Seafire Archives - Page 3 of 3 - bc-bog-trotter.com

BUMHUG TIME AGAIN!

Christmas nears. The contemporary festive season of joy and hope has shifted into high gear with Black Friday. The marketing machine has been warming up for the past several months and now everyone is charging around like the ‘Terminator’. They seem consumed with rabid fervour to acquire as much as possible and indulge excess in every way. The pounds of pulp fiction (Or is that friction?) which come in the mail to exhort me to join the orgy must have demanded the levelling of a forest somewhere. The latest versions of children’s video games are being advertised. All it seem, have new and improved slam bam splatter violence. A perfect gift for a time allegedly set aside to celebrate the birth of the prince of peace. A whole round of new movies, just in time for Christmas, is being released and many will contain graphic violence, copious explosions, spectacular crashes and vulgarity. Most of this frenetic frenzy occurs on credit. A wise old Welsh lady once admonished me, “If ye canna pay for it once, how will ye pay for it twice? ” Yet, despite what we’re told is an ongoing weak economy I could barely find a parking spot at the mall today. It’s Monday and there is a severe winter storm with torrential rain and high wind. Nothing shall disrupt the frenzy.

My annual festive joke is about a dyslexic scrooge who’s indignant toast is “Bumhug”. However, I truly wish everyone inner peace, and hope you are warm and dry and fed and sharing that comfort with someone of mutual affection and respect. May you have a dream and good hope of fulfilling it.

My last two blogs, in part about war and the military and the futility of it all, have stirred up a small furor, both in agreement and in objection. To convince me of my political incorrectness I have been forwarded a video originally from someone anonymous named “Joe Nobody”. Now that sounds like a reliable source! It shows a group of Islamic ISIS radicals assassinating a long row of kneeling men allegedly guilty only of being Christian. Probably so. Once each is dispatched with a bullet to the head, the entire heap of corpses is then riddled with wanton gunfire. It is horrific, disgusting and very hard to watch. Then a misquote from the Koran is used to imply that this will be our fate eventually if we don’t stand up to these evil hordes.

I responded by questioning how many masses of God’s children have been annihilated in the name of Christian peace, love, greed and zealotry. It goes on and on and on. When the dust settles, if it ever does, we are a very nasty primal organism, alien it seems, on this beautiful planet. If we’re worried about finding harmony with nature, we’d better first figure out how to get along with each other. Whether it be our atrocities against our fellows, or the environment, let’s each accept our personal roll in the mess and take individual responsibility for ourselves and those whom we can love as we would be loved. And if you are determined to pass on hate-mongering at least have the intellect and courage to confirm the source and validity of your information. You discredit your argument by doing anything less than that and by the way, afford youself the dignity of spelling correctly.

Ezra Pound once said, “A man of genius has a right to any mode of expression.” I agree, obviously, but by God, make sure it is informed opinion!

An acquaintance who is now an Anglican minister was once a chaplain in the Canadian NATO forces. He was stationed in Damascus and, as part of some bizarrely conceived humanitarian enforcement, was required to witness over forty executions. Imagine that fellow’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder!

He said, “Life can be cheap, until it’s your own!”

Not understanding the ordered chaos of the natural forest, men destroyed the old trees and replaced them with new ones planted in straight rows.

The non-conformist, the sailor in the case of this blog, holds an open, inquiring mind about all things. I have learned a long time ago, that to go against the flow and to challenge popular sentiment, can be a lonely path but it is often the right path, at least for me. Drinking upstream of the herd may not be the best way to popularity, but what sort of man goes against his conscience? Too many do, if they have one at all.

Un requited love. Seafire languishes in her winter berth on a rare sunny winter day. Note the skim of ice ahead of the boat — Unrequited love. Seafire languishes in her winter berth on a rare sunny winter day. Note the skim of ice ahead of the boat

Life seems even more disjointed this month. I’m jaded about Christmas, perhaps because family and friends are scattered around the planet and as usual at this time of year funds are scarce. My renovation project is on hold for the moment so, with Mexico ever in my sights, I’m using my unexpected free time to tinker up the trailer to suit my needs. I’m planning to use it both as a travel trailer (Stealth campers I think they’re called) and a work trailer. The aim is to use as many recycled materials as I can and to have the trailer ready to go as soon as possible. Frankly, I’m a bit tired of projects and with some refitting yet to be done on ‘Seafire’ before she’s ready to head south, I’d like to take a break. There won’t be much progress during the winter weather so, it may as well be due south, somehow. My beloved boat is languishing alone and empty for the moment at her berth in Nanaimo. She’s secure there and oddly enough is staying clean. In Silva Bay, she was constantly coated with gull and crow guano, mussel shells, and a horrid, grey film which could only be fall-out from Vancouver and all the other upwind urbanity over on the mainland.

New offshore-tough companion way doors made from mahogany. Interestingly, this project was the first on my list when I bought the boat. Now almost four years later it is one of the last important jobs. — New offshore-tough companion way doors made from mahogany.
Interestingly, this project was the first on my list when I bought the boat. Now almost four years later it is one of the last important jobs.

In turn the green slime of winter creeps everywhere. We’ve had a miniscule accumulation of snow; now we’re back to the dark, cold dripping of a Northwest Pacific coastal winter. Tonight the rain slants horizontally and the wind thunders and moans through the rigging. We’re two weeks away from the official first day of winter, the solstice.

A Christmas present for the ship. New teak trailboards, carved in relief sport new led running lights. — A Christmas present for the ship. New teak trailboards, carved in relief, sport new led running lights.

I close my eyes and see warm, green seawater sluicing through the scuppers. I’m sailing full and by toward an anchorage in a palm-fringed bay. Small, bright houses nestle along the beach and up the hill behind the tiny town. The air holds an aroma of coconut and lime and a melange of unknown flowers. There is the fragmented sound of Mariachi music and then the braying of a burro. I’m in Mexico once again. Then comes a sound of drumming, fast and irregular. I awake to realize the sound was only rain hammering on my skylight.

The rain eases despite a forecast for horrific wind and rain today. Dawn breaks reluctantly and Jack leads us for a walk along the Nanaimo River. To my delight someone has decorated a small fir tree. That random, small act of Christmas joy, those few glass balls, lift my spirit. For a moment, I remember the surge of wonder and delight I knew as a young boy.

Deep in the forest, the seasons delights appear — Deep in the forest, the season’s delights appear

Thank you,

whoever you are.

“The emotionally motivated performer is inherently irrational. When logic dictates that it’s rational to quit, the emotionally charged image in his mind won’t allow it. Any attempt to stop this man will fail.”

…Steve Siebold

Laundromat Blues

November 1^st. It is clear and sunny and warm in a November sort of way. I’ve done two things in the last forty-eight hours not done in a long time. For the first time in forty-seven years, as I recall, I celebrated Halloween. Friends invited me to join them in a local pub. I did not need to invent much of a costume, I usually look scary enough as it is. I had a splendid time, revelling in the moment and even found myself hopping about on the dance floor with other ghouls. There I was doing things I usually condemn or at least rationalize not doing. I enjoyed it all immensely. Thank you Ann and Randy!

Freshly rain washed organic apples and a free worm in selected samples

I’m beginning to write this blog in a laundromat which is clean and well kept, and there’s hot water for the washing machines. There are no puddles on the floor from a leaking roof. I’ve just come from the local swimming pool where I swam leisurely lengths, then enjoyed a hot tub, a sauna and then a shower that had instant hot water, and was clean and bright with no mould or rust in sight. It felt like heaven after the crumbling rotted facility I’ve had to use for the past four years. It all seems so decadent after the stoic, monkish isolation and bleak existence I’ve imposed upon myself for several years. And what has brought it all on? You may well ask.

First of all, I’ve moved the boat from Silva Bay to Nanaimo. It now rests at a decrepit but secure dock in the old shipyard. I have friends there who can keep an eye on ‘Seafire’ when I’m away and as it is said, “A change is as good as a rest”. I’ll miss Silva Bay but a few disagreeable folks (With whom, I’ll admit, I’ve become a little too reactive… but don’t pick on my beloved dog! ) and a few other new realities forced my hand. An old Sufi mantra cautions to avoid “Vexatious people” although, it should be noted, one can never elude themselves. Now playing softly in the background, you can hear Bob Seger singing “Against The Wind.”

Because of where I was moored I bore the brunt of a vicious autumn storm a few nights ago. It blew hard on the boat’s beam and crushed us up against the dock. It was a long night and I realized it was indeed time to move on. A night with 40 knot gusts on the windward side of the dock’s end was bad enough. There’ll be some serious winds coming and I don’t want to be there should the ninety-six foot phallic symbol on the other side of the dock tear itself and everything else downwind loose. That includes a fuel dock, a floatplane and another marina. I hope I’m wrong about that but learned sailors use their learned judgement to avoid situations requiring learned skills. Besides, the way things have been going there lately, somehow it could all become my fault. Many people allude to an ancient native curse put on the bay when the Spanish arrived. Certainly, nothing ever thrives there and somedays I wonder if there’s something to it. This old salt knows when it’s time to weigh anchor and bugger off out. People change and move on, I might be back to this beautiful bay.

A rose hip. These seed pods are often used to make a Vitamin C-rich tea.

Life is a journey and so on we go. I’m now writing at the dining room table of a friend’s house which is located on some fabulous waterfront property. Sitting here, about fifty feet above the tideline, I can see across the Strait of Georgia to Gibsons, up Howe Sound to the mountains at Whistler, and a little further eastward lays the climbing sprawl of West Vancouver. Looking the other way past Entrance Island the view goes well up Malaspina Strait, the gateway to Desolation Sound. Later the mainland is just visible beneath a very low layer of cloud. Commercial marine traffic passes on a dull horizon as if suspended between sky and sea. Beneath the house, a rocky shoreline reveals a lovely sand beach at low tide. Sea lions, seals and birds populate the foreshore much to Jack’s continuing interest. It’s a huge piece of heaven and I’m frustrated at how to photograph it adequately.

Entrance Island through the rain, a view from the front yard

I’m here to do some renovations and upgrades on a pal’s house before he retires. It rains nearly every day so I have to divide my time between inside and outside. Among my least favourite things, dry-walling is at the top of the list. The dust gets everywhere and even with a face mask I manage to inhale a bit of crud. I suppose that if I were a professional, there’s be a lot less sanding, and I’d have specialized equipment, but I’m not a pro and have no such intention. People do this as a lifetime career and I can only repeat that there are certain types of courage which I do not possess. I can’t recommend it as a healthy occupation. This fine dust sticks to sweaty hands and face as it must and I can only imagine what occurs inside a person’s respiratory plumbing. My writer’s brain devises a plot where some wit decides that gypsum is carcinogenic and that all drywall must be removed. That would involve almost every building in North America! Remember, there’s huge profit in paranoia. It is entirely possible.

Plastered! Drywalling, it feels so good when you stop!

It repeatedly occurs to me as I work around this property about how our stuff owns us. The incessant maintenance and repairs is a grinding weight, a millstone indeed. I know, I know, our “Home is our castle” and that it often used to tell the world about our perceived social status but, good grief! I’ve been doing home repairs on and off for a long time and I can tell you that there is a good reason for all those “Home Improvement” stores and specialty bath, kitchen, flooring, drapery, tile, lighting, and yard stores. An average kitchen renovation starts at between $40,000 to $50,000 and goes up from there. I won’t go beyond these next sentences to rant about the stunning fiscal and environment waste of home “Ownership” and landscaping in North America. Think of all the food we could provide on that same land! In our culture, our reason to be is to consume and there’s no fighting the madness. You can go your own way however.

I perceive a growing awareness about need Vs greed and ever more questioning minds. The recent and continuing economic crisis has forced many folks into a new awareness.

Back to basics. A seedling taking root in an old steam locomotive in Chemainus

A recent magazine articles describes how some of the middle class who determined to maintain appearance with a nice house, fine clothes, and a new car, but have no pay cheque to pay cheque cash left to afford proper groceries. One blogsite to which I subscribe is “The Tiny House Blog’. Some of the perspectives there are skewed, and commercial, but there is also a great delight as people discover how little room they need to be safe and warm, to lie down and stand up. Not only does limited living space preclude the accumulation of all that unnecessary stuff, personal resources including time and cash are freed up to live more wholly. I’m not saying that living in a boat, as I do, is carefree. There is still important maintenance to do and always the ubiquitous ocean waits ever so patiently to invade your tiny space if you are not vigilant. But at least one can hold the illusion of being free to sail away at will.

A fallen giant. This maple is a victim of recent storms. About four feet in diameter at the stump, several hundred years old, it's time to return to the earth or the furniture shop and the wooden pile. It is excellent wood. — A fallen giant. This maple is a victim of recent storms. About four feet in diameter at the stump, several hundred years old, it’s time to return to the earth or the furniture shop and the firewood pile. It is excellent hardwood.

My dear intrepid Australian friends, Rodger and Ali, are now in San Diego aboard their beloved ‘Betty Mac’ having left their other boat in the Arctic, they’ll be leaving in a few days to head south to Baja and somehow I hope to meet up with them there this winter. What a contrast! Summers in the land of ice and snow, winter in the desert-bound sea. Meanwhile, my broad ocean view is shrinking as the fog descends again and the Entrance Island lighthouse fades into the morning gloom. There are up to 15mm of cold, cold rain forecast today. Good thing I mowed the lawn yesterday!

More red berries. Ho;l;ly this time. Yep, it's that time of year again. Bum Hug! — More red berries. Holly this time. Yep, it’s that time of year again. Bum Hug!

The latest post from ‘Sage on Sail’ describes how Tony and Connie are refitting their boat in Northern Phuket. After seven months of dry storage aftera year’s sailing in southern watersthe boat requires a nasty ordeal of preparation before heading into the Indian Ocean. I sit here peering out into the cold rain still slanting down a day later. Winds are forecast to pickup to 60 to 80 kph later today. It could be another electricity-out sort of day. That is a regular event on a Gulf Island during winter months. Most trees still carry their leaves and so are far more susceptible to the force of the wind. There’ll be lots of trees blown down onto powerlines. It’s nature’s way of pruning the forests. Survival of the strongest. What winds will blow to thin out the human forest? I’m always shocked to realize that like everyone else, I am pathetically dependant on electricity and all the conveniences we take for granted.

During the winter season ahead, after a while, it’ll be considered a fine day when the rain hammers down vertically. A sunny day is a natural holiday. People suddenly reappear magically, sun mushrooms, gone again with the next precipitation. Those are also days to frantically try and patch leaks, at least temporarily. My bones ache for someplace south. Jack is holed up somewhere in a corner of this lovely big house. He’s got lots of hiding places here and doesn’t really want to be outside exploring on a day like this. I’ve found him. He’s gone back to bed. Good idea.

Sure enough! 11:47. The power’s gone off. I’m downstairs trying to glue some splash panels for a shower stall to the wall when I’m plunged into blackness. Of course my flashlight is not where it’s supposed to be in my tool bucket but somehow I manage to complete fixing the floppy plastic panel to the wall without gluing myself there as well. The panel has to fit perfectly and with this glue, aptly named “Liquid Nail”, second chances can be ugly.

I emerge to survey my ocean panorama and see a small sloop on an Easterly heading passing the lighthouse. The building wind is SE. Entrance Island is fringed with billowing surf and this little boat, tightly reefed, is sailing full and by into the teeth of the rising gale. I close my eyes and recall all those times when it was me out there in an open cockpit, soaked through, so bloody cold and feeling so salty and manly. On the edge of death and feeling so alive. Your watch mate, your watch.

“ Life is simple. Everything happens for you, not to you. Everything happens at exactly the right moment, neither too soon nor too late. You don’t have to like it….

it’s just easier if you do.” Byron Katie

Zombie Rap

Clearly! A rising tide in North Cove, Thetis Island.

I have wondered at the phenomenon of folks fascinated with zombies. This fad is everywhere. I turn on a television; there is something zombie going on. Is TV the inspiration? Dunno! Some folks go so far as to deck out their automobiles (I’ve even seen an old bus done up) to look like police vehicles with large logos about being a ‘Zombie Patrol’. Honestly, I have no idea about this large interest in resurrected putrefied psychopathic masses which are really pissed off about something. While my ignorance doesn’t make the continuing fad wrong, it truly seems bizarre when we have so many other important and uplifting things to pursue.

Highway to heaven. An oled causeway in North Cove — Highway to heaven. An old causeway in North Cove

What is the need for silly distraction? Someone, somewhere, somehow is making money out of it all. It’s way over my head. Rap music seemed a passing fad, it’s still here decades later. Just wait, the next mass gaga, zombie rap! Baggy pants on backwards, head with hat on backwards under your arm, skateboard under other arm.

Gulf Island Serenity. ‘SEAFIRE’ on the hook.

Then I had an epiphany as I negotiated around two very gormless, apparently semi-brain- dead folks shuffling along the docks. They held no awareness of anyone else. “Like goddamned zombies” I muttered to myself and suddenly I got it! Zombies exist! The light is gone from so many eyes. There are swarms of breathing bodies of all ages waiting to die. As old Churchill said, “Epileptic corpses”. We go through life consuming as fast as we’ve been programmed. We burn out and die trying to run a course we can never complete because it is always designed and extended by someone or something else trying to establish control over us. To live and love at a pace where we can sanely stay in touch with our society and our planet is a speed which sees us run over by a mindless culture in constant acceleration. And so we become zombies, faceless and easily controlled. I watched a documentary on the rock star Lemmy recently. Frankly, this old fart had never heard of this other old fart, or his band ‘Motorhead’. But Lemmy, an icon of dark excesses and self-abuse, and damned proud of it, is idolized by adoring throngs around the planet. What is this evil that invades our longing souls? Zombies!

Rust to dust. Nothing lasts forever. — Rust to dust.
Nothing lasts forever.

Slowly, inexorably, machines take control of our existence. People cannot seem to function without texting or without bumbook and instant information about anything no matter how trivial. Not so long ago windshield wipers, automatic transmissions, am radios, power steering and power brakes were decadent options for any car. Now many folks wouldn’t consider buying a car without an on-board computer to show them the way to the nearest mall. There are serious efforts being made toward a reliable driver-less car. “Wot the….? I thought you were driving! Where the hell are we?” I hope I can die peacefully in my sleep as a beloved old grandfather, quite unlike his five screaming passengers. In a cell phone store I recently asked for a phone that sent calls, received calls and messages only. The clerk’s stunned look required no further words. “Zombie! Where ya bin pappy?”

I’ve argued with myself that there is also a growing fascination with spirituality, metaphysics and a quest for grounding with the planet and the universe but I don’t think inner exploration is going to be the next mass fascination. Well, in any event, don’t let your karma run over your dogma. The only way to make sense of it all is to quit trying and live in the moment. It’s all we have.

Tonight I’m writing in a very calm Gulf Island anchorage called North Cove. It’s raining. Yes our summer drought has broken. The desperately needed showers will end and in a few days, when the kids should be back in class (But our BC teacher’s strike grinds on) it will be blistering hot again. For those convinced of global warming, I’ve just had an e-mail from my friends Roger and Ali, those intrepid Australian mariners who are in the Arctic at a place called Kugluktuk. They’ll soon be leaving their boat ‘Wave’ in Cambridge Bay for another long winter. The Passage is choked with ice, impassable all summer just like the old days. Hey! What if? And how come that’s not making the news?

My old pal Jim is now on the final leg of his race against himself around the South Pacific and will be back in British Columbia by mid-month. He left here less than a year ago! Other friends are touring the south of France and sending back more incredible photos. But, they’re not here enjoying this amazing morning. It’s wonderful to feel perfectly content with being where you are.

It rained all night. The air is cool and fresh and Jack is demanding to go ashore. It is bliss to sit in the morning here on a secluded beach with a coffee and watch him enjoying being a dog. It is calm, quiet and peaceful. I have no internet out here, I don’t know what’s going on in the world of men. I know there are those out there determined to start WWIII but the earth is still turning, even without my involvement. Ignorance is bliss. Zombie!

Thistle Dew, in the morning after the rain

A few days later, September is whizzing by. Yesterday provided a torrential downpour. Desperately needed for our parched islands it was also a harbinger of the winter ahead.

Wasn’t it breaking spring a mere few weeks ago? Now the mornings and evenings are cool, the afternoons are comfortably hot. It is dark by 8:30 pm. The swallows are gone south. The summer gringos are gone from the docks with their fluorescent clothing, texting and din. The air is sweet again without the reek of exhaust fumes and fish being cremated on barbeques. The docks are no longer cluttered with drunks in portable chairs. The few that pass through now are serious seasoned mariners with good manners and interesting things to say. They also come in some fine boats. My beloved old friend ‘Native Girl’ is back at the dock. Her owners, Jon and Rian, are expecting the arrival of a new deckhand in the coming few weeks. Friends are almost as excited about the impending birth as the parents. I think there’s going to be a celebration. And for what better reason?

I’ll fill this post with photos of boats and local scenes. Hopefully in the next few weeks there’ll be great news of several varieties to share with all my loyal readers. Thank you for your supportive comments. Despite my cynical sentiments about our rapidly evolving world it IS fantastic to have a global audience. Wow!

The first boat photo is of a 65′ (On deck) 63 year-old ketch-rigged steel boat. The present owner is about to leave for the South Pacific via La Paz Baha. My research confirms his story about the vessel’s history. Built in Vancouver in 1951 by Manly shipyards it was the last steamer built in British Columbia. (New steam engines must have been hard to find by 1951) A retired ship’s captain had wanted to do a global circumnavigation under steam but dropped dead shortly after beginning the voyage. Returned to the shipyard, the vessel was repowered with a diesel engine, purchased by the Department Of Indian Affairs, renamed the ‘Skeena’ and assigned to Prince Rupert as home port where it lived out a good and useful working life as a supply vessel, school boat and an icon of the North Coast. In recent years she was purchased by three men who had plans to turn her into a classic luxury charter boat. The hull was rebuilt as required but then the boat was stripped of all useful fittings by vandals during winter storage in the Vancouver area.

The venerable'Skeena' reborn for south Sea adventures — The venerable ‘Skeena’ reborn for south Sea adventures

With almost $300,000 into the project it was given up as a lost cause and sold to the next dreamer. He is now it’s current owner. His vision involved attaching a massive bolt-on sailing and grounding keel, fitting a bowsprit, ketch-rigging the old girl and getting ready to go to sea. The remaining work will be completed in Southern Latitudes.

Another noteworthy vessel is ‘Fifer Lady’. It is a Fifer, or Fifey, designed and often built in Fife, Scotland. Boats there had to be rugged and designed for heavy weather. This one was built in 1959 and imported by a doctor in Victoria a year later. After several subsequent owners it has come into the hands of the current owners who have, it would seem, committed their entire existence to the care and maintenance of this very gorgeous vessel. They are fully proud of their efforts and so they should be. I’ve thought up something I call the “Glass Box Award” for boats so pristine and perfect that they should be kept in a glass box like a museum piece. ‘Fifer Lady’ is one of those rare examples.

Och Aye! The real thing. — Och Aye! The real thing! Complete with a genuine Scottish CQR anchor and Simpson-Lawrence windlass.

'Little Abe' another real thing. Built in the Queen charlottes in the 1930's, she once supported two families. she's still going strong! — ‘Little Abe’, another real thing. Built in the Queen charlottes in the 1930’s, she once supported two families. She’s still going strong!

Another candidate for the glass box award. A classic, immaculate Grenfell 36 complete with Davidson K9 skiff. — Another candidate for the Glass Box Award. A classic, immaculate Grenfell 36 complete with Davidson K9 skiff.

Classic plastic. a former navy launch commercially made-over into a tough boat called an Allweather.

The Sublime and The Ridiculous. My Beloved 'Native Girl' home again, moored under the bow of a 96' 'Look at me." — The Sublime and The Ridiculous. My Beloved ‘Native Girl’ home again, moored under the bow of a 96′ ‘Look at me.”

Not a cliché boat name! Is Nostrilagony is a relative of Nostrodamus? — Not a cliché boat name!
Is Nostrilagony a relative of Nostrodamus?

My boat is clearly the property of a barefoot shoemaker. After looking after other people’s boats, I have little time or resources to care properly for my own. But soon, in a palm-fringed bay, I’ll be working on some little project in the light of the rising tropical sun.
“The dream never dies, just the dreamer.” Zombie!

Consensus Reality

While on a gorgeous white shell beach on Saltspring Island recently I noticed a string of small signs on a fence erected just above the high tide line. The tiny signboards essentially said “Private Property, Keep Out” but in reality read something like: “You are presently standing on public property but beyond this line is land of Consensus Reality, please respect it.” Huh?

I get the no trespassing theme but “Consensus Reality”? Come on guys! Saltspring was the ultimate Hippie haven in the Gulf Islands but times have changed. It is now the home of folks wearing locally-made llama wool hats and hand-painted designer gumboots while driving exotic SUV s (Stupid Urban Vanities) that never leave pavement. Maybe old Winston Churchill was right, “Capitalists are Socialists who’ve found an opportunity.” Peace man.

While I’m playing with words here’s one in which I found great delight. As I write, moored across from me is a gleaming white fibreglass castle. It is a gorgeous piece of stuff, whether or not you are awed by status symbols. I descended on the name like the old wordhawk that I am. The boat’s name is ‘ARES’, the Greek god of war. Say no more Admiral! Most folks would read the name as ‘ARIES’, the famous star and Astrological sign. For a boat, that would make sense. However I imagined a conversation between the boat’s owner and a local good old boy who has accosted him. “Dang mister, you Amuricans just can’t spell English. That’s one purty boat but it ain’t the way you spell ARSE!” Maybe the owner is a former Rear Admiral.

While I was writing my little environmental rant in my last blog, a potentially massive environmental disaster was beginning to uncrumble. We don’t know yet how extensive it is. There lies in the BC interior an area known as the Cariboo. It is bounded on the West by the Fraser River and on the East by the Cariboo Mountains. Despite over a century of exploitation by miners and loggers it is is known for spectacular scenery and pristine waters. A mining operation at the Polley Mountain Mine involved establishing massive tailings ponds behind earthen berms to contain the toxic slurry produced. Slurry, in this case, is the liquified waste from the mining process. Using water is the cheapest way to dispose of unmarketable contents which contain various highly toxic chemicals. The dams on the ponds have burst and billions of litres of slurry flow into Quesnel Lake and all of the subsequent rivers that run between the lake and the Fraser River.

It is possible that a large portion of the heart of our province is being poisoned; unstoppably. Not one government department knows exactly what chemicals or toxins are being released nor what to do to stop the massive discharge. There should have been an ongoing analysis at least by the Ministries of Mines, Of the Environment, and Fish and Wildlife. That no-one knows is a testament of gross apathy and incompetence. This is a disaster which was imminently preventable. Our Federal government is relaxing environmental controls on resource industries and it is an interesting co-incidence with the angst about the Northern Gateway pipeline. Once again, the greed of a few is damaging a broad environment as big as some countries and all living things within it, including people, who live there and anywhere downstream, all the way to the ocean. Then where? Once again it is obvious that the government is in the corporate pocket. How can I not rant?

For more information check out this site:

http://www.envirolawsmatter.ca/environmental_regulation_better_than_a_pound_of_cure?utm_campaign=mtpolley&utm_medium=email&utm_source=envirolawsmatter

Well, I promised that this blog would be about a secret anchorage. It’s a place I’ve been passing by on tug boats and my own yachts for well over a quarter century. Actually I’m more interested in pointing out how we so often pass by wonderful things right at our feet in a quest to get as far away as possible whenever on a vacation. (No I’m not standing down my dreams about Mexico and Central America) I happen to live within the Gulf Islands on a boat, a piece of heaven by any regard. When there’s a good wind it is wonderful to see how far away you can sail in one day and there is generally a notion we all hold that going far is a logical thing to do. An extreme example are the kind of folks who brag about having “Done” Europe in ten days. We all know how much they saw.

I can see for miles... and no-one sees me! — I can see for miles… and no-one sees me!

The anchorage is no secret. It just seems that way when you’ve been going by it for decades in quest of someplace secluded and special. Less than two hours by boat from Silva Bay and within plain view of Porlier Pass it a place big enough to safely hold approximately six anchored yachts.

Once a had-built house, cozy and warm and golden through the winter storms

There is an abandoned farm and perhaps sawmill in this bay between two islands and one is left wondering about the people and their history here. Ancient native middens and old fire pits in this sheltered bay betray the long presence of the aboriginal people we displaced from this beautiful environment. I’ll be doing my research. Both Islands are privately owned but it is clear that visitors are respectful. There are fabulous beaches nearby and the Porlier Pass area is famous for it’s fishing. A bonus was a live blues concert held on one island. The music was as good as it gets, the band was tight and there was a great sound effect as it all echoed out through the forest. I’m usually incensed by someone else’s imposing music, but this was good. Really good.

A far more recent building, still saveable but returning to the forest it came from

Hundreds of yachts charged past to herd up in the popular anchorages to the North and South. Good for them! I prefer solitude. The photos say the rest.

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.”

…John Muir

A cross-section of an aboriginal midden. Native would camp and collect and dry shellfish.Who can guess it took to build these enormous piles of shell? — A cross-section of a shell midden where natives would camp and collect and dry shellfish in preparation for winter. How many millennium did it took to build these enormous piles; monuments to a successful culture which Europeans brought to an end?

Painted stick, a dire warning of children!

Another dire warning. Old Pencil-Head hisself!

Das Dink! The wheels may look silly but they sure make life a lot easier.

Jungle's edge, a distant sound of drums. — Jungle’s edge, a distant sound of drums.

Waterfront. no wifi but firewood is delivered to your door. — Waterfront.
no wifi but firewood is delivered to your door.

The shellbacks. Boys, a boat and some dogs.

DIVERGENCE AND CONVERGENCE OF THOUGHT

Huh?

…Well that’s what I first thought when I read the title back. What the hell does this have to do with a blog about realizing a dream against all odds? Specifically, getting the boat I’m sitting in at this moment out of here and sailing south within the next three months.

To paraphrase something Einstein said, you’ll never be able to solve a problem by using the same thinking that created it in the first place. And…the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over always expecting a new result. I guess I know where I am.

I’m reading a book loaned to me which I’m finding timely to my situation and it’s quite inspiring: ‘Ship Of Gold In The Deep Blue Sea’ by Gary Kinder. The title is a bit lugubrious and probably some editor’s idea of a commercially viable handle that does no justice to a very absorbing read. It is about the sinking and ultimate finding of a gold-laden ship, the ‘S.S.Central America’. One of the central characters is obsessed with process and linear thinking. He lives with a conviction that the only things impossible are those which we think are impossible. It is about how the quest for one solution leads to other discoveries and solutions. That happens in the divergence and convergence of conversation and thought about one specific problem. New possibilities arise out of the quest for a single solution.

An anecdote is provided about a young man from Ohio who was deeply inspired by the accounts of a sea captain about his travels in the Amazon jungle. Highly motivated by that account he decides to go to Brazil and duplicate the adventure. Travelling by boat down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers he arrives finally in New Orleans to discover that no ships ever sail from there to Brazil. He has, however, experienced a rich life on the great rivers where he often heard the boatman’s sounding cry of “mark twain”. Samuel Clemens becomes one of America’s most beloved writers and the world becomes a better place because of a simple dead end. Divergence becomes a happy new convergence.

I’ve been trying to make sense of my sojourn in Silva Bay. Why did the gods put me here? I held the job which brought me here for the best part of three and a half years. I have made some wonderful friends, learned a lot and thoroughly enjoyed the location and its archipelago of small islands. However, I’ve made only a survival income, spent a lot of dark and lonely nights on one boat or another, parted with my beloved ‘Pax’ which was ready to sail away, started yet another refit and am left pondering what I’m really doing here; especially during the apex of summer with grand weather and all these gringo boaters around the marina trying to have ‘Fun’. I thought I’d simply let the universe unfold as it will and discover the big reason why I’m here but no epiphanies yet. I am anxious to move on.

I’ve recently been in touch with a long-lost cousin who used the term “Cognitive remodelling”. I love the linguistics of that but frankly I think I already do too much of that and should perhaps apply a little more “Kinetic remodelling” and get this damned old boat out of here. So I’m tackling the project I’ve been dreading most. It began in January when I upgraded the galley counter and cupboards. I fitted a new water heater in a dead space there and have now decided it needs to be relocated lower. One of its heat sources is the engine and I thoughtlessly installed the heater at too high a level for the engine coolant to flow correctly. I may as well change it now. Damn my teeth for the oversight! So, lower it ten inches,;sounds easy right? It proved to be a day’s work and seemed to be rather like trying to perform heart surgery through the rectum.

The old water heater was stored in a cavernous storage locker beneath the bunk of the guest cabin. There is also a large sewage holding tank and an amazing snot-garble of plumbing, wiring and furnace ducting. It is a sad waste of much-needed stowage. The settees in the main cabin are on top of two monstrous fuel tanks. There is nothing other than chart storage there so it is imperative that I have as much space for stores elsewhere. The next mega-project begins.

First the guest bunk-junk moves onto the forward cabin bunk. Hopefully it will all end up neatly stowed in the new storage space or in the dumpster if I don’t have a valid use for it. I’ll sleep, for the time being, on one of the settees in the main cabin. Those have new foam cushions and I’ve redesigned and built new seat-backs to hinge up and allow for some comfortable snoozing space. Next the old mattress from the guest bunk goes. God! It reeks of three decades of fermented human presence, my imagination decides that’s it is just spilled wine but I don’t know who it’s been through before permeating the mattress. I’m stunned that I have lived with this disgusting element for so long. Out, out foul demons! Then it’s dunging out the space below the bunk area and realizing how poorly it was utilized. The aged water heater, rusted and leaking, is torn out. It’s a miracle that it still worked. There’s a hodge-podge of plumbing and redundant pumps. Each line needs to be traced, removed and relocated.

But next, more foul demons. I decided it was propitious to remove the old holding tank. I like to get the worst out of the way as soon as possible. I discovered that some rocket-scientist installed the pump-out fitting almost a third of the way from the bottom of this twenty-five gallon tank. That means that only two-thirds of the tank was ever usable and the bottom third was full of a very ripe sediment. (The boat is thirty years old, so…?) Of course, the tank had to be slid out of it’s fastenings, (Every screw-head is filled with paint) then wriggled upright so the sawn-off fittings were on the top side. Next, the tank, one third full of fecal delight, had to be manhandled out of the boat without spilling anything. I hugged that stinky, sloshing puppy as if my life depended on it. It was 30 degrees Celsius outside but it felt cool when I finally landed the tank on the dock. The folks going by to the float-plane passed quickly. The dog reappeared an hour later.

Now I can start putting it all back together The fun-part! Pressure water system first. Remember divergence and convergence. Well this too shall pass and it should be remembered that it’s all about the romance of the sea.