Author Archives: catherine

Fouled tank, cheery humour

We hauled! Yessss. We hauled, and even better, I talked the man i love into HIRING people. Going to Maple Bay, we had a little trouble with a clogged seacock and seawater sloshing around the cockpit, none of which is good. “Me and George can bail,” my husband told me.
“Are you NUTS?” I yelled. “You’re like those crazy women who think if they can diagnose a guy that’s the same thing as being able to live with him. HIRE someone.”
So he did.
Then, “We don’t need anyone to help us paint the bottom,” he said. “We can do it ourselves.”
“Honey, who is this ‘we’?” I asked. “HIRE someone.”
So he did. Bless Pete and Dan – they painted and I didn’t have to. Actually, I lasted an hour before I handed over my paintbrush. And George, who had helped bring the boat over, supervised the powerwashing & pronnounced the seacock cured when a gobbit of water sprayed out the cockpit drain.
Motoring home the engine worked beautifully right until it quit halfway up Sansum Narrows. John had to be towed in by the Coast Guard. I hopped up and down on the dock and yelled, much to the amusement of the six local men with smirks on their faces who had gathered on our dock to help catch lines.
“Take a good look at me,” I hollared. “You’ll never see me again. A week from now I’ll be living in a condo.”
It’s some time later and no condos came by, so I am still on the boat – and somewhat calmed down.
John Darling crawled around the engine room for awhile until he figured out that a fuel stoppage chocked our engine (we hope short of the injectors) because our daytank is fouled.
“Hire someone,” I said. So we got a fuel filtration company who said all they needed was an inch and a half access top and bottom (these guys are the masters) and for a mere $250.00 an hour they’ll solve all our problems. They’ll arrive, like cavalry, at the end of the month.
We can’t afford to live in a condo because we own a boat.
So I continue to teach and tutor. My writing career, such as it is, seems to have ground to a halt because there aren’t any boating magazines willing to publish me anymore. I was on the masthead of at least three magazines that tanked, which is not the kind of thing your brag about on a resume, and the RV Times publisher is downsizing & doesn’t want to pay me. That leaves Edge YK, and I’m running out of ideas for then. The problem with memoir is that it’s a finite resource. The material does not continue to climb the graph to an infinite end off the edge of the page. I am limited to what happened in highschool, and some of that is too depressing to talk about. I mean, I love my alma mater, dear Sir John Franklin HS in Yellowknife, NT, but you couldn’t pay me to go back there.
I have the manuscript for the next book nearly ready to go, but whether I can publish depends on how many hours it’ll take the tank guys to fix our problem, bless their hearts. Tanks take the higher seat at the table over books.
Paul has gone back to Edmonton and I miss him. Paul and I both were grateful to fly Westjet, which is such an improvement over 24 hours on a Greyhound bus, that words fail me.
So we continue to work and fix things, and the sun is shining, and the engine light hasn’t recently flashed up on my car, and Rupert phoned us last night.
Much love to you all, and many blessings.

Anybody Wanna Buy a Boat?

It is Spring Break, and I’m so relieved my eyes are crossed. We’ve had a most horrible three months. Following is a partial list:
I concussed myself slipping on ice at the ONLY highschool in the entire district that was adequately salted. I must have stepped on the one patch in the parking lot that the salter had missed. One highschool didn’t salt at all – they posted an Educational Assistant out front to watch people fall instead, which is not what I’d call a sensible strategy, but it might fool a lawyer.
Luckily, right after the fall I was able to attend the boat show and sit and knit for a few days. Sales were so awful that there was not much action at my display, so there’s mercies in everything. I did, however, draw enough business to pay for our stay in a 2-star hostel. I bet Margaret Atwood has never had that experience. If not, she has missed out.
Shortly after we arrived home from Vancouver, lighter by a box of books, we received a call from our insurance agent, who told us that before they’ll insure our boat we must have an out-of-water survey. They used to require them every 5 years, but someone sitting at a desk decided we need them every three years instead, and this was the year. And by the way, the insurance adjustors require 90 days heads-up to peruse the survey before our insurance comes due, so could we possibly haul in a week or two?
I’m not usually snippy on the phone (well, sometimes I am), but it was SNOWING and there was ICE on the water and we’d have had to motor to Maple Bay so I was understandably not thrilled. Besides, when it snows Steve at the haul-out won’t operate his travel lift and who wants to paint in the snow? Paint doesn’t even STICK in the snow.
After John Darling and I worked ourselves into a state of indignation, we booked a haul-out for March, and then John Darling came down with pneumonia. Then I came down with flu. Then we drove to the airport so I could bring my Paul back from Edmonton for a visit.
Shortly after Paul arrived we discovered that every time we turn on the boat engine the raw water engine-cooling system, which discharges partly into one of our cockpit drains wasn’t discharging properly because the drain was buggered, so whenever the engine runs the cockpit fills with water. If we try to fix the thru-hull in the water and mess it up we could potentially sink the boat, we knew we’d have to haul to deal with it.
John Darling fiddled with the drain a bit, then couldn’t start the engine because the starter motor is buggered.
Then we found that the starter motor, in its last gasp, had messed up part of the 12-volt system and one of our pump-out pumps didn’t work, meaning that we couldn’t have showers or we’d fill the boat up with fresh water as well as the salt water from the cockpit.
I was tasked to drop off the starter motor at PC Auto Electric. There I offered to sell the boat for $1,000.00 to the staff. They declined. John said later I should have dropped the price to $500.00.
Now, some days later, having put off the haul-out three times in a row, we have
met some lovely repair people
had fixed the water pump problem so we can take showers
have ordered a new starter motor
increased the price of the boat to $1,500.00.

We haul on Friday. We’ve hired a nice young man to bail while John Darling and George of the Snowy Beard steer this old tub to Maple Bay. I understand Ben Affleck is filming a movie at Maple Bay. I’m sure he’ll be very impressed when our vessel arrives sinking.
Paul and I won’t be there – I’m taking Paul shopping. We’ll meet them there. The last time this happened, I had to bail the whole way in to Thetis Island Marina, and I was so hopping mad I swore I’d never do it again.
And now it’s Spring Break. Paul is having a wonderful visit, bless his optimistic good-nature. We’re singing in the rain and going for walks and eating at the A & W and going swimming and watching Inspector Lewis episodes in our pyjamas in the evenings. He is a blessing.
Paul thinks I should kiss Daddy to cheer him up. Daddy thinks so too.
Much love to you all,
So things are looking up, the boat is still floating, and John Darling has cheered up enough to go out for coffee.

Shovelling in a Winter Wonderland

It is a snow day, so hurrah for that! It means I got to book off all my school districts and shovel the dock for my exercise. Ten minutes into the job, and I was whipped, but I persevered even though a lone seagull flew past me and thought, “What on EARTH are you doing?” I got the same incredulous reaction from some of the local men slinking past to return cases of beer empties. Or maybe their reaction was more guilt than astonishment, though they needn’t feel bad. Some of the men on our dock are quite elderly, and one has a bad hip, and besides, exercise accounts for my killer figure and good nature, so it’s to everyone’s advantage to have me shovel, especially John Darling, who can attest to some lapses in the good nature but is too much of a gentleman to tell everybody.
Then I came back to the boat and ate three slices of bakery raisin-bread-and-butter, which counteracted the exercise, but no matter.
John and I are safely back from the boat show (NO snow that weekend!), where we had a wonderful time. We spent all our profits on the two–star hostel where we stayed, but it was still fun. Not even one bedbug, and no mice anywhere. The room smelled a bit funny, like rotted wood, but then the building is nearly as old as the city of Vancouver. Also, they no longer rent rooms by the hour. Class.
I’d like to point out that of all the friends I invited to stay with us, not one person was brave enough to step forward and share a bathroom with us at the ‘Ho’. This denotes a failing on the part of our friends. Truth is, John Darling and I both have lived in far worse accommodations in the Arctic. There’s something reassuring and familiar about checking into a grotty hotel. It evokes memories of substandard housing in our pasts, when we were younger and things were simpler and we looked to the future with energy and optimism. Or maybe we’re just cheap and a bit crazy.
The boat show itself was a lot of fun, though people weren’t wildly excited about buying books. I sold all I’d brought, though, and I got to talk to some lovely people. I look forward to every boat show so I can visit with the other authors. They’re a fine and talented bunch. Anthony Dalton gave me a copy of his new title, “The Mathematician’s Journey,” which is a rip-snorter of a read. Anthony researches his books meticulously, then writes an adventure tale around his findings. The Mathematician’s Journey’ is the story of a young Englishman’s voyage with Henry Hudson. The details are fascinating, and the plot sucks you in one end and spits you out the other. The Yeadon-Jones will have a new edition of one of their cruising guides out this spring, and THREE of Peter Vassilopoulos’ cruising guides have been updated. Alan Boreman was back with his ‘Beer in the Bilges’, which is a must-read for anyone planning an offshore trip. Hilarious. Leona and Erik Skovgaard have a new technical title. Erik is a boat gadget VHS and Radar and all of it genius, and his wife Leona is the best salesperson I’ve ever met. Erik may be the ONLY author I’ve ever met who may retire rich. My hat goes off to Leona.
My own new title, “Darling, Don’t Try This at Home – Recipes from Mottle Cove’, sold briskly. The marina owners, however, have taken note of the piles of boxes in the common storage area. Selling books is so darn difficult In this post-reading age, that I have NO FEAR that anybody will steal them – hence the stacks of boxes. “Are you running out of your earlier titles?” John asked me once. “No. . . ” I replied. “I have a lifetime supply stored under the bread store.”
I have spent some of my evenings practising Egyptian hieroglyphs. John Darling bought me a Teaching Company course on hieroglyphs for Christmas, and I’m having a really fun time learning how to translate them. I am, however, not yet fluent. Hieroglyphs keep my mind off American politics.
love to you all, and many blessings!

Happy New Year!

The deep freeze has frozen us in. We have, however, intermittent water, which is good news because it means we have intermittent washing, which is better than NO washing. As I’ve often said, “We smell funny, but our hearts are light.”
It’s flippin’ cold in the mornings, but I stagger out of bed, turn off the electric heat so I don’t blow the breakers when I plug in the coffee pot, fire up the kerosene heater checking for yellow flame and death by carbon monoxide poisoning, and look on the computer to see who else is up at 5:30 AM. So far I’ve been disappointed. My friends are so much more sensible than I am. As a matter of fact, so is John Darling, who doesn’t get out of his warm berth until the temperature in the main saloon has risen to a bearable level.
Our Christmas was quiet. We ate dinner with a dear friend who is also a wonderful baker of pumpkin pies. So we enjoyed a turkey dinner, really good company, and pumpkin pie, which was a win for sure.
I didn’t go wild with boat interior decorations this year. Usually I erect a small but crowded plastic tree with tiny-perfect ornaments that fly in all directions whenever the boat rocks, but this year I left the plastic tree in storage and set up a tree-shaped tea light. John Darling was delighted because he hates Christmas in general and my tree in particular, which he calls ‘Catherine’s Christmas Mess’. It’s true that I don’t have much of an eye for design. None, in fact. The tea-light did fine.
Just before Christmas some mean person stole about four months’ worth of knitting from our storage area – 20 Cowichan hats, about 7 pairs of men’s socks and the pink mohair mittens I’d knit for my Mom. I was a bit upset at first, until I realized I had such a stash of back knitting that I could give a hand-knit gift to every person on my list anyway, so with Christmas cheer in my heart I wrapped everything up and mailed it off. The Christmas cheer flagged a bit once I found out how much the postage was going to cost. Good Heavens!
Book #6 is doing surprisingly well, considering everyone ELSE found out how much postage cost this Christmas, but I have the Boat Show to look forward to. I think the title is fairly good – “Darling, Don’t Try This at Home! Recipes from Mottle Cove.” Also, the initial feedback has been enthusiastic, at least among my non-cooking friends. They use the word ‘hilarious’. My cooking friends have maintained a horrified silence. My Uncle Don read the book, decided I needed help and sent me a fish recipe. He was right, of course. I am a terrible cook, so the recipe was greatly appreciated.
Here it is: Cod Dijon (or haddock, sole or salmon)
SAUCE: 3 tbl melted butter 1tsp lemon juice 1 tsp Worcester sauce 1 tsp Dijon mustard METHOD: Rinse fillet in cold water and pat dry Place on a lightly greased baking pan Cover with sauce and sprinkle with bread crumbs.(We use Panko) Bake @ 420 F for 10 minutes

The book in all its glory can be ordered from my website, or by sending $22.00 CAD or $23.00 AMD to me. Interested parties can e-mail me at
Someone decided the Vancouver International Boat Show should be held in January this year. The dates are Jan 18 – 22. John Darling and I look forward to the boat show every year, not least because we get to stay in the Ivanhoe Hotel, which is a two-star hostel nestled in the heart of downtown Vancouver. Now, a two-star hotel in London, England, is usually quite respectable, but a two-star hotel in Vancouver is usually less appealing. I’ve already offered to have some friends move into the ‘ho’ with us for the six days of the boat show, but they have declined. Can’t imagine why. We didn’t tell anybody about the mouse we saw except the desk clerk, and he assured me it was my imagination. And the scrabbling I heard behind the wall of the women’s washroom down the disinfectant-smelling hall wasn’t rats. He assured me of that. And he was quite right, because apparently rats and mice never coexist.
We can’t wait.
I’ll make speeches again this year. The organizer wanted to know if I wanted the use of a demonstration kitchen for my presentation on ‘The use of galley appliances when your stove is no good.’, but the dear child had obviously never read my books. Also, I will be talking about anchoring in the Gulf Islands. Now I’m more of a humourist than I am a sailor, but we have had surprising luck anchoring, considering our lack of wisdom, knowledge and common sense, because our equipment is heavy. This is the secret.
May God bless you all in the new year. May His love keep you, and may His light shine upon you.

Merry Shortbread and Blessings all ’round

Well, hello on a snow day from a warm boat!
Some years ago we discovered kerosene heat. I like it a lot. I may well die of carbon monoxide poisoning, but it’ll be with a smile on my kisser, like Sam McGee. We started our boat life with a diesel oven that stank abominably and belched and leered at me. It was an ugly lump of metal, so I whined until John Darling pulled it out, and we froze for the next 10 years until we stumbled across a kerosene heater in Canadian Tire. The first year I sat in front of that heater and inhaled the fumes and enjoyed every single minute! All those years in the Arctic, and I never did get to like being cold.
I woke up this morning at 5:00 (don’t ask. It has to do with old age) and when I poked my head out the hatch, there was snow drifting down with silent and deadly intent. Naturally, I was very excited because it meant a day off, so to celebrate I plugged in the coffee pot and planned my activities for the day, which have been extremely basic. I shovelled, I danced to Richard Simmon’s ‘Sweating to the Oldies’, I knit part of a sock, and I baked 50 shortbread cookies. I passed the cookies on to the neighbours, some of whom were also out shovelling.
John Darling is resistant to joining in when I sweat to the oldies. “Go Richard!” I yelled. “Sweat it to me baby!” I shrilled. John has a lot to put up with.
Tonight I shall re-read Antonia Fraser’s ‘Lives of the Kings and Queens of England’. I shall knit socks. I shall plan next year’s Christmas. I shall bake more shortbread.
Sometimes, life is best when you do the least. My toes are curling with happiness.
May God bless you this sacred season and always.

Merry Christmas in Advance!

I sit here, comfortable in my dressing-gown, listening to ‘A Cowichan Christmas’ and surrounded by Christmas debris, sated and happy and full of coffee and Christmas cheer. John Darling has fled to drink coffee with the boys. Christmas drives him mad. I start about Hallowe’en, hit my stride just before Remembrance Day and maintain a fever pitch of craziness until Christmas day. There have been years I’ve started planning the next Christmas before the Christmas that year. There have been Christmas mornings I’ve served Christmas dinner before lunch, having completely miscalculated the thawing of the turkey on the deck and arisen at 4:00 to start cooking, panicked that this is the year I’d kill all the people I love with Salmonella poisoning. This has never happened, but I remain vigilant.
Women in John Darling’s former life also used to celebrate Christmas, but differently – hence his aversion to the season, poor dear. I try to compensate with presents. He likes presents.
“Why isn’t the Christmas chocolate on display?” I asked John yesterday. “Why can’t we buy any wrapping paper?” John closed his lips and didn’t reply. A wise man knows when to remain silent.
But his expression spoke volumes. Even the merchants aren’t as Christmas-mad as I am.
It’s his fault. If he hadn’t had so many children and grandchildren and Dook in-laws, I wouldn’t have so much to do.
So there.
During the week I busy myself with substitute teaching (nearly every day, recently), and tutoring. If I get an hour walk in during lunch and recess and gym, and get to talk to my son Paul in the evenings, I count it a successful day. Weekends I reserve for Christmas. yay!
We’ve had inclement weather, full of rain, and a flooded Cowichan Bay Road (always), but the workers who have been trying to shore up the falling bank with the four houses on top of it seem to be done. That job cost SOMEONE a lot of money. I hope they’ve salvaged the situation. Someone walking their dog under that bank one day was in danger of having four houses fall on top of them.
Someone not very nice stole a bunch of my knitting from the storage common area under the bakery. I was quite fussed at first, then I took inventory of my completed articles and with a little juggling I managed to find enough for everyone anyway. Gone are about 20 Cowichan hats, a pair of fancy mohair mittens I knit for Mom and 6-7 pairs of men’s socks. I hope whoever stole the socks has big feet. I have grandsons who take shoe sizes in the double-digits. It comes of too much bannock.
Some CVRD inspectors (we can tell them by their suits) came by to see how many float homes there are in Cowichan Bay, so they can issue ‘sewage units’. Since when, if I may pontificate for a moment, do we all need permission to perform bodily functions? Apparantly we do, even though the entire city of Duncan spews their sewage into the Cowichan River and then out into the bay, where we get to enjoy it. Dilute, but still. . . . and the crabs taste all the sweeter because of it.
Without admitting any liability whatsoever, the powers that be have decided to spew the sewage further out into the ocean, where OTHER liveaboards and boaters can enjoy it.
Sorry – I’ve gone from the joy of Christmas to the realities of sewage. Alas, most liveaboards end up by discussing their heads, or the landlubber perception of us all as polluters, even though many of us (us included) own composting toilets and could theoretically grow African violets with our leavings.
The Breakwater boys, the stellar sea-lions, are back, barking and farting and throwing fish in the air. We look forward to their arrival every year with mixed feelings, like relations who borrow money. How they smell! How they fight! How shiny they are with water and fish-oil and good-humour!
Yesterday John Darling found a book about cruising on the ‘Wall of Shame’, which is the local low wall by the dumpster where people put things too good to throw out. John Darling, unfortunately, is an avid shopper at the Wall of Shame, and WHERE are we going to put this book? I already have a collection of several hundred.
Speaking of books, my next book should be out in January. I have a sketch for a cover, the book is proofed and formatted, and I expect my wonderful cover-designer Pat McCallum will have his magic done in a couple of weeks.
Christmas is coming, and that is a reason for Joy. Joy, and lots of it.
Much love to you all, and Merry Christmas

Happy Thanksgiving!

What a wonderful season!  The leaves have turned brown and golden and have scattered underfoot, and the fetch from Sidney has gained strength until. . . . we’ve spent an uncomfortable night or two being rocked to sleep.  Uncomfortable, but not as scary as years ago when we lived on the end of the dock and the boat thunked and thrashed and otherwise misbehaved and the hull rocked so viciously we had to sleep in the main saloon.

So I am thankful.

And like many boatowners, we didn’t go far this summer on account of because first our boat broke, and then we became broke.  We began with a transmission problem too horrible to talk about, and segued into an electrolysis problem too horrible to talk about, and finished up with a hydraulic problem too horrible to talk about.  We made it as far as Montague Harbour, and then we sat in the dark that evening wondering why our house batteries didn’t work and if we’d be able to start the engine in the morning with the starting battery. We DID start the engine with our one working battery (one out of five ain’t bad), and we hot-footed it for Cowichan Bay as quickly as we could, tied up at the dock and phoned an electrician.  Before the electrician got here, John Darling and George-of-the-Snowy-Beard spent a day thrashing around the engine room looking at wires and making important decisions.  “Is this connected to anything?” and “Whoops – light went out.  This might be a bad sign.”  After a day of eliminating the usual suspects (thank you, George!), the boys found a cable running from the batteries to the electrical system that was horrible in its rottenness and undoubtedly part of the problem.  George gave us a cable we could use.  He didn’t want it – it had been salvaged off his boat that sank a couple of years ago. George is very generous. Also smart. He said he didn’t want to be paid.  He said he’d take it out in hand-knit socks.

It fell to the electrician to tell us, pronouncing on our 110 volt system, that it’s lucky we’re still alive.  A couple of thousand dollars later, and we have a working electrical system.

So I am thankful.

Then Jim the Welder took time from his own boat repairs to fiddle with our hydraulics.  He finished just as the rains of September fell upon us, saying he wanted to be paid in applesauce, and that the lemon in my recipe kicks it up a notch.  We gave him a bagful. The domestic arts rule.

So I am thankful.

So here I sit, in a cosy main saloon, having missed the boating season entirely, knitting socks and planning another batch of applesauce, and reading a history of Eleanor of Aquataine, who unlike me was badass as well as skilled with her needle.  Or was it William the Bastard’s little mousy wife who was skilled with her needle – the one who embroidered the Bayreux Tapestry with the help of about 100 nuns?

May the blessings of God be with you this season and forever.




We have a Transmission!

“So what colour do you want me to paint it?” the marine mechanic asked us.

“Green,” John said.

“No,” replied our marine mechanic.  “I’ll give you a red one.”

So we have a red transmission.  John Darling and I have not watched enough episodes of ‘Downton Abbey’ – we have no idea how to direct staff.  All boaters, however, know that marine mechanics fall into an entirely different category altogether.

One memorable evening our marine mechanic drunk-texted me.  The poor man must have been wasted or desperate or both.  Frankly, I haven’t been alluring in 20 years.  Should I, I thought, play the ‘former Sunday-school teacher and presently happily married card?’  Clearly not!  Marine mechanics in July are as scarce as mooring slips and many times more expensive.  So I played along as charmingly as possible without actually giving away anything more than muffins and the afternoon he insisted I join him and my husband for lunch, I brought along my foot-and-a-half long knitting needles and climbed into the truck waving them conspicuously.  He kept his hands to himself, bless his heart.

I have often been aware of the use of props in discouraging unwanted attention.  Many years ago I went to a drive-in with a swain I wanted to slow down, and I kept my seat belt on, but I digress.

The upshot is that we have a beautiful new red transmission that works like a hot darn.  Mark is a genius.  I invited some bad-girl girlfriends to come for coffee on an afternoon we expected him, but they all chickened out on me.  He really is a charmer.

So, thinking we’d blown enough money on our boat to have a successful summer, we set out for Montague Harbour, only to spend our first evening sitting in the dark in our main saloon with four flat house batteries.  “Will the engine start in the morning?” we thought.  We had a fifth battery – the starting battery.  The minute it fired up the engine, we hauled anchor and got out of Dodge as fast as we could.

Then John Darling fixed the problem.  He found a cable so rotten it boggles the mind to even think of it, and spent a day replacing it, and now we have a working boat, but I’m too exhausted to go anywhere.

So we’ve been dinghy-rowing and berry-picking, and I’ve been canning enough jam to sink the vessel.  The sun pours down like honey, and family will come to visit.

Life is good.

May the blessings of Heaven be with you always.


More Drivelling from the Docks

Yesssss! We have met an actual marine mechanic, bless his buttons. His name is Mark. We think we love him. He looked at our transmission, and he diagnosed it immediately. “Your transmission is F****ed,” he said. I believe this is a technical term.

As a friend of ours said, “Your transmission is sexually active? Wait seven months and you’ll have a new one.”

But that’s an aside – back to the point. Mark says that for money he can fix our problem. We are ecstatic. Also, for not as much money as we had feared. Double ecstasy! We may yet be able to go sailing this summer. So, yea!

My young student’s walk-up is tonight. I can’t wait to see her graduate. She has a killer gown and great hopes for the future. May the blessings of heaven be upon her as she ventures forth into the world!

This morning, an actual day off, so I am cooking vats of rhubarb jam. The Bernardin recipes are never-fail fantastic. This one is a ginger-citrus combination that explodes in your mouth. Since I’ve been churning out jam, the scales have not been with me at my fat-lady group, but the payoff in jam has been worth it.

Our friend Screaming Liver has a new boat, but he has moved onto another nearby dock. We miss him, and so do the dock swans, who used to come caging around looking for bread. Screaming Liver foolishly fed them from his lips – he’d hold the bread in his teeth and lean sideways over the water and the swans would snatch the bread from his mouth. Don’t try this at home. He got away with a few nicks, which is more luck than he probably deserves.

That is the news from here. School is almost done, and I look forward to more days off. More jam. More boating. We live in a remarkable and beautiful part of the world.

Many blessings,


Drivelling from the Docks

We have some good news and some bad news. With great difficulty, John and I managed to solve our water problems – the major leak, the minor leak, the fouled tanks, and the bilgepump that needed to be fixed. But our transmission lies in the engine room inert and suffering, and our transmission guy (whom we have never met) is flying about Vancouver Island sending messages of hope to us, and then not arriving. We are heart-scalded. What is it about us that discourages marine mechanics? Do our drains smell? And what is it about me that discourages magazine editors? Does my writing stink?

So we wait. We wait all in the sunshine while birds chirp at us and crows caw and seagulls thrash about the water looking for food and our twp swans glide majestically toward us looking for handouts too, only they’re more polite than the seagulls.

I have a lovely part-time weekend job working at Pier 66, which is the local convenience store. The other day I sold a packet of condoms to a young man. This is worth noting, because most of the condoms in the store are stolen, not paid for, and when I came home to report it to my husband, he said, “Good for him. He obviously has something in mind. Maybe he’s going to fill them with water and throw them at people.”

John is creative.

Then one recess at a school where I was teaching, three lovely young Muslim girls taught me to say, “hello” in Arabic. What they taught me actually translates as ‘I am a donkey.” One of them let it slip.

My students are creative.

A tutoring student is graduating from highschool this year. She will be the first member of her entire extended family to finish highschool, she has a ticket into Vancouver Island University, and she cleaned up on the bursaries. I have helped this young lady with her studies for 10 years. At her walk-up I am going to sit in the front row and bawl my eyes out.

So we can cope with a little thing like a busted transmission because overall, life is wonderful.

Many blessings.