Tag: Winter

We Don’t Have A Bow Thruster

Bo-Peep II
The varnish and paint are flawless. It must have an awesome boathouse. But no bow thruster.
Yep! 1926 Not many look this good at 92 years.

Rain! It’s my fault. I’m busy ripping the windows out of my boat and replacing them. Then I plan on painting the cabin sides and the rest of the decks. Nature abhors a vacuum and so with each window being about eight square feet in size, guess what! Sploosh and whoosh!Actually it could have to do with the long weekend, we seem to seldom get one without wet weather and then in the days immediately following the skies will clear and I can carry on.

Thane came back for a visit. The long guest dock is full, full, full.
Knowing the ropes.

Now then hoy the peak halyard and slack the fore-tops’l. NOW!
Little goes to waste. Old lines get worked into something useful like mats or baggywrinkle.

The guest dock here at the Ladysmith Maritime Society is filled with guest boats. The Ladner Yacht Club is here to celebrate its 60th anniverisary and the fleet which has arrived is one of pristine boats. Good on them! They are a group of very nice people with lovely dogs and I don’t need to worry myself about Canadian courtesy flags because none are foreign vessels.

Flag Patrol.  Sea King helicopters

A few days ago there was a fleet of US Tupperware tugs at the dock. Only one flew a visible courtesy flag. (When visiting any foreign waters in your boat it is basic marine protocol to display a small flag of that country above all other flags.) While I was at the head of the ramp a pair of our venerable Sea King helicopters flew over, low and slow. A lady from one of the visiting boats was passing and inquired if indeed these were military aircraft. Perhaps she was intrigued that such antiques were still in service. Being the quick quip that I am, my response was that since the insults uttered against Canadians by President Trump, we had begun a daily aerial patrol checking that US vessels were flying the correct flags. “Oh my!” she exclaimed wide-eyed, “ I’m so glad we have ours up.” Of course it was all in fun, but I’m sure she’ll pass the message on. I am really flummoxed that it is not an issue which our border personnel do not address but I suppose that’s the Canadian way.

Now THAT is a down-rigger.
A Canadian hydrographic survey vessel was doing some local work and stopped at our docks.

Yesterday I was bent to my work on ‘Seafire.’ (which seems to go on and on) A strident female voice began to make inquiries on the marine VHF of “Ladysmith Maritime Society Marina”. Half of the boats on the guest dock leave their radios on at a high volumes. I can only surmise that it makes then feel saltier. The radio voice went on and on with sporadic silly inquiries, even when the boat, a Catalina 34, finally arrived alongside the dock space assigned to it.

The docking crew stood looking out at the little sailboat laying twenty feet or so away. The boat’s crew, a man and woman, stared back. Finally the voice erupted again, strident and indignant. “We don’t have a bow thruster you know!” I kept my mouth shut. Clearly, I am not Walmart greeter material.

(A bow thruster is a small propeller installed on a boat below the water line and pushes the bow sideways when attempting to dock.) This old salt reckons that the device is absolutely unnecessary on any vessel with someone competent at the helm. Some boats, complete with twin engines, have a thruster installed at either end of the vessel. The boat can be manoeuvred in any direction or turned in its own length but it still all depends on the nut that holds the wheel. Every extra device does make life easier at times, but it also increases dependability on that gadget and decreases skill levels. For me sailing is a religion of traditional skills and self-sufficiency. Enough said. I’ll carry on with my sanding and painting and keep my head down, like a fly on the wall.

The job begins. The port windshield out and being prepared for a new piece of acrylic. None of the work is fun. The starboard windscreen is installed.

The painting job on ‘Seafire’ has turned into a career; it goes on and on. It began simply enough with the intention to replace two windows and spruce up the window frames. Oh yeah, while I’m at it, I should update the lifeline stanchions seeing as I had a replacement set laying in the crawlspace at home. Then, while doing that, I damaged a side window with cleaner and decided to replace them all. While I had the stanchions off and the window frames off, it only made sense to paint the cabin and the side decks. I’ve tried repairing the paint on the cove stripe along the hull and have now decided to repaint that while I’m at it. One of the things my years have taught me is patience and that certainly is a prime ingredient for a job like this. Painting is not simply the act of apply fresh colour to a surface. First there is the preparation and therein lays the rub. Yep, a pun! Preparation is everything. There are incessant hours of sanding, and filling and more sanding. My fingers are abraded down to near-bleeding stubs. Then, if the sun is not too hot, or the threat of rain not too imminent, there is the application of a smooth gliding coat of liquid colour. Not too much however, it will run and drip. Once that is done, I stand back to admire the fruit of my labour and flies begin to land in the sticky gleam. Bugga! As I finish one section, the rest of the boat looks shabby. Also, with the new shine, all the manufacturing defects in the fibreglass are revealed. But, there is progress each day.

The final window, installed under threat of rain.
Dry-fitting the new-used stanchions. A few more days of painting then I can begin working on the starboard side of the boat.

If refurbishing the boat is not enough challenge I am also in the middle of consummating a relationship with a new laptop computer. It is a supercharged gaming computer, the Grand Ferrari, something with all the giga-properties I need to use the film editing program which I’m trying to teach myself. The computer is a delight, but Windows 10, and downloading updated programs is a huge challenge for my old-school thinking. Mix that all in with my painting career on the boat and you’d think that all this masochism might indicate an English ancestry. You’d be correct.

Now for some serious engineering.
Children love this sand box on the dock.

A friend called to remind me of the British car show at the waterfront park in Ladysmith. I’d gone in previous years and was not eager to go see the same few dozen vehicles. WOW! Apparently there were over 200 cars and motorcycles on display. All ran, most were driven to and from the show. All have been lovingly restored and maintained. The spectators glided about in hushed awe, thrilled at what they were seeing. British cars are famous for their design and craftsmanship as well as their demands for incessant fiddling maintenance and enduring unreliability. For a very long time, British automotive electrical systems were hopelessly complex and comprised of components built by Lucas, known by many as the “Prince Of Darkness.” Yet there is a mystique and romance built into English vehicles that no-one else can match.

An ancient and pristine Rover
A slightly modified MGB
Land Rover with a Dormobile RV conversion. I wannit!
Peeking into a classic Rolls Royce. Real wood, real leather, real money but no airbags.
A Velocette and a Triumph

When the day is done, I read myself into sleepy oblivion with a copy of “Lord Jim” by Joseph Conrad. I haven’t tackled this novel in over half a century and it is clear why I first laid it aside. This guy did not have a word processing machine of any sort yet he stuffed every word possible into anything he was trying to say. Lots of folks love to gush about what a wonderful nautical author Conrad was. I find him lugubrious. One sentence can, at times, fill half a page. There is far too much wrapping around the golden gift of his story. Yet I find the weight and cadence of his writing evocative of the days I’m living at the moment. Here, in closing, is one sentence.

…”Such were the days, still, hot, heavy, disappearing one by one into the past, as if falling into an abyss for ever open in the wake of the ship, lonely under a wisp of smoke, held on her steadfast way black and smouldering in a luminous immensity, as if scorched by a flame flicked at her from a heaven without pity.” ….PHEW!

Cream rises to the top…
so does scum!
Summer algae blown against the dock.

“It is not that life ashore is distasteful to me. But life at sea is better.”
― Sir Francis Drake

Donuts In The Snow

IT’S OVER!
Red light, green light, crossing the highway in Ladysmith. Taken through the windshield with my mobile phone.

I posted my last blog ten days ago. When I awoke the next morning it was beginning to snow, just a wee skiff to keep the children happy; so I thought. I’ve spent many years in the great white north where a metre or more of snow overnight was not newsworthy. You just carried on. I regularly drove hundreds of miles on wilderness roads in extreme conditions of cold and deep snow. If you ended up in a ditch or broken down it could prove fatal so you drove accordingly and carried a few extra items in the event of emergency. If you saw someone off the road you stopped and made sure no-one was in trouble. It was all in a day’s passing. Here, if there’s enough snow to cover the ground, it is best to simply stay home. Today, the forecast is for 17 or more centimetres. A few people will die out there. Only half that fell and the sirens still wailed constantly all day.

Well, Jack enjoyed his Christmas. His new blanket was tasty!

The white stuff is slippery and if you have experience as a winter driver, you know that no amount of ability is enough when there is zero traction. Superior drivers use their superior experience to avoid situations which require superior skill. Unfortunately there are many motorists who apparently have no clue about winter driving. Steep hills covered in wet white grease and littered with goggly-eyed drivers stuck in their suv’s is reason enough to stay home. Those television ads depicting an all-wheel drive vehicle bursting through a bank of fluffy, dry snow forget to tell you one thing: you’ve got to stop sometime. Last night I saw a plug for an Alfa Romeo suv. (Stupid Urban Vanity) It was a gorgeous vehicle! But somehow I doubt the Italians fully understand Canadian driving conditions, not that many of these look-at-me-mobiles ever leave pavement. So I stayed home that morning and sat here pecking away at my writing.

The same old view south. In the distance, ships wait for cargo at another sundown, not a nice way to spend Christmas.

Then there was a horrific train wreck just south of Seattle. It was the very first run with paying passengers on a new high-speed rail service between Seattle and Portland. The train leapt off the rails and crashed down onto the main interstate highway in the state of Washington. The carnage incurred prevents this from being a hilarious story. To ad to the ludicrous tale, our boy Donny Trumpet (He’s always blowing his horn) was tweeting within three hours of the crash that this was a great example of why his infrastructure funding bill should be passed forthwith. The gormless ass! There were still people, dead and alive, trapped in the wreckage as he massaged his pathetic ego! Here on Vancouver Island we have solved any issue with railway safety. We cancelled our rail service.

Christmas morning; a brief respite. Jill and Jack savour a few minutes of sunlight.

 

Tracks in the snow.

Now over a week later I slide this blog off the back burner of my writer’s stove with a story from today’s local newspaper about a visiting Calgary man who “Spun a few donuts in the snow at Transfer Beach last week to clear a path for his 70-year-old mom to walk.” There’s a photo of a little car sitting in the middle of several circular furrows. That this was a news-worthy story says a lot about the pace of life in Ladysmith. I’m wondering how long this dude has had his mom going in circles. Such is our existence between Christmas and New Years. The days are grey and wet, the nights are long and wet. My sense of humour is short and dry. Outside on the final Friday of the year, I go to the local pool to swim my final lengths for the year. This morning I crawled out of bed one toe at a time and now dawn reluctantly squeezes the black sky to a porridge grey. A thick fog descends with a syrupy penetrating drizzle. In the afternoon, the drizzle turned to snow.

The bunk job completed. The deck beam and storage shelving are new. Apart from difficult angles, the real trick was to make everything look as if it belonged.
Open for business. This is the guest berth, until recently used as junk storage. Well, it’s junk if you don’t know you’ve got it or can’t find it. Emergency tools stored handily. The wheelbarrow handle has been adapted as an emergency tiller.

When I went aboard ‘Seafire’ to check on her, it was colder inside than out, like a tomb. This old boat has been my home, warm and snug through some long winter nights. I feel as if I’ve abandoned her and wonder where I will be this time next year. Well, life has to be lived as it comes, one moment at a time. When you look back, even 365 days, you’ve already forgotten so much of the blur. Just this moment, it’s all we have.

I wish everyone the best in 2018. May we all have something to do, someone to love and something to look forward too.

Happy New Year
May your days be sunny and your seas calm.

“Year’s end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.” … Hal Borland 

Beyond Black Friday

Good things come in small bundles.
Santa blew it! Somehow, deflated Christmas ornaments laying all over humbug my Christmas spirits. Especially if they’re still lying there in July.

Black Friday has past. It may become known as the day that Darth Vader got stuck in the chimney. Forget the Star of Bethlehem, it’s Star Wars part 49. Bzzt, zap, whoosh! I’m not a fan, especially when the marketing of this film has be forced on us for months. “May the force be with with you” takes on a new meaning. What a way to start a celebration of love and peace and warmth and fuzziness! So it must be getting close to Christmas. Each morning there are deflated Santas and elves and snowmen lying on lawns nearly everywhere.

!The sacred act of consumerism is in the air. Even before mid-December advertisements for Boxing Day sales already clog the media which all the while keeps insisting that this year is a tight economic time, with housing and grocery costs at outrageous highs. Well, maybe so but as I drive by the malls, there does not seem to be many empty parking spots. Tap, tap, tap, click click. I’m not talking about the little drummer boy! Remember the ad, “Just say Chargex?” Jaded and cynical, I’m just not in the mood for anything other than peace and rum.

And lo, in the East, a star rose over the locomotive shed. There’s a Baldwin steam locomotive stored inside.
You recognize the view! This squint southward is over the Ladysmith amphitheatre in the local park.
The other side. Looking into the morning mist in Dogpatch. On a sunny winter morning, everything is beautiful.
Winterberry

Online, folks are posting yummy recipes. I have some good ones too but gluten, glucose and alcohol are bad for you, at least this year. I don’t know what happened to trans-fat, but apparently eggs, butter and coffee are OK again. My Christmas cake is delightfully heavy, dripping with syrupy alcoholic elixir; one slice is guaranteed to bring on a case of acne. Then there’s my glug, a mulled concoction of fruit completely desecrated in a blend of wine and brandy and other secret flammables with exotic spices. This year it’ll be cranberry juice and soda crackers. It’s the high life for me.

Frosty meadow.
Jack and I love walking at first light.

Once a simple pagan celebration of winter solstice and a return to lengthening days, this time of year was an affirmation of hope and familial security despite the long winter ahead. It was a simple defiance against the elements, things that went bump in the long dark nights and all there was to dread. It is supposed to be a celebration of life. Then religion imposed it’s toxic notions and Christmas was gradually perverted into an orgy of money grubbing. I’m well aware of the entire Christian story, I was force-fed on it for too many years. It’s dark and cold and wet outside tonight. There’s homeless folks out there, lots of them, and all the church doors are locked. In Victoria recently I saw security personnel guarding a church entrance. Homeless people were setting up camp for the night on the grass boulevard in front of the church. Shopping carts and garbage bags just didn’t look like the makings of a warm and safe winter night; in front of a church. Remember the stable?

Frozen Light

I do have golden memories of Christmas from a childhood many decades ago. A sudden aroma of home-cooking, woodsmoke or the tang of frost, the smell of wet woollens and barnyards (Yes, good old cow shit) the pungence of a real tangerine, fresh-cut conifers and a puppy’s gentle musk are among the stimulants that bring those old memories back to life in an instant. I know folks wrung their hands back then and worried about what the world had come to and how things just couldn’t go on like this much longer but by today’s comparisons, it was, at least for me, truly an age of innocence. That smells can induce memories, good and bad is an affirmation of our primal origin. I wonder about all the other senses which we have stashed away in the dim light at the back of our caves beneath the hanging bats.

In this particular area on Vancouver Island some hummingbirds spend the winter. This morning I was contemplating the brilliant multi-coloured led lights decorating a neighbour’s tree. A hummingbird zoomed down and began examining each light. Clearly, I’m not the only thinking creature confused about reality. With the thousands of lights gleaming through the night in Ladysmith It’s a good thing the wee bird is not nocturnal.

I’ve busied myself with a few projects on ‘Seafire.’ First a thorough cleaning in the main cabin and the galley. I was stunned to realize how much cooking effluent had accumulated behind and on the curtains and in niches my regular cleanings had missed. That accomplished, I turned my attention to a long-delayed project. The foredeck was slightly flexible. There was no issue with strength; I simply wanted to feel a rock-solid deck beneath my boots. Besides, the deck beam job will incorporate more book shelves and storage space in the forward V-berth. “Idle hands do the devil’s work” is something people liked to say when I was young.

I am not sure that boat projects are not devil’s work but it helps maintain some level of sanity within my chosen madness. While I’ve been fiddling around inside ‘Seafire’ different sorts of madmen are hard at other endeavours. Francois Gabart has just returned home to France on his massive trimaran after sailing around the world in 42 days and 16 hours. He set out on November 4th. I can remember where I was on that day, it is that recent! I’m not interested in going hyper fast on a sailboat, but I respect the achievement. To be alone and drive a boat that hard without a catastrophic mechanical failure while staying mentally and physically sound all the while is a miracle. It must seem very strange to be back ashore.

I can’t hear you! Jack charges a flock of pigeons, oblivious to all else.

Feet on the ground, now there’s a concept. The massive storm of inappropriate sexual behaviour accusations leaves me afraid to even smile at anyone of any gender, however many genders we now recognize. This tsunami of innuendo began with Bill Cosby and now anyone with eyes and hands is a suspect. I don’t want to dissect the issue, nor sound dismissive but… The US president openly bragged about his aggressive misogynistic sexual behaviour before he was elected. If an avowed pervert is running a country with impunity, surely that raises several obvious questions. He’s not welcome on my boat.

One of the ways I endure winter is to have something good to look forward to. Last year I had sequestered myself away in Shearwater and missed my annual pilgrimage to the Fisher Poet’s Gathering in Astoria. This annual event is held on the last weekend of February in Astoria, Oregon where poets and singers gather to celebrate the many aspects of the commercial fishing industry. It is a wonderful festival of blue collar eloquence and Astoria is a fantastic town to visit for any reason. You can learn more by going to the Fisher Poet Website (FPG.org)and can even hear some performers, including myself, read their work. If you’re in the area and want some late winter cheer, check it out. By the Way, Astoria has some of the best craft beers and ales anywhere.

Well, back to Christmas. I’ve just received a Christmas card from an uncle in England. The photo he enclosed shows himself and my aunt. It was hard to accept how they’ve aged. I have been receiving letters from him since childhood. They used to come on tissue-thin blue Royal Airmail paper. The letter cleverly folded quarterly with two sides reserved for the addresses. They were self-sealing and were bought prepaid, like a postage stamp. The sender wrote in as small a font as possible in order to say as much as possible on the six blank quarters. Somehow, the Brits had a style of handwriting that was generic. Everyone’s looked the same. That’s all gone now along with the whole fine art of letter-writing. Uncle’s handwriting is unchanged after all these years. There’s a comfort.

Early birds. Swans usually don’t show for winter until January. What does it mean?

The English journalist I mentioned in my last blog, Johnathon Pie, is actually a self-described political satirist whose real name is Tom Walker. He also calls himself a “Devil’s Advotwat.” His work, which appears on You Tube, is impeccable and utterly cutting as he rants about local and global political issues. He is crisp and irreverent and convincing, confirming my contention that our contemporary philosophers often appear in the guise of comedians. That, of course, should not be confused with a clown appearing in the guise of a politician.

“Dontcha buy no ugly truck!” When this GM pickup was new, that was the company’s marketing slogan. It appears to belong to a firewood harvester and is well-equipped for the backwoods.
Don’t laugh, I’ll bet she’s almost paid for!

Yep, as the song goes “It’s starting to look a lot like Christmas.” But I’m not dreaming of a white one. If you are celebrating the season, do it with your bow into the wind and your sheets hard. Wishing everyone empty bilges and full sails.

See! Toto emerges from beneath his Christmas blankets. He seemed offended that I thought he was funny.

“The Supreme Court has ruled that they cannot have a nativity scene in Washington, D.C. This wasn’t for any religious reasons. They couldn’t find three wise men and a virgin.” …Jay Leno

Going dinghy

There’s that view again from Ladysmith!
Yep, still looking south. On the horizon, a freighter sits anchored, waiting for her cargo.

 

The sky brightened.
An hour later.

“So what’s Mr. B.N.D. doing up here buying a dinghy?” A friend’s wife queried me when I arrived in Campbell River to purchase a used tender for ‘Seafire.’ It was a fair question especially when my last blog was about buy nothing days. It was also a fair question in consideration of the wintery weather. A viscous rain was being driven by the rising sou’east wind. The water in Discovery Pass was a mass of building foaming hard lumps, the usual meringue of wind against tide. I know this piece of ocean all too well, but for once I was ashore. I’d come to buy a nine foot fibreglass dinghy already modified to hang almost perfectly from the davits on ‘Seafire.’

Look up.
Big Brother is watching.

I already have a nice little kayak and a splendid inflatable tender. There’s no place for the kayak on mothership in the winter where it doesn’t get hammered by the wind, or partially filled with water. It also blocks visibility from either helm. Getting into it in winter weather raises a good possibility of a frigid dunking as I try to finesse my Rubenesque thorax into the bobbing little cockpit while clad in clumsy boots and rain gear. The willowy, flat-bellied former younger self still hiding within my senior mass cringes as he realizes what he has become. Gawd! The Michelin man in a kayak.

The Achilles inflatable is a wonderful little speedboat but also an awkward thing on the davits. It refuses to accept being lashed solidly under the davits and has caused me much grief during heavy weather passages. The drain hole in it’s transom only allows shipped water to dribble out; not a good thing in big seas. It constantly moves no matter how I secure it to the transom of ‘Seafire’. Chafe is a sailor’s worst enemy on a boat. This inflatable is built from hypalon, a very tough, long-lived material, but it won’t live long if I allow it to continually wear on parts of the big boat. If it were a hard-bottomed dingy there would be little problem with the davits but I wanted an inflatable that could be rolled up for long passages. I refuse to tow a dinghy any distance for several other good reasons. Every thing is a compromise. Oddly, my first boats all had a hard dinghy; I longed for an inflatable. Now I’m back where I started.

The fibreglass dinghy affords me a way to get ashore from an anchorage and still provides the hope of being a life boat in dire circumstances. It already has solid lifting points and two drain plugs in it’s keel. I can also carry it about 30 centimetres higher than the inflatable, so there’s less chance of flooding it in rough weather. The little cockleshell was also reasonably priced. Nautical items tend to be less money at this time of year; about half-price in fact. So there, I’ve blogged half a page to explain my spending spree on Black Saturday. The drive home took two hours in a nasty downpour, darker than black. It was one of those night drives when your headlight beams are eaten in the spray and other drivers were demonstrating their worst motoring manners and low skill-sets. I arrived home to find a blog from friends in the Caribbean showing idyllic anchorages in clear tropical water. Swear words! It just ain’t right! In the morning an e-mail comes with photos of the beach in La Manzanilla, Mexico. Curving miles of golden sand, surf on one side, palm trees on the other. The TV weather girl tells us it has been the wettest November here since 1953.

Last summer, laughing children swung from this rope and swam across the pond. There were none playing there today.
On Winter’s Pond. It was so calm you could hear the birds shivering.

I step into my tiny garage/workshop and there lingers an aroma of spring and of hope. The fresh smell of curing paint is aroma therapy to me. Suddenly I can hear twittering birds and feel warm sunlight, all of that in a whiff of paint. It is December 1st today and I’ll cling to whatever I can as the rain drums on the skylight above my desk. Bumhug! It’s Christmas time again, already, so soon! As if there would be a chance of forgetting. Happy Consumermas. Two days later it proved to be a sunny Sunday. Jack and I went exploring and found a lovely walking loop beside the local river which I’ve been driving past for over thirty years. Then in the afternoon Jill and I drove to Crofton to take the ferry to Saltspring Island to see a movie in a 120 plus year-old building call the “Fritz.” The film was the “Viceroy’s House” which never played in the mega theatres of Nanaimo. That is probably because there are no explosions, gunfire or graphic violence. And that is probably why it lost out to film titles like “A Bad Mom’s Christmas.” Tis the season!

A Brrrird!

“Viceroy’s House” was spectacular in all regards and helped clarify how much of the mess in India was created by the British colonialists. I heartily recommend it. All that adventure in one day! The decadence of travelling to another island just to see a movie did not elude me, so we crowned the afternoon by having a lovely dinner in a humble but wonderful Thai restaurant in Chemainus. Now it will be all dénoument for the rest of the month. Then the daylight will begin to increase each day. Yeah right!

While I’m in a complimentary moment, check out Johnathan Pie on You Tube. He’s a British journalist who manages to turn every report into a very raw rant. His ability to provide candid in-your-face opinions is very refreshing indeed. He has clearly been around for a while but he’ll probably disappear in mysterious circumstances. Catch him while you can.

In the woods, there’s still beauty on a gloomy day.
Ball, brook, branch.
Jack’s bliss. That’s his raincoat!
Jack has a quiet moment. Someone decorates several trees along one of our walking routes. This is the main one, also brightened with photos of dogs who used to walk here and are now in the ‘Big Kennel In The Sky.’

 

Waiting for the ferry at Vesuvius on Saltspring Island.

The fibreglass dinghy is now hanging from the back of ‘Seafire.’ It rows beautifully and fits the davits perfectly. Jack sat in the back looking like a little prince surveying his realm, clearly enjoying the ride while I rowed the royal barge. I love it when something works out and even the ship’s dog is happy.

The dinghy.
All tarted up and ready for sea. Note that ‘Seafire’ is not all wrapped in plastic. Ready, Aye ready!

 

Downtown Ladysmith, Christmas lights. They plant cabbages in the flower beds of town hall then leave the holiday lights on for months. Apparently the main street of Ladysmith has been vote the nicest in Canada
I don’t know what they’re called but these are one of my favourites. They stay like this until spring.
The phantom decorator strikes again. A gentle soul wanders far and wide, hanging a few decorations randomly throughout the woods. It’s lovely.

“ If it’s a wrong number, why did you answer the phone?” James Thurber

Here We Go Again

Here we go again! Southbound, looking down on Pruth Bay on the northwest corner of Calvert Island.
Here we go again!
Southbound, looking down on Pruth Bay on the northwest corner of Calvert Island.
The nook An embracing anchorage facing the open Pacific
The nook
An embracing anchorage facing the open Pacific
Port Hardy Potty Pause A Saab 340 of Pacific Coastal Airlines on the flight south from Bella Bella. Ten minutes for fuel and more passengers and a chance at the washroom. A clear, cold beautiful day.
Port Hardy Potty Pause
A Saab 340 of Pacific Coastal Airlines on the flight south from Bella Bella. Ten minutes for fuel and more passengers and a chance at the washroom. A clear, cold beautiful day.

February first, Bella Bella airport. Calm, clear, bloody cold. Again! I’m off south to the big smoke to see the vets again, for the same thing. The flight is uneventful but I can tell you that travelling with a UTI (Urinary tract Infection) has reduced my sense of manliness to a new low. Perhaps I’m just living out my life as a dog but moving about with the incessant urge to piddle becomes an incredible burden. It pisses me off. There are just not enough bushes out there some days. A residual effect from my bladder surgery at Christmas, it is definitely a gift that keeps on giving. Jill accompanied me to Vancouver for yet another heart procedure. It snowed persistently and on the crossing it was announced that all the Vancouver buses had been shut down. A big burly fellow began wailing loudly. He wore an interesting costume which included a studded dog collar. He whined loudly that he’d put all his money into attending a “Metal Concert” to the point of missing meals and now what would he do? I truly felt the urge to apply some slap therapy and wanted to ask him how he’d deal with being a Syrian refugee. Feckwit! More on the stupidity of our species shortly.

As it turned out, the buses were running, on time, and once again I was amazed at the efficiency of the Translink system in the lower mainland. People still find room to complain, but for less than the cost of one hour’s parking downtown, you can buy a day-pass that allows you to be whisked anywhere all day long without risk of theft, accident or parking problem. Jill and I were bemused to recall the panic on the ferry about how foot passengers were going to get themselves downtown. There were negotiations for rides with driver-volunteers and while I admired the obvious milk of human kindness, It was intriguing to see how easily blind panic was induced with a simple pre-emptive inaccurate announcement.

A view with a crane. Looking east from the hotel room at Lonsdale Quay. Yes that's snow!
A view with a crane. Looking east from the hotel room at Lonsdale Quay. Yes that’s snow! No, ‘Attessa’ is not my boat.
Lonsdale Quay The hotel is on top of the market.
Lonsdale Quay
The hotel is on top of the market.
Beautiful Downtown Bella Bella. The public wharf and center of the community. A very different world, perhaps planet, from Vancouver, two hours away by air.
Beautiful Downtown Bella Bella. The public wharf and center of the community. A very different world, perhaps planet, from Vancouver, two hours away by air. Note the perched eagle surveying his kingdom.

Back on Vancouver Island, also snowy and slushy, I ventured forth in my new-used truck. It is a lovely thing and will take my little off-road trailer on many future adventures. I have seldom acquired a vehicle, new or used, which did not provide some sort of an initiation break-down. Today was a repeat performance. In the middle of a slushy street, my lovely new used truck died. It turned out to be a corroded computer module which shut off the fuel supply; expensive, but easily remedied. My capitalist pride turn to instant frustration. A previous time when I’d just put a fresh set of tires on a new used vehicle, the engine promptly blew up at the top of the Malahat Summit. Yes, there’s another set of new tires in the store this time!

A nasty surprise. Fresh snow at the Nanaimo Departure Bay Ferry Terminal.
A nasty surprise. Fresh snow at Nanaimo’s Departure Bay Ferry Terminal.

The stunning part of that wee adventure was the incredible stupidity of many motorists. Some folks stopped to offer assistance which was dead lovely. Many others, although my full-sized black 4×4 truck, stalled in the middle of the snowy road with emergency flashers pulsing, could be seen for several blocks beforehand, would pull up immediately behind the vehicle. They would either sit with a blank look on their face or begin sounding their horn. In the hour it took a tow truck to arrive, this occurred many dozens of times. With my leaky plumbing issue, it was not at all a pleasant experience. Mein Gott! These folks are licensed to hurl themselves around the planet in large, deadly projectiles at high speed, yet apparently have the cognitive skills of a mudflap. No wonder the Trumps of the world can so easily take control. Living in a backwater like Shearwater clearly has some advantages. The only fool I need worry about here is myself. Fortunately, while repairs were being made, my dear old pals, Grethe and Niels, took me under their wing and soothed this sorry beast. Thank the gods for good friends.

Checking my e-mail I discovered that other friends has just completed the very long passage from South Africa to Trinidad on their sailboat ‘Sage.’ Tony and Connie left Victoria on Vancouver Island a few years ago and now have sailed over half-way around the planet. Where they go from Trinidad is anyone’s guess. What an intrepid pair. You can find a link to their blog site on the right hand sidebar of this blog. Another friend is sending me amazing photographs from Thailand. A sailor friend wintering in Mexico is urging me to just “Do it” and get my old buns down there. As soon as I can take the next breath, and the next pee, for granted, I’ll be on it like never before. The tears are running down my leg. (there’s a lot to be said for kilts.)

Monday morning, back to Vancouver today. It’s still snowing. Another adventure lies ahead.

Outflow Wind. Looking up Howe Sound from the deck of a ferry in Horseshoe Bay. Outflow winds from the snowfields and glaciers beyond Whistler accelerate down the Sound and head out to sea. It is bloody cold!
Outflow Wind.
Looking up Howe Sound from the deck of a ferry in Horseshoe Bay. Outflow winds from the snowfields and glaciers beyond Whistler accelerate down the Sound and head out to sea. It is bloody cold! The ferry to Langdale and the Sunshine Coast can be seen in the distance.

I find myself worrying about ‘Seafire’ languishing in Shearwater without me to look after her. There is another strong wind warning up for the area and within the next few days they’ll be blasting a monster pile of rock that has been being drilled for several weeks near my dock. I’d like to be able to take my beloved boat away a mile or two from the blast site. What will be will be and there’s enough to worry about right where I am; after all, it’s just a boat. Right? I have to haul myself, the old “wutless gonder,” off to the meat shop and get probed and zapped some more. That’s all that matters today….and a place to pee. Damn! How the mighty are fallen. There are so many kinds of courage and I marvel at those folks who bravely face horrible illness and injury and the ubiquitous poop-brindle beige halls of medical institutions. Then there are those who go to work in those places on a daily basis. I could not do that. We took a room in the lovely Lonsdale Quay Hotel. I’d planned to take Jill for an early Valentine’s dinner in a favourite restaurant; there was a gas leak and all the local restaurants were closed. We ended up enjoyed a fabulous meal in a Thai restaurant a few blocks away. You never know what’s around the corner!

A favourite view. I have long loved the northerly view to the north from the ferry lane between Nanaimo and Bowen Island. Texada Island looks like a small country, bounded on the west by Sabine channel and Lasqueti Island and Malaspina Strait on the east. Low clouds on the island's peak are usually the harbinger of bad weather.
A favourite view. I have long loved the view to the north from the ferry lane between Nanaimo and Bowen Island. Texada Island looks like a small country, bounded on the west by Sabine channel and Lasqueti Island and Malaspina Strait to the east. Low clouds on the island’s peak are usually the harbinger of bad weather.

February eighth, Campbell River Airport. At the hospital in Vancouver yesterday, in preparation for yet another “Cardioversion” (It sounds a bit like a religious experience …and it is!) the anaesthesiologist asked me if I remembered anything of the previous treatment. I replied that I did. I said I recalled a helluva bang and then the smell of bacon. She berated me for being a smart ass, although the rest of the attendant crew seemed to appreciate a little humour. This time I don’t remember a thing and the application of high-voltage has brought my pulse back to a normal rate. Now I can focus on getting my plumbing problems under control. A prescription has turned my discharges a brilliant orange. Tracking me in the fresh snow will be no problem.

Seriously, it ain’t no fun. Loss of bladder control is an agony, night and day, and I’m in pursuit of a new urologist for a second opinion and to see what’s going on. The one who did the reaming and ripping is arrogant and dismissive. Tests have revealed that there is no infection. Something else is wrong. Bugga! I understand why some folks launch malpractice litigation. I’m almost ready to rig up a bucket and hose tied to my leg. Patience I tell myself, patience, this too shall pass. Meanwhile the fluorescent tears run down my leg.

Collateral Damage. The Bella Bella water taxi shelter...where it meets the jetty ramp during storms.
Collateral Damage.
The Bella Bella water taxi shelter…where it meets the jetty ramp during storms.

Jill drove me to the Campbell River airport this morning and I hope to shortly be back in Shearwater. The trees and roadside were laden with snow. There is more forecast for later today. Up in the Great Bear Rainforest, there was a fire on Denny Island along the power line from Ocean Falls. Aerial photos on the TV news show miles of power line in flames. How that could happen, in rain forest in mid-winter is everyone’s mystery. The high winds must have fanned the flames. Some local local natives are trying to use this as yet another example of whitey’s disregard and neglect of First Nation needs and priorities because they were without electricity for a while on the weekend. No comment!

Gravity wins again! Buoyancy ends when that final drop of water trickles in. Bilge pumps are wonderful things!
Gravity wins again!
Buoyancy ends when that final drop of water trickles in. Functional bilge pumps are wonderful things!

Meanwhile we’re holding our breath about the weather being good enough on for today’s flight. I’d rather be sitting under a palm tree wondering which cantina to go to for dinner. Finally back in Bella Bella, there is a sinus-pinging north wind blowing. The wait on the dock for the water taxi was interminable. I returned to Shearwater a short while after the blast. A few rocks fell on the far end of my dock but ‘Seafire’ sat unscathed. A rock was fired through the wall of a house above the dock. It emerged through the ceiling into the kitchen. Collateral damage and all’s well that ends. In the afternoon I soon found myself head-down unbolting an engine for removal from a water taxi. Life goes on. This morning, as I write, a fresh blanket of snow is descending. Ordeal or adventure, life is what you make of it. Suddenly it is nearing mid-February and I’m still here. It is the Saturday of the year’s first long weekend but I’m going to work today. The weather is crap and the work in the shop is piling up. Too much time away gallivanting around in southern hospitals!

It's not spring yet!
It’s not spring yet!
TILT! As I post this blog a neighbour boat rides out the storm. 'Anarchy' is a Contessa 26. This design, tiny as it is, is famous for carrying many sailors on round-world-voyages.
TILT! As I post this blog a neighbour boat rides out the storm. ‘Anarchy’ is a Contessa 26. This design, tiny as it is, is famous for carrying many sailors on round-the-world-voyages.
Wind warped. The same boat on a much calmer evening.
Wind warped.
The same boat reflected on a much calmer evening.

On Sunday morning any plans for the long weekend have dissipated. A full storm has raged all night but fortunately with steady howling winds. No slamming gusts! I slept peacefully most of the night! Sleep has become a rare commodity because of my health issues which demand I visit the loo several times through the night. I’ve discovered Tibetan and Mongolian throat singing among other soothing types of music I can stream from You Tube. It’s weird perhaps, but it works and to be able to nap for two continuous hours is now a rare treat. As the day drags on the rising wind begins its slamming gusts. I clean and tinker on the boat as I upload the photos of this blog on our flickering internet. It will be a long day. I’m not complaining, just explaining. There will soon come a morning when the skies are clear, the wind will be warm and dry. The old verdigris-stained sails will fill and the compass will read due south.

Textured Moon
Textured Moon. Between the back-lit scudding clouds, a chance to make a creative photo of last night’s full moon.

“Now is the winter of our discontent.” William Shakespeare

Cream and Scum

Seafire Dreaming some dark and stormy nights it's hard to remember perfect moments like this in Clatse Sound
Seafire Dreaming
Some dark and stormy nights it’s hard to remember perfect moments like this one in Clatse Sound…and to imagine what can be ahead.

Warning: This blog contains a photo which some may consider offensive

“You’re getting past your shelf life.” How’s that for a remark from your doctor? He’s a great guy, one of the last country doctors I know and an avid permanent local. He has a great sense of humour which is a tremendous virtue for a doctor. On the water taxi ride back from the Bella Bella Hospital to Shearwater I began to reflect on what he really meant. The life I’ve lived has already taken me decades past my shelf life. I’ve done a lot of dangerous and stupid things in my time and know full well that none of us has more than the moment; no matter what we might think. I am not afraid of dying but I certainly hate not living. And living up here alone in the boat, through the winter, is proving to be nothing but an existence. After enduring a winter here in the Great Bear Rainforest I know I must make some immediate moves to change the prospects for the rest of my days. I don’t quite know how to change my status as an economic refugee, a common whore, especially when this old bilge ape is just not able to work as hard as he used to.

A Punter's View Sea-trialing a ubiquitous local punt with a new outboard motor
A Punter’s View
Sea-trialing a ubiquitous local punt with a new outboard motor

This blog was originally begun as a running narration of my vessel ‘Seafire’, myself and those who would join me on adventures and voyages to exotic destinations. It has taken on a life of its own and seems to teeter on a theme of finding wonder, humour and insights from the moments at hand. The years roar past like a runaway express train. For some reason I was cursed with hard wiring which seems to prevent me from ever getting my leg over a financial fence and achieving my simple dreams. Some friends tell how easy it is to just “DO” things but that formula eludes me. I have had many adventures which are too incredible to describe here; yet what I have dreamed of the hardest and longest still eludes me. Now my health is failing me and I have to modify those dreams and my lifestyle. I do also understand that with the correct lifestyle I can regain fair health and still live out some of those dreams. It is a conundrum which only I can resolve. The end of January is fast approaching and I’ve accomplished nothing here except to barely survive. But perhaps that in itself is an achievement.

"Feelin' nearly worn as my wheels." I decided it was time to replace the office chair wheels with something slightly less worn.
“When push comes to shove, Feelin’ nearly worn as my wheels.” I decided it was time to replace the office chair wheels with something slightly less worn.

Some sailors cheerfully go to extreme regions where they freeze-in for the long cold polar night. I’ve done my time in the Great White North. I cannot imagine eight to ten months of this as I sit here in the boat, writing at 03:00 and looking out at the blackness around the bay. There is no wind or rain tonight, for the moment, which perhaps is why I cannot sleep. It is too calm. What a place this is! Endeavours here are a strange waltzing boogie between the practical and the incongruous, the insane and the brilliant. To survive here one must mould themselves to bend around, and into, the culture of a many-faceted work camp community manned by characters, like myself, (Imagine a little town full of Freds) who don’t fit into the mainstream of the Southern Coast. I tend to simply do my job and then retreat into a hermit crab existence within this boat. But enough claptrap about the gloom of winter weather and frustrated dreams. There’s lots else to write about.

I often bemoan how my prime link with the outer world is CBC Radio. The radio and this laptop computer are my only company aboard the boat. (Really! No rubber dollies.) With a patter of human voices in the background, life is a little more bearable although many CBC programs are eternal manure heaps of rhetorical blither. Occasionally, for me, a nugget shines out from within the brown. One of those recent undungings was a half minute playing of an old but recognizable tune. No-one announced what those notes were, but it was instantly clear to me as a snippet of the theme music from a CBC series called ‘The Beachcombers.’ That tune is available online as are many of the 387 episodes aired over eighteen years. The show began in 1972 and was a near-instant hit. Set in beautiful little Gibsons BC the simple plots unfolded along the waterfront and still, even now, hold a pleasant charm. If you know who Relic was, you know the show. That series accomplished two things. First, I believe, its portrayal of life on this coast drew a migration of Eastern Canadians to the West. The image of an easy-going life in a picturesque setting had to be a magnet to a hippy generation that often travelled with only a thumb and a backpack. Those same folks are now entering their geriatric years and became the next generation of middle-class establishment which now owns some of the most expensive properties in the country. There’s a quote that goes, “A capitalist is just a socialist who’s found an opportunity.”

The Real Thing A locasl beachcomber's boat, the venerable and beautiful 'Pender Chief'
The Real Thing
A local beachcomber’s boat, the venerable and beautiful ‘Pender Chief.’ Beachcombing is the enterprise of finding merchantable logs afloat and washed up on beaches. No living timber is taken, it is solely a salvage operation. It is how I began a career which led me to full-time tugboating.

 

I think the second achievement of this TV series was that it portrayed as perfectly normal for whites and indigenous people to work and interact with each other on a fully equal basis. There were no exclamations about race or gender. Everyone was just one of the community. A local Sechelt native and prominent Hollywood actor, Chief Dan George, often guest-starred on the program and added a rare dignity. Anyone old enough to remember the show will soon fondly recall their favourite episode. However, there are now folks old enough to have a driver’s license who have never seen or heard of the production. If you see a geezer on the side of the road, wearing a headband and tattered bell-bottomed pants, they may well be on their way to check out the Sunshine Coast. It’s never too late. The food at Molly’s Reach is great. Peace man!

Knowing the ropes a beachcomber's workplace. a beach skiff and a shallow-draft tug. It's a great lifestyle and sometimes you can make a little money too!
Knowing the ropes
A beachcomber’s workplace. A beach skiff and a shallow-draft tug. It’s a great lifestyle and sometimes you can make a little money too!
Value added Beautiful clear cedar timbers milled from salvaged wood. It doesn't get better than grass roots commerce.
Value added
Beautiful clear cedar timbers milled from salvaged wood. It doesn’t get better than grass roots commerce. Bonus scr

Speaking of peace there is the Trump subject. How many damned times a day do we have to hear something else relating to Trump? I’ve found myself counting the seconds after the radio is turned on until I hear the dreaded T-name. I try to avoid political contemplation at length in this blog but the media has been battering us with all things Trumpety, Trump since the beginning of the long presidential campaign. I’ve had enough. I’ll simply say that I wouldn’t want to spend any time in a life raft with this dude. Same thing, by the way, for Hilary. My dog is so smart he is well able to play stupid as it suits him. I think Trump may be playing a similar game. Listen carefully when he speaks about his “Big beautiful wall.” While it is assumed he is talking about his contempt for Mexico he carefully talks about protecting “Our borders.” Guess who has the only other border Canada. Many US citizens do not really see Canada as a sovereign nation and we have all these resources. Get it? Sleep tight.

Clearly he also has low regard for China so here’s a proposal. Major US retailers, like Walmart and Costco, sell little that is NOT made in China. Maersk shipping built special container ships just to accommodate Walmart’s huge demand. The shipping line returns those tens of thousands of containers to China; empty. So Mr. T, if it’s America first, perhaps US businesses should sell only US manufactured goods. Huh? And you say you will close all your hotels outside the borders of the US? Oh, and please, please bring all those crap fast food American restaurants back within your beloved border. Free enterprise. Ever hear of that Donny? NAFTA. Not A Freakin’ Thing’s Allowed! I’ve done a lot of business in the US and it seems to me that Americans hate being beaten at their own game. How’s that for a rant?

I WARNED YOU! Something under this dock grows, no-one is sure what to call it. Here are some possible captions: Cojone Del Mar But it's natural! No bull A family resemblance Neurotic Photo It must be spring Got DNA
I WARNED YOU! Something under this dock grows, no-one is sure what to call it.
Here are some possible captions:
Cojone Del Mar
But it’s natural!
No bull /Got DNA
A family resemblance
Neurotic Photo/ Old Sea Scrotum
It must be spring/That reminds me
Got DNA /”Well, doc, it kinda’ feels like a barnacle.

Meanwhile, up here in Gulag Shearwater the vicious weather has returned. High winds with massive gusts have stormed us for the past two days and nights. Old ‘Seafire’; is slammed repeatedly. The heavy boat is tossed about like a bath tub toy. Sleep for the past two nights was impossible. My binnacle cover, which was tied securely, was gone this morning. There’s another few hundred dollars blown away. It was due to be replaced, but I wanted the old one for a pattern. Shingles nailed to the dock were torn up by the wind and flung helter skelter. The weather was too foul even for our intrepid tugboat skipper to run a freight barge over to Bella Bella. I’ve sold my vehicle to a fellow there and need to deliver it. By water taxi we’re about fifteen minutes apart with rides an hour apart. BC Ferries offers a vague and irregular service which runs bi-monthly on average. Tonight I’ll board the ferry at 23:30 hours and then spend the night trying to sleep in the vehicle once ashore in Bella Bella.

Night Moves Midnight, pouring rain ink darkness, I wait at the ferry dock, the only passenger.
Night Moves
Midnight, pouring rain, inky darkness, I wait at the ferry dock, the only passenger.

All’s well that ends. It pummelled down rain all night, I slept fitfully. The transaction is complete, paid in full along with some fish. Then my new friend delivered me back to my own boat with his. There really are plenty of good folks out there yet.

A gift of fish. It's lovely to do business with gracious people.
A gift of fish. It’s lovely to do business with gracious people.

At least Donald has never heard of Shearwater. Ah, here comes the wind again.

“Cream rises to the top. So does scum.” …Ian Graham.

After The Crash

Eagle moon January 12th Cold, clear, calm, icy!
Eagle moon
January 12th
Cold, clear, calm, icy!
January First, 2017
January First, 2017

 

In a recent blog I promised that, despite the winter doldrums, I would find something interesting to write about. How about a runaway forklift? I repaired the wiring on a forklift which had died outside my engine shop. Once it was running, I did some final electrical checks and then gathered up my tools. That was when the back-up alarm began to sound. The heavy machine lurched backwards, accelerating as it went. One hundred feet away sat a row of boats. The first two were aluminium work punts and then a very expensive fibreglass sport fishing boat. In horror I jogged toward the impending disaster, my brain screaming “No, no, no!” The punts were shouldered aside, as the smoothly idling forklift zeroed in on the prime target. Fortunately the ground was covered in ice and the trundling attack came to rest as blocking was flung aside and a pile of pallets splintered. One driving wheel spun in useless frustration. I was able to clamber aboard and shut the engine off.

Beep, beep , beep, bee...Shit! The reverse runaway forklift. Thank goodness for the ice. The expensive boat behind the forklift was spared by one inch.
Beep, beep , beep, bee…Shit! The reverse runaway forklift. Thank goodness for the ice. The expensive boat behind the forklift was spared by one inch.
Safety First! The ubiquitous local aluminum punt often requires welding repairs after rocky beaches and stormy seas. Stacks of pallets are a great way of positioning the vessel at the best height. Creak, crack, tilt.
Safety First!
The ubiquitous local aluminum punt often requires welding repairs after rocky beaches and stormy seas. Stacks of pallets are a great way of positioning the vessel at the best height. Creak, crack, tilt.

Collateral damage was minimal and the dislocated punts came to rest an actual one inch from the hull of the grand boat. The forklift controls were worn. As it idled the shift lever vibrated itself down into the reverse position. I made appropriate repairs immediately. In my bunk, I dreamed of the machine launching itself over the end of a barge. The reverse alarm beeped its way overboard and then made a most peculiar sound as the machine sank. All’s well that ends. As the daylight faded a near-full moon rose into a crackling clear sky. Hopefully this heralds the end of our cold snap. It has been a rare event for which we are ill-prepared.

The old castle road. Would you believe a WWII jeep trail through local bogland
The old castle road.
Would you believe a WWII jeep trail through Denny Island bogland?

The weather has now returned to the many shades of grey slanting rain and gusting wind. It’s just another long, tedious day after tedious day on the mid-coast of British Columbia. The broken dock chains have been replaced. Slam-bashing winds have wracked the docks every night since and all is well. Yesterday, despite the cold lashing rain, there were rolls of fog on the distant mountains that had a spring-like look. Perhaps it is just wishful thinking but there really was an hour of sunlight in the late morning. One of the joys of getting older is knowing that nothing is forever and winter will eventually end. The trick for me is to find and savour those brief golden moments.

Winter dream.... When the sunlight is high and warm and long each day. ....Many more sleeps!
Winter dream….
When the sunlight is high and warm and long each day.
….Many more sleeps!

The weeks grind on. Donald Trump is plugged in at his newest ivory tower and even up here, it seems, the world is puckered up in anticipation and dread. Yes, even here in the remoteness of the rain forest. I suspect that in four years we’ll discover his rhetoric was largely empty promise and threat, just like a politician. He will have been forced to acknowledge possession of all normal human bodily parts. His ambition as the world’s next fuhrer will be fully deflated. Simply understand to never, ever trust a fat man with tiny hands.

Any sign of spring is desperately cherished. A moment of sunshine, its warmth on one’s face. I heard geese today. They’re local birds, but haven’t called like that for months. Beneath the docks, billions of herring swarm and glitter. That is a sure sign of good things to come. Today while on a sea-trial out in the bay I saw a huge humpback whale. I’m sure it was gorging on the spawning herring. Later, as I walked back to my boat, I heard two wolves howling nearby. There’s hope!

January Moon Rise The long sleepy wait for spring. Beneath the calm surface, the tides ebb and flood, the herring begin to return by the billion. The year's timeless cycle turns as ever.
January Moon Rise
The long sleepy wait for spring. Beneath the calm surface, the tides ebb and flood, the herring begin to return by the billion. The year’s timeless cycle turns as ever.

“ Politics is the gentle art of getting votes
From the poor and campaign funds from the rich,
By promising to protect each from the other.”
~Oscar Am Ringer, “the Mark Twain of American Socialism.

Look Ma, no batteries!
Look Ma, no batteries!

Cellos And Chicken Soup

Jury Rig A temporary fix to hold the dock in place until a new chain can be installed.
Jury Rig
A temporary fix to hold the dock in place until a new chain can be installed.

New Year’s Day. Finally enjoying a good sound night’s slumber, after two long sleepless ones, I was awakened by a frantic knocking on my deck at 04:00. Dreadfully ill with a nasty virus, my chest and head blocked with insidious goo, I had finally slipped off to the roar of a rising wind and the rocking of the boat. I sleep well when it’s like that. I was jarred back to consciousness by some folks who were ending a New Year’s Eve party on the float house next door. A vicious westerly wind had risen. The massive but badly rusted chain which held the end of the dock had snapped. My beloved ‘Seafire’ and the boat ahead of us were in peril of being caught in the bight. Imminent danger loomed of being crushed between two pieces of dock. All of the boats here could well become part of a tangled mess on the beach. New Years was beginning with a bang. I groped around in the dark to find my pants.

Life On A Thread The temporary life line which kept the broken dock from folding up on the boats moored to it. 'Seafire' is one of the boats. It is my home at the moment. Most of my life is invested in it.
Life On A Thread
The temporary life-line which kept the broken dock from folding up on the boats moored to it. ‘Seafire’ is one of the boats. It is my home at the moment. Most of my life is invested in it.
One Thin Line While we wait for some new dock chain to arrive this frayed piece of line holds the life of 'Seafire'.
One Thin Line
While we wait for some new dock chain to arrive this frayed piece of line holds the life of ‘Seafire’ and a few other boats.

Stepping into the cockpit was an instant full-body ice cream headache. Uumph! I puckered up. Damn! I wasn’t going to be of much use to anyone. The wind continue to blow. The best I could do was to forestall various inept efforts by my peer’s attempts after their evening of celebrations. Finally some competent sober talent arrived and all’s well that ends. Five hours later the morning sun in the churning clear sky is just now rising up the masts along the dock. “In like a lion, out like a lamb.” Hope so.

Happy New Year!

SUSHI! Marine growth on one of the old dock chains.
SUSHI!
Marine growth on one of the old dock chains.
T he Pecking Order Look who came to lunch!
T he Pecking Order
Look who came to lunch!

I went back to work next day in the engine shop by checking our fleet of water taxis and planning the days ahead. The cold wind whistled and rumbled under the azure blue where ravens and eagles hovered in the pure sunlight. It was a glorious day. On the ground I’m still stuffed with flu goo. My chest is honking and burbling like a flock of geese. That’s as close to flight as I can get. But I gasped and puffed my way a day closer to my goals. Large pieces of paper towel emerge clean and fluffy from the clothes drier. All those pockets with paper hankies I did not remove. I believe that’s called recycling. Snot funny! I spread clean warm sheets fresh from the laundry bag on the bunk and flop down on top to savour the fading warmth. I will not be here next winter. That is a promise. (As I post this blog, CBC news airs a report that Greece has temperatures of -10 and a dusting of snow.)

It is the time of year where each day can be a dark eternity. Work is a bleak distraction from other harsh realities. Hibernation instincts are high and it would be grand to simply sleep for the next two months. There are plenty of projects on the boat to be completed. They’ll still be there when the weather eases under the influence of spring. I also have many writing efforts sitting on the back of the stove, slowly bubbling away. The problem is staying awake. I find myself hunched over this computer, slumbering fitfully with my banana fingers keying out several pages of Zs or Fs. I’m napping these words out over my breakfast coffee and catch myself nodding’doing the chicken’ once again. Last night I awoke sitting here at eleven pm, and finally went to bed. This morning I crawled out of the warm bedding one toe at a time.

Finding The Leaks Each icicle marks a flaw in the tired old caulking which won't hold rain water in.
Finding The Leaks
Each icicle marks a flaw in the tired old caulking which won’t hold rain water in.

By week’s end not much has changed. My flu is reluctantly easing its grip but it has left me utterly exhausted. I’m spending this weekend simply resting. Posting this blog is my only endeavour. Possessed with all the ambition of a mudflap, I’ll ignore all the work heaped up in the shipyard and on this boat. I need my ‘mojo’ back. Apparently the entire coast is gripped with a flu epidemic and harsh winter weather. In Shearwater the temperature has risen enough for snow and rain but the forecast for the week ahead includes more snow and descending temperatures once again. The evening twilight does seem to be lingering a few minutes more and there are green buds on some of the bushes.

"I'll go to sea no more." After having their bones picked a final time for any pieces of value, these old hulls will be broken up and taken to the dump.
“I’ll go to sea no more.”
After having their bones picked a final time for any pieces of value, these old hulls will be broken up and taken to the dump.
The Indignity Of Death. Private parts exposed, corpses go unnoticed.
The Indignity Of Death.
Private parts exposed, corpses go unnoticed.

Once, the notion of the Great White North seemed a manly thing to me. I recall winter tent camps, thawing ice for drinking water, starting machinery in the dark in minus forty degree weather. The romance of it all eludes me now. Old ‘Seafire’ was not built for these latitudes. Staying warm and dry is an ongoing challenge. On Saturday morning, seven days into the year, I stay buried within the coziness of my bunk until long after the first broke-back pickup has clattered by.

Beaking It out A pair of eagles sing a hungry song.
Beaking It out
A pair of eagles sing a hungry song.

There is a road on the perimeter of the bay where the vehicles rattle past. Our roads here are rough and folks seem to like to drive as fast as possible. Destroying a vehicle with abuse and neglect seems to be part of the local culture. Body parts rattle, torn-off mufflers do not get replaced, faulty brakes and worn-out tires are lived with. Some vehicles pass by the engine shop daily to re-inflate soft tires. Headlights are left burned or bashed out despite the long hours of darkness.

A Brilliant Selfie One of the few bright ideas I've had in a while...actually the photo is an accident.
A Brilliant Selfie
One of the few bright ideas I’ve had in a while…actually the photo is an accident.

And so life goes on in Weirdwater. Frankly, I’m feeling as road-weary as the vehicles here. In the last few days, the company has been sorting out derelict vessels and storing them in one corner. They were living, working creatures at one time, loved by someone who used them to make a living. Now they are dead shells waiting for the crush and bash of the breaker’s machinery. Where does a boat’s soul go? Probably the same place mine seems to be heading. After my house chores and cleaning up the boat outside I reclined in the main cabin while a fragrant pot of Avgolemono (Greek lemon chicken soup) simmered on the stove. YouTube streamed various pieces of cello music and I snoozed peacefully. It seemed as good a cure for the flu as any. I’m getting good at doing nothing. In fact I’m thinking of retreating into the deep folds of my bunk and hibernating like a bear. No more postcards from Mexico please. Call me when you see the swans heading north again. Meanwhile, a week later, the broken dock still hangs on the end of a single temporary rope. The wind warning for today is forecasting speeds of up to 100kph. The mast and rigging begin to hum and sing and vibrate once again.

“Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody ever seems to do anything about it.”

…..Willard Scott

Frozen Weirdwater

Wrong Way Train Trust me...sitting at the head end of a sky train car hurtling into a tunnel marked DO NOT ENTER. A strange part of the journey on the way to the place in this blog's last photo.
Wrong Way Train
Trust me…sitting at the head end of a sky train car hurtling into a tunnel marked DO NOT ENTER. A strange part of the journey on the way to the place in this blog’s last photo.

CLICK ON PHOTOS TO ENLARGE

All photos taken with my cell phone)

Weirdwater is a term of endearment I gave to Shearwater when I first arrived. It is a ‘Hooterville’ sort of outpost manned by unique characters, aberrant personalities and general misfits. I am one of them. I make no apologies for clinging to my individuality. After a few days in a large city I’ve affirmed my refusal to join the vast ranks of the faceless and mindless. As my hero Billy Connolly says, “Feckin’ beigists!”

Despite being involved with hurtling endeavours most of my life, I still have a fascination with the speed we creatures nonchalantly get around on our planet. Yesterday I started out within the nest of a few million people. It took me less than an hour and a half to cover the congested miles from North Vancouver to the airport terminal. There is no way anyone in a car could cover that distance within a multiple of the time and cost. I sat at the very front of the Canada Line Skytrain as we hurtled between stations. Two ladies in the seat behind spoke in loud Arabic. A wonderful language to listen to, both musical and staccato. It sounds as if that language is spoken from the back of the mouth, instead of the front as English is spoken. I need to develop a better grasp of my mother tongue before worrying about anyone else’s. At least today I write without the brain-addling effects of residual hospital medications and the resultant poor grammar. Within the muddle that Vancouver has become, as it morphs into a world-class city, I think it is wonderful to realize the richness of ethnic diversity and how that enhances our collective Canadian identity.

Oddly, contemplating communications, the night before I watched a splendid new movie called ‘Arrival.’ It was largely about learning how to find a common working language with aliens who had dropped in to help us resolve our global issues. No graphic violence or sex but very absorbing and thought-provoking. It was well done and kept me awake, (which may be due in part to a defective theatre furnace.) So now that I’ve survived the adventure of a hospital visit, fondled fresh produce yesterday on Lonsdale Street, watched a movie and savoured various ethnic cuisines I’m back to the blunt reality of being back here and living within parameters that are presently frozen hard. Despite the warnings of global warming it seems we are in the grasp of an advancing ice age.

Above the storm. Beneath the clouds a winter storm rages with blasting wind and bulleting snow. Warmer, moist Pacific air comes ashore rising over the colder heavier outflow air descending from inlaid.
Above the storm.
Beneath the clouds a winter storm rages with blasting wind and bulleting snow. Warmer, moist Pacific air comes ashore rising over the colder heavier outflow air descending from inland. Snow, snow, snow!
Holy Snappin'! The flags crack in a stout winter wind. The boing sea at the edge of the Port Hardy airstrip. The green stain on the wing is residual de-icing fliud applied in Vancouver.
Holy Snappin’!
The flags crack in a stout winter wind. The boing sea at the edge of the Port Hardy airstrip. The green stain on the wing is residual de-icing fliud applied in Vancouver.
Say no more. This photo explains it all. A very ugly weather day.
Say no more. This photo explains it all. A very ugly weather day.
Are we having fun? I was very happy to be inside the airplane instead of in a boat down below.
Are we having fun? I was very happy to be inside the airplane instead of in a boat down below.
Whoosh! Down underneath the solid overcast we hurtle northward past Safety Cove on Calvert Island. We have a wonderful tailwind.
Whoosh! Down underneath the solid overcast we hurtle northward past
Safety Cove on Calvert Island. We have a wonderful tailwind.
Yes! Readers know it by now. Hakai Pass country.
Yes! Readers know it by now. Hakai Pass country.
Any port in a storm. A safe enough anchorage but a boat on the hook there would be twisting and grinding on its anchor chain. A big catspaw is clearly visible well into the bay. Been there, done that. All too often!
Any port in a storm.
A safe enough anchorage but a boat on the hook there would be twisting and grinding on its anchor chain. A big catspaw is clearly visible well into the bay. Been there, done that. All too often!
The peaks of Denny Island. White patches beneath are snow-covered bogs.
The peaks of Denny Island. White patches beneath are snow-covered bogs.

My flight home was put on a reduced schedule because of a dire weather warning. After a treatment in the deicing station we ascended into the encroaching blizzard and flew north with the front tickling up under the edges of our kilt. We landed in Port Hardy in weather conditions that were on the edge then raced on up the coast with a brisk tailwind. The good old boy up front threw his IFR book out and dove underneath the clag to slap us safely down at Bella Bella in record time. This old pilot always loved flying low and fast. I enjoyed the ride thoroughly and wouldn’t have done a thing differently. (high praise indeed!)

Bella Bella no, not the big white patch. that's bog. The community is strung along the shoreline in front of the bog land. It is the center of the Heiltsuk Nation. The airfield is to the west of the village, on the right side of the photo.
Bella Bella
No, not the big white patch. That’s bog. The community is strung along the shoreline in front of the bog land. It is the center of the Heiltsuk Nation. The airfield is to the west of the village, on the right side of the photo.
On short final, a few seconds before landing in Bella Bella, Shearwater is at approximately the two o'clock position above the bright gleam, at the top of Kliktsoatli Harbour. HOME IS WHERE THE BOAT IS.
On short final, a few seconds before landing in Bella Bella. Shearwater is at approximately the two o’clock position above the bright gleam, at the top of Kliktsoatli Harbour. HOME IS WHERE THE BOAT IS! The view is Eastward over Seaforth Channel, Rithet Island is to the right of center, Lamma Pass in the distance on the right.

Now here I sit in old ‘Seafire’ trying to stay warm. The forecast is for a long spell of cold weather with temperatures about fifteen degrees below normal. A massive Arctic high is parked in the middle of the continent and outflow winds all the way from Saskatchewan whistle through the rigging. The water supply is frozen, the cabin is sixty degrees inside with a forecast of descending temperatures over the next several days. The dock pops and squeaks in the cold. Well I have complained incessantly about the eternal rain! BBBBugga! Be careful what you wish for.

Where the blogs come from... SEAFIRE is moored behind the islet beneath the arrow. Lamma Pass is beyond Denny Island. Past that is Campbell Island and on its Western side the waters open onto the open Pacific. To the right of the arrow the large building is the remaining WWII aircraft hangar where I work. The T-shape of the guest dock is visible. Between it and the hangar are the restaurant/pub, grocery store, hotel, fishing lodge, laundromat, a grocery store, marine store and novelty store. The postal code is V0T 1B0: Very Odd Town Only 1 Bar THAZZIT! Downtown Weirdwater
Where the blogs come from… SEAFIRE is moored behind the islet beneath the arrow. Lamma Pass is beyond Denny Island. Past that is Campbell Island and on its Western side the waters open onto the open Pacific. To the right of the arrow the large building is the remaining WWII aircraft hangar where I work. The T-shape of the guest dock is visible. Between it and the hangar are the restaurant/pub, grocery store, hotel, fishing lodge, laundromat, a grocery store, marine store and novelty store. The postal code is V0T 1B0:
Very Odd Town One Bar Only
THAZZIT! Downtown Weirdwater

“ You haven’t seen a tree until you’ve seen its shadow from the sky.” — Amelia Earhart

A Funny Thing Happened in Bella Bella

 

By Cracky! winter comes to Shearwater. The fresh water than runs into our little bay keeps growth on the hull-bottom to a minimum and also freezes quickly. I guess ice will also grind something off the bottom.
By Cracky!
Winter comes to Shearwater. The fresh water than runs into our little bay keeps growth on the hull-bottom to a minimum and also freezes quickly. I guess ice will also grind something off the bottom.

On my last trip south I learned that I had a tumour in my bladder. Yes, you can call that a “piss-off.” I’m getting used to being sliced and diced in the name of medicine so it’s more of an inconvenience that something to worry about. I went to the lab in the Bella Bella for some routine pre-op samplings and we discovered that once again I have tachycardia. I know I’m a tacky fellow but this is ridiculous. For the second time this year my pulse has set itself up around 140. The cure is a procedure called a Cardioversion. Essentially you are electrocuted and resuscitated successfully. Hopefully the heart rate is reduced to a normal thumpalong and life goes on after the reboot. That’s why I’m sitting in a hotel room in North Vancouver. Actually the Lonsdale Quay Hotel sits atop the public market and is a lovely, affordable hideaway in the heart of the mess which Vancouver has become. It seems weird to be here after sitting in the Bella Bella terminal, such as it is, barely three hours ago. The raucous laughter of the local women working behind the ticket counter surged while really good blues music boomed out of the coffee bar satellite stereo. They’re still there, now I’m here. I was amazed to realize that while I waited in the air terminal of the remote village of Bella Coola I was emailing to and from contacts in Scotland, Arizona, Nanaimo and South Africa, all within seconds. What an amazing world we have in our hands, if only we would learn to be more positive with it.

There's nothing like airport signs to keep you guessing. Thank fully someone decided there should be clear directions at Bella Bella International.
There’s nothing like airport signs to keep you guessing. Thankfully someone decided there should be clear directions at Bella Bella International.
"In the Early morning snow, with no place else to go." The flight line-up at Bella Bella. a gorgeous Beaver and a Cessna Caravan on amphib. floats.
“In the Early morning snow, with no place else to go.” The flight line-up at Bella Bella. A gorgeous Beaver and a Cessna Caravan on amphib. floats.
One dead-sexy airplane and where your Telus phone bills go. This Cessna Caravan is all painted up in company colours. note the registration on the tail. I took this photo while the pilot backed the airplane into position.
One dead-sexy airplane and where your Telus phone bills go. This Telus Cessna Caravan is all painted up in company colours.
C-FTEL note the registration on the tail. I took this photo while the pilot backed the airplane into position.

I’m no city boy. Vancouver has risen from a somewhat quaint city to a sprawlng steel and concrete monster with none of the personality I recall it once having had. Combine that neo-chrominess gleam and harshness with zero-minus temperatures the place has become like a metal dog bone. How people live here amazes me. I’m sure they’d feel the same way about seeing my boat frozen in at the dock in Shearwater. In the three hours of travel from the mid-coast rain forest I’m on a different planet. The flight from Bella Bella arrives at the south terminal of YVR. A direct flight takes less than two hours. My flight was via Campbell River presumably to round up the load with more passengers. For some God-stupid reason everyone flying out of Campbell River has go through airport security. That means get off the plane with all your baggage and be inspected by a squad of geriatric goons wearing latex gloves. Then tyou get back on the same plane. “Ziss ischt ze border to ze real vorld.” WTF? There are no security checks on a direct flight to YVR.

BRRR! That's Canada down there...and for a few thousand miles to the East, and North.
BRRR!
That’s Canada down there…and for a few thousand miles to the East, and North.
For a few rare minutes... The valley floor enjoys sunlight. Months can pass without that happening again.
For a few rare minutes…
The valley floor enjoys sunlight. Months can pass without that happening again.

It is the goofiest thing I’ve ever experienced. A flight to Vancouver is in domestic airspace and why US Homeland Insecurity is this far-reaching completely baffles me. One’s person and one’s possessions are x-rayed. Belt buckles and keys, laptops ecetera are fondled, drinking water dumped out, shaving kits swabbed. Geez Louise! I beginning to brace for rectal probes, DNA swabs and a thorough dog-sniffing. This, on previous inspections here, was accomplished by burly Amazons hurling commands in Eastern European accents. If I’m a bit non-plussed, you should hear the indignations from Amurican travellers caught in this foolishness. Some hefty corn and pork-fed hombre, probably named Duane, with an Iowa accent, crossed his arms and whined “Wots with all this shit anyhoww?” Last time I looked, Campbell River is not spiked to the world map anywhere near Islamabad or Kabul. I find it hard to believe that the friendly town is a nest for ISIS, El Quaida or the Taliban. Paranoia and politics have no bounds and I’ve learned not to voice any questions when being processed like a sheep. “Jus’ shaddup Lil’ Pokey and get back on the plane. They ain’t friendly heah!”

Yet another of my ubiquitous shots of Hakai Pass. Hawaii is somewhere out there beyond the starboard wingtip.
Yet another of my ubiquitous shots of Hakai Pass. Hawaii is somewhere out there beyond the starboard wingtip.

Snowy Meadows All that untrodden vastness! Snow angels and skidoo tracks...it's all yours. I'm not interested.

Snowy Meadows
All that untrodden pristine vastness! Snow angels and skidoo tracks…it’s all yours. I’m not interested.

A shuttle bus wafts the traveller to the main YVR terminal where one easily finds the Sky Train connection. For a very modest fee you are rocketed into the heart of the city, the train stopping to accumulate more sardines, between high-G accelerations and stops. I found myself disgorged in the old CPR station which is the hub of all lower mainland transit. I made my way to the Seabus (More fishpacking) for the ride across Burrard Inlet. My hotel looks down on the terminal. As I write I reflect on the mass-movement of urbanites.

World-over they have a perpetual need to push and shove and try to be first in any crowd. “Look you old bugger, that seat is going to same place this one is. Just relax!” Almost all have their heads bent to their texting, music plugs wired into each ear. All this density, all this detachment. Eye contact and smiles apparently frighten most people, but because I am a bit burly, and know how to fluff myself out like an old cock owl, I feel safe to conduct my ongoing survey for my amusement and research. Even a geriatric babushka seems to think a smile may be the foreplay for some indecent assault on one of her massive oaky legs. C’mon now! I know better than to smile at children, I might just be one of those!

The Seven Pillows Of The Kamma Single. What the hell am I going to do with seven pillows...alone? It doesn't take much to impress this bog trotter. Not even vaguely does it resemble my bunk in 'Seafire.'
The Seven Pillows Of The Kamma Single. What the hell am I going to do with seven pillows…alone? It doesn’t take much to impress this bog trotter.
Not even vaguely does it resemble my bunk in ‘Seafire.’

At the entrance to the hotel there is a Christmas tree lot where young couples painstakingly select the perfect tree. I’ve spent a lot of time in the forest, and being a logger I wax nostalgic to any coniferous smell, but there is something unique about the aroma of all those cut trees in the crisp winter air. It must be the blend of the different species but that fragrance instantly brings up images of Christmas memories warm and good, dark and painful. I move on quickly.

My Other Brother Fred I've often joked about him and you thought I was kidding. I could not resist the novelty of two mirrors. Yup...bushwhacked!
My Other Brother Fred
I’ve often joked about him and you thought I was kidding. I could not resist the novelty of two mirrors.
Yup…bushwhacked!

After occasionally sampling the fare of the only restaurant in the Shearwater / Bella Bella community it is a shock to indulge in a wide choice of ethnic restaurants and pubs. Meals are priced quite reasonably (compared to Shearwater) and the food is very good. You are not ignored if you are a single patron (unlike Shearwater) and the only problem is savouring the aromas of other restaurants once out of the one where you just ate a bellyful. I believe that was a simple essay on the merits of competition. Well, home is where the boat is and I must go back…for the time being.

Tiny Bubbles This photographer never knew he was my subject. The bubbles came from a machine and this bush baby loved them.
Tiny Bubbles
This photographer never knew he was my subject. The bubbles came from a machine and this bush baby loved them.
ATTESSA "That yer girlfriend's boat?" I don't want it, just wish I could afford it.
ATTESSA
“That yer girlfriend’s boat?”
I don’t want it, just wish I could afford it.
Hell! I couldn't even buy her flags.
Hell’s teeth! I couldn’t even buy her flags.

I’m now writing from my hotel room after two visits to the Lion’s Gate Hospital. Yesterday I had to endure a procedure that required me to endure a phallic object being stuffed down my throat in order to do an ECG of the dark side of my heart. I was semi-medicated. Today I was given the treatment; a Cardioversion. Yes, it was indeed the religious experience that it sounds like. Once again having to dress in a bum-flapper I was wired and plumbed like a fighter jet, all the while a geeky little doctor advised me about “THE RULES ” as he plunged and twisted an intravenous needle into the back of my hand. The broohaw was about how I would get home after the procedure. I walked a mile downhill to the hotel yesterday. Today I was wheel-chaired into a bus, hydraulically loaded aboard and driven down that same mile to a corner nearest the hotel. Landed on the sidewalk, I immediately walked three blocks back up the hill to a pharmacy to have a prescription filled. It felt great! What I really needed was a walk.

Street art on Lonsdale Avenue. I recalled a woman who called me an "Ass-half." she explained that she didn't think I was man enough to be considered and ass-whole.
Street art on Lonsdale Avenue. I recalled a woman who once called me an “Ass-half.” She explained that she didn’t think I was man enough to be considered an ass-whole.
It doesn't take much to impress a backwoods boy. In Small shipment of compost.hearwater we have to content ourselves with a bi-weekly shipment of compost.
It doesn’t take much
to impress a backwoods boy. In Shearwater we have to content ourselves with a bi-monthly shipment of compost.
I was delighted to find this nearby sign but it took a few minutes of asking before I could actually find the theatre. It seems that in the cyber age we're losing the simple skill of clear communication.
I was delighted to find this nearby sign but it took a few minutes of asking before I could actually find the theatre. It seems that in the cyber age we’re losing the simple skill of clear communication and signage.
Chiba Garden North Vancouver has done a lovely job of developing its waterfront. This little Zen world is beneath an overhead walkway, beside a leash-free dog park and next to a train track. Very nice.
Chiba Garden
North Vancouver has done a lovely job of developing its waterfront. This little Zen world is beneath an overhead walkway, beside a leash-free dog park and next to a train track. Very nice.
The real thing
The real thing
Ommmmmm
Ommmmmm
A promise of spring. despite the wintery weather...and it's not even winter yet.
A promise of spring. despite the wintery weather…and it’s not even winter yet.        Pussy Willows!

 

I’m grateful to all the good folks at the hospital, who work twelve-hour shifts in those windowless beige and puce chambers filled with moaning, groaning patients. Most seemed to enjoy my attempts at stand-up comedy. There’s nothing like a little comic relief to stir the pot.

One nurse asked me to “Wiggle up in my bed,” then “a little more.” I had some fun with that and discovered who did, and did not, have a sense of humour. To me there is nothing more comforting than a care giver with a sense of humour and nothing more frightening than one with none. Finally it was time for my treatment, the dreaded ‘Cardioversion.”

With a large electrode placed on either top and bottom of my heart, and a light dose of La La juice, there was an instant bolt of lightning in my chest. KA BLAM! Wot a buzz dude! All’s well that ends. My pulse rate is back within the speed limit.

I even liked the garden fence.
I even liked the garden’s fence.

Now I’m resting and waiting for the morning when, hopefully, I can return to Weirdwater. There is a snow storm forecast for Vancouver tonight. The windchill factor where ‘Seafire’ is berthed is predicted to be minus fifteen celsius. The adventure continues and getting ‘Seafire’ south never seemed more hopeless. This is the time that something really good might happen. We just have to hang in there.

Old Dick Head Someone has done a very nice job of emulating a Rapa Nui mola, but I, of course, took a ruder view. I'd love to have him in my garden, if I had one.
Old Dick Head Hisself
Someone has done a very nice job of emulating a Rapa Nui mola, but I, of course, took a cruder view. I’d love to have him in my garden, if I had one.
A ship in the night slips in but before dawn's early light I'll have taken flight. tomorrow night I be back in pit- pitch dark with only the howling of wolves. Seems strange.
A ship in the night slips in but before dawn’s early light I’ll have taken flight. Tomorrow night I’ll be back in pit- pitch dark with only the howling of wolves.
Seems strange.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.”

….pub signboard downstairs