Stage 1: Read Island to Richmond and dinner with friends last night.  Fabulous meal.  Lots of fun sitting around and discussing geriatric issues and minor travails of life.  Seems everyone is getting old and crotchety.  We really know how to have a good time talking inconvenience, fatigue, aches and pains. Maybe we took a few swipes at the BC ferry corporation, traffic congestion, gas prices, irresponsible dog owners and taxes, of course. All with a grin, a joke, a wry expression.  Fun, actually.  In bed by 9:30.

Flying into LA

Stage 2:  YVR to LAX.  We were on the airport shuttle bus with another retired couple our age.  She was in the same category of cute as Sal but, of course, not in the same league.  Smiley.  Chirpy.  And full of ‘travel’  talk. Real cute in a California-Whole-Foods-Pilates kinda way.  Ya know?  Really white teeth? I liked them.  Kinda.  (The couple, not the teeth.)  But they were leaving Canada and going to Thailand with a tan!  How is that possible?

That kind of thing disturbs me in a weird kind of way.

They are on their way to Thailand again.  Ninth time.  Golfing.  They made the town of Bang Pa-In sound pretty good, though.  The king has a palace there.  Lots of inexpensive, good golf.  May have to reconsider next trip.  I like golf.  I like the king.  I like cute.  And I love Thai food.  We’ll see.

I’ve been communicating with my son by way of his and his partner’s new blog.  It is: World Tour 2012 – K,B.C and will chronicle their round the world trip over the next four months. They are in Belize and we all plan to meet up in Guatemala in a few days.That is kind of neat if we manage to pull it off but it is sometimes hard to execute plans when Belizean and Guatemalan chicken buses are involved.  We’ll see how it goes.

More travel stuff still to come.  But, as you know, there is not much interest in airports and hotels.  Well, there is, actually, but I am sure that Homeland Security is watching us and tapping into our Wi-fi.  Gotta play it smart.  Guatemala, not Guantanamo is the desired destination.

We think we know how to ‘dip’ below the radar.  We’ll settle into a ‘comatose-like’ state and just try to get through our day without getting involved with the CIA, FBI, LAPD or the US health care system.  One step at a time.  Low profile.  Discrete. Heavily insured.  I didn’t even comment when Security had me take off my shoes!  Security camera sees me and Sal:  “Duh….(hold luggage while standing in the middle of a crowd while looking stupid and harmless saying)….which way is our gate?”

Funny.  Travel is so much different these days.  Not all of it good.

Day one.  2012.  Happy New Year.  So far, so good.  But I pity the poor Mayans, eh?  Talk about existential angst.  They can’t even make hair appointments with any confidence.  No future in their calendar. Literally.  Hell, I don’t think they even have a calendar* anymore!

“Hey, José, you wanna go for some cerveza?”

“Si, amigo.  When?”

“Gotta be now, don’tcha think, bro?  I mean, like, there is no more ‘manana’ for us anymore, man.  Get it while you can, compadré!” 

‘Course, wouldn’t ya know?  We are heading for Mayan country in a few days.  Ground zero.  Literally.  Who knows if there will even be a there there, ya know?  Like, maybe we are stepping into a tear in the time/space continuum or something………..

Normally, I wouldn’t think of separating off a whole portion of the world due to a prophesy of doom but then Samoa disappeared for a whole day** the other day.  If that can happen, then the Mayan world can end too.  Makes sense.  Kinda.  I’ve seen how these things can work.  We watch movies.

But we aren’t going to worry about it.  Nothing I can do to stop the Mayan world from ending.  And, if they go, well, we are all likely to go right along with them.  That’s my take on it, anyway.  Go with the flow.  “See ya in Hell!”

Sal’s pretty sure that it is going to be OK, tho.  ‘Specially since she has a reserved seat in heaven.  Same ol’, same ol’ for her.  One paradise for another as far as she is concerned.  She’s still paying bills and making plans.  One of us will be able to say, “I told you so.”

Maybe.

Anyway, she is living and working as if there is going to be a tomorrow…………………… and one after that……………  One thing for sure – eventually the tomorrows end for everyone and there are few million Mayans predicting that such a time is nigh.  Whatever.

I think we can safely say that there is a consensus on termination for all of us.  It is just a matter of time.  I just didn’t think we’d all go out together.

I hate line-ups.

Anyway, we’ll continue on.  Good ol’ denial til the end, eh?  We’ve gotten good at that over the years.  Should be easy this time, too.  No sense in facing reality til ya hafta, I guess.  Do not put off til tomorrow what you can put off today, I say.

Tomorrow we pack, close down the house and ship the dogs off to a friend.  A few days of transit and then we’ll be in Central America.  After we have had enough of warm, cheap and corrupt, we’ll return home to cold, expensive and corrupt.  Some things remain the same wherever you are.

But this trip is a bit different.  I am surprised to hear myself not waxing too enthusiastic about another adventure.  For the first time in my life, I have a home that makes me feel homesick when I am away.  Even tho I am not keen on January-on-the-wet-coast, I must confess to being much more of a home-body than I have ever even considered before.  I just never felt the draw of ‘home’ before.  Not so much, anyway.  I will be glad to get back.

And I haven’t even left yet!

That should not suggest that I do not want to go.  I do.  It is just that, as I age, I am not as ‘keen’ to travel as I once was.  I am just not as excited.  It will be good.  It will be fun.  And it will be interesting, warm and relaxing.  Even nostalgic in Chichicastenango.  All good stuff.  But this time I am not getting away so much.  It used to be that the tension and stress of my earlier ‘working’ life demanded that I get away now and then.  But I don’t have those kinds of incentives anymore.  Nothing is holding me against my will.  I like it here.  It’s just different, somehow.

Anyway, the blog will continue, of course (some things remain the same wherever you are).  A few more interruptions, probably.  But it is a journal and, unless the Mayans are right, I’ll keep writing my days out.  Til they stop.

*The Mayan calendar goes til December 2012, actually, but there is so much havoc and destruction to wreak that I am just writing off the whole year.

**Samoa – in a fit of economic optimism – jumped the international dateline to benefit their trading partners and lost a whole day in the process – December 30th.) 

I am asked this question often; “Geez!  Livin’ out there and all……..no stores, like…………nuthin’ goin’ on………ya know……no cable………….no restaurants……like, do you and Sally get really bored or sump’n?  Like………waddya do, man?”

Today’s answer:  It was around two-ish.  We had guests for lunch and had just finished eating when we heard the drone of heavy engines overhead.  R and F operate one of the very best charter/adventure tour operations on the coast and R had also been a helicopter pilot in his previous vocation.  They both were familiar with the sound.

“Search and Rescue plane.  Must be something goin’ on.”

We turned on the VHF radio and overheard the coastguard talking to a boat assisting another that was taking on water too rapidly for comfort.

“This is Comox radio (Coastguard).  Please provide your exact locations.  Do you need assistance?”

“Yes.  We need assistance.  Vessel taking water.  We are the ‘Sportfish’ and will take the vessel Lady B to the nearest dock.  Our location is..(they read out their GPS coordinates)…….We really could use a pump!”

“Pump arriving by way of coastguard fastboat and another vessel in the vicinity.  Estimated arrival time both vessels approximately one hour.”

We were only about 20 minutes away.  But I had just put my boat up on the beach for servicing.  I called the Sportfish and asked if they required quicker service.  They answered ‘yes‘.  Then I called my neighbour J.

“Hey!  Feel like being a hero?  Some guy is sinking and he needs one of our pumps but we’ll also need to use your boat.  Mine is on the hard.”

“Let’s go!”

We loaded his boat in a couple of minutes and then we headed north to where the VHF conversation we overheard had described the scene.  They had described a pretty narrow area.  Should be easy to find even though the afternoon light was limited.

As we were getting closer to the area it was not at all clear where they might be.  We could see no lights.  We didn’t see a boat under tow.  We didn’t see ‘Sportfish’.

“You have gone too far!  Stop!  Go left”. 

Go left?!  Who’s talking?  Whoever was saying that could see us.  Weird.  But I recognized the voice over the VHF.  It was R, a neighbour who lived about half a mile from our current location.  I guessed that she had seen the activity, listened in on the radio call and was watching from her window.  When she saw us come up on the scene, she opted to ‘get involved’ and help direct us.  It seemed odd, but she sent us up a channel that we had not considered and began to search in a place completely different from what the coastguard had described.

The sinking boat was heavy aluminum, dark grey in colour.  The name of the vessel was printed in large black letters on the half-submerged stern.  The fellows on board were urchin divers and were clad in black wetsuits.  No lights were on and the area was in shadow.  And it was raining.  Against the grey rocky shore they were all but invisible and literally dropping further out of sight as they sank slowly deeper.

We saw them when we were about 100 feet away.  We never would have found them without the ‘stop‘ and ‘go left’ directions.

We pulled alongside.  I slung the pump over to one of the crew and then followed that with the pick-up hose while J nestled his boat alongside.  Then we attached the outflow hose and began to pump.  The water was already about three inches over the engine.  The entire engine compartment was swamped.  A lot of expensive machinery was slowly being ruined by the sea.

One guy had been in the compartment with a ten gallon pail bailing for all he was worth.  He was not winning the battle when we showed up.  But the little Honda pump worked well and the water level very slowly began to drop.  Took about twenty minutes for the engine to break the surface.  And that was just about ten percent of the water in the boat.

By then the Coastguard fast response boat showed up and another pump was put to work.  After an hour the aft section was relatively dry and the hole that had been opened where the outboard leg had been damaged was evident and trying its best to fill up what we had just pumped out.

We had to get the stern higher or the boat would continue to flood.

Urchin divers pick urchins.  No surprise.  And they put the urchins they collect in large net bags.  Each bag holds about 300 or so urchins and weighs about 100 pounds.  And each bag looks like a giant urchin with thousands of spines sticking out.  There were already about fifteen bags on the dock and we threw out the remaining ten or so to lighten the load and get the hole above water.

‘Course after throwing out the bags we just stood there looking at the hole and wondering why our efforts hadn’t worked until it dawned us to get out of the boat ourselves!  Duh!

The Coastguard provided the crew with some emergency ‘stuffing’ specially carried for a breach in a hull.  It resembles thick cotton batten.  The crew stuffed it in the hole and, though it continued to leak, the flow was pretty much under control.  It was time to go.

We gave our names, phone number and address and left them to it just as two more Coastguard vessels came on the scene.

A couple of hours later one of the Coastguard boats returned J’s pump to his dock.  The holed vessel was under tow back to Campbell River.  We listened on the VHF as they made their way in the dark and against the current.  The guy who does ‘haul-out’ at the local shipyard had already been called.  They’d likely have the boat ‘on the hard’ before midnight.

All in a day’s work for the Coastguard, I guess and not an infrequent occurrence to a commercial fisherman.  It can get a bit dicey out here at times.  Especially in December.  But luck was with them.  They stayed afloat.  Saved the vessel and got to go home the same day.  They even kept their catch.

As for us?  Well it was just nice to get a break from all that boredom, ya know?

Dogs are kinda interesting at times.  Not often in my books but definitely now and then.

We put Fid and Meg in the car a few days ago and then drove south for six or so hours to enjoy Christmas with the family.  They travel by sleeping in the back seat.  At the end of the trip, in the dark, while they were supposedly ‘dreaming’, we began the final approach to Sal’s parents house.  I’d say we were about a mile and a half, maybe two, away from the house when Fid perked up from the backseat.  I have no idea what prompted it.

He pressed his face against the window, sniffed a few times and stayed at ‘alert’ for the next five or so minutes.  It was pitch black out and raining.  He couldn’t see a thing.  I doubt that he could smell very much either (the windows were up, the car was full of junk/food/bodies and the heater in the car was on).  But Meg got the message as well and the two of them were on high alert as we pulled into Sally’s parent’s yard.  They knew precisely where were were and they knew it when we were almost two miles away.  It was sensory restricted, hundreds of miles from home and we only visit there now and then.  But they knew.

That is kinda neat.

As I said, we had been away for a few days and we arrived at our last stage of travel getting home to a bit of a blow.  A pretty strong Sou’easter was slapping at our neck o’ the woods.  Our boat had been earlier-in-the-day left at the dock by our neighbour and we loaded it up and piled in.

In synch were three other neighbours who had arrived by way of the same ferry.  Not a lot of time was spent passing pleasantries.   It was just too blustery to linger.  The sea was ‘whispy’ with spindrift and we all headed off in different directions but straight for home and as quickly as the seas would allow.

"Welcome back!"

When we got here the ravens were on the railing shrieking at us.  They knew we were on our way home.  Had they recognized us from two miles away?  Had they just been hanging around?  Did they have a copy of our itinerary?  How is that possible?

It is equally as interesting to me that they both shrieked at us until I shrieked back.  A few ‘caws’ were exchanged between the three of us (Sal won’t caw) and then they took off.  We had been welcomed and then, I guess because of the weather, they wanted to get home, too.  They had done their duty.  Pleasantries made.  And they were gone.

I know that this is on the edge of anthropomorphizing and I think that kind of thing is just silly.  On the other hand, it is not really anthropomorphizing because your average human being couldn’t have done the same things.  Really.  Unless you had driven the route and seen the landmarks, you wouldn’t recognize where we were in the dark and in the rain two miles away from where we ended up at Sal’s parent’s house.  The dogs knew.

And I can’t tell you how many friends of mine simply can’t be on time for an appointment even with a calendar, a digital watch and a reminder phone call to help them.  The ravens were.

Ravens and dogs.  Does it get any better?

As you know, I am a bit of a humbug at Christmas.  Despite my immense girth, sitting around eating is not my idea of fun and making superficial annual chit chat is unquestionably a special kind of hell for me.  I hate it.  Having said that, it is starting to get a bit more interesting these days.

My two young, skinny nieces that I used to lift in a feet-off-the-ground hug and then swing their legs in the air from side to side came to my brothers ‘do’ last night.  I guess I haven’t seen them in a couple of years.  They weren’t skinny nieces anymore – they were women.  My abilities to hug them and swing their legs like a pendulum seemed a bit out of place.  So, I politely but sadly declined the tradition.  But, I confess, that I kinda wanted to try.  Still do, actually.  I just didn’t think it would have been as appreciated as before what with the large bosoms, high heels and the make-up and all.  Some traditions just have to fade away, I guess.

Still, some new Christmas tendencies emerged and, who knows, they might make ‘tradition’ status in a few years.  This year the kids pretty much carried the conversation.  Hell, last year and this, B and K actually hosted one of the occasions.  And they did it very well.  That is a tradition I can get behind. Last night we were regaled with stories of minor delinquency that we should have known as participating parents but which were saved up just for this Christmas.  T’is the season to confess, I guess.

And we saw the cousins talking like old friends.  That was nice.  My brother and sister and I never had that kind of relationship with our cousins.  If we ever met them, it was only once.  Distance and estrangement does that kind of thing.  Rotten personalities kind of cements it.

And, anyway, who wants to be reminded of genetic strains gone wrong, eh?

But some go right.  Kinda.  My sister walked and looked so much more like my mother than I had ever seen before and everyone remarked that I was starting to look like my dad.  There is a strange kind of comfort in that.  And horror.  Can’t really explain it.

Every year the food gets better, too.  Just as all the older members of the family are ‘splitting’ portions and the yonger ones are no longer filling empty legs and packsacks, the food gets better!  Go figure.

Funny thing, tho.  I don’t think there is a turkey anywhere this year.  Quiches, curry, ham, BBQ’d steaks.  No turkey.  I wonder if that means anything?

All the traditional treats and deserts will show up, tho.  And the drinks.  Plenty of scotch will be consumed.  And wine.  And we’ll all get sleepy.  I guess the sleep-inducing drug in turkey was just too much.  Something had to go.  So out went the gobbler.  This is a tradition pretty much destined, I think.  Save the turkey!  Pass the ol’ Turkey (a bourbon).

One thing missing in our Christmases so far is children.  Little ones.  No babies present.  No buns in ovens.  No prospect of it in the near future, either.  Between our two sides of the family, there are 15 children from our generation of 7 brothers and sisters (15 if you count the spouses)  Basically we just reproduced ourselves, no less, no more.  And only one of those has had a child.  Actually, there are a few step-children from one of us but all them and their children are out of town and a little disconnected from the lower mainland contingent.  Still loved and accepted but somehow, a smidge ‘distant’.  For those of us who are near Vancouver/Victoria or are ‘townies’, there are no grandchildren.  The leg-swinging hug days may be over.

Humbug!

A large part of living off-the-grid, of course, is the challenge and logistics of getting back on to the grid now and again.  Duties, needs, wants and family regularly require that.  And we are now back ‘on’ as I write.  Whoopee.

So much fun.

T’is the season for obligations and that means people and people means ‘the grid’.  Sometimes it feels more like grid lock.

One thing is for sure: I am not yet ‘on my game‘.

Metaphorically speaking, returning to the hubbub of ‘normal’ life is not unlike getting off the children’s merry-go-round and then again having to get back on it while it is still spinning and still filled with children.  Getting back up to ‘normal’ speed is an adjustment.  A hard one.  Every single time.  Sights, sounds, signs, neon, traffic, noise and the ever-present line-up at the cashier – just for starters.  Schedules, appointments, expectations, formalities, social gatherings, shopping and even keeping up with the blog just adds to the madness.

This time it is Christmas that demands such intense engagement.  And we are currently in Victoria trying to catch up to the hectic pace so that we can jump back on the ride.  We are still a bit slow.  But we’ll get there.  Let the festive traditions begin!

Interesting to me: Victoria now seems like ‘hectic’.  When we lived in Vancouver, Victoria was very ‘small town‘.

Of course, the tradition begins and ends with trips to Costco.  Coming and going.  Is that not a weird thing in itself?  Feels weird to me. Scrooge-like, if you know what I mean? Dickens would be appalled, I’m sure.  I am appalled!

Sal started the acclimation process off with the traditional opening line:

“Before we get to my mum’s, don’t forget to stop at Costco.  We need to get some dogfood and my mom always likes flowers.  Gotta get a few housewarming gifts.  And you can gas-up while we are there.”

“Right!  Ho Ho Ho.  T’is the the season, eh”?

“What are you going on about, now?”

“Sorry.  Just trying to get in the mood.”

“What mood?”

“You know, the buying, eating, drinking, chatting and smiling mood that is now so foreign to me.  I was never very big on the smiling and chatting thing but I had buying, eating and drinking down pat.  Not so much these days.  It all seems like too much.  Know what I mean?”

“Not really.  You’ve always been a bit of a humbug but I must admit that it does feel like a sensual assault now.  I can barely think straight when I am in Costco.  And there is no way I could drive.  I am glad you are driving.”

That makes two of us.

Maybe it is just age.  I’ll be 64 in a month.  It doesn’t feel very old.  But I must admit that it doesn’t feel too spring chicken-ish, either.

You know what they say when playing football, eh?  “The game doesn’t really start til you take the first hit.  Gets ya into the game.”  And that is the way it is.  Just a different game.

When I was in Costco getting ‘whacked out’ by the lights, the people and all the stuff, I wandered over to look at something I was never going to buy.  It was just shiny and I reacted like a Magpie.  Mesmerized clueless by a stainless steel Cuisinart.  When I got my focus back I returned to find that someone had taken our cart!

I looked around for awhile, of course, before coming to that conclusion because, at 64, it is just as likely that I ‘lost it’  rather than it was stolen.  But, after awhile, I knew it wasn’t me and so I headed off to look at other people’s carts.

That is some kind of weirdness in itself.

As I was peering under the first layer of goods in someone else’s basket, I caught a glimpse of the cart I used to call my own and a strange woman (about my age) was at the helm.  I grabbed the cart as she attempted to pass.  I glared at her.

I was starting to feel urban again.

“Oh my God, it is you!”  Her eyes were big.  She looked guilty.  And she knew instantly who I was and what this transgression was going to mean for her.

I looked coldly into her eyes and said curtly, “Damn straight!”

” I am so sorry.  I accidentally took your cart.  Oh, God, I feel like such a fool!”

” Accident!?”  I shrieked.  “I don’t think so.  You wanted my socks.  I know that look!”  

“What?”  I had her off-balance.  Her guilt morphed to stunned.  I was getting my stride back.

“You’ve got some ‘splaining to do lady.  This is bad.  Real bad!  I’ve already called Costco security.  You have the right to remain silent.”  

She looked horrified.  And not a little bit frightened.  But then Sal ruined it.

“What are you saying, you old fool!  Now just take the cart and stop making trouble.”  She turned to the lady with a ‘we-are-sisters’ look and was beginning to try to explain my behaviour.

That is not easy but she has had a lot of practice.

” OK!  But I’ll be watching you, lady.”  And I headed off to find another victim.  The game was afoot.

And I was getting into my stride.  This ‘city thing’ ain’t so hard.  You just have to pick on innocent and weaker people and act like Dirty Harry.

Nine pm.  We just finished watching a movie and I went outside to turn off the genset.

The little Honda 2000eu is a quiet unit but even with that the hum of engine noise filled the cold night air.  I walked to the back of the woodshed and turned it off.  Surrounded by the shed on one side and a grove of tall trees on a windless black night, the silence fell over me like a deep, heavy snowfall.  I could almost hear my heart beating it was so quiet.

I walked back to the house and was about to enter when I heard this tremendous ‘gasp-whoosh’.  It seemed to be just yards away.  It was a whale.  Then another huge ‘gasp-whoosh’.  It was two whales!  Two whales-in-the-night making a helluva racket right in front of the house!

And they were busy.  These guys were diving and blowing and probably working a school of fish or maybe even a seal or something.  Had to be Orcas.  And it sounded like like they were practically in my lap.

I called Sal and we stood on the deck looking out over the coal-black empty and listening to a lot of exciting whale business.  Couldn’t see a thing.  One minute they were right in front of us and the next they were a hundred or so yards away.  Our heads moved in unison at the sounds but we didn’t get a glimpse of a thing.

Interesting.  After forty years of being together, we finally got a chance to watch the real submarine races.

Today J and I went to put up the signs commemorating the John Kim Sanctuary.  John Kim was a mountain climber who died much too young but  living and doing what he loved.  Climbing.  His mother, ES, and her partners in a large tract of land, donated five acres in his name as a community nature sanctuary and our regional district donated the carved signs.  We promised to erect them.  And, today, we did.

That was the plan.  Simple.  We loaded up all the materials and tools and headed up in J’s boat.  As we approached the dock, we noticed one of our neighbours, R, with a ‘fancy’ sport fisherman in tow.  Definitely not locals.  The hapless fellow-in-tow and his buddies had been prawning when their big twin outboards stopped running.  The alternators must have crashed and the batteries were dead.  Both engines.  Odd, but that was what was happening.  As we were tying up so were they, and so we assisted in pulling the boat against the dock.  And, of course, we offered our help.

Long story short: after ‘jumping’ the engines with J’s boat the engines conked out again, so J simply loaned the strangers one of his two batteries and his jumper cables.  They put the battery in, exchanged names and numbers and, with a wave of goodwill, took off for home.

C was just coming down to the dock as we were pulling in with our load of heavy stuff to haul up the hill.  “Hey, C, can we use your truck to schlep all this crap up the hill?  We would sure appreciate it.”

“No problem, I’ll just unload it and bring it down for you.”

With his help, we got all the tools and materials to the worksite and got the job done in a couple of hours rather than spending twice as long with a lot of ‘Sherpa’ time.

This kind of ‘unplanned coordination-thing’ isn’t so unusual, really.  Serendipity is, ironically, a pretty regular occurrence around here. And, in a strange sort of way, we almost rely on it.  We don’t ‘count on it’ of course but, on the same theme, it is also true that we headed up with a ton of stuff and we really did not want to carry it all up hill.  But we went anyway.

What were we thinking?  That some guy who is rarely there at that time would be?  And that he’d have his truck?  And that he’d be willing to do all that at precisely the time we needed it?  How stupid is that?

The guys out fishing could have been floating around for hours but they were lucky.  R came by just as their engines failed and he pulled them in to the dock as efficiently as if they had driven up themselves. Coincidence?  Of course it was coincidence!  Like the truck being there for us.

In less time than it took for us to carry our tools and materials from J’s boat to C’s truck, J had jump-started them and then given over his second battery.  What are the odds that you get a battery and go about your day without so much as a hiccup when you are 30 kilometers from anywhere even remotely ‘civilized’?

If we didn’t show up, how the hell were these guys going to get home?  Even their radio was dead.

And it was a Sunday.  We don’t often go up on Sundays.  C is rarely on the dock on a weekend.  But he was this time.  And he was there just as we arrived with our junk.  The timing was perfect.  What are the odds?

I know it isn’t ‘magic’ when this sort of thing happens.  I know it was just fortuitous.  Luck.  Timing.  Good joss.  But I have to tell you – that kind of luck happens a lot out here.  Quite a lot actually.

Sally and I often remarked over the years how unbelievably lucky we were when – just as something was needed – it showed up.  Time and time again when we were building without knowing what we were doing, we would come to the end of a job and start to worry about how in hell we were going to do the next thing.  And then, almost as if by appointment,  someone with the right knowledge would drop in at exactly the right time and show us how to do it.

Maybe it is just the people out here.  I really don’t know how all this works.

But J thinks he knows.  “You know what they say, eh?” 

“What?”

“The further you go from the centre of civilization the more civilized the people get!”  

As you know, I am kinda ‘into’ this woodworking thing.  At least for now.  Maybe after I have all my fingers amputated by the new tools, I’ll hafta get into something else.  Probably not massage therapy, knitting or much more writing, tho. Texting will be out.  I may have to limit mysef to poking the holes out of pre-cooked do-nuts.  Whatever, I’ll cope.

But it would be better if I limited my involvment in the actual making-of-stuff to some extent.  It’s only prudent.  I am not that good with saws and things.  I gotta stay away from the sharp tools.  I should stick with hammers and meauring devices.  Glue.  Clamps.  Maybe use a router table when I get really good.  No chisels!  Ten feet away from the table saw – no matter what!

I have shed enough blood, thank you very much!

Perhaps I’ll just specialize in sanding?  I’ll be the chief sander.  Over time the guys will come to refer to me as ‘Sandy’.

It’s better than ‘Stubby.’

Maybe I am getting ahead of myself.

I have been looking more and more into the ‘business’ tho.  There is a guy in Campbell River who runs Hillmark boats.  See: http://www.hilmarkboats.com/wooden_boats.html  .  And that seems more-than-lucrative enough.  I have no idea if he sells anything but the menu is impressive.  Can you imagine paying $41,000 for a new, wood 20-foot ‘open’ sail boat along old Newfie fisherman lines?  The ‘rocker cradle’ in the next link is $15,000. http://www.finewoodworker.com/rockercradle.html.  That is a rocking chair, folks, for more than my folks paid for their first house!  That guy is definitely staying ahead of inflation.

Who woulda thunk that wood was the new gold!

Mind you, they definitely add value with extraordinary amounts of skill.  We’re probably not that good.  At least, I don’t think we are.  And, anyway, I definitely am not.  I  cannot ‘sand’ my way to a ‘cradle rocker’ or 10′ wherry.  So, I am definitely not presenting those guys with any competition.  But some of our old crazies are pretty damn good.  I am confident that we could get ‘half-way’ there if not, eventually, the whole way there.  We can make some of that stuff.

Stuff that will definitely float.  Stuff that will definitely rock.

Well, OK, let’s stick with ‘half-way’.

So, we make toys.  We make ‘rockers’.  We make some boats for ourselves.  Maybe one or two for others.  How bad is that?  Could be fun.  Sounds like fun for me (as long as there is sanding, I will be there!).  Get the old wood stove going.  Dress all raggedy-comfy and listen to the old fools wax on about how stupid each other is.  Now and then clamp a piece of glued wood to another.  Sand it.  Make a fortune!  Sounds like a plan, to me.

I had no idea being an industrialist was so easy and fun.  Everyone should do it!  Buy a factory.  Why not?

Well, a domestic update, anyway:

Dogs got a trim.  Sal wanted them to ‘look good’ for Christmas.  I have problems with that – as you’d guess – but I go along.  “Look good for whom?  They stepping out on each other?  Ya know, there are no other dogs around here to flirt with.  And anyway, Meg’s likely gay.  They can let themselves go.  And, anyway, their idea of lookin’ good is first rolling around in otter poop and then carrying a disgusting squeeze toy in their mouth.  Then they drool.  And the best they can look is, well, like a dog!  What are we talkin’ here?”

“Oh sweetie!  I just like it when they get all cute and all.  The little sweeties!” (Note that both the dogs and I are referred to with the ‘sweetie’ term).  “And it’s Christmas, ya know?” (as if that means something to the way dogs look) “and I really don’t want to leave them with J if they aren’t neat and tidy.”

“Given that I, too, am a ‘sweetie’, am I getting a trim too?”

“What?”

“Never mind.  But I am willing to let you give me a nice bath!  All sudsy and all.”

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Sal and I don’t always see eye to eye.

Ravens are back.  Feast or more feast for them.  We feed them pretty good and up the rations significantly when they reward us with offspring in the early summer.

Those guys can ‘pack it away’.  I swear that each raven eats the equivalent of a full-complement turkey sandwich in the sunny months.  Every day!  Not quite their weight and volume but easily 40-50% of it.  Of course, most of it is packed away in the excess of their throats and shared with the kids but I have seen Jack eat the equivalent of two hamburger patties all on his own and none of it went anywhere but down his gullet.  Jack can eat.

Both Jack and Liz are looking sleeker and trimmer right now, though.  I am not so sure why.  We are still feeding them on a regular basis.  So are our neighbours.  But it is colder and we aren’t as regular as in the summer.  Probably 3 or 4 days out of seven. You’d think they could always go back to natural raven food if we weren’t serving that day.  But we may have spoiled them.

During bookclub, they showed up and announced their arrival with the usual cacophony of demands.  One of the women said to Sal, “Ravens are here” and she went back to being social with the others, few of whom bothered to look up or out the window.  Sal got up and while staying with the conversation at hand, scooped up the previously stashed raven food, deftly stepped outside and deposited it on their perch and came back in, hardly missing a syllable.  And they ate and left.  The ravens, I mean.

They are clearly a regular part of our day.

Sometimes they are just part of the dog’s day, though.  Jack will swoop down on to the perch and Fiddich, thinking we aren’t looking, will race across the deck and ‘chase’ Jack away.  Jack hovers a few feet off the perch until Fid turns away and then settles back down.  If Fid doesn’t notice that Jack is back, Jack calls out to him.  Caaah, caacac!  Which, best I can make it out is, “Nyah, nyah.  I am back!” 

Fid chases again.  Jack floats again.  Fid leaves again and the cycle is repeated until one of them has had enough or Sally or I show up.  If that happens, Fid just sits there all innocent as if he and Jack had just been chatting nicely.  “No problem here!”

Right now there seems to be a bit of a lull in the wildlife.  I guess the bears are getting ready for a good sleep.  The wolves seemed to have moved on.  The deer are still around but we haven’t seen many lately.  Dolphins are out and about, tho.  Saw a big sea lion last week.  And an otter.  Eagles of course.  But no Orcas, no whales, no mink, fewer birds and there is just a sense of ’empty’ right now.  It is just a lot quieter, I guess.

We’re about a quarter into our woodpile already.  The stove has been on pretty steady for the last two months.  But we are good.  We have enough to make it.  Nothing has frozen yet, either.  Been close a few times but we have been lucky so far.  Generally speaking, it has been a good winter so far.  Even the storms have been few and not-so-harsh.

Prawns are ‘up’.  The few local guys prawning are reporting good catches.  Smaller sizes but the numbers are up.  Mind you, the boats are way fewer.  Marine traffic has been dropping for years and, in the winter, there is virtually nothing.  Starting in November and extending til May, we feel remote and ‘wild’.  Come the summer, there are visitors, kayakers and pleasure boats, marine commerce and the frequent buzz and whop of small planes and helicopters all the time. It really is quite different in winter.  In winter it is silent.  You can hear a fish splash from a mile away sometimes.

I can’t say I like winter better but I sure do like the quiet.

There you have it.  A raven ‘fix’ and a ‘dog’ update.  With a general roundup of weather and incidentals.  Kinda like the CBC, don’t you think?