Interesting.  Rain. Sun.  Clouds.  No wind.  How is this possible?  How does the weather change without wind?  The turbine is as still as Ayers rock.

I’ve moved past my cell phone crisis.  I never get any calls anyway.  What’s to fuss about?  Sal took the phone into the middle of the channel and, lo and behold – reception bars.  She got our messages.  There was one.  Four days without service – one message.  Maybe we can save the money and just cancel?  Wouldn’t Chun be surprised?

But, you know what?  Chun knows squat!  I know that because I got a call out today (no wind to interfere with the signal, I guess) and phoned the Rogers store.  Told them what happened.  “Aaaahhhhh………..sir……….uh……..I shouldn’t say this but the customer service people know squat!”

“Really?!  I am shocked.  What is the world coming to?  Think you can do better?”

“Absolutely.  No worries.  Bring it in.  I’ll fix you up.“

I believe this guy.  Three years ago he performed some kind of miracle and I was so impressed I went out and bought him a bottle of scotch.  That is not an easy thing for me to give away.  He must have been good.  I don’t remember any part of the actual problem at the time but I remember the giving-away-the-scotch part. That is enough of a memory to remain impressed.

It’s different out here.  Hard to explain.  You can’t subscribe to anything or get Fedex or anything delivered because the computers don’t recognize the box number as an address.  ‘Course it isn’t a real address so the computers are right.  But when they ask for the ‘place you live’ and you say, ‘on a remote island rock in the middle of nowhere’ the dialogue just ends.  We have taken to making up addresses to ‘fool’ the computer.  I live at 53 Sheer Point Place, Surge Narrows.  Sounds like an up-scale cul de sac don’t you think?  It works.

Many postal code ‘look-up’ systems don’t bother with V0P 1W0.  “I am sorry sir but your postal code doesn’t seem to exist?”

“Yeah, I know.  You just have to write it in.  V-0-P-1-W-0.”

“I am sorry sir but my computer won’t allow me to do that.  Do you live anywhere else?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do.  I was just messin’ with you.  I have an apartment in Campbell River.  And we winter in Rio, of course.”  And then I give them my friend John’s address.  They are happy with that and I am sure they are wondering……..“Duh! Like why does the guy, like, live in Campbell River and, like, try to get stuff delivered to a place that doesn’t exist?  Like?” 

I’m not complaining.  It is way better this way.  I am the dogie that got away.  When they come to herd everyone up, I’ll be off-the-radar.  Reminds me of a friend of mine who was of French Canadian descent and fathered a blond, blue-eyed little girl.  The parents named her Wang Su.  “Geez, man, why did you call your kid Wang Su?”  “Because when the revolution comes and they are looking for her, they won’t be looking for a blue-eyed blond!”   Hard to argue with that kind of logic.

We are very appreciative of being off-the-grid.  It just gets better.  But, to be honest, I really think you have to be out-of-the-gene-pool to really make it work.  And there is no question I am out of the gene pool.  I couldn’t even do a lap in the gene pool (pun intended).  And I look worse than most old men in a Speedo (hard to imagine, eh?).

No, I am off-the-grid, out-of-the-gene-pool and now staying under-the-radar.  There are a lot of phone books and Rolodex’s out there without my name in them and I am OK with that. 

Phone is kaput.  Seems Rogers has never had coverage here.  Imagine that!  My previous six years of service were ‘just a fluke’.  I got that answer from Chun, he of the Rogers website ‘chat line’. 

“Well, Chun.  I can accept that.  I am basically a very lucky person to have had that non-service for so long, you know?  Mind you, Rogers still billed.  Even better, I finally got you to help me with my new problem, didn’t I?”
“Pardon?”
“Never mind.  What do you propose for a guy who has had his phone service disrupted?  Can Rogers realign the towers or something.  Is the system down?  Am I not paying you people enough?”
“Pardon?”
“Chun!  You with me on this?  This is simple stuff.  My phone does not work.  You are there to help.  Work with me on this.  Can you fix it?  You seem a little spaced out, you know?  I am not feeling the love.”
” I am sorry sir.  Will there be anything else?”
“No disrespect, Chun, but could you transfer me to a supervisor?  I need some help here and I don’t think you are up to the task.  Forgive me”.
“Pardon?”
“Supervisor, Chun!  SUPERVISOR!!!  GET ME SUPERVISOR!!”
“Please call 1-800-Rogers, sir, for supervisor.”
“Chun, my phone does not work.  That is why I am on the web chat.  I told you that.  How can I phone the supervisor if I do not have a phone?”
“I am sorry, sir, if you do not have a phone, I cannot help you.  You should contact Rogers and subscribe.”

Every day Sally and I give thanks to the almighty for delivering us from the madness that is the ‘system’.  NOT having the phone wouldn’t bother me in the least if it weren’t for Ben and Em.  We are their parents.  We want to be there for them.  At their convenience, of course.  Wouldn’t want to interfere or anything.  Ya know?

We made a second mistake today.  Sal turned on the radio.  What a delight that is!  We only get the CBC and it has always been like a cross between a tranquilizer and a shock for me.  What unbelievable inanities they can get up to.  And still be boring as hell!  The low point of the CBC is, of course, any attempt at playing new Canadian music.  OmyGawd!  No wonder they had to legislate programming Canadian content.  It is so bloody abysmal!

And the ‘chirpy’, almost-laughing-as-they-speak, tragically ignorant hosts drive me mad within minutes.  They can’t pronounce most of the words they read and, if they can, they clearly don’t understand the content of what they are reading. 

“Thirty people burned to death today in Cincinatti, Randy.  A horrible car crash.  Isn’t that just awful (said with a smiling chirpy end-note)?”

“Well, some people will do anything to get out of Cinci, Nancy! Ha ha”

“Oh yes!  I know.  A friend of mine went their once.  Are you going to tell us the weather, Randy?”

“Yes, cloudy with sunny periods in that small region in the Northeastern part of the province where no one lives.  And don’t forget your rain hat if you are going there, Nancy.  Ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!  I would sooner go to Cincinatti, Randy.  But the rain didn’t help those poor people back there!
And now a cut from the new CD by Upside-down Cake, the all-saxophone group out of Moncton, New Brunswick called, ‘In the back of the pick-up.’

Mercifully, Sally turned the radio off.  We were now cut off from the world.  Kinda.  I checked the internet.  More disaster.  What a rat-hole is Surrey, eh?  More on the HST.  Canucks.  Money, money, money.  More Vander Zalm.  Is this some kind of giant social retardation or is it another tear in the time-space continuum?   

I turned off the computer.  I was gonna write in my blog.  But I got bummed by what got to me first.  So, I went out and built a railing for the end of the deck.  That was nice.   Things were looking up.  Just have to stay away from the media in all its shapes and forms.

Except my blog, of course.    
 

We are now entering our third day of dead calm!  Can you believe it?  The wind turbine from hell was conquered and we have been denied the deserved spoils of victory – wind!  Oh what fickle fiends of the forces of Nature are they that torture us so? (sorry, had a Shakesperian spasm, there).  But, really!  No wind out here is like no rain in North Vancouver.  It’s not right!  Climate bloody change! (breathe, Dave, breathe).

It is Wednesday.  Sally to Yoga.  I to the old school Quonset hut to resume our community renovation efforts with Hugh, Dan and Bruce.  We bashed and nailed, hung heavy roofing paper and covered some walls til about noon and then headed down the hill with the yoga crowd to the dock for lunch.  Must have been over thirty people there!  A quick scan of the crowd revealed a few new faces (a kayaking group had infiltrated us) and a huge yacht hung at anchor a few yards off the too-crowded dock.  Goulash on noodles, pizza and baked goods were exchanged and some garden produce was traded.  Youngest was little Ruby-Mae (three or so months) and the oldest was well into their 70’s.  Quite a group.  Mail plane came in later that day and gossip was caught up.  A few summer people were saying their goodbyes.  And I bought a few more pieces of lumber from Doug.

After lunch we went back to work on the Q-hut, Sal gossiped up a storm for a bit longer and then came to collect me for the return home.  Left home at 9:30.  Returned by four.  When we got back, I sat down in the chair outside and almost fell asleep.  Pretty hectic day out there in paradise.

The gossip revealed the reason our dogs were restless these past few nights.  Seems there are two wolf packs nearby and a whole lot of howlin’ is going on.  Our poor, mostly mute mutts can’t really participate in the choir of the wild but they try, rasping out a few dog whispers and the occasional half-bark from Fiddich.  It is just as well.  The wolves call to hear the domestic dogs reply which they then lure to the pack with a female in heat and then have their guest for lunch.  Literally.  Since they can’t hear our dogs, they don’t come this way.  Wolves: natural born liars. 

Which reminds me: last year no sockeye salmon returned to the Fraser.  The 50,000 DFO employees got together in Ottawa (of course) to ponder the problem and decided (after pooling their doctorates in marine biology) that an answer was more likely forthcoming from a BC judge who, from all accounts, likes fish as much the rest of us, but with no other qualifications except being a judge.  Makes sense, really.  “We obviously know nothing about what we are doing so let us appoint a lawyer to figure it out.  Maybe we can sue someone.”

And so Bruce Cohen was appointed by PM Harper to investigate the absence of fish in the Fraser.  But his terms of reference said, “Find no blame.  Find the reason for this massive screw-up but, if anybody’s name comes up, don’t tell us.  We don’t want to know.”  Politicians: natural born liars. 

So, Bruce, this icon of justice, appoints an advisory board made up of DFO experts.  Bruce, can you say, perception of bias?   And, uh, if they are going to go to the DFO anyway, why did they need Bruce? 

So, it seems Bruce’s advisers are going to help him investigate themselves but they are OK with this because no one can be blamed.  This blatant violation of all things right and just notwithstanding, Bruce undertakes this chore at the same time a hundred year record run of Sockeye show up for this years return!  Not only did DFO NOT know where last years salmon went, they had no idea this years salmon would be so plentiful.

But, somehow, using the same fools for advice, Bruce will find out.  DFO: natural born liars.  

Do you have any idea how much money we spend on DFO?  For 1% of that cost, I guarantee I can do as well………..let’s see, 100% wrong the first time.  100% wrong the second.  When in doubt, hire a lawyer.  How hard can that be?

Question: Which bunch of wolves do I prefer?      

Turbine is up!

‘Course, not a breath of wind all day.  Which, in the beginning was a good thing as Sal was up there next to knife-sharp blades and a sudden gust would have cut off her nose!

Well, that is not really true, but that is what I told her.  Helped keep her amused at the top of a 40 foot tower working with allen wrenches and yelled-from-the ground instructions.  Moved the pace along, too.  I’m a good supervisor.

The blades are sharp, tho.  Approach them too close when they are spinning in a good breeze and you will, if the limb is small, become a practicing amputee in no time at all.  They can be quite dangerous at speed.

The job isn’t done completely but she had had enough yesterday.  Putting the actual turbine on the top required Sal to stand on a small platform 8″ by 10″ (bit larger than a shoebox) and, with a personal tether to the tower, stand up above the tower so as to be able to affix the turbine on top.  The cables securing the tower are below her.  The tower is below her too and the only thing protruding up is a 2″ pipe on which the turbine sits and it is at belly-button level.  That means that she is standing in the sky with nothing in front of her but space and looking forward to heaving a turbine up onto the pole.  She did it with aplomb.

But aplomb is not necessarily long lasting so once it was secured, it was time to get her down.  And we did.  But there is still some wire ‘tidying up’ to do and a few bolts to work on.  We are 97% of the way there and I, for one, am glad to see the end of this chore!  Standing on the ground with one’s thumb in a dark and awkward place is frustrating and tiresome.  I think I have a crook in my neck.  I’ll ask Sal for a massage.

The tower chore has been all-consuming these past few days.  Crazy, really.  The brochure said that, with their special kit (which we didn’t have), the whole thing could be up in as little as two hours.  Not counting the year we ‘took off’ due to the trauma of dropping the first turbine, I would estimate that this effort has consumed about 50-60 hours of time over 10-15 days.

Part of it, of course, is that we declined to use the inadequate pipe they originally spec’d and that had failed us the first time.  We went with a proper tower (ex HAM radio tower thanks to John Robilliard) this time.  Then, we had to get custom length cables attached.  And wire the thing into the electrical panel.  Some custom fabricating (another thanks to John Robilliard) was also required to be able to affix the turbine to the top and the tower to the ground.  Add in ‘stripping bolts’, dropping or losing tools, electrical connections, painting, rigging and platform-making just to name some of the bigger efforts and I categorically deny the possibility of erecting that tower in two hours.  In fact, I’d say an experienced crew would take more than two days and they would have to be really good to be able to do that!  I may be a little over-sensitive about this but ours is not the first turbine to be erected out here and no one has done it easily.  In fact, ours was not the first one to come crashing down either.  One neighbour had a really big one come down. 

This little turbine is a South West Winpower Air-X model making 400 watts at 48 volts.  It is the size of a football with a big fishtail added at the back and 3 sharp 20″ blades mounted on a hub at the front.  In a light breeze, it makes nothing.  Ten miles an hour is req’d to make it turn but then that is all it does.  By the time you are  getting any kind of significant juice out of it, the wind is making the trees bend.  At least 20 mph.  And yet, when the wind is blowing up here, one can expect hours, even days of it.  I am optimistic.  We’ll see.

Too wet for the tower so we decided to mess about in boats.  Makes sense when you think about it. 

The idea was to get my boat to the ‘grid’.  We wanted to get it ‘on the grid’ (never satisfied, eh? On?  Off? There’s no pleasing these two!).  This marine grid, however, is in the lagoon and about two feet higher than the drying beach.  ‘Getting it on the hard’ is the proper expression but political correctness has diminished that term’s common usage.  So, now we are just trying to ‘get it on’, utilizing an old hippy phrase that has legs.  So to speak.

If you put the boat ‘over’ the grid and you do it early, you just have to sit there waiting for the tide.  But this man waits for no tide.  So, I planned it perfectly: wait till the tide is just a smidge higher than what the boat needs to float, position it just over the grid and then wait for a mere three or four minutes while it settles on the retreating waters.  Efficient, what?

Like so many of my lazy-bone plans, I missed the right level by a minute or two.  Timing is everything if you are lazy.  But I had missed the tide by just enough that I thought I could make it still.  So I revved up the motor and, with the bow lifting under the thrust, I tried to straddle the prone and horizontal legs of the barely submerged grid.  Got stuck half way.  Bow in the air, transom sinking and me not knowing what to do next (feelings: all too familiar), I watched in horror as my precious liquid (seawater) drained away.  Sal, of course, was nice and dry in her boat giving me advice and admonishment for being a doofus.  Timing is everything.  A safe distance doesn’t hurt, either.

She is always there at times like these.  It’s uncanny.   If she didn’t forewarn me and have ‘I told you so’ at her disposal, she is there at the time of the calamity and has, “What a doofus!” to use instead.  It’s comforting, in a way.  You know, someone there to witness your humiliation and to console you? Make you feel better.  Ya know?   

So, I did what any man would do – admitted my error and jumped in the water.  With my weight out of the boat and a few well placed shoulder-heaves (nudge, nudge), it slipped back to it’s floating position and, I sensed, it was not just a little amused at our reversal of roles.  We were both wet from the plimsoll line down, but it was a feeling I had tried to avoid.

“Never mind,” I said to my grinning nautical critic in the boat nearby filled to the brim with dogs, “I’ll do it tomorrow.  Should be a peace of cake then.  This was just a practice run, really.”

“Practicing wading, are we?” she said.  She is not that good at consoling.   

Eddy and Tensing were faster climbing Everest than we are getting the turbine up.  But up it is going.  One small step at a time.  I am giving odds on any bets.  Mind you, for the sake of disclosure I have to add that Sal said, “We’ll have to bring the whole thing down to put the turbine on.  I am NOT going up any further!” 

Of course we have already decided on the forty foot height versus the 5-section 50-foot height.  I compromised, if you know what I mean?  So, from my point of view (staring up into the sun listening to Sally swear) it is already a bit short.  But, hey!  It’s not the size that counts.  It’s how it……………never mind.

The garden passed muster.  A few comments here and there but the basic evaluation was, ‘we done good!’  Everyone is in agreement that the squash has to go (it is either it or us) but, otherwise, it was an encouraging inspection.   And we learned some things.  Seems planting peas is good for the garden.  Who knew?  And we can cut back the tomato foliage earlier to accelerate the ripening process somewhat.  Wahoo!  Does it get any better?  “Don’t underestimate the value of good compost!” 

Duly noted.

But, by then my attention was on Aayla (3) and Ruby Mae (1), the two little cuties from the homestead just south.  Aayla wanted to play so Sal got out some toys we keep around for visiting children and husbands waiting for their wives at bookclub.  Poker chips are always well-received by both groups and Aayla took to them like Maverick in a Tombstone saloon. 

After we had played with them…….. (two white chips in the eye sockets make Aayla look exactly like Little Orphan Annie.  Seems I look like a hairy freak so I stopped doing it but she kept it up making some kind of fashion statement.  Effectively, I might add.  She looked good.)………anyway, afterwards Aayla got to putting the chips away.  “We have to clean these up.  C’mon.  Let’s do it!”    Ruby Mae remained unimpressed but I got to it.  After a bit, I slowed down.  “Hey!  C’mon.  These have to be put away!”

“You are three!” I said.  “You  are not the boss of me!” She just looked at me the way Sally (and, it seems, all women do.  You know…….?  That look!? ) and said, “Just do it!”

So, I cleaned them up.  Quickly.

What the hell is that?  How do those ‘the look’ genes get passed on?

No climb today.  Things have changed.  We got guests.  Garden guests.  Sally mentioned at Yoga her need for more gardening advice and two of the best gardeners in the area are on their way over to cluck, pluck and scratch at the garden. 

But three actual people will arrive because little Ayla, Kelly’s daughter, is also coming.  She’s 3.  And she likes me.  Thinks I am Santa Claus or grandfather, depending on her mood.  Pretty cute.  Unruly rolls of strawberry blond hair topping a cherubic, smile-prone face radiating innocence and beauty like an angel.  Whatta doll.  Did I mention she likes me?

Not everyone does, you know.  I know, I know, “How can that be?  What’s not to like?  Dave, you are as sweet as little Ayla.  Fer sure!”  Not so.  I am not as cute.  Really.  But it is OK.  Not to worry.  It is only natural.  Normal, really.  Animosity is a natural consequence of people getting to know me.  Usually those who have never met me are neutral but not always (I once had a perfect stranger ask if I knew David Cox, the bastard getting rich off the liveaboard community.  She wasn’t even embarrassed to learn she was talking to me and that all her facts were wrong.  I think she was even angrier when we parted). 

Once they get to know me, some go screaming to the left, some go dashing and scrambling to the right but a few are left still walking with me.  Ayla is currently one of them.  We are buds.  She likes me.  She really likes me.  It’s mutual. 

But back to those who don’t.  One of the ways I alienate people is by talking.  I suppose my relentless commitment to breathing for these past 62 years has bugged a few of the more extremely disapproving people, too.  But, for the most part it is by expressing myself that I have gotten into the most trouble.  And, of course, expressing one’s self in public is guaranteed to divide.  And I do that.  I write letters to the editor mostly.  The occasional article.  That can tick off quite a few in one fell swoop.  Sometimes I speak up at a meeting and that is virtually guaranteed to irritate.  Though I am sure it is the delivery style more than the content.  Who listens?   Hell, sometimes I can just stand there and somebody gets all riled up. 

It’s a gift.

Our latest example is over the parking lot and the road attached.  The one we (as a community) re-surfaced last year.  Seems people are using it and some of those people aren’t ‘our’ people.  Strangers.  Outsiders.  Some have even used the road for (gasp) commercial purposes.  That is against the law.  Egads! 

I have to confess to empathizing with the complainers somewhat.  It feels like our road.  The parking spots feel like our parking spots.  And the dock at the end of the road feels like it belongs to us as well.  The problem is: it isn’t ours.  It is some kind of public access and whether we feel it is ours or not, it isn’t.  So, people can use it and they do.  We have to be grown up about this.  That is what I said.  Yikes!  

Of course, someone using our road is not really the problem.  The problem is when we see them using our road and seeing them churn it up or hog the parking spaces.  We all get a bit territorial.  You know that feeling when you can’t find a parking space at the mall or on your own street!?  Well, it’s like that, only much worse because we are so far out, we need to park more desperately than does a mall shopper and because we are the ones who made the spaces and the road in the first place.

But that doesn’t make them ours.  The land is the government’s.  They own it.

So, we are all a bit ‘concerned’ (what a loaded word that one is, eh?) about the topic and the natives get a bit restless in the process.  Lines get drawn.  Voices get a bit shrill.  And, because I was at the centre of the repair process last year, I am sucked in like the Starship Enterprise is to a black hole.  Resistance is futile.  Irritating others is my destiny.

Lucky I am good at it. 

Wednesday Sal went to Yoga and a community meeting.  I went back to messing with the tower fitting.  It was a strategic division of interests and it worked.  We both seem to be collaborating nicely on planning today’s ascent of the tower and what is going to go where.  Mind you, we are still both in the house and breakfast is still standing in the way of any action but I am optimistic.  This turbine-thing may happen.

Relationships are funny things.  Clearly Sally and I are not alike (and thank God for that!) and that includes all sorts of things like attitude, thinking, interests and, of course, the big ones: gender and power imbalance. So the relationship is, for all intents and purposes, a study in compromise.  Find the place where the differences don’t matter and the similarities can prevail.  “Seek harmony in all things, little butterfly”.  In other words: do it her way.  So, I spent yesterday making sure everything fit and the assembly of the turbine will be easy and simple.

And then I did the dishes.  Can’t hurt?  Right? 

Actually, making a relationship work is more than just capitulation.  It is more than surrender.  It is more than acquiescence.  It is also about learning.  It is about learning what more there is other than surrender.  That’s what makes it so challenging.  I am still learning.  I have no idea what else it is yet but I will be sure to pass it on if Sal let’s me.  She edits this, you know. 

It is easy to get along if you remain prone in the door-mat position.  I learned that at Yoga.  It was at a special males-only class. 

Oh, I am only kidding.  You know that.  I am allowed to sit up.  Hell, I even have my own chair.  At first I thought it conveyed some kind of special status having my  ‘favourite’ chair and all until I saw the same principle at work with the dogs.  “Here you go, Fiddich.  Your own special house, sweetie.  Your own special little dog-house.  Just for you.  And here’s your own special bone.  Just for you.”  So now I know that the chair is where I am supposed to be and it is a subtle limitation rather than a perk.  Still, the chair is nice and Sal throws me the odd figurative bone now and then.  The part I really hate is that she insists we go for a walk all the time.  Says it’s ‘good for the pack’.  Mind you, me and the dogs are bonding more these days………….

Trying to fit the damn wind turbine.  Been at it for a few days (not too hard at it, tho).  I am faced with the curse of the measuring tape in the hands of an idiot.  Me.  I measured the lower end of the tower section and got 9.5 inches.  And then had the fitting made up for that.  Got the fitting and it was perfect – just a tad over 9.5 inches.  Just big enough to fit snugly over the top of the tower.  Or, so I thought.

You see, the tower sections are tapered a smidgen (so that each one fits inside the section below it.  I should have known that.) and I hadn’t measured the proper end.  Shoulda measured the top end.  The fitting is 9.65 inches and so is the top of the section where it is supposed to go!  Damn. 

So, I bashed for awhile (‘persuaded’ the fitting in the local vernacular) and it remained resolute.  So, then I tried to bend the top of the tower but it, too, stayed firm.  So, I finally decided to ‘fab’ an adapter piece. 

First step: ‘rip’ steel strips using mini grinder on scraps of steel angle laying about for just such purposes.  Then drill out fastening holes, fasten and mark ‘bolt-on’ holes.  Drill ‘bolt-on’ holes.  Then (the worst part) explain mods to Sal. 

“Now you see, sweetie, this fitting didn’t quite fit so……..” “DOESN’T FIT!!  DIDN’T YOU MEASURE IT???  I AM NOT GOING TO TRY TO FIT SOMETHING THAT DOESN’T FIT ON TOP OF THAT…………:” 

“Now, Sweetie-pie, I have an answer for this problem.  All you have to do is……..” “ME!  ALL I HAVE TO DO!!  FORTY FEET IN THE AIR AND I HAVE TO WHAT!!??  ARE YOU MAD!!??

” I am sensing a bad attitude, here, Sal.  It is just………”  “BAD ATTITUDE!!!  YOU SAY I HAVE A BAD ATTITUDE AND YOU EXPECT ME TO CLIMB………..”

So, that is where we left it.  I’ll have another go tomorrow.  Try a different approach.  Use different words.  Or else go get a new fitting.  Might be easier.  More on that…………….later.

Did I mention that I live in heaven with an angel……………………?

We certainly know how to entertain.  Jan and Pat joined us for dinner and we had an unexpected arrival at the same time, the propane barge.  It is quite a sight.  150 feet of diesel, gas and propane charging up the dusk enveloped channel and heading for our beachfront with a bone in it’s teeth (frothy bow wave to all you landlubbers).  Captain Tom and crew were coming and were ready to pump!  It was time for our semi annual fill and top-up.  With his usual deft touch, Tom droped the thirty foot wide steel ramp and ran it up the inclined rocks to within a foot of our deck stairs and then left the helm to the GPS and stepped out to greet us while Lorne and Bob dragged the heavy hoses to our waiting tanks.