It is eerie. Sunday morning in Ladysmith, dead quiet. An early flight out of the airport is gone overhead and now there is nothing. A Harley Davidson clatters along the highway, accelerates to beat a yellow light then mumbles off into the distance. It seems very odd, there is usually a distant cacophony of traffic, sirens, lawnmowers and other distant noise pollution. All I can hear this morning is the eternal ringing in my own ears which come from too many years around noisy machinery. And, this is a quiet little town by general standards.
“Expect a flippening in U.S. Stocks.” That is what an ad read as I checked my e-mail. Well our weather has flippened. Finally we have some temperatures in the 30 degree range and I hear babble about heat domes and records being broken. “This is the hottest it has been since 1940.” No, it is called summer time. Simple. Normal. We can all check the records. It gets hot every summer and there is no need to go set yourself on fire. We’re not acclimatized and about the time we get used to some summer heat the trend crashes and someone is howling about a rainy day. STOP IT! Enjoy it while you can.
I sat waiting at the Gabriola Island ferry terminal a few days ago and looked across the harbour. In my brain I wrote, “Nanaimo shimmered. A band of hot air lay over the harbour like a layer of dancing prisms. There was no breath of wind. Waiting passengers left their cars to sit in the waiting room, basking in the air conditioning.” Yep, summertime!
Such is life. I’m now picking up this blog after the August 1st long weekend. I know, the tardy old blogger! The pope has been and gone. Poor old geezer! He was hauled around like some battered trophy scalp and demanded to offer apologies for sins that go back over 500 years. The scapegoat in the housecoat wore every silly hat someone could think up for him to teeter on his old head. Good grief, who would want his job? I see the guy as a figure head, just like presidents and prime ministers; a puppet on a string. He says the words his board of directors told him to utter and now he is back home being prepped for his next mission of placation. Oddly he was not brought to British Columbia, a focal point of Canadian residential school atrocity which brought the whole issue to a boil.
I’ll keep my low opinions about all religions to myself and simply say that when the corporation of the Catholic Church, one of the wealthiest organizations on the planet, decides to embrace biblical humility and universal love, they’ll hang a REMAX sign on the Vatican and get on with the real teachings of Christ. It should be noted that the Catholics apparently administered approximately two thirds of the government-sanctioned cultural remodeling in these schools. The rest was left to protestants who were equally determined to crush the “Indian” out of aboriginal children. That is another part of the same ugly, tragic story which we have not addressed yet. The time will come.
When one nation conquers another it has always been standard protocol to impose ethnic cleansing, especially upon the children. Some purport that we were very close not so long ago to becoming a German-speaking people. At present China is trying to crush the Uyghar people in every way possible. That has always been a dark chapter in the history of man. It will never end. Power and control, that is our instinct. And so on and so on. Blah, blah, blah. We’ve heard it all before. Nothing changes.
The back to school ads are up, soon Christmas sales will appear. If you let it, the swirling madness of our modern world can crush you.
Today I drove by the huge plastic-bound round bales of hay in the fields. They look like huge rolls of toilet paper. I reminisced about chucking hay bales up onto wagons in summer heat. If you could, you’d wear a leather apron to save your clothes from the ripping straws and thistles in the bales. You did it because you had to, the crop had to come in before rain came. I was a sinewy flat-bellied young man then. I couldn’t manage many minutes of that old heave-ho now! I recall how we did it from first light to last or so long as the dew was gone. The survival of your livestock, and so your farm, depended on a barn full of hay.
What a different world today. Now hay is handled entirely by machine. No human hand touches the hay or the cow anymore. One man in an air-conditioned tractor can do more in a day than an entire haying crew in the old days. I actually recall some folks bringing in loose hay, not even bothering to bale it. That was an art in itself. And yes, grain was collected in “sheaves” which were then stood together on end in a process called “stooking.” You did that by hand after the sheaves had been collected and tied together by a machine called a binder. The stooks, once sufficiently dry, were then collected by hand and loaded on a wagon to be conveyed to the barn for threshing. It was complicated and all hard work but it was all folks knew. People survived, thrived and didn’t complain. Amazingly, farms much smaller than today’s were somehow able to support a few families each. It is what we call progress.
This evening is already the third of August. It is overcast and a chilly 20 degrees. It is spitting rain.
The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch them without doing anything.― Albert Einstein
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
“Remember it was a professional who built the Titanic
and an amateur who built Noah’s Ark.” …Vanessa Linsley