in their frantic efforts to reproduce, death in battle is an honourable way to achieve a new level in the next life. There’s the name! Isis flies!

Beating out of Seaforth Channel against a warm Westerly breeze

This inlet is dotted with many small islets. I suspect they may well have been burial islets. I sense no presence, only a languorous peace. The spirits are content and so they should be. I took a long tour about the area in the dinghy last even until I was off the chart. There is an infinity of inlets, islands, coves, nooks, reefs and bays. In all the miles I meandered, I found two boats anchored in a cove about an hour from here. It’s not an area where I’d want to break down but the overwhelming beauty, and magical light draw you on and on in awe.

I’ll be back.

A little to the left! The hilarity of trying to catch a decent selfie. — A little to the left!
The hilarity of trying to catch a decent selfie.

Everywhere there is an ominous faint smell in the air of woodsmoke from distant forest fires and yesterday’s evening sky held a red tinge. In this present drought the threat of fire is all too real and one can only only pray for rain. (Even bottled water in the stores has become a sold-out commodity.) In Shearwater the crew has checked out the fire trucks in preparedness. My heart tightens at the memories of fighting forest fires. There is nothing pleasant or romantic about any of it. CBC Radio is all we can get here and they have an incessant barrage of reports about the forest fire situation across Western Canada. It seems we are burning up this summer and the drought shows no sign of breaking.

It was released. to catch a cod like this, you have to be trolling too close to the bottom. — It was released.
To catch a cod like this, you have to be trolling too close to the bottom.

were two mornings this past week when it was cool and foggy. It was amazing how suddenly cheery folks were. The doomer-gloomers have it that this is a sure sign of global warming and we must to change our ways. While we do have to try much harder to be better guests on this planet, the cycles of nature are far beyond our control. There have been years like this before. Meanwhile, it’s swat and sweat while we look forward to the return of steady rain and fog.Then, some of us will be anxious to go south and find the sun again.

It was eaten. Just enough for one meal, gear stowed and homeward bound. I don't believe the regultions should allow you to keep more than one fish per day. How much can you eat? — It was eaten. Just enough for one meal, gear stowed and homeward bound. I don’t believe the regulations should allow you to keep more than one fish per day. How much can you eat?

I’ve finally be able to get a satellite dish installed so now I have reliable, useable internet which allows me to work as a writer who can now reliability send and receive necessary data. I know, I know, I’m always going on about minimizing our needs and about dependance on external sources. Unfortunately I need to stay in touch with the rest of the world and its frenetic modern pace. While shutting out the rest of the world entirely is appealing, to have a hope of working as a writer, doing research and sending data, I must have a reliable cyber-link. I’ll also confess that having a good movie to watch on exhausted lonely evenings is a fine luxury. And, winter is coming. Already he long lingering light of late evening is noticeably shorter. It was pitch dark by 10:30. Soon enough, nightfall will occur before the work day ends. Movies or not, it’ll be due south

The hairy monster. Someone's old dock becomes someone else's new dock. Time for a change of bio-mass. — The hairy monster. Someone’s old dock becomes someone else’s new dock. Time for a change of bio-mass.

The days have passed in an ugly blur. It has been a week since I began this blog and the weather has been hot and bug-ridden. People have been short-tempered and ill at ease. Work has been a daily drudgery tramping up and down the dock for more tools to look after demanding customers. Oddly, many issues this week have been overheating engines. One small job was to check out a motor in a lovely Kelly Peterson 44′ center cockpit cutter. It was a gorgeous, solid, capable vessel crewed by three women. They have sailed her from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Mexico and then on to these waters to produce an overview of British Columbia’s Marine Parks. Nova Scotia, apparently, does not have a similar program and these women are working to inspire a change to that. Having once worked very long and hard to help save one marine park in BC, I wish this trio a grand success. This is nothing finer than a voyage which is also a mission.

This afternoon the skies have clouded and the temperature has dropped from the mid-thirties to, at present, nineteen degrees. It feels positively nippy. It is a testament to the nature of life on the mid-coast of BC, that the overcast has cheered everyone up immensely. It might even rain soon. YES!

The nail. The get home fix. A year later. — Good enough! The nail. An essential marine steering component.
The get home fix a year later.

Low tide on the Hooterville dock. That's Seafire on the end, poised for flight. — Low tide on the Hooterville dock. That’s Seafire on the end, poised for flight.

“ The perfection of a yacht’s beauty is that nothing should be there only for beauty’s sake.” …. John MacGregor.