Numerous people don’t come here

October 31, 2007

The word is out on this place: it’s unknown.

I put a sign at the end of the dock that read -“Please Tresspass.”

There were no takers.

I further attempted to draw attention to my spot along Blind Channel by driving the Big Boat over to town, a considerable trip, where I purchased a great deal of this reflective Mylar ribbon material some people in the area tie to fruit tree branches to ward off unwanted birds.

Before I drove the Big Boat back, I stopped in at O’Neil’s, one of the few watering holes in this part of the area, to have a few beers. Along the bar were two guys I’d not before seen and they seemed fine enough, as we said, “hello” in a reciprocal fashion.

Katherine was working. She asked me what I was doing in town. I told her I was keen on becoming more noticed.

“For what?” she wanted to know.

This took me aback, for while I knew I wanted to see a few folks over on my side of the water every so often, I hadn’t really considered exactly why.

“Oh, I don’t know, you know,” I said.

“No, I don’t actually know,” she said, “that’s why I’m asking you.”

“Well, it’s quiet and it would not be something I’d oppose if someone dropped by here and there to maybe look at a boat, or chat.”

“I see,” she said. “I think you need to go down to Vancouver for a bit.”

“Why?”

“Why do you want people to stop by up Blind Channel?”

“Right,” I said.

I drove the Big Boat back across, stashed the reflective ribbon in the shop, made plans to drop the dogs off in town, went back over and booked passage on the ferry the next day.


French Ferguson

October 31, 2007

On Canada Day, Reggie “French” Ferguson rowed over to eat. His father was a Scot who married a French woman from Cape Breton.

Raised a cultural schitzo, he stopped bathing, most likely in his still very formative years, and he commenced fishing. French speaks Acadian French and a mostly impossible to understand form of Canadian Scots-English that has added to his aura of incongruity.

French looks like Aqualung, the character depicted on the cover of the Jethro Tull album of the same name, only slightly more unkempt. He lives over in a place known as Noolaquit, which is not on a map. It’s a name of a place on Windy Reach.

When French arrives anywhere, nobody who knows him sits too close. On the other hand, he’s quite likable and always good to make you laugh, because he himself is usually laughing when not eating or drinking.

Maddie and I sat chuckling, drinking beer, listening to French describe the salmon and crab we laid out.

“Mmmmph, huh, goood, umpph. Dis fish da uve got ‘eere is goood, oh, yeah. Mmmmmm, goood.”

Crumbs of salmon and dropped drips of lemon butter were suspended in his dirty brown beard.

“So, you like it, eh, French?” Maddie asked, while she dug her left fingernalis into my right thigh so hard, I expected to see blood. I suppose the injury to me was meant to keep her from falling apart in in a heap of uncontrolled mirth.

It didn’t work. We both broke down.

“Eeee, waz so funneey, eh? I miss somding, right?” French asked, looking up at us with a crableg hanging out of his mouth.


Was it no nearby shopping, or the fact fish talk to me?

October 31, 2007

where has the sun gone?
south, along with her.
here amid the wood shavings,
i walk silently around this boat.
hands feeling the stem,
eye seeing the curve.
i step outside,
where winter flows in on the tide.
steam from the coffee mug
mingles with the mist.
the wake of the boat
that took her away
has washed the sides of
the channel
that will never see her return.
solitude and peace
are a dangerous pair
for, if you seek them,
you may be rewarded
and find yourself
alone


Boats and Poems

October 31, 2007

I am new to this brave world, as having just set up a link at my remote home on Blind Channel. My lady got plucked up by a boat a week or so back and she won’t be returning.

The dogs lay about the shop while I work on an 18-foot surf dory. Dodgy weather is rolling in. Seeing as how there’s nobody else around, the Internet will be something to toy with during the dark winter months that are just now setting in.

I do boats and poems and other writing. I fish and think.

It’s quiet now that she’s gone.


Something in the water is speaking…

October 31, 2007

it’s the fish. they are chatting again.