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OLD FOOL

(The Bastards!)

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Coo, Coo KaHappy New Year! A shot from my Upcoast archives.

There’s no fool like an old fool. Sadly, that weary old axiom is as true as ever. Yesterday, in the middle of a busy morning my computer went KABLOOWEY KERPLUNK. The Screen was suddenly frozen, white with a broad red band across it. There was no way to escape (At least so far as I knew.) A bold message read that Microsoft had detected an insidious virus and had frozen my computer to prevent further damage. A toll-free phone number was provided for me to contact immediately. There’s no-one as gullible as someone in deep panic. I was on my way to an important meeting and the timing of this cyber trap completely blew my cool.

A friend and a view. May you have a higher view on the world.

A man with a thick Asian accent answered my call through a very bad connection and the fun began. I should have caught on immediately. For half an hour I was switched up the line to yet another supervisor, with difficult accents, and then another who soon had control of my desk-top. An alien curser began dancing across my screen at their will and reams of data scrolled on and on. I was told that my IP address was severely hacked, all my personal data was now in the hands of these bad guys and with such a high-end computer, now drastically infected, I had huge problems. Eventually prices in the hundreds of dollars began appearing on the screen. I finally began to smell fish. I was warned of dire consequences if I switched off the computer and/or took it to any computer repair facility. At this point I became the next curser, and a loud one at that. Bastards! Looking back I knew that Microsoft simply does not operate in such a way. Hello! Hello!

Alluring! A shiny spoon and some line tell of a disappointing afternoon one day last summer.

On winter’s pond. Incredibly a few late spawning salmon rose and broke the tranquility.
I could not catch one with my camera.

Gotcha! At a tiny stream mouth a flash of red betrays a late spawning salmon.

Originally assured that there were no fees for this online repair, the story evolved. Now the scam was that my IP address was in the hands of nasty hackers and hopelessly irretrievable. The only way I could ever use my computer again was to buy a license for a new IP address. This is yet another version of my ongoing theme about the profit of paranoia. Scare the crap out of folks and you’ll be able to steer them in any direction you want. That ageless persuasion continues to work very well for the church and for politicians. That, and greed. I was once selling a boat for a friend when a nasty Nigerian scammer tried to pull my chain. That’s another story. I should have known better this time. I’ve already skipped through the big scam about Revenue Canada threatening me with imprisonment. I’d been warned. Now this! So you too stay alert.

Winter rush.
It is the time of year when there is water running everywhere.

Suddenly I could see that I was being had and knew I’d soon be asked for credit card information. Finally I hung up and headed for my neighbourhood computer guru where I was met with a quiet smile. Yep, just another old fish who had bitten the dancing lure. Fortunately I spat the hook. All is well that ends. My chagrin has not. These dudes were utterly convincing and part of my fury was at myself for being swept through some very obvious signs, in retrospect, that I was being had. Almost duped I felt like an absolute stupid ass. Here’s what you do if you find yourself in the same pickle. Shut it down and go to your computer repair man. They’ll remove any nasty thing that was installed… by the hackers. Those were the guys who installed the problem. I’ve also been shown how to unfreeze my screen should the same thing ever happen again. Bastards!

Flatrock beach.
Sandstone makes for some fantastic rock formations in our part of the world. High tide with a rising westerly wind puts the picnic notion out of mind. My Corona umbrella would blow away!

A winter view across the Strait Of Georgia. Northwest winds clear the air and sometimes produce a prismatic effect. These mountains on mainland Canada are almost forty miles away.
Feel the Brrrr!

The rest of the story is that I was heading off to an appointment to look at a vehicle. A very good friend was having dinner with another of his amigos and learned that their old camper van was for sale at a very, very reasonable price. He e-mailed me immediately. Now I’m flat-assed broke for the moment but many of my pals have noted how badly I’ve been faring with winter and other problems which are rapidly becoming a great dungball of darkness. One of those friends has graciously loaned me the means to acquire the van and go south for a while. So, there will be some interesting blogs as I travel down the cactus trail to old Mexico. Meanwhile the rain hammers down as usual. There was a time when the sound of rain on the roof was soothing and peaceful. Now, it is an irritating white noise. That’s a bad sign in itself. Yesterday, I had to walk several blocks in the downpour when I could hear a red-winged blackbird singing. That is one of the first joyous sounds of spring. Instantly uplifted, the singer soon proved to be a starling, one of the great mimics. I’ve actually heard a starling perform a perfect eagle song. I spotted the little bugger singing his head off after I had looked all over the sky for a big baldy. That seemed quite funny at the time. Now it just depressed me a little more. Is everyone up to some sick trick? Bastards!

You never know what you might find in old barns and sheds. A friend spotted this aging camper van while visiting another friend. Room to stand up and to lay down, what more do you need? Like me, it’s rough on the outside but has a heart of gold. Hopefully I’ll be seeing cacti and palm trees through that windshield sometime this month.

The rest of the story is that my benevolent friend wants to buy a sailboat in Mexico which he will leave there to use during the winter months. He wants this old salt to watch his back and offer a second perspective and any other relevant assistance. So we’ll call this a bus-man’s holiday. Of course cameras, both still and video, will be whirring all the while and evenings will be spent working at the computer keeping everything sorted out and recorded. Spring arrives in the Sonora Desert next month and the flowers are profuse and fantastic. There will be blogs.

Meanwhile I have a plethora of woes to sort out on the new old van. It has sat unused for years and as old Lord Nelson said “Ships and men rot in port.” The vehicle was stored under a roof and as soon as it was moved out into the pouring rain, windows began to leak. I turned on the pressure water system, the plumbing leaked badly. Electrical systems need attention. The rig needs a full service, including brakes and steering. I’ll have some busy days ahead.

The shape of boats.
I added an abstract touch to enhance the “Peaceful, easy” feeling of this bay. This is my minimal obligatory nautical image required in each blog. Another song says “Dream on.”

“Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it.”

… André Gide

The Run Is Done

Lord steamin’ lychgate!
The morning sun vapourizes last night’s heavy dew.

There is a tang in the air. The funk of fishy decay is inescapable. Dogs quiver and lose their hearing as they charge off to find their own dead salmon to roll in. There may be spawning runs as late as January but for the moment, the banks and bottoms of our local streams are littered with the corpses of dead salmon from the most recent event. The last few stragglers laconically swim against the current. Eagles and gulls sit along the river edge looking sated and sluggish. There is bear scat along stream-side trails and some diligence is due because Jack, in all his dogliness, might be inclined to try and impose indignities at any bruins he may come across. He’ll brook no large intruders to his private world. With diminished hearing, his realm can be very private. His elderly sophistication may well have had him rise above the old indulgence of perfuming himself by rolling on a rotten fish but today he ran ahead out of sight. My angst about him returning embalmed with “Eau de Poison Parti” came from past experience. No perfuming but I found him belly-deep in the water of a local river snacking on a decaying delicacy. He is, after all, only being a dog. In consideration of some of the noxious things humans eat; well, at least dead fish are organic. Just don’t try licking my face.

Autumn corn field. As the soil becomes saturated with rain, very large puddles will form. Flocks of wild swans will arrive to winter while feeding on the roots and insects in the mud.

Limber up! A beautiful climbing tree. I can still see the world through a boy’s eyes.

Welcome to de swamp! What a rich habitat for waterfowl of all sorts as well as deer and other wild creatures.

The lower fields. These former hay meadows immediately adjoin the Chemainus River’s mouth and fabulous estuary. There is a labyrinth of twisting channels and gravel bars, pools and islets. Seals, otters, fish, birds, insects and reptiles live in this wonder world.

This week I discovered a grand place to walk with my cameras. It is heaven for Jack. We’ve been back twice already. Only a few minutes from home, the estuary of the Chemainus River was once the site of a large sprawling farm acquired by the company which built the huge, and often foul pulp mill at Crofton. It has returned to nature in a grand way. The blackberries have invaded many of the fields which lie among the swamps and backwaters of the broad river mouth. A delightful place, you’ll find me there often in the future. It takes little imagination to see native villages here long before the white invaders arrived. The name Chemainus has a first nations origin which I’ve decided to finally quit pondering.

This comes from Wikipedia: “The name Chemainus comes from the native shaman and prophet “Tsa-meeun-is” meaning broken chest. Legend says that the man survived a massive wound in his chest to become a powerful chief. His people took his name to identify their community, the Stz’uminus First Nation, formerly the Chemainus Indian Band.”

The Blackberry Factory. With all the acres of wild berries, it could well be the source of wine, jam and other delights. Actually it is a pulp and paper mill, producing a horrific stench at times, referred to by some as the “smell of money.” I’ve long used the plumes of effluent as a weather beacon showing strength and direction of the Vancouver Island wind while sailing across the Strait Of Georgia from mainland Canada.

G’mornin! In the morning sun a fungus breaks up through the ground. How things so delicate can displace hardened earth and stones is amazing.

You are being watched. Bald eagles blend into the forest while they preen in the sun and wait for a meal to pass by.

Jack keeps an eye on his patch. A seal had shown itself a few minutes earlier. This is a final bend in the river before it floods out into a broad estuary.

Considering that I survived a serious chest trauma and subsequent major heart surgery I am now wondering if “Tsa-meeun-is” should become my new name. You’ve got to admit there is a certain ring to it; “Chemainus Fred.” What really intrigues me is that, for thirty years, I’ve been driving by the inconspicuous road which provides access to the trails and meadows of this fantastic eco-sanctuary. Go figure! I am the guy who is constantly harping on about seeing what you look at. A fellow whom I met there today claimed that he has lived as an immediate neighbour to this sprawling old farm and had only just discovered the access after twenty-one years. So, I don’t feel quite so chagrined. In any case the massive acreage was once Swallowfield Farm. It seems a shame that after all the industry of clearing this rich bottomland that it no longer produces food and instead sponges effluent from the looming mill.

You and me, some wine and cheese and fresh bread and a dry patch of grass. Yeah right! It’s November dude!

But it is always a joy and wonder to find a treasure that has been so close. I have noted numerous survey stakes in several places and and desperately hope that the word “development” is nowhere in the future of this piece of heaven.There is a life lesson in that and I remember a TV clergyman named Robert Schuller often saying, “Bloom where you’re planted.” Yep, you’ve got to see what you look at. I keep saying that.

November slides on toward winter. Veterans Day has passed. Thank you all for your kind remarks about my YouTube film ‘Swoop.’ I am clearly not the only one who questions what it is we choose to think of on Remembrance Day. A viscous heavy rain hammers down for increasingly longer intervals. Soon it will persist endlessly for days and nights at a time. The bright leaves have been beaten off the trees and now lay on the ground as a dull, slimy carpet. The temperature hovers just above freezing, providing a penetrating, bone-chilling dampness. It will seem warmer when the temperature drops and the humidity is frozen out of the air. Friends are migrating south. I wonder how to deal with the long, dark, bleak cold winter ahead. My only hope is to stay busy and find cheer within each long hour ahead.

For some odd reason, I, who loves being at sea out of sight of land, also have a passion for the intricacies and entanglements of swamp land. Bog Trotter!

“It is more beautiful to hear a string that snaps than never to draw a bow,” is a line from a book titled “The Little Old Lady Who Broke All The Rules,” by Catharina Ingelman-Sundberg. The novel is about a small group of geriatrics in a Swedish care home who decide their existence is so miserable that they can only improve things by turning to a life of crime. They reason the worst that can happen is to end up in prison which, they decide, may be a fate better than the one they endure. There are many of us who can relate. I have planned, schemed and worked for years with the intention that by now I’d have ‘Seafire’ somewhere in a Southern Latitude. Palm trees, tepid water to swim in, a simple warm life with a lower cost of living and, the fantasy goes, sustained by my writing and photography. That dream was my entire focus, to the exclusion of other pleasures and satisfactions. I deferred the joy of the moment for a dream. It has not worked out; yet. Although the vision still flickers on, there are waves of hopelessness. Thank God I have my creative endeavours and a sense of humour. I reluctantly mention this, not as a lament, but only as an affirmation to the millions of others at my age who are in a similar situation enduring a despair which is deep and very dark. You are not alone, small comfort that may be. I have been actively searching for employment but no-one seems inclined to hire a man with a lifetime of skills and experience which younger workers could learn. The damnedest thing is, despite health issues, I am still vital and don’t feel at all a senior. There is a lot we old farts can contribute.

Reluctantly we turn up the shining path and stroll back to another reality.

How a culture treats its young and its seniors is a pulse-taking of its general health. And, we’re sick! Both the old and the young are the future of a society. The young have the energy and the elderly have the life-lessons to pass on and utilize that power efficiently. That is how the human race thrived for millennia. Now we’ve replaced ourselves with gadgets of our own making. Artificial intelligence is here. Stupidity is as prevalent as ever.

Berry Lane,… there’s a song in this. Imagine all the creatures living within the shelter of these vast beds of brambles. They are acres of them.

Life is certainly not fair regardless of whatever expectations one clings to. My misadventures began with a simple fall of a mere three feet! Bang! That instantly began an ongoing struggle with health and financial issues. Throw in a genetic disposition for chronic depression. That I have endured like this for nearly twenty years has to be some sort achievement of positive thinking. It is painful to feel like an outcast within a system to which you, in your productive years, contributed millions directly and otherwise. And it can always be worse. I could be a geezer in some place like Yemen or Syria or, God forbid, Toronto, New York or …well,the world has a lot of armpits!

Find the deer. They’re in there somewhere.

My good friend Jack. He waits patiently while I yarn it up with other dog walkers. All the photos in this blog, to this one, were taken on today’s wander. Wot a day!

I am thankful that I live in such a wonderful place, but it is frustrating to end up like this while all around me I see folks with assets and wealth they don’t know what to do with. They certainly have not earned them, either by working hard, or smart. It’s the luck of the draw and for those of you who have achieved comfort and apparent security, know that it can also all come tumbling down with amazing speed. It is all temporary. All that stuff that you think you own; well folks, actually it owns you. I also know that all the shininess which I catch myself coveting at times, is, in our culture, mostly financed. Folks with no debt are rare and …truly wealthy. It just doesn’t seem right but that’s the way the pickle squirts! However, one of the joys of aging is to know that nothing is forever. “This too shall pass.”And, I muse, there may soon come a time when aged wizards who can sweat and bleed and dig in the dirt to produce food, and who can interpret the lines of tiny symbols in paper books will be highly revered mystics. I won’t feel redundant any more.

How sweet it will be when things finally get better. And, they will!

This is one of my signature photos; taken one fine day, many years ago while sailing close-hauled on the original ‘Seafire.’

“The Flat Earth Society has members all around the globe.” … anonymous

Iwannasayphukit

"Must've been something in the eggnog!" — “Must’ve been something in the eggnog!”

It took me a while. I’ve been threatening to delete my account almost since I opened it. Told that I can’t succeed as a writer without a Facebook account I’ve decided to rename it Assbook. I DO NOT have over seventeen hundred friends and it is hard to believe there are more thronging to have me on their page. I’m weary of checking my e-mail to discover that someone else has determined I need to review images of their neighbour’s grandchild eating cake. Or their dog wearing a dress. C’mon! Sadly, there are several friends and relatives with whom I lose my link but the internet and cell service up here in the backwoods is too sketchy to wrestle with something which has proven to be more nuisance than benefit.

Winter solstice moon. Bitter cold, extreme tides, wolves howling. — Winter solstice moon.
Bitter cold, extreme tides, wolves howling.

Same moon, same night. A few miles down the beach. Photo downloaded from the La Manzanilla online bulletin board. Mexico on my mind. — Same moon, same night.
A few miles down the beach.
Photo downloaded from the La Manzanilla online bulletin board.
Mexico on my mind.

I became completely disillusioned when I tried to unsubscribe. It was a fight. Clearly Facebook does not want anyone closing an account. It is difficult to even find a Facebook has grudgingly conceded control. The account is deactivated for a couple of weeks until it is finally deleted. That ordeal confirmed, to me, I was doing the correct thing. I’ve learned there is a large group of frustrated former Facebook subscribers who hold similar concerns and also don’t want their personal information filed away in perpetuity. Trying to unsubscribe from Facebook has confirmed that I was doing the right thing.

It was extremely difficult. Is there life without Facebook? It feels better already.

"Not a word! I don't believe one damned word." — “Not a word! I don’t believe one damned word.”

I’ll readily admit I hold some “Big Brother” conspiracy paranoia. The masses seem mesmerized by the weaving tentacles of social media. There are insidious aspects of giving up information and control to some faceless force. Whether in Vancouver or Shearwater folks can’t seem to move without texting, texting, texting. Anything that can insidiously persuade masses of people to enslave themselves in common mindless activities frightens the hell out of me. I refuse to say “baa” and I challenge everyone to ask questions.

It is Christmas time. We’ve had a long bout of sub-zero temperatures. Ice and frozen snow cover our world, including the ramp down onto my dock. At low tide it is very steep and too dangerous to use with its slick crust of ice. We’ve had extreme tides in the last few days with a range of up to nearly eighteen feet. For a couple of days it seemed the ramps were inclined upwards at high tide. We were very close to being inundated. Thank the gods there was no wind. In a few more days, our daylight begins to increase in minute amounts. We won’t notice for several weeks.

WHOOSH! The ramp at mid-tide. As seen from the cockpit of 'Seafire.' — WHOOSH!
The ramp at mid-tide.
As seen from the cockpit of ‘Seafire.’

On frozen pond. a deep freeze in the bog. — On frozen pond. A deep freeze in the bog.

My obtuse humour is ever-present. A few days ago, while bent to my work I came up with the name of an ancient village. I’ve already invented a community named Klem-Three which is a few miles up the coast from Klemtu. Now I’ve decided that Shearwater is sitting on an ancient site once named Iwannasayphukit. I don’t know what brought on its demise, but there’s still a feeling about the place. Everyone leaves. At this time of year, the name makes perfect sense.

What's Christmas without children? This is the local elementary school Christmas play, "The Elves And The Shoemaker." The school has an enrolment of nine. — What’s Christmas without children? This is the local elementary school Christmas play, “The Elves And The Shoemaker.” The school has an enrolment of nine.

I wish everyone a wonderful Christmas however you celebrate it. May all have someone to love, something to do, and something to look forward to. And…BUMHUG!

A Seafire Christmas Best wishes for all. — A Seafire Christmas
Best wishes for all. (I’ll replant the tree in a few days)

“ The main reason Santa is so jolly is that he knows where all the bad girls live.”

… George Carlin

"Thas' better. Happy New Year and keep yer pecker up." — “Thas’ better. Happy New Year and keep yer pecker up.”

A Scent Of Apples And One Lucky Duck

The Bomber CF-YVR Some lovely, funny sculpture hanging in Vancouver's South Terminal — The Bomber CF-YVR
Some lovely, funny sculpture hanging in Vancouver’s South Terminal

The driving rain is relentless, cold and stinging. The Shearwater winter weather, where you can wring water from any handful of air, has followed me all the way here to Ladysmith. I’ve come south for a few days to take care of business and medical appointments. It also turns out that my beloved dog Jack needs some surgical attention at the veterinary clinic. I’m anxious about that, as if he were my own child. If you don’t understand the affection and healing that can occur between a person and a dog; well, you have my sympathy.

Jack in the Woods, A happy morning after three month apart...Bliss! — Jack in the Woods,
A happy morning after three months apart…Bliss!

So here I am standing in the rain, worrying about Jack when I’m overwhelmed by the aroma of ripe, red succulent apples. I follow my nose. It turns out to be a bin of apples in front of a feed and garden shop across the street. I am amazed to be able to smell the fruit so far away and suddenly understand how it is being a creature like a deer or a bear near an apple tree. Perhaps my acute sense is due to being in the Northwoods for so long but as always, the sense of smell is a great memory stimulant and suddenly I am taken back to my childhood. For a while my father worked as an orchard keeper and we lived in cottages at the edge of. orchards. The aroma of that single apple bin brought install recall from over half a century ago. There is also a sweet tang of smoke from my mother’s wood cookstove and that leads to memories of another little black dog so long ago. I’m suddenly blinking back tears and shake myself free of the moment, all brought on by the scent of apples. Bloody hell, have I gone round the twist?

Unhappiness is. One very unhappy dog on the day of his surgery. Two days later he had the funnel and his bandages off. — Unhappiness is.
One very unhappy dog on the day of his surgery. Two days later he had managed to remove the funnel and his bandages.

There are months of this bleak weather ahead and I wonder how I will survive it. The boat is over three hundred miles north and I’ll say that, for me, home is where the boat is. I’ll be back there in a few days but it seems very far away and I desperately wish the boat and I were somewhere far south. I see all the consumer convenience and gratification here, and yet despite the incredible pervasive dampness on the North Coast I miss the solitude and natural richness such as the humpback whale that swam by the docks a few days ago, with the howling of wolves in the background. That was a moment which will last a lifetime. I can concede that my aching bones feel much better down here, even when it is raining. I do find it fascinating that things I would normally take for granted, like the colours of autumn leaves, a near-infinite diversity of shopping, restaurants and stores with profuse inventories of food for sale, all of that leaves me slightly overwhelmed. I do not miss the frantic rush of nearly everyone, the sound of sirens and at the moment, the tsunami of Christmas marketing. Give it a rest! Bloody hell! Bumhug!

I wonder how I’ll feel about it all once back in Shearwater.

November roses at the corner of Seemore and Do-less. Actually it's the mainstreet of downtown Ladysmith. — November roses at the corner of Seemore and
Do-less. Actually it’s part of the main street in downtown Ladysmith.

Robert's Street Pizza. Almost world-famous, folks come from miles around for the succulent fare. — Robert’s Street Pizza.
Almost world-famous, folks come here from miles around for the succulent fare.

The highlight of this Southern jaunt was attending a performance by my hero, Billy Connolly. A Glaswegian musician, comedian, actor and philosopher (in my opinion) he is world-renowned. Now in his mid-seventies, he has various health issues yet stood his gig on stage, non-stop, for nearly two hours. The entire sold-out audience was doubled over with laughter at his apparently impromptu ramblings. I suspect it’s the only chance I’ll ever have to see him live. If you’re not familiar with this brilliant character, there is a lot of his material available simply by googling up his name. You’ll love him or hate him.

In the dark room beneath the street Where in came sounds of laughing children And Tramping feet There lived a little boy Who knew no light or joy He possessed not even one small toy. — In the dark room beneath the street
Where in came sounds of laughing children
And tramping feet
There lived a little boy
Who knew no light or joy
He possessed not even one small toy.

Time passed As the boy grew The window slowly sank Until as a man Hew was the foundation of the local bank. — Time passed.
The boy grew
As the window slowly sank
Until as a man
He became the foundation of the local bank.

Ladysmith, where everyone has one leg longer than the other.

At the Duncan Farmer's Market, all seasons, rain or shine. I can't explain how good fresh produce looks to a guy from Shearwater who's groceries come bi-monthly by barge — At the Duncan Farmer’s Market, every Saturday, all seasons, rain or shine.
I can’t explain how good fresh produce looks to a guy from Shearwater who’s groceries come bi-monthly by barge

It ain't Mexico but it's bloody good...especially on a cold, rainy day — It ain’t Mexico but it’s bloody good…especially on a cold, rainy day

The Duncan Farmer's Masrket — The Duncan Farmer’s Market

Somewhere there goes a naked clown. A clever use for outgrown children's clothing. — Somewhere there goes a naked clown. A clever use for outgrown children’s clothing.

Town Hall, on one side of the Duncan market square

Maple treasures for a guy from the land of monotonous conifers

A Cowichan Acknowledgement as a fountain beside the Duncan town hall.

I’ll be returning to Shearwater tomorrow. That will on be Remembrance Day. I’ve previously expressed my polemic views on the incredible stupidity of the military and the mindless waste of war and how all enemies think God is on their side. I’ve offended some people deeply and inspired others to look at the whole picture and think for themselves. I hope that this day is taken as an opportunity to see ourselves as the potentially naturally nasty creatures we all are and what a concerted effort it is necessary to avoid violent conflict. I know I’m a dreamer but I believe it Is possible for us to become creatures of a higher level. That is a personal and individual endeavour, which requires massive introspection and sometimes painful growth and I’ve said enough. Just imagine if everyone stayed home and cleaned up the mess in their own yards. What a wonderful world it could be!

I’ve stood stiffly at attention in a military uniform in the cold, cold November rain and wept as the Last Post was played but now the most poignant sound for me is the 1942 BBC recording called Nightingales And Bombers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_MHqW5KVds

This is a spring recording made in the woods of Southern England. The objective was to record the spring songs of nightingales but as the tape reels turned, squadrons of RAF bombers were climbing overhead on a bombing raid to Germany. It is the sound of sweet peace juxtaposed against the ominous thunder of young men going to kill and be killed. If the recording doesn’t shiver your timbers, I truly hope you have no sons or daughters to send to war. Have a very nice day.

Something really odd occurred today. I’ve been trying to search my inner self for answers to some personal issues and have been sceptically looking for a sign. Well today I think I got it and I’m not sure what the hell it means. Jack and I were having a morning walk along the banks of the Nanaimo River before I went to my final round of appointments. There was a sudden raucous sound ahead and then veering directly toward me, about twenty feet high, was a large bald eagle carrying something which I first assumed was a fish. Pursuing the big bird was another eagle. It was an incredible sight. I furiously tried to extract my camera but before I could, the second eagle knocked the treasure free from the first bird’s talons. It fell with a thunk immediately beside Jack who, startled, was suspicious of why it was raining ducks.

WTF? It's raining ducks! — WTF? It’s raining ducks!

It proved to be a Mallard hen lying on its back. My first thought was that “Verily, verily the gods doth provide a succulent duck for dinner from the heavens above.” I bent to pick it up and noticed it was breathing and so I flipped the lovely wee quacker onto its feet. It was alive despite a punctured breast and, for some odd reason, appeared to be in shock. I decided to wrap it in a blanket of maple leaves. A few minutes later its head popped out of the covering and then it waddled off into the safety of a patch of blackberries. Now that’s one very lucky duck! And, I’m sure, there’s one very pissed off eagle. What is really interesting is that this old farm boy was once easily able to bonk any barnyard animal on the head with sledge hammer when it was time for butchering. As a hunter, I’ve been remorseless about the countless creatures I’ve dispatched for their meat. Once I proudly blew ducks out of the sky and now I’m proud at having done something to try and save one humble duck.

I don’t know how to interpret this one as an omen other than a moral which has something to do with never giving up. And that’s the whole shituation. In the morning I’ll be winging my way back to Seafire and the next adventure.

“Progress is man’s ability to complicate simplicity.”

…. Thor Heyerdahl

Wolves Howling

Wotcha lookin' at? Edgar the eafle returns to his winter perch on the waterfront of shearwater. — Wotcha lookin’ at?
Edgar the eagle returns to his winter perch on the waterfront of Shearwater.

Isn’t it interesting how things work out? It is early on Wednesday morning, the brightening of the day is occurring reluctantly after a very rainy night. My toilet clogged first thing and I’m taking time off from work to resolve the problem. It might become a shitty day. As I returned to the boat after booking out from the job and grim-lipped at the task ahead, I heard something unusual.

Hi slack gleam. The sun catches surface tension in a backwater. Interestingly, a friend first saw this as a picture of city lights.

Brined-burned branches. a super-high spring tid pushed even higher by the advancing wind of a storm front. (thanks to the full moon) — Brined-burned branches.
A super-high spring tide pushed even higher by the advancing wind of a storm front.
(thanks to the full moon)

I paused and listened. To my delight what I could hear was a chorus of wolves howling. The music drifted down through the timber on the slopes above. A sacred sound to me, it is a terrifying and hellish siren to many who chose to believe the dark myths and embellished lies about wolves. Curse or blessing, that is up to each of us. My point in mentioning any of this personal moment is that had the timing of my movements not been exactly as they were, I would not have heard those uplifting notes. I think that’s pretty cool. Now…Dung ho!

My life as a worm. The convoluted casings of sea worms on the end of an old plastic barrel. The picture could be a social comment don't you think? — My life as a worm. The convoluted casings of sea worms on the end of an old plastic barrel. The picture could be a social comment don’t you think?

On the note of a wolf howl let me direct my readers to an incredible website. pacificwild.org is how you will find the incredible photography and video work of Ian McAllister and his organization, Pacific Wild. The endeavour is based here on Denny Island and does wonderful work to heighten awareness of the beauty and fragility of the Great Bear Rainforest as this area is known. The stunning images leave me feeling like an amateur photographer and wanting to throw my cameras away in humility. If those photos don’t stir your heart, you’re dead. Stay in your city, zombie!

Fall colours. Desperate for some autumn gold I turned my attention to individual plants. a day later, these leaves were brown mush. — Fall colours. Desperate for some autumn gold I turned my attention to individual plants. A day later, these leaves were brown mush.

A shave and a hair cut. Seafire on the hard last weekend for bottom inspection, cleaning, paint touch-up and new zinc anodes. While working on the bowsprit, a humpback whale swam past the docks...always a wonderful sight. — A shave and a hair cut.
Seafire hauled up on the hard last weekend for bottom inspection, cleaning, paint touch-up and new zinc anodes. While working on the bowsprit, a humpback whale swam past the docks…always a wonderful sight.

A murder of crows. A seafood buffet of mussels scraped from the bottom of someone's boat. — A murder of crows. A seafood buffet of mussels scraped from the bottom of someone’s boat.

Autumn sunrise on the model Stranraer. It's been making some very interesting noises during the storms. — Autumn sunrise shining on the model Stranraer here in Shearwater. It’s been making some very interesting noises during the storms. Soon it’ll be stored away for winter.

Vigorous II in dawn's early light. An old wooden tug converted to a yacht. What lines! Sunshine, as you can see, becomes a most treasured commodity now that summer is past. — Vigorous II in dawn’s early light. An old wooden tug converted to a yacht. What lines!
Sunshine, as you can see, becomes a most treasured commodity now that summer is past.

Two days later, the wolves are at it again. Two packs, one on each side of the bay, called back and forth to each other through the morning. The serenade of quavering howls and yodels went on for hours until the cold autumn rain began again. Soon it was pelting down. Its rising roar drowned out the wolves. I imagine them snuggled up together under a thick cedar tree, warm, dry and loved. Yes, even wolves are very capable of great love.

"Bloody hell it's cold!" "Wouldn't be so bad if we cuddled up." "Wot? We're eagles!" — “Bloody hell it’s cold!”
“Wouldn’t be so bad if we cuddled up.”
“Wot? We’re eagles!”

This is a short blog. I’ll be away south taking care of business but I’ll be back to my beloved Seafire as soon as possible to see where the universe might lead me. Here’s a short piece I wrote the other morning just before the wolf songs began.

Rising

When I awoke this morning

in the dark before the dawn

the sky was cloudless after days of storm.

High in the east two stars rose

side by side, newly joined

bright, equal, clear

it was all I needed to know.

_______________________________________________________

(Then, to my chagrin, I later learn that one of those stars is in fact a Russian space station.)

Life on the edge ...and the value of a good route system. — Life on the edge …and the value of a good route system.

Sea And Fog

Sea and fog…water silently becoming air…air silently becoming water.

…Ray Grigg, The Tao Of Sailing

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

Over The Horizon

One Last Look Back Lewis Channel at dawn, the magic light of the coast — One Last Look Back
Lewis Channel at dawn, the magic light of the coast

I’m settling into my new life in Shearwater. There are some enigmas to sort through. It’s interesting how wilfully coming to a semi-remote location magnifies our dependence on modern technology. A marginal, overloaded internet system leaves me in absolute frustration trying to communicate with the outside world and while posting my blogs. The computer is determined to crash and burn and none of my red-neck vocabulary helps at all. My mobile phone works marginally and at the moment I have also been blessed with some many-tentacled virus which is insidious. It snot funny but it will pass. I may have brought it up from the south with me. I hope I don’t start an epidemic. One of the few pleasures of getting older is knowing that nothing is forever. Yet there is also value in tenacity. While I recently heard hope described as the ultimate human torture, it prolongs suffering; I have also been inspired by the ship’s spider.

Town center, a thing of wonderful beauty

While travelling up Fitz Hugh Sound, I polished the metal work on the boat and discovered a spider sitting in the middle of its web beneath the bowsprit. Despite all the plunging and dunkings it endured in Queen Charlotte Strait the wee beast has endured. I’ve named him the Baptist. This superstitious sailor believes a ship’s spider is a good omen and so I wish him well.

The Raven and the Eagle, Bella Bella totem — The Raven and the Eagle,
Bella Bella totem

The area is pristine, immense, wild and free. So are many of the people drawn here. Some are aberrant personalities and where I fit into the complex culture here is yet a bit dubious.

Those dark waters seem to swirl and back-eddy daily. For the time being I remain the new hermit cautiously settling in to life on a rickety dock nestling at the edge of a small industrial slash in the mid-coast jungle. My welcome in the engine shop was a large jar of Vasoline set on top of my tool box. Redneck scatological humour, I can relate to that easily enoughand iff you don’t get it, there’s no point in me trying to explain. The available internet here is, to say the least, terrible. There are some cockamamie excuses about life in a remote location. But by my experience, this place is neither remote nor off the grid. It is 2015 and I know what is available in truly remote locations. Nevertheless there is a good solution soon available, and one of the joys of living on a boat is being able to untie and bugger off. That option sustains me.

A Guardian. One of many. — A Guardian.
One of many.

The 'Chilcotin Princess' a droemer coastal trader in these waters. Fortunately I grabbed this photos only a few days before she was towed off to the breaker's yard in Prince Rupert — The ‘Chilcotin Princess’
a former coastal trader in these waters. Fortunately I grabbed this photo only a few days before she was towed off to the breaker’s yard in Prince Rupert

After two weeks I already have plenty of anecdotes and observations about the area and its characters, its history, its culture. For this blog however, I am simply posting photographs with captions. Hopefully I can convey my sense of wonder for this place and how this adventure becomes part of my journey to a life in Mexico or points south. I realized recently that the legend on the boat’s dipstick is in Spanish.

Yep! It's a panga! Built in Florida, registered in Montana, fishing in Shearwater. — Yep! It’s a panga! Built in Florida, registered in Montana, fishing in Shearwater.

To my great wonder one of the first boats I saw as I entered Kliktsoatli Harbour, where Shearwater is located, was a beautiful Panga. Some local folks have sailed their boat from here to Ensenada, Baha in seventeen days. So, I can lay out a rhum line southward and then turn left when the butter goes soft. Meanwhile I’m a bilge ape again for the time being, like it or not. Hi ho, hi ho, it’s down into the bilge I go.

Edgar the Eagle, mascot of Shearwater — Edgar the Eagle,
mascot of Shearwater

In many backwaters here, there are abandoned boats in various states of natural recycling. If only they could talk!

Dryad Point Light Station, a mid-coast landmark

Seafire at the Shearwater "Hobo" dock — Seafire at the Shearwater “Hobo” dock

A very high tide a day's end — A very high tide a day’s end

The Bosun's mate, snoop's fellow deckhand — The Bosun’s mate, Snoop’s fellow deckhand

Shearwater sunset, Edgar's perch. — Shearwater sunset, Edgar’s perch.

Each day as I trudge to work I look ruefully toward the mountains in all directions. I ache to explore the inlets winding among them. On calm mornings, I swear that, faintly, I can hear the boom of surf on the outer islands only a few miles away. My fate lies out there. I am impatient. And nearly always, from somewhere, there is the call of eagles.

“ The way of water is special. That which changes cannot be lost. That which yields cannot Be broken. That which breaks cannot be destroyed.

How easy, then, to be unmastered.”

….Ray Grigg ‘The Tao Of Sailing’