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?
Some natural art at the tide line.
Some natural art at the tide line.
Symetrics
Symetrics
The fish shack, Soulsby Pt. Campbell Island
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.

Fishtrap under a flooding tide.
Fishtrap under a flooding tide.

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.
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
Sitting pretty by the Seaweed Camp
Sitting pretty by the Seaweed Camp

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!

Happy Harry Heiltsuk on watch
Happy Harry Heiltsuk on watch

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.

Fish on, fish on
Fish on, fish on
Last light, good night!
Last light, good night!
A gift from Japan. In days past these net floats were blown green glass balls and highly prized by beachcombers.
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.

An August sunset in Shearwater.
An August sunset in 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, 6th century BC

Thin Ice

Treaty Celebration Day celebrations included a potlatch and canoe races
Treaty Celebration Day celebrations included a potlatch and canoe races

These are interesting times at Shearwater. The R2AK race from Port Townsend to Ketchikan Alaska is passing by. It is a race for boats, paddle and wind-powered, along our 750 miles of rugged coastline. I have no interest in racing of any sort but I admire all of those who set out on this gauntlet of both inner and outer stamina. Yesterday morning, in the rain, I heard my name called out from beneath a sheltering cedar tree. It turned out to be Quill, Dylan and Mitch, the Barefoot Boot racing crew from Silva Bay. They were participating in the race with the boat which was purpose-built this past winter. All looked trim and fit with a healthy light in their eyes. Travelling by self-propelled boat does that for you. In days past the Haidas of these latitudes built and paddled dugout canoes as far south as Puget Sound. They were feared and respected by all along the way and returned with slaves and booty all the way back to Haida Gwaii. “How was work honey?” “Blew a paddle on the big bend.”

Bella Bella Kerplunk The water's never too cold for kids on a hot summer day
Bella Bella Kerplunk
The water’s never too cold for kids on a hot summer day

 

The Decision "I know I've got to, but what's holding me back?"
The Decision
“I know I’ve got to, but what’s holding me back?”

On notes about the hardiness of indigenous people a news story this week reports the recent discovery on Calvert Island, just south of here, of great archeological significance. Foot prints and the remains of a campfire have been confirmed as 13,200 years old. This is apparently the oldest confirmed evidence of human habitation in North America. Check out www.Hakai.org This is the website for the research group on Calvert Island who found the site. There are some fabulous photos there which may leave you wanting to rush up this way for a visit.

McLoughlin Bay big HousB
McLoughlin Bay Big House

I know I jump out on thin ice with a few things I write, but you nor I could not respect what I write if I’m only trying to please popular opinion. That, ultimately, never works. One of the intriguing features of this area is that there is ample evidence to prove the long presence of previous occupants. As the indigenous people were over-run by the colonists they were constantly shuffled to smaller reserve areas before being moved finally to municipal, or sub-urban residential locations and where they can be easily “administrated.”

The way we were Abandoned net loft, Old Bella Bella
The way we were
Abandoned net loft, Old Bella Bella

I believe that everyone’s mutual humanness must have first priority over gender or race. No-one should have special entitlement because of who their ancestors happened to be. I understand that is a controversial perspective, but I also know folks of indigenous descent who feel that this attitude is the only route to full equality. I also however feel strongly that the measure of character for anyone is evidenced by how we keep our word. Our governments have manipulated and ignored the agreements made with our first nations people. A deal’s a deal and I am embarrassed by how our politicians have altered treaties to suit their own agendas.

I swear! I saw it move.
I swear! I saw it move.

In the recent self-righteous uproar about the report submitted by the Truth And Reconciliation Committee Of Canada on the abusive native residential schools, we’ve learned the term “Cultural genocide.” (By the way folks, BULLSHIT! WE DID SO KNOW what was going on, we just chose to turn our heads) This report is no epiphany. It has always been the way of conquerors through history to decimate their victims by destroying their language and culture and then writing the history books to their your own agenda. Introducing new diseases which almost obliterated indigenous populations was an incidental and convenient weapon of great benefit. Obliterating prime food sources worked pretty well too. Then along came the priests and their damnable schools and churches to save the surviving dark, pagan souls. That endeavour condemned so very many to a miserable and unthinkable existence, all in the name of Christian peace and love. Now, a few weeks after the residential school report’s release, the politically correct rhetoric has died and the beat goes on as ever.

Boardwalk Place The main office and boardwalk which were the center of the cannery.
Boardwalk Place
The main office and boardwalk which were the center of the cannery.

I’ve just finished reading “The End Of Faith” by Sam Harris. He presents a conjecture that all religions are based on imagination and raw fiction. Masses through human history have been controlled and manipulated by the imposition of countless religions. We continue to let this devious mindlessness (Yes, I perceive consumerism as yet another religion) to direct the course and meaning of our lives. I agree with the implications of Harris’ rant but cannot deny our spiritual being. The blackness of religion is that it so often strives to actually diminish the spirit it claims to enhance and uplift. As the old cowboy song went, “Send your money to Jesus, make out the cheque to me.” Religion, commerce, capitalism, greed, misery. Enough said.

Knot Funny
Knot Funny
And then the rope broke
And then the rope broke
The circle is now broken! Debris at the old cannery
The circle is now broken!
Debris at the old cannery

Most of the copious resource-based communities of the past few centuries along this coast are already decayed, forgotten, gone. Fish canneries, docks, mines, shipyards, sawmills, entire communities in many places are now mere memories mouldering back into the environment from which they were so laboriously carved. The population on this coast was quite large until mass urbanization began to occur in the late 50’s and 60’s. There was an entire industry just serving the needs of these communities. Eventually nearly everyone wanted to abandon rural life and lemming their way to town where they could load their dishwasher and then try to get a good picture on their new colour TV. “A little more to the left, no, no back a bit. Keep your hand right there!“You’ve just stale-dated yourself if you understand what I just wrote about.

The Sliver King Here is some excellent power saw work, square and vertical. Bring your own cushion to watch the sunset.
The Sliver King
Here is some excellent power saw work, square and vertical. Bring your own cushion to watch the sunset.

Small communities, some built entirely on rafts, began to disappear. A very long list of place names like Holberg, Allison Harbour, Butedale, Namu, Port Harvey, Minstrel Island, Port Neville, Ocean Falls, Zeballos, Winter Harbour, are some which are now ghost towns or don’t exist at all. They are once again just jungle, where the forest reaches quietly out over the ocean as it almost always has. Older nautical charts will display a small square dot, with a place name and the letters P.O. meaning Post Office. That’s all gone now. Pilings, crumbling buildings, and a few rock berms mysteriously linger in many backwaters. The people who worked so hard are gone, their industry forgotten and now meaningless.

Looking back under the brine-burned branches
Looking back under the brine-burned branches

Native villages like Mamaliculla (Or Meem Quam Leese) and Karllukwees were evacuated as tuberculosis epidemics swept over them. I recall visiting Mamaliculla in the mid-80s when the last remaining totem pole leaned precariously. A half-finished long house sported massive cedar beams. It was a wonder how these huge carved logs had been hoisted into place. The homes appeared to have been abandoned overnight, with clothes still in drawers, food in cupboards, utensils in kitchens. In the school, the piano remained in its place, destroyed by damp. There was an eerie sense to the evidence of how the place had clearly been abandoned so desperately quickly. I wanted a souvenir but didn’t want to feel I was robbing anything of value. I found an envelope addressed to Harvey Mountain c/o Vancouver Police Jail. I thought it was a poignant cultural essay on how a proud culture had been decimated and homogenized. Apparently there is still a large, respected family of Mountains in the Alert Bay area.

A beautiful junk passing through
A beautiful junk passing through
A famous BC-built schooner 'Passing Cloud'
A famous BC-built schooner
‘Passing Cloud’
Other men's dreams
Other men’s dreams

The remaining populations were relocated in places like Campbell River, Port Hardy and Alert Bay. Succeeding generations remain there but wonderfully those folks are fighting to retain their culture and language before it is gone forever. They have the respect and endorsement of most people. The Haida have regained control of their ancestral homeland and proudly share their culture with outsiders who hold an interest. What a wonderful thing that is!

I received an e-mail about Koala Bears in Australia actively approaching people and begging a drink of water during days of extreme heat. I found that fascinating but what intrigued me was the accompanying quote which read, “Until one has loved an animal, part of their soul remains unawakened.”

Some friends, whom I love dearly, passed through Shearwater on the weekend. While we share many views, one of our disparities is that they are not animal lovers. I’ve endured lectures from them on how North Americans spend too much time, money and affection on their pets when there too many children in need of love and nourishment. They’re right of course, but inspired by the above quote, this dog-lover would like to add that until one is able to love, and accept the uninhibited love of an animal, they will never be able to fully share non-conditional love with any person. One of the joys here in Shearwater is some of the lovely resident dogs as well as some from visiting yachts. I desperately miss my own buddy Jack, and hope he’ll forgive my infido-elity. Speaking of critters one of the things I’ve noticed here is the lack of seagulls. There are some, but they don’t live in mobs and don’t swoop in when there are scraps to be had. There are crows and ravens who stay on top of the local clean-up duties and there is a large number of eagles looming large over nearly every scene. Where ‘Seafire’ is moored there is a squeaky little bird who goes on, and on, through the day with an energetic metallic noise like a worn-out pulley. A raven hides somewhere in the trees above and sounds like a one-bird Punch and Judy show. It has a variety of weird, silly voices. On a gloomy day one could easily believe in ghosts.

There are also swarms of horse-flies, or moose-flies, if you prefer. There are also deer-flies and while they disappear after the heat of the day, the cooling evening draws out the black-flies and sand-flies. The bugs certainly don’t begin to match the numbers I’ve known elsewhere, but these nasty pests can still ice the cake on a hot, airless day. You’re hunched down over a mechanical job, with sweat-smeared glasses, skinned knuckles bleeding scarlet out of the black grease on your hands. That is when these chunk-biting beasts descend and begin their feast. At least they leave no itchy bumps; just blood. Gee thanks. We’re supposed to love all of God’s creatures. Right!

An amazing model This 17' wingspan model was custom-built to commemorate the Stranraer flying boats once based here. They were know by some as the whistling birdcage because of the noise made by all the rigging wires.
An amazing model
This 17′ wingspan replica was custom-built to commemorate the Stranraer flying boats once based here. They were know by some as the whistling birdcage because of the noise made by all the rigging wires.

As I sit writing into the dusk the sky overhead is laced with jet contrails west and east bound on their great circle routes to and from Asia. We are clearly immediately beneath a North Pacific air route. My brother is a pilot for Air Canada and I wonder which of those shining specks might be him. I also look up and find myself thinking that now we’ve delineated every possible inch of the earth, we’re drawing lines in the sky.

Ghostwriters in the sky. Beneath the flyway to Asia
Ghostwriters in the sky.
Beneath the flyway to Asia

Now, on July 1st, there is a conjunction of planets which will produce an illusion of a super star as Jupiter and Venus align themselves although they’ll still be several hundred million miles apart. These are interesting times at Shearwater.

That you bro?
That you bro?

 

Remember it was a professional who built the Titanic

and an amateur who built Noah’s Ark.” …Vanessa Linsley