Chainsaw repair: $400.00.  New Chainsaw: $429.00.  Hmmmm…………..?  ‘I should be able to do this.  It’s only small engine repair, right?  I can rebuild engines…can’t I?  How much are the parts?’ 

“$215.00.”

‘Hmmmmmm………..the system seems almost designed to make this a throwaway saw, doesn’t it?  Never mind.  I’ll take it home, take it apart and see what I can do.  In the meantime, please bring me in a new saw.  I’ll get it in a week or so.  Even if I manage to fix the old one, a real man should have two chainsaws, right?  One for each hand….?’

I handled that well, I think.  Mature.  Sensible.  But I was cryin’ on the inside.

I hate it when my words come back to haunt me.  I said in an earlier post that you have to know how to fix things and such challenges are inevitable and, voila’, I instantly have a chainsaw to fix.  There is a God and He has a wicked sense of humour!

Both Sally and I know that a year from now, I will have a plastic bucket o’ chainsaw parts complete with the replacement bits all stored under the workbench that somehow seems invisible to me.  Probably for all eternity.  And yet, I will continue to write off-the-grid philosophies like ‘Fixin’ Things’.  

That is embarrassing.

Maybe I should write less and learn more?

And you should take all my stuff with a grain of salt or, if you had any sense, a good single malt scotch.  I mean, who needs a grain of salt when your mentor on going feral turns out to be a poseur?

Once again I relearn the main lesson in life: do not aspire to high standards – lower the old ones!

I have nothing but good intentions and I try not to procrastinate ’cause the jobs really do just pile up if you do.  Ya gotta stay on top of the job heap.  Having said that, I am never on top of the job heap.  It is always on top of me.  Hard to maintain the pose when you are under a heap of chores.

I decided to ask for help.

W is a retired chainsaw repair guy.  Key word: ‘retired’.  It is not right to invade the privacy of a man with your chainsaw problems when he has formally renounced such work.  That would be disrespectful.  I called anyway.

“Hey, W!  How ya doin’?”

“Good.”

“Listen.  I know that you are retired and all and I respect that, I really do…………….”

“What’s broke?”

“Unh, my chainsaw.  No compression.  I wasn’t calling you to do it, tho.  Honest.  I was just callin’ to get a source for parts.  Really.  Honest.”

 “Yeah.  Right. Bring it around.  I’ll fix it.”

“Thank God!”

So, here’s the homespun wisdom for the day: No man is an island.  This is especially true for men who live on islands.  We are all ‘on-the-grid’ in some way and, it seems that I am on the ‘repair shop’ grid in more ways than I care to admit.

But I am working on it………..(I just gotta get out from under this pile of chores!)

Gawd!  We are so seasonal.  We’re like bears.  Things this spring have been just dragging along.  People have been out and about, of course, doing what they have to do but the weather put a virtual dampner on everything.  We all went about it slowly and wearing a lot of weather-cover.  I feel as if I know the burka better than I should.

This weekend, however, turned out to be the turnaround.

A smidge late but better than never.

The ad hoc grill at the dock opened for business, more people worked on the bunkhouse.  Three of us went to the Q-hut.  Wwoofers are showing up.  More small boats in the water.  A few summer residents reappeared.  Parking at the end-of-road is getting full.  Folks are starting to talk about projects again.  This time with enthusiasm.  I think we have finally gotten started this year.  We’ve turned a mental corner.

Emphasis on the word mental.

There is even an event planned for the not-yet-completed-but-close-enough renovated bunkhouse the first week in June.  Now that is commitment.

BY THE WAY.…………..One of our neighbours has their land for sale.  48 acres of very good soil, well-treed waterfront property.  Tiny, tiny cabin.  They are asking around $550,000 and that is just a smidge over $10K an acre.  A good price, I think.  And I feel obliged to mention it.

They are not  – I don’t think, anyway – marketing it very well.  They are selling it because they are in their 70’s and they are thinking they should ‘move on’ while they can still move on.

The problem, of course, is that they are very good community members.  We all like and care for them.  So, consequently, no one is talking it up.  The message is not being sent.  No one outside really knows about it.  And that suits us just fine, thank you.

But, that is not fair.  I came to realize that this weekend while working with them on the Q-hut.  They want to sell and I should help.  Thus this advertisement.

And, anyway: If you feel you have to go, you have to go.  A truism in all sorts of situations.  Right?  Anyone interested, let me know.  I’ll put you in touch.

“Geez, Dave, can we do it?  Can we make a cabin and retire to the woods and all?  I mean like………will you ever get a ferry or a Starbucks?  Ever?”

No to the ferry.  Probably NO to the Starbucks.  I’d say that if you are under 55 and healthy, you can pull it off.  Over 55, you have to start ‘helping’ such a dream along with large dollops of money.  Really.  If you are over 60 and have to pay to have it done, building and equipping an off-the-grid cabin today is at least $500.00 a square foot.  But, if you can do a lot yourself, you can do it for less.  But not a lot less.  Off-the-grid ain’t cheap.

Bear in mind: even if you are useless with a hammer and a chainsaw (not at the same time…most of us have trouble using those two things at the same time), you will have to get good at some of it.  At some point.  And I am talking about after the building is built!

Unless you are a millionaire or better you simply cannot pay to have 80% of what needs to be done for everyday living done for you.  Impossible.  There are not enough ‘workers’ for that.  You have to put on jeans and clean your own gutters, paint your own house, move your own furniture and fix your own everything.  You have to know how everything works and, believe me, that will be tested.

Service?  Fuggedabout it!  Help?  Yes, of course.  Some.  When you really need it.  But only then.  Advice?  Plenty.  We are knee deep in advice although the excellent advice pool is a bit shallow or at least not running free and clear.

“Can I do it cheaper if I get creative?”

Absolutely.  Renovate and re-model four or so shipping containers down in the city and then have them ‘barged’ or ‘helicoptered’ to a pre-built deck and you have a great place for the summer.  May to mid October.  But it might lack a little in being ‘homey’.  And ‘systems’ are systems whether they are for a fancy tent or a mansion.  You need water, gas, electricity, etc. And that is what it is.  Hard to make your own generator from scratch.  Yeah, you could make a place for less……….but not a lot less.

“You are not selling me very well!”

Sorry.  But first, I like them.  I hope they stay.  Secondly, no one should take this on without knowing what they are taking on.  We, however, did.  And it was hard and we are very thankful that we were healthy and determined.  And remained so for the entire time we built.  But I must admit; being ignorant helped.  We didn’t know how hard it would be.  I can’t really recommend doing it the way we did it.  Planning better would make it easier.

Thirdly, if you do it and have trouble, I want to be able to look you in the eye and know that I told you the truth.  So, here’s the truth (as I see it): you should buy it.  You really should.  And then let our neighbours live in it for a few more years.  That would be nice.  And, while they are there, give the property to your kids.  Let them build a nice cabin!  And then our old neighbours (after helping your kids) will leave.  Then you go up and stay in the little renovated guest cabin that your kids built and maintain for you.

Now THAT’s a plan!

I have never been one much for shopping and what little I did, I liked to do personally.  I prefer small shops, individuals and small companies ’cause I like to connect with the person and make the transaction more personal.  Within reason, of course.  Price is always an issue.

My Opthalomogist seemed to have the same feeling.  He suggested I buy glasses from some local guy he knew but, it seems, he also knew we lived up the coast, he knows what that means and he knows what that means to cashflow.  “Or, you could go to Costco.  They are the least expensive.”

I laughed.  “Hey!  We may be a bit skint living as we do and all but if the little guy is just as good and much the same price, I’d prefer to go there!”

“Sorry.  Just sayin’.  I feel the same way.   But I have lived up the coast.  I know what that means.  And sometimes the big box stores are the only way to go.  Plus, I happen to know that there is a 1000% mark-up sometimes in the little shops.  That is just silly.  Especially for…….un, well, unh……..people living out of the mainstream.  You folks just don’t get to dip into the moneyflow much.”

He was being sensitive, considerate and, surprisingly, knowledgeable.  And he obviously knew of the two economies.

Almost the whole of the economy of the city is dollar-based.  You exchange goods or services and do so with currency.  This saves time, helps maintain consistency in markets and values, makes things competitive and is a more natural form of transaction amongst those who do not know each other and are unlikely to have a relationship.  Money works there.

But it is also impersonal.  It is one of the reasons that we, in modern society, say, “Buyer beware.”  And that is simply because there are fewer social safeguards against cheaters and strangers.

But in rural communities relationship is inevitable and so few transactions are merely exchanges or impersonal encounters.  When people out here need and want and others fulfil, it is often at least partially personal.  It is relationship.  And, as a consequence, it often has less to do with money.  We still need money, to be sure, but it is lessened and it is greatly lessened the closer within the community the transaction is made.

Is this all due to niceness and altruism?  I think it is partly.  People come here, to some extent, for that very thing.  But, essentially, it is more pragmatic than that.

If I have a winch for sale (and I do), there really is no market.  Hell, we barely have any people!  And if someone does want a winch, it is unlikely they are looking for exactly what I have to offer.  So, should someone be in need of a winch, I am more inclined to say, “Here.  Take my (excess) winch.  See if you can make it do the job for you.  See if it works.  If it doesn’t, bring it back.  If it does, well, you know……………just pass on something sometime and we’ll be square”. 

The value of the winch cannot be readily determined by market forces so the value just ‘floats’ in space until the recipient has something else of value that is no longer needed and they might then say, “Hey, Dave.  I still have that winch.  Workin’ good.  I just milled up a bunch of nice Fir and Cedar.  Need any?”   And, if I do, I will get some weirded-out value exchange for my winch.  And, if I need more wood than the winch was worth, I’ll say, “Well, I am gonna need a lot of wood.  Why not use the winch value as some kind of ‘coupon’ and I’ll pay for the rest with real money?  Or I could send over some more winches?”

And it just works out.

And, if it does not work out right then, there is always more time for another opportunity to arise to ‘settle accounts’. We aren’t strangers.  We are neighbours.  “We know where you live!”

Of course, over long periods of time, the ‘fairness of it’ can start to feel not quite right and some members of the community may carry a grudge or a feeling of discontent but, largely speaking, that is rare and usually temporary.   Most of the time – if there is a feeling of responsibility or obligation or debt to the transaction – it is on the part of the recipient.  They do not want to feel beholden.  They are looking to pay it back.  They want the accounts settled.  We rarely encounter freeloaders.

99% of the time it is just forgotten.  And that is because we have an ‘economic leveling device’ built into the community.  People just give and share freely on so many small items that it doesn’t take much or a long time to feel ‘fairly done by’.  Free fish, oysters, a trip to town, a bottle of wine and a regular flow of goodwill and considerations tends to blur the books just the right amount.  After awhile it all just feels right.

Or it doesn’t.

But it usually does.

I mention all this because, as you know, I am looking for a boat.  But doing so is essentially an exercise in the impersonal and distant – money exchanges with strangers.  Difficult and not fun.  I go to Craigslist or some website to find something that is suitable and then contact the seller.   Going to see it is almost always prohibitively expensive so I endeavour to learn more about the item by way of the e-mail.  I explain my circumstance when required (they almost always say, “just come see it tonight, why don’t you?”) and, sometimes, the seller is intrigued by the answer.  Or is at least curious and asks questions.  And so we exchange e-mails.  It becomes a bit more personal.  It starts to ‘feel’ better.

I have made a few purchases this way and all of them have been great.  Human.  Personal.  Relationship.  Better than going to a small shop actually.  Similar, anyway.  The lady from whom our community bought the woodworking tools will be coming to visit in the summer.  It feels like a friend coming.  The old fellow who used to build wooden boats and sold me his bronze fastenings met my son (who picked up the stuff) and, liking him, threw in a few extra tools and things.  This is good.  This is really good.

And it is a good deal.  This is way better than getting a ‘deal’ at Costco.

I am sitting in the Opthamologist office down island.  Seems I have cataracts.  I am looking at the folks in the waiting room and it is filled with old people.  I glance at the reflection of us all in the window.  We are all old, Sally and me, too.  Damn!

The next old geezer leaned over to me, “Yeah, just got me a new cane.  Hip surgery, ya know.”

“Wow!  You just had hip surgery?” 

“Nah.  Not religious, myself.  Why?  As soon as I get my eyes straightened out, I may have to have hip surgery, ya know? Sorry if I am yellin’.  Can’t hear a thing.  Didja say something?  I’m 77.  Had my house paid off since I was forty.  Why’d you ask?” 

Since I hadn’t asked, I was stuck for a reply.  “Well, unh…..you know…..like, how does a guy with a bad hip get around his house……?”

“Couch?  Yeah, I gotta couch.  Trouble sittin’ in it, tho.  Bad hip, ya know?  Just got me a new cane. May need hip surgery, ya know?”

I sensed a circularity coming on.  You know, a circularity, right?  Like a mental whirlpool.  Old people are good at ém.  I had to find a way out quick or I’d be sucked into the centre of this one and I’d go down.

“Hey”, I yelled into his face, “did the nurse just call ya?”

“Huh!?  Nurse call?  Where?”

I screamed, “You may want to check with the receptionist.  I think I heard them call your name.  I’ll go do that for you.”  I get up.  I go to the receptionist.  Look at her typing for a minute and then come back.

“Nah, wasn’t you.  You’ll still have to wait.” And then I head off as if it were me who was called.  I go around the corner and sit down out of his sight.  Man, I have good survival instincts.

Now, if I could only see.

“David!” I am called in.  The woman yells at me in simple sentences, mostly pleasantries.  “How are we today, dear?  You get here alright?  Now just you sit here and don’t move, OK?  I am just gonna do some simple tests, OK, dear?  And then, we’ll wait a minute or two and then I’ll take you back to the waiting area.  Dr. Smith will be right with you after a few minutes.  Alright?”

She’s my age, for Gawd’s sake!  She does the tests.  Speaks to me a few more times like I am mental and starts adding ‘dearie’ to the sentences.  I look up over her desk and there are two pictures of young women looking much like one another.  Sisters, I am sure.  And likely her daughters.  “Those must be your daughters”, I say. “I see the family resemblance.”

“Yes, they are, dearie.” she yells.  “Those are my daughters.”

“Pretty sexy.”

The air leaves the room.  There is a horrible silence.  She looks at me.  I can’t help myself.  I am grinning from ear to ear for the first time since I walked into that hell-hole.  I was thinking of elaborating on that theme but I knew my grin already looked like a leer and that was about as far as I could push it.  Political correctness was hovering in the air.

She looked at me.  And.  And.   And…………burst out laughing………..“Sorry.  I tend to talk to everyone as if they are geriatric.  Hahhahahahahah.  Then she leers at me.  Are you always so naughty?”

Not quite the same as a circularity but definitely a vortex into which I did not want to be invited.   I changed the subject to lenses, cataracts and perhaps my pending hip surgery once I get my eyes straightened out and, thankfully, the moment passed.

I have a knack for getting into trouble but, thankfully, I also have a knack for survival.  I really do.

As you know, we had previously – over the past few months – gathered a legion of logs down in the lagoon.  They were awaiting my saw, some good weather and the w’fers muscles.  The idea was to chop them up and then haul the then-smaller lengths up the hill on the highline so that they could be further processed into stove-sized pieces later on.  That was the plan anyway.

But the logs we had gathered were strewn in a fan-like spread in the water at the bottom end of the highline and some were laying on others, some were balanced on rocks and all were long, heavy and slippery.  Plus the latest storm had carpeted the lagoon in greasy kelp.  We all approached the heap o’ Hemlock with some trepidation.

And, of course, we all fell down at one time or another – usually several times.  We slipped and slithered and clambered over rocks and pushed and pulled on logs and ropes and generally manhandled tons of wood in an effort to get them all properly positioned for lifting and hauling.  It was a greater challenge than I had first thought.

When the tide is in, the logs float.  And, when floating, they are easy to move around but impossible to cut with a chainsaw.  So, you first get them roughly ‘sorted’ and then wait for the tide to go out so that you can then walk about the now-high-but-still-wet collection doing your cuts.  But by then some of the logs are out of position.  That means cutting them while wielding the chainsaw at awkward angles and while standing on slippery footing with the logs sometimes poised to roll or drop on you should you be in the way when the cut is made.  This is all very normal for real woodspeople but I still have a city-streak in me and the w’fers are from England.  ‘Nuff said.

I cut the logs into eight-to-ten foot lengths for easier handling.  Because the furthest ends cut from the longest logs are fifty feet from the high line, those ends have to be grappled with the log hauler and schlepped over the muddy-soft beach to the pick-up point.  That is hard enough but, with the floor carpeted in kelp, it is damn near impossible.  Thus another reason to have w’fers.

So, I cut them up and they hauled them into the beach.  Sal then tied them all close to the haul-up point for lifting later.  Of course it was raining.  Waddya thinkin’?

When we were done we had 45 lengths tied up ready to be hauled.  Each one takes ten minutes after it has been hitched up to haul to the top.  Then I unhitch the piece and send the haul-line back down to the beach where Sal hooks up another.  We can do four or five an hour.  The pile represents ten hours of winching.  Give or take.

We’ll take our time with that.

“Ohmygawd!  All that wood has to be found, towed, tethered, sorted, cut and hauled – just to get it into position to buck and chop and stack!  I can’t believe it!”

“Yes.  And we consider ourselves lucky to be able to find the logs floating by.  Can you imagine having to go foraging about the woods for them, chopping them down, limbing them and then dragging them to the water first?  That is what the old-timers often had to do.  And then they had to build their house, farm their land, catch fish, find work and raise children.  We just quit at the end of the day and drink wine.  Those old homesteaders were tough!”  

“This is tough!”

“Well, it is a bit difficult at times.  I’ll grant you that.  But it was really tough when we were building.  Back then there was no highline.  There was no funicular.  Or even stairs until I built them.  I swear I lifted and carried every item in this house at least five times.  And then Sal carried it all a few more.  What we did eight years ago, we could not do now even with some of our labour saving devices like stairs and decks and machines.  I complain now if I have to go to the food shed for another roll of toilet paper.  We got soft fast.  Well, first we went black and blue.  Then we went soft.”

“We had no idea how hard it was until the last few days.  It is not like the work you give us is hard.  In fact, it is fun.  But, of course, you don’t think about all the work involved until you do something as simple as gathering firewood.  Looking around the house, I marvel at how things like stoves and furniture and roofs and chimney’s were all built.  It is hard to imagine.”

“Well, that is the way to appreciate it.  You learn a lot by doing.  And part of it is learning how huge something as simple as the water system is.  Or even the garden.  But here’s the weird part……………for both of us, now………..after having been here for eight years, we would find it impossibly hard to go back to the office.  We couldn’t do it.  We think living in the city is really, really hard.  Too hard for the likes of us.  Weird, eh?”

It’s raining.  Yesterday my chainsaw packed it in.  Gotta get another.  Kiss some more dollars goodbye.  And we’ve got two woofers here sitting around getting bored.  You’d think we’d all be a bit frustrated.  But we are not!

Yesterday- just before the saw quit – we finished the wood!  That’s right!  Winter is handled.  Wah-bloody-hoo!  And the w’fers are great.  We are all getting along hugely.  I get to tell stories, wax on about life, religion, sex, politics and various sundry topics and they are trapped by the rain like lab rats.  For me a captive audience is the second best thing to getting work done.

Plus they are loathe to leave us because of Sally’s food.  We have seafood galore and this, it seems, is a great treat.  Generous amounts of wine are helping, too.  So, all is good.

I’ll borrow a chainsaw to finish up some more wood (future winters) and we will all go out, get wet, get tired, get sore and get things done.  It’s what we do.

And I try to make our conversations a bit colourful to say the least.  Well, my part in it is, anyway.  They seem a little shocked at times (which is the point).  Last night I introduced the topic of Jesus.  Nothing quite like Jesus to shake up a burgeoning relationship.  God! I love having w’fers!  Heheheheh.

“Hey!  You two wanna know what Jesus really looks like?”

“Pardon?”

“Jesus.  You know?  God’s son?  Wanna know what he really looks like?

“Well, like the pictures?  Or the guy depicted on the cross, you mean?”

“Yeah.  Had him in my car once, I did.  Wanna know stuff about Jesus?”

“Uh, well, that would be nice.  But I was just thinking about that ol’ chainsaw.  Maybe we can take it apart and fix it………………waddya think?”

“Nah.  I think the chainsaw breakin’ was a sign from God, ya know?  We are supposed to talk about Jesus.  Wanna hold hands?”

And it goes on from there.  Gawd!  I love w’fers.

I am an ordinary guy for the most part.  With a bit of character, I suppose, and my own sense of humour, of course.  We all are like that, I think.  But sometimes it is hard for people to know where one part leaves off and the other part begins.  Especially for w’fers from a foreign country. Is this just Dave being Dave?  Or is this a Canadian thing?  Or a rural, feral thing?  Is he always like this?  Or was he cracking a joke?  They have no reference point.

They are like putty.

It usually doesn’t take people long to learn that they should look to Sally for a clue.  She’s the sane one.  Mostly.  So, they tend to ‘check with Sal’ before taking me too literally.  Even when I am dead straight, they aren’t too sure as a rule.  “Sally, David just told us to come in for lunch.  Is that true?  Is there lunch?  Should we come in?  We just don’t know anymore!”

Typically, there is a time when I tell them a story that is just plain crazy-sounding, outrageous, ridiculous and, of course, true for the most part.  They crack.  “That’s just insane.  You are lying.  I am sure of it.  You are just trying to wind me up, you are.  Just being goofy!”

“Sal.  Tell ’em.”

“Yeah.  Well, sorry guys.  That story is true.  I was there.  It does sound crazy and he tells it kinda exaggerated but, honest, that one is 99% true.  Really.”

They slip into a state of confusion.  I grin from ear to ear.

Who can we trust?

First of two parts:

R&J arrived yesterday.  They are woofers from England.  Under thirty-ish.  Traveling around the world.  Nice couple.  We took them up to the arts and culture day at the school and they mingled with the fifty or so local people doing what constitutes doing at an arts and culture day.  Then, when we had finished doing that, we came home in the rain and, since already wet, we decided to start on the chore of building the wood-pile.

We host woofers for a number of reasons, most of which are just ‘fun’ and the meeting-of-young-people-kinda thing.  We don’t work ’em very much.  It is too much work on our part to oversee a lot of work on theirs.  But the exception to that is wood-getting.  We need to get in a few cords of wood for next winter and that chore is getting increasingly difficult for us.  NOT impossible.  Just increasingly more difficult.

Hurting my back riding the motorcycle through the baseball backstop last summer didn’t help.  I still feel it.  Now I leave the chopping to the young men.

Well, first I teach them how to do it.  Then I do it a few times to set some kind of standard and then, before my back packs it in, I stride off with a bit of a macho challenge.  “Hell, son, even the little Chinese girls who come here in the summer can chop that wood.  It’s not muscle work, it’s just rhythm.  You should get good enough that you can just whack and whack all day.  Doo, dah, Doo dah!” (to be sung to the tune of Camptown Races)

And I look like I know what I am talking about.  I always wear one of my lumberjack shirts and my heavy boots.  I really do look the part.  I’m not light  and, put as nicely as I can, I am somewhat compact.  Some might say ‘dense’.  Like a boulder packed in bubble-wrap.  But not just a little of that is muscle.  Plus I have been doing this chopping thing for a while.  I have the rhythm.  So, I pick up the splitting maul and, with indicating barely an effort, I split a piece neatly and efficiently.  One blow.  Impressive, if I do say so myself.  Then I stop and hand the implement of destruction to the smaller of the two – usually the female.

What they don’t know is that the piece I chose to demonstrate on was pre-selected for being knot free and dry.  A real logger could have split it with a  large spoon.  Still, it looks impressive and it is to them.  They are impressed.  So, then I give them a knotty, green piece of spirit-breaking wood and say, “Here, Janice.  You try!”

The results are predictable but Janice doesn’t care.  She wasn’t looking forward to swinging an 8 pound maul around anyway.  But the contrast of my proficiency with Janice’s lack of it, is what we are going for.  The fellow can see that this is his chance to impress me and, more importantly, Janice.  His  hormones are rising to the challenge.  Like sap!

I discretely remove the gnarly piece and give him a nice dry, easily splittable round.  He whacks.  It usually still takes a few good swings but he gets through and we all ‘oooh’ and ‘aaaah’ at his burly man-ness.  Janice looks on approvingly.  And the guy is hooked.

Young men, eh?

I then go in and get a few ibuprofen for my already hurting back and go out to encourage the macho display a few more times before heading out to cut more rounds for the new, starting-to-sweat, macho-splitting man-machine.

But all is not quite right.  Not yet.

I whisper to Janice, “I gave him an easy round to split.  I gave you a hard one.  Doing it this way means he is even more proud of his work, you see.  It encourages him.  I hope you don’t mind? If you want to give it a few whacks some time, I’ll get a regular piece for you.” 

“No.  I don’t mind.  I do the same with him, myself.  Give him something easy and then oooh and aaah.  He falls for it every time.  But I had no idea guys were on to this.”

“Just gettin’ in touch with my feminine side.  Have to.  My masculine side is sore and hurtin’.  Gotta get smart like you women.”

Part two

Did a good half day.  R split all day, ‘doo dah, doo dah’.  But before I had a chance to come clean with J she had decided that she could ‘split’ wood too and when I eventually went back out, she was hard at it.  Even my confession of ‘manipulation-of-young-men’ was not sufficient to deter her for long.  She went back to stackin’ for awhile but later she took the job from her partner.  She was gonna master the maul and chop like a logger.

And she did!  It always takes awhile to see who has it and who doesn’t.  Splitting really is a rhythm thing.  Strength is a factor (tho I lie and say it is not) but the real role of strength is in keeping the maul and the chopping head straight and true at the moment of impact.  A strong person hitting slightly off target wastes their energy and gets nowhere.  A weaker person who hits ‘dead on’ will still split wood.  She got it.  She then got a good rhythm.  And the wood started to fly!

Young women, eh?  (Manipulating them is always harder).

It was only a long half day because these two, being English and not living near a beach (that is only possible if you live in the middle of England and even then how far can you be from a beach?  But, in England, being 30 minutes away from anything is a long way), were amazed at ours.  Free and plenty of seafood!  In the afternoon Sal put them to work getting and shucking oysters for dinner and they also brought up a bunch o’ clams for Sal’s famous chowder.  So far, so good.

I took the opportunity to have a brief nap.  Old men, eh?

It’s 5:00 and time for a glass of wine.  So, we will have one.  They will join us when they have returned from kayaking.  To us, it is a normal day.  A nice one, a productive one, a physical one but a nice day.  For them?  It is marvelous.

And that is the main reason for hosting woofers.

“Hey, Sal, look at those two over there.  They look like us, kinda.  Same weather gear, boots.  Driving an ‘island’ boat.  I’ll bet they live on our island.  I’m gonna introduce ourselves.”

It was about eight years ago.  We were unloading at the neighbouring island’s local dock readying our little inflatable for another death-defying ride up channel.  Even though we had owned our property for decades, we hadn’t really gotten to know any potential neighbours and this seemed like as good a place as any to start.  Anyway, I had a few questions rolling around in my head.

After approaching them and introducing ourselves, I said, “Well, enough with the pleasantries.  Tell me – how much does it cost to live there?  You know, monthly – like?”

R turned to R and they conferred for a bit and then he turned to me and said, “About $1,000 a month.”   Just then, she nudged him and they whispered again.  “Sorry, I was wrong.  It’s more like a $1050.  Forgot taxes.”

“Yikes!  You guys live for a $1000 a month and think in terms of $50 dollar-bills!  OMYGAWD!  Sal, we can afford this!”

I continued that ad hoc, unscientific poll of people who lived out our way and, of course the numbers have changed even in the past eight years.  The poorest I interviewed lived on $8,000 a year but she was subsidized by wealthy parents every now and then (boat motors, etc.) and the richest (at that time) was living off $22,500 a year, the bulk of which was made in December when the wife went to Vancouver and worked retail for 12 hours a day for three weeks in a row.

Since then I have met the couple who runs and owns part of a global gold mine and is worth billions and I have local friends and neighbours who I know live on less than $6,000 a year.  At least two of them live on less than $4000 a year.   The first couple who were content at $1050 would likely say $1500-1800 today.  The increased cost of fuel has hit rural people harder percentage wise.

But the point is not that the cost of living is rising. It is not even that it is rising faster for rural people.  The point is that rural people ‘burn’ through money at a considerably lesser rate.  We just don’t have the umbilical costs of cable, phones, TV packages, domestic help and ‘keeping up with the Jones’s’.  (Well, we do a bit but our Jones family is poor as dirt so it is still easier).  We don’t do restaurants.  We don’t get pizza delivered.  We don’t do Starbucks.  And we don’t have to park our car downtown (when I worked in the city, I often averaged around $20.00 a day in parking.  On our last trip there, that wouldn’t cover four hours!).

On a straight ‘compare-my-day-to-yours’ basis, I go two weeks sometimes without spending a dime.  I never carry a wallet – what’s the point?  No place to spend anything.

Of course, it is not as simple as that.  Our last trip to Costco was $1200.  When the barge fills our propane tank it is $1200.  When we do anything, it seems it is $1200.  So we do pay.  But, regardless of that, there is no question: we spend less overall.

Offhand, I would say that a couple living rurally with a car and a boat and the house paid off can easily live as well as they ever did in the city for less than $3000 a month.  But by ‘well’ I mean ‘different but still really good’.

“Why tell me this, Dave?  I don’t believe you, anyway.  Costs my wife and me almost $10000 gross a month.  There is no way we could live like that on a third of that!”

Well, that is why I am telling you this.  Rural living is less expensive.  OK, you give up Starbucks and golf and parking downtown.  You give up cable, restaurants and delivered pizza.  Maybe your car gets older and less shiny.  Couple of dents.  Bit of rust.  But you get better health, more free time and the odd pod of Orcas going by.  The raven becomes a friend.  The seafood is fresher, the stress levels are reduced and you can read more books.  It’s a good trade-off.

Put another way: those financial consultants that tell you you can’t really aford to retire yet are wrong.

Something to consider.

I mentally ‘checked out’ of the urban rat race at fifty.  I physically left when I was 56.  The years in between were transition years.  I worked but my heart wasn’t in it and I was looking for a way out.  I was intent on leaving the boiling cauldron of the cul-de-sac and the modern work place but I had nowhere specific to go.  I spent those transition years in a bit of a struggle.

So, I took almost 6 years to actually choose where to go, how to get there and how to extricate myself.  What may have looked like a sudden ‘leap of faith’ was not.  It was a slow, drawn-out leap of slo-mo planning.  Still brave, courageous and wild, of course, to me anyway and not just a little bit of a surprise to Sally but not quite the spontaneous leap it may have looked like to the casual observer (and that I have implied at times in this blog).  Change can also be slow.

I mention this because one of the catalysts to making the change was Ken.  What a guy!  I was, at the time of meeting him, immersed in my work.  I was about 45.  I was doing mediations at a prodigious rate for the government and traveling all over the province all the time while doing it.  It was really hard work but I was keen and so the time is remembered fondly.  Still, getting argeement from a crowd of up to 30 disputing people on financial matters in one three hour mediation is not easy.  It can be and was quite draining.

We were in some interior town at the time  – Kelowna, Kamloops, Salmon Arm – they were a blur of cheap motels back then.  And my government liaison on this case was Ken, the government’s lawyer.  He was the guy who put the disputants in the room and handled all the pre-mediation work.  He was great.  Ken was also a nice guy, smart, funny and full of energy.  He was a dynamo.  He was also at least 65.

When the settlement was reached, it was Ken who would do follow up for the bureaucrats.  So we would see him the next day, as well.  But the next day was easy.  We had lunch together and mostly just talked.

“Listen.  Thanks for your work on all this.  You were great.  And, you know, all the usual pleasantries professionals usually say to one another…….I mean them, too.”

“Hahaha!  No problem.  I had fun!”

“Yeah.  I was meaning to ask you about that.  How is it that a government lawyer – probably my definition of being-in-hell-in-an-office – can be so healthy, so ‘up’ and so well, fun?  How can you do that?  Especially since you are as old as the bloody hills!”

“Well, I just started here a year ago!”

“Wow.  That is a surprise.  I just assumed that you grew that grey hair sitting in that office listening to bureaucrats.  What did you do before this?”

“I was retired!”

“Oh, well, that makes sense.  That accounts for the grey hair.  You retired, got bored and went back eh?”

“No.  I’ve been retired for almost twenty years.  It was great!  I loved it.  Just before I was fifty I realized that I had to get on with some things before I got too old to do them.  So, I quit my practice and went mountain biking all through the US Southwest.  Also snorkeled all over the Caribbean.  Traveled everywhere.  My wife and I had a helluva time until I was 65 and then I decided to go back to work.  You know, something slow paced and with coffee breaks?  And I found that I had the curiosity of youth all over again.  After almost twenty years having fun, law had changed, I had changed and now work was fun again!”

“OHMYGAWD!  That is brilliant!”

“Yeah.  I think everyone needs to have time to do what their heart leads them to but so many people think they have to wait until the end of life to do it.  I decided that I could retire in the middle of working life and I would likely have a better retirement as a result.  And No!, I was not well off.  The bonus was that I came back re-interested in my work.  That was an unexpected treat.  I highly recommend thinking about that should you ever get bored at what you are doing.”

And, of course, I have never forgotten what he said.  In fact, I kinda thought I’d do a David’s version of it.  You know………..?  I would quit at 55 and ‘do my thing’ and then, at 65 or so, go back to work.  As a mediator most likely.  Just like my hero, Ken.

But I am getting along to that age now and, at 64, I do not see myself plugging back in.  Mediators work in cities.  And I am not going back there.  So early retirement may turn out to be just that – early retirement.  We’ll see.

So, the next day………….

We arrived at the site from having spent the night at the farm stay on the other island.  The farm stay is a B&B on a small hobby farm that raises sheep and keeps chickens and teaches English to Japanese students.  It’s a lovely little place and the owners are characters fitting to the scene and endemic to the area.  Completely mad in an entertaining kind of way.

When we got to the site, the box was – just as planned – lying just below the high water mark and approximately 6o feet from where it should eventually be situated.  And, of course, it lay amongst the poor footing of slimy boulders, kelp and barnacles at the bottom of a steep incline.

I rigged a block and tackle to a tree up the hill and lashed a heavy nylon belt around the box.  My neighbour came over to assist us and, after hooking it up, we began to pull.  Sally and J were at the ‘dry’ mid-station pulling for all they were worth and I was at the tail end – just into the high water area – with the rope wrapped around my waist to ensure purchase.  And we pulled.

The block and tackle was rigged for four-to-one and so with roughly 100 pounds of pull, the box would move.  We aided the progress by placing little rollers (short log bits) under the box wherever it hit the rocky surface.  In theory, it should have been easy.  In fact, it was not.

The box caught up on a rocky outcropping every five or so feet and so one of the upper helpers would leave their post and lever it back up and place a roller.  The little logs, of course, would eventually roll out from under and so the same helper had to go fetch them and put them under again.  Each time, I would hold the weight – which was not hard as I was substantial enough and I also had at least one assistant helping me.  It went slowly but it went.  And we were in a good mood.

At one point the box held up and both assistants went about trying to make it free again.  I relaxed somewhat and laid back on the rope that was wrapped around my waist.  I was leaning at about a 45 degree angle over the beach rocks below.  By then I was about ten or so feet up the beach on the ‘dry’ side.

The rope parted.

I fell downhill over big boulders to the even bigger boulders on the beach.  I somersaulted actually.  Backwards.  Two complete rolls.  And then I smacked the back of my head heavily into the biggest rock which immediately haulted any further movement on my part.  In any way.  I think I was knocked out for a few seconds.

But I came to quickly and, except for a smashed and bleeding elbow and a completely whacked out state of consciousness, I was fairly intact.  J and Sally helped me to the deck and I just lay there for about half an hour while Sal fussed and made me tea and stuff.  I always love those times.

After I recovered somewhat, we used the cabled come-along to get the box into position and now we had a box on a beach that would hold tools and keep them dry from the weather.  Never has so much effort been expended nor danger and injury suffered for so pathetically little.  We were very proud.

That little inflatable boat did yeoman’s work.  I carried everything from bags of concrete to wheelbarrows, from luggage to drinking water, from food to building supplies and much much more over the two years we used it as our main supply vessel.

My single biggest load was when I brought up a few weeks of supplies and luggage for six and the boat was completely filled.  The load was like a small mountain.  But I was also running short of fuel so I didn’t want to do a second trip.  The water was dead calm so I suggested that the members of the family (with the luggage) who was coming to visit stand along the outside pontoons of the boat and lean into the middle against the pile of stuff.  In that way, they could accompany their luggage and we could all make it in one trip.

As we were leaving the loading area (about three miles from our beach) and everyone was standing aboard while I asked for directions (’cause I couldn’t see over the pile), the wife asked me, “Is this really necessary?”

“Not usually.  But I am very low on fuel (I was exaggerating.  I had enough to get home but not enough to do two trips).  I am hoping we make it before we run dry.  I’d hate to be floating around out here in the dark.  It’s already raining slightly and it gets bitterly cold at night.  And even if we should eventually drift ashore……well, then there are the wolves and bears to contend with.  And I don’t have my gun.”

They were European city folk.  That was enough to keep everyone quiet for the rest of the trip.  The visit went well but they have not been back since.

Towing the Water Tank

I once brought a huge water tank to the property using the boat.  It wasn’t heavy, it was just big.  But the cost of the barge was still prohibitive.  I figured that if it was good enough to keep water in, it should be good enough to keep water out.  So I fitted a few bungs for the holes and put a towing hook in one of them.  Then I slowly towed the whole thing by way of the little inflatable tug-that-could.

Now that really looked like a submarine!