Marta’s Fateful First Journey

“Will we make to top of the mountain?” Our recreation vehicle clawed its way up a narrow, winding snowed-covered road in the Appalachians of New York State.

I had joined an online RV group and received directions to avoid the mountains in West Virginia, but the instructions did not start until Fredericksburg, Virginia. I had forgotten about the Appalachian chain in New York and Pennsylvania. If glances were deadly I would have expired after we crossed the boarder in Buffalo. I had given Haydn a wrong turn resulting in a dead-end. It is gruesome to turn an eight-wheeler around. Our rig was 37’ long with a Suzuki Sidekick toad that generated a total length of approximately 50’. “Bang, bang, you’re dead!” A toad in RV idiom is a vehicle that is towed behind, preferably 4-down (four wheels making contact with the road).

MARTA, was the designation our daughter had given our rig, an acronym for Metro Area Rapid Transit Authority. That name predated Toronto calling their system GOTRAIN. Our RV was very aerodynamic and resembled modern, designer diesel-electric locomotives.

Our destination was Lakewood Camping Park, Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and trip length was 900 miles. We set off on a snowy Boxing Day.

The first night we stayed in a restaurant parking lot near Ellicottville, New York, the Aspen of the East, in the Allegheny National Forest. The owner let us plug into his hydro at no charge. We had driven past several ski resorts, but did not elect to go up their driveways to get to their parking facilities, because we did not want to repeat Buffalo’s cramped quarters of not having enough room to turn Marta around. The bistro lot was situated on a large piece of flat ground.

I had installed GPS (global position system) mapping software on my computer under the dashboard that drew a coloured breadcrumb trail on its digital maps. The route had looked charming on our 21” colour monitor between Haydn and my high-backed, emerald-coloured, driving seats. The maps had not been topographical and did not specify elevations readily. The voice commands did have a feature that announced how high the roads were above sea level that had not been activated when I chose the route. (I never disclosed that information to Haydn … secrets remain between husbands and wives that are not prudent to confess despite long years of marriage.) There also was a miniscule-sized box that bore altitude facts in tiny lettering that was not decipherable from the driver’s position.

I, of course, had realized we were in a mountain chain, and were committed to a route that was constricted and corkscrewed.

Just before we had travelled the length of Pennsylvania the engine overheated and clouds of vapour erupted from the radiator. We pulled over and waited thirty minutes for the engine to cool then stopped in a small town and purchased more coolant.

Before entering Virginia, Haydn saw the bronze tablet on the shoulders of the road informing travellers, “Geological feature: Pennsylvania’s highest elevation west of the Mississippi.” “Bang, Bang,” the imaginary shotgun aimed at me, fired.

Haydn babied the mechanical components of our vehicle for more than three hundred miles up one mountain, down, up another, down …

Several times we were down to the lowest gear and cheerleaded Martra to use all her strength to propel herself to the top. No problem going down, except would the brakes last and would we be able to stop quickly at the bottom if the need arose?

We cleared the mountains and spent the second night at a rest stop in Virginia. Clear sailing the rest of the way. We were now out of the mountains and expected to arrive at the rest stop separating North and South Carolina for our third night. The engine, transmission, cooling and braking systems had been under enormous strain over the Appalachians.

As night fell, just before Fayetteville, North Carolina, Haydn said, “What is that sound?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s getting louder!”

“Dam and blast” “Since we left the last gas station, I’ve been driving in second gear at highway speeds.”

“Boom!” As the rod in the engine blew!

Luckily we had the toad! We unhitched it and drove to a motel and called a towing service. Haydn felt badly that he had not noticed the gear lever position and I was equally guilt-ridden for not choosing a better route. That was unfortunate that he blurted out his mistake—he could have kept that information to himself and I would never have known. I suppose one of us had to be honest about what it was they did—just thrilled that the Gods had exempted me.

Poor Marta had not warranted her doom, but I resisted the Herculean urge to place a pacifier in her grille.



Prior to Marta’s birth, she was an ugly duckling, 1974 Citation 27...but that's a separate rather fascinating story.

Wet Suit

The King of Rock ‘n Roll

When Elvis Presley exploded onto the TV stage of the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956, my age was 14. The world had never seen a performer comparable to Elvis the Pelvis. As I recall, it was his second appearance where the cameras were restricted to showing him from the waist up only. (A major disappointment, I might add for returning teen viewers.)

Elvis was not the first rock ‘n roll artist Canadian audiences popularized. Preceding his appearance by a few months was Bill Haley and the Comets performing in Rock Around the Clock. The beat of Haley’s exhilirating, music and the instruments used, propelled normally, obedient teen movie goers such as myself, from their audience chairs to dancing in the aisles. The Ed Sullivan Show not only launched Presley’s career, it also ushered in the Beatles a decade later.

Bill Haley & the Comets

(Sorry, the video quality is poor—seems there are few videos that focus properly.)

Elvis appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show, circa, September/October 1956.

Douglas Kellner in his article, The Elvis Spectacle and the Cultural Industries, identifies strongly with the “Young Elvis, my Elvis, the Elvis of my generation,”1 and for teens of that period, Elvis the Pelvis, represented repressed sexuality, energy, freedom, youth, defiance, individuality, and oddly enough respect for elders. His usage of “Sir” when addressing Ed Sullivan marked him as a mannerly person consistent with 50s values. When I watched Elvis’s performance in 1956 at a neighbour’s television set, he came across as being a conundrum of personalities—a shy, handsome young man with brooding eyes, a lopsided grin, and long hair with sideburns, but when he played his guitar and sang, he metamorphosed himself into being a dynamic, cross-cultural singer like none heard in the world preceding him along with a never before public display of body-riveting movements! Boys shortly after his appearance emulated him by growing their hair long, coming the sides back, slicking their duck-tail haircut down with Brylcreem, adopting long sideburns and wearing shirts with high pointed collars. I’m wondering what the tolerance level of audiences would have been had Elvis not been "keenly encouraged" to wear a jockstrap?

“Don’t Be Cruel,” was my favourite song which I used for developing dance skills. On the flip side of the recording was, “Hound Dog” which must have cost Sun Records a small fortune for releasing those two songs on the same 45 record. Both songs were instant successes that stayed at the top of the record charts for months.

Love Me Tender launched Elvis’s first movie that had his career depended on his acting talents, his time on the world stage would have been abruptly shortened.

Elvis threatened establishment with his sultry, good looks, but more so his gyrations. His music was banned on several stations by the ‘good folks’ protecting their offspring from the sensuality parents believed he represented. He was a combination of complex emotions/images not stirred in youth cultures before his arrival.

Please compare this performance of Hound Dog, by black artist, “Big Mama Thornton,” and you’ll see the roots of some of his rhythm, movement, and sound that combines blackness whilst being white.

The combination of black and white attracted white, youth cultures around the world and made Elvis the popular singer he eventually became in a short space of time. His recordings during the 50s, Douglas Keller and myself, deeply admire.

Pity Elvis was turned into a cash machine, dressing akin to Las Vegas showman, pianist Liberace, than the artist he could have been with different management. His talent was corrupted by greed and consumerism and he paid with his life for the lack of gift development which left his soul barren. Elvis was a people pleaser and easily persuaded that dressing like a clown enhanced his performances in glitter, palace societies like Los Vegas. Elvis Presley gained fame and fortune without accoutrements during the 50s—his voice and natural performing style, coupled with finding good songwriters would have more than sufficed. As Douglas Kellner observed, “Elvis never moved far from his, “working class, humble origins.”2 I further agree with Kellner that his fall from grace was prompted by, “The culture industry consuming its own.”3 Whenever I watched Elvis, he never seemed to be at home with himself unless his internal singing switch was engaged in the on position. He appeared to remain an uncomplicated person needing only affection. In movies, he always looked stiff when not performing the activity he did so well naturally.

The public’s fascination with Elvis continues beyond his death. During his career, Elvis sold, “more than 500 million records and grossed over $180 million at the box office—a record no other singer duplicated before or after his time. Since his death in 1977, the star’s sales have actually increased.”4 Tragically, consumerism lived beyond Elvis’s time on planet Earth. People continue to make money off his talent that was reduced by becoming a Colonel Parker cash cow.

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1 Douglas Kellner, The Elvis Spectacle and the Cultural Industries, page 1, Retrieved Friday, February 29, 2008 (http://www.gseis.ucla.edu/faculty/kellner/essays/elvisspectacle.pdf).
2 Ibid, page 2.
3 Ibid, page 14.
4 Mark Duffett, "Transcending Audience Generalizations: Consumerism Reconsidered in the Case of Elvis Presley Fans". Popular Music and Society. Summer 2000, page 1, Retrieved Saturday, March 8, 2008 (http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_m2822/is_2_24/ai_79573846/pg_13).

Freedom, Choice and Illusion

Pictures of some of my teen idols smoking:




Katherine Hepburn, the epitome of the emancipated woman!





Ingrid Bergman, no star more beautiful and glamorous



Doris Day, no living human being was as wholesome. Day was part of the star system controlled by the dictates of the Studio owners. Most of her roles were specific to the image the studio wanted to present to the public and Day was slotted to be a 'wholesome' all American girl/woman, appearing in musicals and light-hearted comedies. Studios over time relaxed their influence and occasionally she was farmed out to studios where parts were given to her in dramatic roles. But even in the dramatic roles she portrayed, never, ever did she accept a role as a villain or anything approaching an unlikeable character. I expect Doris Day was a stable personality and relatively comfortable in her assigned roles and didn't believe it was a good idea to tamper with the reputation she had gained that possibly affected her potential for future earnings. Rock Hudson was often paired with Doris Day and it wasn't 'til after he died that the media published that this paragon of male virility and handsomeness was homosexual. Hudson's public image had been controlled by studios throughout his long career. It hasn't been until very recently that gays banded together and asserted their rights to be an individual. I'm convinced that professions in public places resist public pronouncements about sexual preference. Attitudes change slowly in societies--it isn't prudent to make announcements until the public is ready to hear and accept them. Societies excel at enforcing unwritten laws.

My first cigarette at the age of fourteen promised to make me free, stunningly attractive, the envy of anyone who came into contact with me. The advertisements were targeted at women and the message they conveyed was, “Picture you making the choice to be free. Conventional women don’t smoke…rebels and ‘liberated women’ are brave enough to defy society by lighting their cigarettes.

“Be sexy, be free, be glamorous”… in modern parlance, “Be Cool!”



The Marlboro man’s picture was plastered on billboards…he was a free spirit, rugged and manly ... he smoked the best brand and that choice had to influence him being super masculine. :-)

In retrospect, how anyone, myself included, managed to get beyond turning green, and upchucking until the nicotine habit became entrenched, boggles my mind.

Most girls my age started about that time and everyone, male and female, had fags dangling from their lips during my high school era especially at noon hour when good lunches were replaced with a cigarette and chips with gravy at the bar-type lunch counter located next door to the school. In winter the smoking was done at the foot of the stairs, in between bites of gravy-impregnated French fries.

None of my friends escaped lighting up.

The Marlboro woman in contrast to her male counterpart was chic, and used a cigarette holder. She lights up between WWI and WWII because society condemned female smoking. Feminism entered its early period with women lighting up in defiance of cultural norms.



The lettering on the package is commercial script portraying elegance. The words under the picture are, “Mild as May.” Double entendement meaning, feminist roles permit me to smoke and of course May is a woman’s name and to encourage reluctant women, the added message was May was mild, not threatening.

In 1902 a British cigarette manufacturer, Philip Morris, established a corporation in New York selling tobacco brands: Cambridge, Derby, and Marlboro - named after the street where its London factory was situated. In 1924, Philip Morris introduced Marlboro as a women's cigarette.

A 1927 Marlboro ad published in Vanity Fair Magazine targeted affluent society women with text describing her as, "Women quickly develop discerning taste. That is why Marlboros now ride in so many limousines, attend so many bridge parties, repose in so many hand bags."

Click here to read the Marlboro story. Click to watch Marlboro video



A more recent Marlboro ad, targeted at a younger generation.

The themes I see running through all the advertisements is in keeping with abstraction theory--"a potential place or state of being situated not in the present but in an imagined future with the promise to the consumer of things “you” will have, a lifestyle you can take part in.”(CK, Consumer Culture and the Manufacturing of Desire, p. 189) Present also are, implications of, “the product being sold will make the consumer unique, special, and highly individual. In other words, ads perform the very contradictory work of convincing many different consumers that a mass-produced product will make them unique and different from others. The concept is known as pseudoindividuality a false idea of individuality. Pseudoindividuality is the means by which consumer cultures sells a form of homogenization to consumers while proclaiming that it will produce individuality. Indeed a commodity is only successful when it is purchased by many people.” (Ibid, p.205)

I grew up in a house of women who were strong role models which played a role in my decision to smoke, but also present was a strong need to fit in with what the rest of my friends were doing. (Individual…nope…not at that age--that was a teen fantasy!)

All of the images presented depict, “social values and ideologues about the “good life.” (Ibid, p.189)

According to media scholar Stuart Even, has termed the commodity self, the idea that construct our identities, at least in part through our consumption and use of of commodities. I put my cigarettes in the same category as “clothing, music, cosmetic products, and cars among other things, are commodities which people use to present their identities to those around them. (Ibid, p.198)

Cigarette commodities fulfilled emotional needs. The paradox in my case, it would have been more rebellious to refuse not to join the crowd by lighting up. :-) I remember that period with great fondness--it was a fun time to be a teen.

Pictorial Diary, August 2007 Vacation

Routing of our journey: Click for a larger picture.


Start: Grand Bend Yacht Club:

Haydn helmed, I navigated and our crew was Frosty, our miniature designer cross breed, 1/2 miniature American Eskimo and 1/2 miniature poodle, known as an Eski-Poo.

Before loading the boat with groceries, filling the tanks, making up the veeberth, adding clothing, Frosty's toys, necessary navigation equipment and charts, the boat used to travel close to 10 knots. To Haydn's chagrin, it could now manage just over 6 knots under power and sail. Wind for the day was light from the Southwest.

Our inflatable Winslow life raft died just before we left and so did my laptop. My mother kindly lent me hers for the trip. The new inflatable is a much cheaper version of inflatables and we're somewhat skeptical of its quality and suitability. The yellow and black, telescoping, plastic oars for it were purchased from Canadian Tire. Neither of us is experienced at rowing a boat. The reason for the inflatable is to take Frosty and ourselves to shore when we're kungholing (an expression sailors use when anchoring other than at a dock.)

The plan for today's sailing is to anchor overnight in Goderich. A distance of 26 nautical miles. (One nautical mile equals 1.15 statue mile) Estimated time of arrival (ETA) at 5.5 knots is 1453 (2:53 pm)...wonderful, sunny day!

After the first hour, a major leak develops in the stern taking on 30 gallons of water (300 pounds). Because the boat is so heavy, the stern is dragging its ass in the water and the self-bailing cockpit can't function. But the forward automatic bilge pump would kick in and discharge the excess. What's needed is a bung to block the water from accumulating. Haydn manages to fashion one from a piece of plastic.

At noon, we decide the boat's operation is capable of pushing beyond Goderich and our destination changes to Kincardine Harbour, which is an additional 28 nautical miles. There isn't much to do in Goderich in the middle of a Friday afternoon and the weather report is favourable for continuing.

Frosty gravitated to sitting and sleeping on top of veeberth and seems content to play with his toys on the bed.

Our Navman Tracker 5500 chartplotter equipped with a C Map electronic chart works fantastic. The boat's position displays and moves with the chart. To see the chart in more detail, just requires that the chart be zoomed by pressing the + button. Technology continues to be amazing compared to when I started marine navigation when all that was available were paper charts, parallel rulers and my set of brass dividers that Haydn gave me for Christmas one winter before we bought our first sailboat in 1972. Our first sailboat equipped with an inboard engine was a Hughes 29, named, "Tejumel." I took my first boating course from London's Power Squadron that winter and received my certificate after taking and passing a test. Before getting Tejumel we had previously owned a 20' homemade power boat that Haydn constructed in the garage of our house. We kept that one in Port Franks Harbour, approximately 10 miles south of Grand Bend. Then we bought our first manufactured powerboat, a used 26' Higgins cabin cruiser named, "Sans Soucci" that we harboured in Grand Bend. Interestingly, I never did take any courses when we owned the two powerboats? I have no explanation for that deficiency and lack of safety consciousness because prior to owning boats, I navigated several cars that we owned all across Canada in sports car rallying, so it wasn't as if I wasn't accustomed to reading maps. But I will say we never ventured very far offshore in those powerboats--but in retrospect, extremely foolish on our part. How could I have done such in thing and had our young daughter on board both of those boats?

Our first sailboat was a daysailer...a 19' Lightning that we also kept concurrent with Sans Soucci, but further up the river, and joined Grand Bend Yacht Club.

Sorry, I digress. Getting back to our trip. We rounded the Point Clark starboard-hand, reef buoy and I adjusted the settings in the chartplotter because our actual position in relation to the buoy wasn't accurate enough for my liking. Those settings brought us right into Kincardine Harbour at 1900 (7:00 pm) Total distance travelled 54 nautical miles (8.9 hours, which means our course over the ground was 6.16 knots.)

Friday: Kincardine Harbour:

Weather was perfect for the entire trip and we sailed the last two hours without having that noisy engine on. Life just doesn't get any pleasanter than listening to the whisper of the wind over the sails and hearing the gurgle of the water from the bow and stern. After not sailing for more than three years, it's marvellous how quickly one adapts to the motion of boats as they heel with the wind and dance through the water. Every sailboat we've owned has its own distinctive sound along with a unique personality when she's pleased with her performance.

Frosty was thrilled to make landfall and good little dog that he is, did not need to go to the bathroom in more than 8 hours. What I wouldn't give for his bladder if only it fitted! L0L

At 2000 (8 pm), a piper at the top of the Kincardine Lighthouse played three tunes on his bagpipes as we were enjoying our dinner:

I love the mournful, eerie sound of bagpipes. And we took Frosty for a short walk...we're rather tired and we'll sack out early tonight and explore the marina and our surroundings tomorrow. Haydn managed to stay awake long enough after dinner to watch a DVD movie, but my eyes surrendered to the sandman and was fast asleep within 15 minutes of it starting. It was far too comfortable with two pillows behind my head on one side of the salon table, with Haydn on the other side also with pillows and Frosty on the seat under the salon windows to not nod off. At one point before the DVD started playing, and thinking Frosty had fallen asleep, Haydn remarked, "Frosty seems to be liking being on the boat." "Grrrr" was Frosty's denial that broke us into gales of laughter! That's the same, "Grrr" he gives us when we tell him, "No, you can't do that!" He's a funny little dog and he really does know when you're talking about him as evidenced by his reaction!

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Haydn walked to the store in the morning after a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast, salad, sourdough toast and raspberry jam. A bung was acquired for the stern at a nearby hardware store and he thoroughly tested the batteries. Fixed that leak, but another one sprang to life, this time from the brand new toilet in the head. It took more time to solve the head leak necessitating that the wet flush be disconnected from the plumbing system. No black water had leaked out, but the pressure water had been engaged and clean water flowed on to the floorboards and into the locker where our canvas clothing bags were stored. Now a forced trip to the laundromat to dry our clothes had to be made uptown. Mine, of course, were more numerous. What wasn't taken to the laundromat, I pegged to the lifelines. Rather pleasant taking them off the lines because the sun imparts a natural refreshing aroma, stimulates cotton fibres and if light-coloured, brightens them without having to use harsh bleach. Come to think of it, I miss not having clotheslines...think I'll put one up at the back of our house when we get home. Not only is that free; the sun does a far superior job of drying clothes and never shrinks them. What is it with municipalities that ban clotheslines? Must be that manual labour is involved and elitists prefer expensive appliances that are hidden from sight that do an inferior job? Oh vey...the price of convenience robs peoples of pleasures! Jeez, clothes flapping the breeze don't offend me! Sleeping on sun-dried bedding is nostril dessert. Interestingly, when Haydn returned with the dried clothing he did not object to the clothes that were hanging on the lines...I figured he would? Live and learn--just when you think you know what your partner's response will be, his lack of censure, surprised me.

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Friday, more Kincardine Harbour pictures:

Badmington nets on the beach and wonderful 1/2 moon technicolour kites used by windsurfers on the lake:

Flowers from an adjacent house with steps down to the marina maintained by super friendly, young Harbour staff:

Sheltered picnic tables and free propane BBQ's:

Fishing derby in progress:

A very friendly couple from Stratford with two grown sons docked next to us was entered in the contest. $8,000 prizes allotted for the top salmon and trout and $5,000 for the top overall fish. The top salmon also has a chance at a $50,000 hidden weight prize. Prizes are given to the top 20 salmon and trout. Tagged fish are worth $1,000 during the derby ($500 before and after). I'm not sure that I understood all they told me, but I wrote down the depths they told us for fishing and the speed to catch them when trolling for them. Nice to meet a lady knowledgeable about fishing...she told me to get a bucket and put stones in it to slow the boat down because our boat runs just a little faster than the optimum speed for catching them. All four were keen on fishing. I didn't disclose that I never catch anything, but I do enjoy holding a rod in my hand--makes me look like I'm doing something, when in fact, I'm just soaking up the sun. L0L I really don't care if I never, ever catch a fish and I do have a fishing box of very colourful lures--some of my tackle has marvellous looking feathers attached. I also own a downrigger that is fun to use.

Too many things had to be fixed to leave Kincardine today and we're staying an extra night. "Good-oh"...get to hear the bagpipes again and with luck I'll be able to stay awake to watch a DVD movie after dinner.

Just before dinner a huge powerboat registered in Maryland, RI, came into the gas dock behind us for fuel. It's white with a large second-story flying bridge, approximately 50' long and we estimate its age at ten-years-old.

An owner wearing a blue-cotton shirt between the ages of 55-60, was on the bridge with a crewmember tending gauges below. The boat seemed well enough equipped for ocean sports fishing. The pumps ran for 30 minutes filling his two tanks. The owner's wallet was lightened by $1,400. We're told there are fewer powerboats in the North Channel this year because of the price of gasoline. Kincardine Harbour has a plethora of masts at their decks. Several Mackinaw racing boats were tied up.

Because it took us in excess of eight hours to travel from Grand Bend to Kincardine, we decided not to travel to the North Channel. That daunting distance needs several helmsman to relieve the boredom of such a long trip. Next year Haydn will round up a minimum of three others and I'll drive up to Tobermory with the supplies -- many other sailors complete that distance in that fashion. Families with older children take turns with their parents and that would work for us. Christine expressed a desire to cruise the North Channel. We'll content ourselves for this trip being a shakedown to sort out mechanical difficulties.

Before dinner we'll take Frosty for a nice long walk uptown.

Frosty gallops up the stairs on his leash and at the top, goes through the bars, the gate swings open with him trapped between the bars and the force of it smashes his head against the cement abutment. He's temporarily stunned.

Because Grand Bend is free from traffic, Frosty objects strenuously to the proximity and speed of the numerous cars on the walkway leading across the bridge. He resisted the leash and made it obvious he would fight his restraints and would succeed at getting off. Haydn will continue on and I'll take Frosty back to the calmer atmosphere of the marina. Poor little guy!

I carried him to the bottom of the stairs and he glued his stomach to the cool grass under a picnic table. Several people stopped and petted him...he's in his glory and much better than walking along a hot sidewalk with noisy traffic, travelling at what must appear to him at breakneck speeds.

Pity I didn't have my camera to take pictures of the rainbow of kites flying from the beach.

Frosty and I return to the boat and Haydn joins us. Haydn engaged a taxi because his packages of rye, rum and tomato juice were heavy because today was a very hot, sunny day.

Another great dinner by candlelight followed by being able to stay awake long enough to watch the DVD movie.

Two of Haydn's clients have visited us since we arrived. One gentleman has a folk-type boat whose name Haydn doesn't remember we met on Friday. Saturday George Deietrich came over, his Beneteau has been docked behind us and Haydn did not recognize the boat. He stayed for about 15" chatting and right after he left the folkboat gentleman came back and chatted again. He admired how well our boat looked and so too did George. George's son attends to the electronics on their boat...I'll have to speak to him about NEMA settings for my Navman chartplotter to ensure I can't achieve our position with more precision. Hopefully, I'll be able to take a Power Squadron course this year in GPS navigation and electronic charting this coming winter.

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Saturday in Kincardine:

Woke up at 0500, completely slept out. The powerboat owner two docks over with the four downriggers left his dock at 0600. At 0700, could see no sign of life from the keen Stratford fishing family. But at 0720, they all were dressed and ready to go out and hunt for the fish during the competition. I wished them good luck at 0730.

That lovely lady gave me four lures suitable for salmon and/or trout and told me the lighter the colour of lures, the more sun required. How very nice of her to give them to me. She would not accept payment for them and commented that the fish were biting at 30' today. Friendly, generous people share their fishing knowledge as well as equipment for others to try their hand at the sport. They cast off at 0800!

We cast off at 1015 after having another great breakfast.

Destination: Port Elgin, Distance 21.9 nautical miles.
Sunday, Port Elgin Harbour:

Bruce Nuclear Station is huge and can be seen for miles from the water. The cranes and buildings are all the large, economy size. And windmill farms dot the landscape in their vicinity. There is a dock accessible by boaters in times of emergency, but I wonder how many helicopters and armed guards would be acting as Wallmart greeters? L0L

Another bright, sunny, hot day with not much wind.

Dratted diesel engine wouldn't start coming into port after sailing two hours and Haydn had to use our 1000-watt gasoline generator we carry under the cockpit flooring to excite the batteries into being charged. The diesel, inboard engine immediately started with minimal encouragement.

Put in at 1500 (3:00 p.m.) Speed made good over the ground 4.53 knots

No one ran to the dock to help us tie up as the young staff had in Kincardine. It's a much bigger marina that has lost the personal touch--how unfortunate when they are dependent on how well they treat boaters that dock there. Southampton Harbour is less than 5 nautical miles North. There are no free BBQ's or picnic tables, but there are benches for seating. However, the showers are great with no shortage of hot water.

The beach butting up the marina becomes wall-to-wall people--have never seen a beach so heavily populated. The restaurant adjoining the marina offices do a roaring business.

Next door to us is an old scow of a boat that has radar and what looks like satellite TV judging by the round receiver fastened to a pile on at the port side of it. People on the boat were not rude, but on the other hand, they weren't particularly outgoing. The owner was fixing something on his boat that was oily. So he could have been preoccupied with his task. We aren't positive, but this boat appears to have been there for quite some time. They could be quasi-permanent liveaboards. Uptown and stores are not within walking distance, so I hope for their sake, they have a vehicle at their disposal because taxis are ten dollars return. This is the second marina where there isn't a free jitney service. Perhaps they have relatives or friends that fetch things? Sometimes the exterior of boats belie the luxury of interiors...don't judge books by their covers is a good maxim.

Rather a nice place for walking pets and Frosty appears not to mind the price of taxis Haydn had to pay in order to get some fresh meat. The refrigeration on the boat is working wonderfully and so too is the beer locker that abutts up to it. That locker keeps the beer and pop at perfect temperatures.

The repairs Haydn completed appear to be holding, but it is rather worrisome that the engine didn't start when the next anchorage we're going to that we anticipate gungholing. Will the batteries last an overnight stay? We'll find out shortly.

Watched two DVD movies tonight after dinner.

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Monday, Whitefish Island

Cast off from Port Elgin and didn't write down the time.

Destination: Whitefish Island, Distance 20.2 nautical miles.

Another gorgeous day...bright sunshine and no rain or thunderstorms in the forecast. Watched several fairly large powerboats go between the mainland and Chantry Island. I'll have to check the water depths on the chart on our way back because I can get overcautious. It's possible there is no need to go west of Chantry Island to clear the Chantry Island shoals. We draft only 30" and don't need much water.

Had a great deal of difficulty figuring out where the mainland ends and islands begin. It's hard to decipher where there is open water that separates pieces of land. We did overshoot the end of the mainland and had to retrace our route to find the opening that leads to the group of islands where the anchorage is at Whitefish Island. Must train myself to trust the chartplotter more!

The anchorage indicated on the chart is between Whitefish and Cigar Islands. We had hoped Cigar Island would be uninhabited, but that was not to be...there was a house and dock on the leeward side. This anchorage is very exposed to winds coming off the open lake, but from weather reports I heard this morning, there are no high winds or storms forecast for this area of Lake Huron.

Left-hand side of the bay:

Right-hand side of the bay:

Haydn puts the engine into trolling as slow as possible to test the depths of the water. Chart depths can't be depended on when lake levels are down. We would like to get the boat as close as possible to land. Frosty needs to go to shore and he has not used the litter box since leaving Grand Bend. We troll as close as we can and drop anchor. Haydn plays out very little rode...we're in 3-4' of water.

We blow up the inflatable using the automatic air pump from Canadian Tire...it takes about 20" Can't find the oar locks!

For safety, I put Frosty's life preserver on him:

Haydn manages to get into the inflatable. The ladder at the back of the boat is useless to stand on because the treads are too slippery and the ladder seems to give as you stand on it. I hand him Frosty who immediately jumps out of his arms and back into the trawler--so we have to repeat that procedure with Haydn holding him more firmly. I do manage to get in with my digital camera on a lanyard around my neck. I hold Frosty between my legs...his heart is beating like a hummingbird's and seems to be trying to eject out his shoulder. L0L

It was rather difficult to take pictures when the three of us were in the inflatable and this was the best we can do:

Distance to shore from the boat, approximately 300' in water less than 4' deep. I try to use the other oar but my oar counters Haydn's. Pity we couldn't find the oar locks so Haydn could have used both.

It's harder to get out than it was to get in because the bottom is small rocks that are covered in wet moss than have become super slippery. But we do manage and all three of us are now on shore.

Frosty has two or three pees and does a couple of other things too. Very, very precarious to negotiate a firm footing through the shallow water between two pieces of land.

We clamour over lava-type rocks that must be hard on Frosty's feet. We see in the distance a stand of coniferous trees and head for them. Along the way are many Cinquefoil bushes growing wild and blooming with their distinctive pointed, bright, yellow petals that cover entire strands of the plants. Among the Cinquefoil bushes are blueberries that appear to have finished fruiting. Pity, blueberries make delicious breakfast muffins and I do have a propane oven on board that I could have baked them, or if there weren't enough to make them, we could have eaten them raw! Obviously, we'll have to go back when they're in season.

After an hour, we elect to return to the inflatable. Frosty and I get in first at Haydn's suggestion and with difficulty he manages to get in too. Haydn is convinced the boat is drifting away as he rows toward it. But we do get back; now all we have to do is get out of the inflatable and back into the trawler.

In retrospect, why it doesn't occur to either of us to just roll ourselves out of the inflatable and stand on the bottom to give ourselves purchase for the transom ladder when we're in less than 4' of water is mind boggling. L0L

Haydn gets one foot on the trawler's ladder, loses his balance and like the cartoons you see of people with one foot on their boats with the other slowly stretching the person into gymnastic splits as the boat drifts away from the side of the hull .... Drat! What with holding Frosty, I couldn't get to my camera. But had I managed to freeze that moment in time, Haydn, with justification, would have murdered me, or at a minimum used the picture to obtain a divorce! L0L (I do however, have the picture of him locked in my bank of memories) L0L!!!!

His arms became like bands of steel with the adrenaline his heart was pumping out and he hauled his weight back into the trawler using an invisible sky hook. (There just is no other explanation for him in his position being able to do that impossible feat other than his deploying a secret sky hook or he somehow became the Bionic Man!)

Without hesitation, he then reached down, picked Frosty out of my arms and transported me with my right knee firmly on the ladder tread which I then effortlessly put the left knee on the tread above and presto, we're all back in the trawler safe and secure! I hate to say this, but I have gained a little weight since we've been married ... Haydn literally beamed me onto the treads.

Haydn cursed the inflatable, said he hated it and would never use it again.

I remembered that the oarlocks are in the side pocket of the inflatable with the repair patch and glue and also recalled we were never in any danger because neither of us is a midget and our height exceeds 3'6". ROTFLMAO!!! What an absurd, ridiculous moment that was in our lives!

After we have a cup of tea and are calmed down, Haydn takes the stretchy ropes off the transom ladder and installs Spectra rope (Spectra rope, does not stretch) which stops the ladder from giving when weight is placed on it. Betcha if the Spectra had been in place, we wouldn't have had any difficulty getting in or out of the inflatable. But it's now rolled up and it will take some time before he gets over his embarrassment and admits that there is nothing wrong with the inflatable. I'm patient and if it means I have to buy a new one with a more rigid floor, I'm prepared to do that ... just please, please, never let him know what I've written in this diary entry...anyone reading this has to swear to an allegiance of silence! L0L (He just may be able to laugh at this hilarious episode sometime in the future?)

While on shore, I did get some lovely pictures of the boat:

Tuesday, Stokes Bay

departed Whitefish Island mooring Monday morning, destination: Stokes Bay. The dawn brought yet another gorgeous day.

Distance 15 nautical miles.
Stokes Bay cottagers dock:

Saw a commercial fishing boat off Pikes Point that seemed to be heading for Stokes Bay, but he stopped and proceeded out toward the lake. Perhaps he needed to dump the innards and bait he had used for catching his fish?

Throttled down and proceeded cautiously toward the government dock when we spied the commercial fishing boat coming toward the anchorage where we wanted to dock. Anywhere the fishing boat could go, assured we had enough water to dock there too. Haydn really wanted to tie up to a dock because he despised the idea of getting in and out of that inflatable again. L0L

Waited, and sure enough he pulled into the windward side of the government dock. We snuggled up to the leeward side and tied up against the dock. Grand little spot—no other sailboats or powerboats at that anchorage—only the fishing boat and us.

We watched the helper unload the catch: three tubs that he carried unassisted. The tubs couldn’t have weighed anymore than 150 pounds including the ice. At $1/pound, that fisherman would receive less than $150 for an entire day’s work to cover his diesel fuel, wages for his helper and God forbid if he had to amortize the purchase of his boat. What a hard way to make a buck!

We were very tempted to buy a fish from him and pay top dollar for it, but we didn’t have a knife big enough to fillet it. The captain of the fishing boat had a blonde cocker spaniel puppy on board with him and Frosty went out and made friends with it. That gave us the opening to speak to the captain. Never did find out if his helper was a hired hand or a member of his family, but regardless both men have to earn their living from their catch. They also have to pay for their truck, the gasoline for it, put a roof over their head, buy groceries, and pay utilities.

We knew we were short of diesel fuel and there was none on Whitefish Island, our previous anchorage. Closest harbour would be Southampton, a distance of 25+ nautical miles. We have enough to perhaps do 15 of that, so the hunt was on for diesel fuel.

A lady came down and collected $10 for dockage at the government wharf. She said we could get diesel at the marina that was distinguishable by its red roof. Added that the channel was well marked and any necessary groceries were within walking distance of the stop sign passed the campground

The fisherman were long gone

We set off in the boat to go to the marina. The entrance to the channel we could see from the dock and we followed it ‘til there were no more markers in the water. There were lots of weeds to starboard and port and figured perhaps the channel went straight on. But we ran aground and had to use our diesel engines to get ourselves free. We never did see any sign of a marina, nor any gasoline signs that indicated there was fuel anywhere available. The place with the red roof was just a house—it was not a marina.

We put Frosty’s leash on and set off for the store, thinking maybe we’d be able to use the phone and call a marina and have 5 gallons delivered to the store. But she hadn’t told us which way to turn after arriving at the stop sign. We tried left and saw no buildings, so we went back and turned right. Most of the dwellings along the paved, country road were run-down cottages without insulation and typical of cheaply-constructed accommodation for vacation dwellers. We stopped at a trailer park down the road and the lady that answered the door, said we had quite a way to go before reaching the store. It was a very hot day and walking was not easily accomplished. Next we stopped at a man’s house that was taking groceries out of his car. He told us the store was more than two miles – he checked with his neighbour that has lived in that community for more than ten years and was told there was no diesel fuel at the marina. He did offer to drive us to the store, but upon hearing the nearest diesel fuel was more than ten miles away and small communities don’t have taxis nor would they be persuaded to deliver it.

Who was that 'masked' woman that took our ten dollars and sent us off on two wild goose chases? No one seemed to know?

As we were walking down the road back to our boat, the commercial fisherman appeared behind us driving his truck. He was on his way back to his boat to spruce it up with some paint. Haydn asked him if the engines in his boat were diesel and he said, “Yes, they’re great engines and that’s the reason I bought such an old boat from a fisherman in Port Dover.” Our heart sank for his man and his helper. There is no way given the catch we saw on the docks that this hard-working man who gets up at 0600 every morning and spends his day fishing to earn even a modest living especially given this was not a family boat passed down from one generation to another.

We needed fuel and this captain deserved to be paid handsomely for it. So Haydn went over and offered him $60 plus the cost of the fuel. He generously consented to accept our offer. Funny how you tell whether someone will accept charity—we absolutely knew in our hearts, there was no way this man would accept a handout. Turned out when he delivered the fuel the following morning, he had driven 20 miles to get it. Yes as a fisherman, he gets diesel fuel cheaper than Joe Blow who isn’t a fisherman. Perhaps he too was low on fuel and couldn’t spare any from his commercial boat’s tanks?

Making $60+ from us may be the only profit he’ll realize for the week. Rather heartbreaking, considering the amount of effort he expends.

Later that evening, we were treated to families that came down to the government wharf to swim as well as some locals that fished off the dock. Friendliest bunch of people we’ve run into for a donkey’s age. One of the adult female swimmers told me that swimming in that location was better for hair than collected rainwater. All the children that we saw that evening were well-behaved. I light up the face of a lady that was fishing on the pier by telling her we had hamburger helper for dinner that night. We’re fairly certain that all the people we met were blue-collar workers – just a great bunch of friendly people with no pretensions and very polite. Betcha had we asked, they would have shared their knowledge about how to catch the fish—just like the lady from Stratford that gave me four lures out of her tackle box. Small, rural, Northern communities are among some of the most generous people there are. I regret that I didn't take a picture of that wharf, but we'll remember Stokes Bay.

I am told that Strokes Bay was once the busiest lumber community on the Peninsula and a lively commercial fishing port, it is now far better known for its sports fishery. The lumber barons are gone and from what I saw of the fisherman's catch, so too are the fish.
Sunset, Stokes Bay



Began the trip home ... Wednesday, Port Elgin
Port Elgin Beach

We never did see the beach that deserted, anytime we saw it, people were almost shoulder to shoulder. We had stopped into Southampton Harbour, just outside of the Chantry Island shoals and discovered we did not need to go west of Chantry Island, there was more than enough water to cut between the mainland and the island which decreases the length of the trip down to being very manageable. We pulled into Port Elgin at 1500 (3 pm from Stokes Bay). Good thing we did get those five gallons of diesel fuel, because we took on 19.2 gallons and our gas tank is only 20 gallons, so there would have been no way we would have been able to make that journey without sailing an appreciable amount of the way and there wasn't much wind and what there was of it would have required us to do several tacks, because it was from a southerly direction. I had swing the compass on the range lights at Stokes Bay--we hadn't had time to do that before leaving Grand Bend. Knowing the amount of compass error improved our ability to find marks the chartplotter displayed. What a fantastic device chartplotters and digital charts are when you know what your compass error is. We just had far too many things to do before we left. That compass was installed on the trawler from a previous installation and had thought I knew what the errors were...I was incorrect. Stupid me...that's one of the first rules of marine navigation...never, ever assume. The further distance one travels, the more important it is to know for certain what the compass error is. My bad!


Thursday, Kincardine Harbour:

While in Kincardine, we saw a boat that Haydn had designed in the early part of his boat building career. The gentleman who owned it had bought it from a previous customer of ours that Haydn made new trailboards for and the new owner was eager to talk to the designer of his boat.

Here's a picture of it, It's a Bayfield 36. Haydn's brother Hedley, started that company and when he left the company to form a new boat building business in Goderich called Gozzard Yachts, the company approached Haydn to design the boat and build moulds for them. Unfortunately Bayfield Boat Yard burned down and most of the moulds Haydn designed were destroyed in the fire. The shelf life for fibreglass boats hasn't been established and provided fibreglass glass is well maintained, we haven't found one that can't be repaired. All existing Bayfield 36's are still in existence to the best of our knowledge.

Trailboards are the carved pieces of teak under the bow sprit.

Nice talking to him--the new owner lives in Stratford and said he'll be stopping into the shop.

We were of course, treated to the wail of the bagpipes Thursday evening. And we combined that delight with a medium, deluxe, delivered pizza for dinner.

Friday, Goderich Harbour

We were delayed leaving Kincardine because of a small craft warning that had been issued for that part of the lake and not rescinded until 1030. By the time we got underway from Kincardine, it was 1100. Distance from Kincardine 28.7 nautical miles.

Goderich is a larger port with deep channels. Lake freighters regularly depart and arrive in Goderich. It's not of the prettiest harbours I've been to, but if I were in a storm, it's one that I'd recommend as a harbour of refuge. Friday there was a Canadian coast guard vessel lying just beyond the north pier. The harbour has large grain elevators, and railway cars and Sifto Salt has a large presence. The salt mines that are concrete lined, run under Lake Huron and giant loaders in the shafts collect the salt. The mine extends 5 kilometers under Lake Huron, and is the largest salt mine in the world. Sifto maintain large storage silos and bins above the surface--not particularly attractive to recreational boaters as being scenic. Salt has thousand of uses beyond flavouring foods. Goderich is a major shipping port on the Great Lakes and is part of the St. Lawrence Seaway.

Overhead view of Maitland Valley Marina, Goderich:

We arrived at Goderich at 1530 (3:30 pm) speed over the ground 5.74 knots and powered all the way. The sails add stability to the motion of the boat when it's underway regardless of whether it's sailing or being powered.

A more attractive view of Maitland Valley Marina:

Goderich claims to have the prettiest sunsets on Lake Huron. From what I understand, colourful sunsets are caused by pollution. The sunsets are glorious in Sarnia, where the petro chemical industry is concentrated. L0L

Saturday, Last Day, Grand Bend

Distance Goderich to Grand Bend, 26.2 nautical miles

When he left Maitland Valley Marine in Goderich the waves were breaking over sandbars and rollers were coming toward us. Wave height was in excess of 6' when we left, but winds were moderate and it was sunny and bright. The forecast was for the winds to come out of the NW which would have been perfect.

Shortly after coming abeam (90 degree angle from our position in relation to an object) off Bayfield Harbour, which is just after the 1/2 point, the wind began to pick up and filled in off the quarter of the boat. We reduced sail on the forestay by rolling in the sail. Our main was not up and we didn't dare turn off the engine because it had failed to start a couple of times on our holiday. Lake rollers were now about 8' and at times Haydn's log device that also measures speed was reading over 8 knots. We were now flying home instead of sailing. The sensation of a 27' sailboat clocking at over 8 knots is equivalent to motoring in a speedboat at 40 mph but in a sailboat no one gets a broken spine or sore backside when the hull smashes down off the top of the waves. We had now become one with the trawler and were able to enjoy the sensation of speed because we were confident the keel wouldn't fall off. This trawler presents high windage because of the roof and higher freeboard that sailboats typically don't have. And we were thrilled that the wide cockpit where four deck chairs can be placed horizontally across the stern didn't look like the waves would poop on the stern causing the cockpit to fill with most of Lake Huron. L0L She's turned out to a saucy lady that handles herself well in a good breeze. The westerly gusts were in the range of 20 knots and she performed like a trouper. The bulb keel that drafts only 30" that allows us to go into shoal waters was more than adequate for the task. I had spent a fair amount of time ensuring before we left our home port that when I pressed the red emergency button on my Digital Selective Calling VHF that puts out our latitude and longitude automatically to the coast guard was working and able to acquire a fix from the GPS. It still boggles my mind that I had to take a Power Squadron course in order to legally push that 'red' button! L0L Jeez, what is the coast guard going to do if someone is in dire need of assistance and pushes it without a license to do so? Will they come back on the radio and say, "Sorry, you don't have a license...drown you fool, you should have the course!!!" "Don't call again, because we aren't going to respond to people that push that 'red' button without that piece of paper?"

Wonderful blue skies and just the right amount of wind and waves to make her hum. We had a racing sailing boat that almost sang when it was going at flank speed, but it had a deep lead keel, and slender entry fore and aft in the water and a low profile. The trawler presented a challenge by having a shallow bulb keel, fine at the bow but square at the stern and presented windage because of her height. We've found that this one hums instead of singing, but we have no fear that she'll turn turtle on us. (Or at least not at that wind speed and height of waves). There was nothing in the weather forecast that predicted these conditions, which often does happen when you're on the Great Lakes. The Great Lakes are temperamental waterways and unpredictable...we've been caught in tornadoes, line squalls and other sudden storms which this boat, we thought, could have difficulty handling. We know it wouldn't respond as well as our racing sailboat, but all we ask is that she doesn't sink and this trip gave us confidence that she may not perform in storms as well as our previous racing thoroughbred, but she will cross the finish line. Just a great sail and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. We averaged more than seven knots for the last seven miles that means there were times surfing down the waves when she was handling eight knots. No one in their right mind deliberately goes out in a storm to defy Mother Nature, with a boat such as this trawler, but there will be times when she's out there and not able to make port. We're now a lot more confident about her abilities. Such a great day!!! What a high sailing those last seven nautical miles!

We made port in Grand Bend just after 1400 (2 pm), folded our tent and came home to an air-conditioned house. The weather has been rotten ever since we came back, so someone up there was watching over us. "Thank you!"

Click the picture for a panoramic view of our home port sunset.

Finishing the living, dining room, study ...

Installing the flooring, painting, insulating around the windows, baseboards and trim around the windows, hanging doors and hardware, and last minute things to complete before our first Christmas in the house. We didn't put a Christmas tree up last year at the apartment we had rented in Exeter and we had dubbed it, "The Hovel." :-)

As you might have observed from the pictures of the kitchen outside the bay window it was snowing and Christmas was coming up very fast and we still had lots to do before I could put up our tree.

We bought the cork flooring for the kitchen from Home Depot. Chosing 'cork' for the kitchen flooring was based on ease of maintenance, resistance to heat and spillage, durability, and because many tasks have to be done while standing, it had to be kind to feet. Cork failed on heat resistance, but excelled on all the other variables. The type we installed was tongue and groove panels 1' wide x 3' long with a clear, acrylic finish. It also provides a sound barrier; its soft, warm, dependent on what pattern is choosen, it can look like burled wood or have a freckled appearance, and it's very easy to install. It took us an afternoon to lay.

For our entrance foyer, we chose greenish, ceramic tile and that took a little longer, but that too is simple if you have the right tools. The place where we buy our tile lets us rent the equipment for the weekend.

Between the foyer and the kitchen, Haydn custom made cherry wood flooring. He milled the Cherry on his planer to the width and thickness he needed just as he had milled the Hickory for making the kitchen cupboards. That flooring took Haydn several days for him to lay (having bad knees made the job much harder for him) and several more for me to apply the number of coats of varnish required. Each day I'd put another coat on in the morning and by the time Haydn arrived home from work, he was able to cross it without leaving marks in it.

We had set up a routine for varnishing the Hickory trim for the doors and windows. He'd tell me what he needed varnished and I had the basement (where there wasn't furniture that I had to work around) to lay the pieces on horses set up to elevate it for drying. We used Siken's, clear marine varnish that is very durable and doesn't yellow over time. Siken's cannot be put on thickly; several coats applied thinly works best and it dries to a very hard finish. We used that varnish on the cherry flooring, the kitchen cupboards, the walnut and cherry stairs, and all the wood trim in the house.

All the interior, closet and laundry room bi-fold doors had to be painted, jams installed, doors fitted, and hardware added, total ten. Windows had to be caulked before trim was put around them.

We called professionals to lay the carpeting for the living, dining room and study. As December 2002, came upon us, we were down to installing curtain rods, minor filling and finally getting the rest of our furniture out of the basement and placed in the rooms. Several nights we were able to sit around our wood-burning fireplace and plan our first Boxing Day vacation -- we decided to take a well-deserved holiday in our RV to the United States. I bought Haydn a digital compass for it and we treated 'Marta', our RV, to a new set of hubcaps.

Pictures of where we were December 2002:

Review: Sailing Time's Ocean

Red Deer Press, Author: Terence M. Green



A compelling Science Fiction tale originally published by McClelland & Stewart in 1992 as Children of the Rainbow, that transports the protagonist back in time urging readers to examine their beliefs about the present and what the future holds for mankind.

The setting is 2072, interwoven with 1835 Britain's Norfolk Island penal colony and 1972 Greenpeace III's renunciation of French nuclear tests in French Polynesia.

The author braids his tale depicting one of the characters in Peru as an Inca mystic representing rules, and dogma and the protagonist, a scientist named Fletcher Christian IV, currently professor of Life Sciences, a famous descendant from Mutiny on the Bounty who escaped to Pitcairn Island. Fletcher is the antithesis of old-style religion and rejects the concept of professional or ordained intermediaries placed between an individual and the holy environment. As a learned man, Fletcher IV disputes the validity of original sin and heredity as being foundations of the human matrix. The third major character, Dalton, is a convicted convict.

One of the themes running through the story is the impact dishonesty, barbarism, domination and despair create in several generations of mankind. For instance, at the beginning of the story Dalton naively states that the inedible food at the prison requires a spoon. A guard strikes him with a rifle butt splitting the skin of his face and knocking him on the ground for voicing what everyone knew to be true. The crime that brought Dalton to Norfolk Island was breaking and sacking tea chests in a warehouse for which Dalton being a simple man, deprived of education, failed to comprehend the import of seven years' transportation.

Fletcher Christian rebelled against Captain Bligh's abusive, controlling leadership. British naval officers were trained and legally obligated to follow Bligh's orders which caused the mutiny on the Bounty and the subsequent settlement of Pitcairn by the crew members. Fletcher's descendant, Christian Fletcher IV, in the book became law-abiding, principled, valuable members of society. Dalton, the convict, inadvertently time-travelled from Norfolk Island to Pitcairn and like the Bounty mutineers is freed from literal and abstract chains, becomes pleased with his new life and fathers a child. Choice and freedom galvanize self-empowering motivators.

Throughout the book, the author draws the reader's attention to the spaces between men and women. For example, the prison commandant, Major Anderson, represents linear, intellectual, left-brained thinking that leads him to condone and authorize the brutal treatment of the prisoners. His wife and daughter rely on creativity and intuition, right-brained conceptualizing for their conclusions resulting in their acceptance of Fletcher Christian IV's tale of conveyance to the prison from the future. Anderson's style of cognition blinds and prejudices against the truth of Fletcher's arrival on the island.

A central feature that brings numerous themes in the story together is the rupture in time caused by two instances of nuclear tests spaced one year apart as observed by Green Peace III. Given the political unrest, nuclear proliferation, and wars in the Middle East, the concepts in the book are topical today for countless generations. Albert Einstein pessimistically remarked, “The splitting of the atom has changed everything save our mode of thinking.” Each reader after absorbing the novel needs to decide for themselves which road mankind travelled in the past and where the journey ends.

If the macro elements of the story lack appeal for some readers, the novel's plot and development apply at the micro level to individuals—everyone in their lifetime has metaphoric nuclear incidents that alter their life's directions. Science friction is not a genre which frequently attracts me, but like Shadow of Ashland, a previous book by Terence M. Green which I read in one sitting, Sailing Time's Ocean, glued me to its pages.

Spunky Old Mariners

Blustery winds on Lake Huron exhilarate 82-year-old Ken McArthur, who sails with his nephew, the helmsman, of a Shearwater 16’ catamaran. The gusts increased from the Northwest and blew more vigorously as Ken used his weight and agility on the trapeze to stabilize the windward pontoon of the cat. The skilled partnership of helmsman and trapezed, human ballast rocketed across the outside of Grand Bend’s harbour mouth. The cat approached a power vessel from behind, and Ken spied the new owner accompanied by six of his friends. Roaring past the powerboat, Ken yelled, “Does that thing use much gas?”



Shearwater Catamaran, windward trapeze
The owner cranked up the powerboat’s engine several notches, but could not catch the swifter catamaran. Ragbaggers and stinkpotters tease each other unmercifully.


Eighty-year-old Irish Ferguson, laughed heartily as he related that story to me. At 35, his sailing days began and for many years plied the waters of the Great Lakes, cruising, and racing whilst belonging to yacht clubs on Lake Huron. The boats he owned ranged from a homemade, marine plywood, 18’, sloop-rigged Y-flyer, class boat to his present high-performance, fibreglass, 36', fractional-rig Kirby, monohull.


“It’s fun, can be competitive, and it is something that I can do with my family,” paints how Irish sees the attraction of sailing. His three daughters and son shared his passion for the sport while his wife, Tina, tolerated it. But his desire to keep sailing did not diminish with the passing years as he recounts it, “At 55, I could, at 75, I could, at 76, things started to slow me down.”


Devices that extend his time at his chosen sport, Irish described as, “It’s just a matter of what you want to spend, because everything is available at a price.” Such as: “an automatic helm, electric winches which few people install because they are expensive.” A friend who owned a Bayfield 24’ sailboat was almost totally unable to move had a lift put on his boat and he could get on with his wheelchair. It would lift him right on. He could sail it, and afterwards lift himself off. The wheelchair was too wide for the companionway door that led to the cabin below, but he crawled down the stairs if he needed to make a cup of coffee or use the head.


His advice to people yearning to learn how to sail, “Join a local power squadron and take the sailing course, then go out with an experienced sailor, or crew for them half a dozen times under various conditions to know what to expect.” Irish knows of people who did not start to sail until 55+. Instructors at the power squadron teach marine rules of the road, aids to navigation and safe operation of boats. Canadian regulations mandated a license for sailing vessels with inboard engines. Skippers of sailboats without engines do not need a license.


Irish rolled his eyes recalling a person who stuffed a paper placement into his pocket from a restaurant to navigate from Grand Bend to Port Sanilac, Michigan. The placemat depicted both places, and an arrow decorated the top right-hand corner marking North. Irish chortled when I interjected into the interview that my brother who had a powerboat, navigated Lake Erie using an Ontario roadmap. He recalled the times when all that was available for navigation on the Great Lakes was a compass, parallel rulers and a chart. Radio direction finders (RDF’s), did not count as aids because playing music was the totality of what they did well. Global Positioning Systems, (GSP), transformed an onerous task into simplicity.


Irish believes a 19' Lightning class boat accommodates beginner sailors, or any small, beamy (wide), stable boat limited to one sail (cat rigged). Larger boats for seniors need, at a minimum, a bilge bump, preferably motorized, a head (toilet) with a large holding tank, a stove, all lines running aft from a forward position to the cockpit, roller furling for the jib and lazy jacks for the main.


The high cost of gasoline reduces the number of power, favouring increases in the number of boats on the market equipped with sails. Also, sailing is environmentally friendly and people have more fun on a sailboat because there is more to do than just steer. More pleasurable talking without shouting over the din of an engine and hearing the sound of the wind as it passes over the sails.


The Ferguson family used the Scorpio designed and built, 26’ sailing trawler for one season two years ago and suggested two improvements, “An easy way to get from the helmsman station to the deck and install handrails on the top of the cabin.” Part way through the summer, the addition of lifelines stem to stern, and a bow pulpit, resulted in nothing appearing on his end of season wish list.


While on the subject of well-equipped boats, Irish drew my attention to a single-handed race starting in England and finishing in North America. The length of the boats cannot exceed 26’ with most between 22’ to 24’. The entries have radios, radar, solar panels, and every imaginable device. The small craft making the transatlantic passage is not the major cost of the race—the compulsory equipment list ran the expense to $100,000 per skipper. Food, transportation to the start , marina expenses, and other supplies increase the cost.


I got the impression during the interview from Irish’s wistful tone, enthusiastic description of the boats, and his animated facial expression that he would like to participate in the event. A more vital, keen, remarkable sailor who retained his love for the sport would is hard to find. Tina at the end of the interview added, “He is no longer steady enough on his feet to sail alone.” Irish knows his limitations and freely advises people of like advanced years, “Get a good crew!” Few people are as physically fit as Ken McArthur hanging on a guy-wired trapeze at the age of 82—he continued to sail his catamaran until age 85. Every lover of the sport regardless of age or type of boat, wishes their fellow sailors, “Bon Voyage!”

Trapeze sailing technique

Puerto Rico Snapshot

The ride on a busy highway from the airport to the home of our host, revealed lavish emerald foliage, against lofty mountains reaching skyward to an exuberant sun. Elegant palm trees papered the road where gentle zephyrs stirred the air. The afternoon sparkled with the colour of freshly, polished copper.

Peddlers dotted the landscape along the grassy sides at the edge of the road. The shorts and skimpy tops of the vendors boiled with fiery gold, vivid turquoise, shocking pink, and lime green. Chartreuse moss hung languidly on the deciduous trees. A battalion of merchants, unimpeded by buildings freckled the landscape. The cab stopped for a red light and a man ran into the traffic and cleaned the taxi’s windshield. The seller showered us with Spanish holding up a decapitated fresh chicken. The cabby did not acknowledge the squeegee panhandler. His eyes were affixed on the light waiting for it to turn. The ribbon of black that we travelled became an army of similar merchants.

The route to the guarded, gated community unveiled my eyes to the stark poverty of the mansions behind the fencing.

Mortifying Moment

When I entered the staffroom at day’s end, the giggling stopped.

This was my first week of teaching at a secondary school for special education students. I had been hired to teach Retail Sales.

I sat down and one of the teacher’s remarked, “I noticed your students put the final touches on your display for the fall window.”

“Yes, didn’t they do a marvellous job?" "I was very pleased first period this morning with my grade ten class.”

“When was the last time you checked the window?” another teacher inquired.

I had assigned a senior grade ten class the task of assembling the props and completing the large display window that everyone walked past coming into the school or changing classes during the day.

“Right after they finished it at ten this morning,” I replied.

The chuckling recommenced.

“Perhaps you should go and take a second look,” another staff member suggested.

As recommended, I walked to the show windows that I had been so tickled about earlier.

The male mannequin had the skirt hiked up to the top of the legs of the female mannequin revealing her bikini underwear. His fly had been unzipped with his left hand on the girl’s privates. Her right hand was inside his pants. The sign behind the dummies heads read, “Discovery and Learning.”

Appalachians and Parents Kill Newborn

Similar to the Phoenix, who rose from the ashes, our motorhome was born from its previous life. In five years she emerged from being a 27’ ugly duckling made from aluminum siding into 37’ aesthetically, beautiful, fibreglass swan named Marta.


Marta, Haydn and I set off on a snowy Boxing Day for an extended holiday. I had completely forgotten about the Appalachian chain of mountains in New York and Pennsylvania when I chose the route. Towing a vehicle behind her, she struggled valiantly to get up and down the mountains. When she breathed hard, we held our breath and felt in our bones how ardently she tried to perform. Marta panted as hard as Atlas, God of Burdens, must have as he toiled with his weight. The feelings she evoked when down to her lowest gear, clawing her way in the frigid outdoor temperatures on twisty, corkscrew, snow-ladden roads were agonizing pity for her plight.

Marta’s heart was her original engine that Haydn had overhauled, and made improvements that he believed were necessary for the added ten feet of length. The amendments were to give her more strength and lengthen her life.

Night one, we were able to give her respite on a flat, restaurant parking lot in the Alleghany Mountains.

Marta performed stoutheartedly the following day through the mountains in Pennsylvania. She, unfortunately, exerted herself beyond her strength and vital fluids erupted. After her temperature returned to normal, we picked up the necessary antifreeze in a small town, in case she needed another life-saving coolant transfusion.

Before entering Virginia, Haydn saw the bronze tablet on the shoulders of the road informing travellers, “Geological feature, Pennsylvania’s highest elevation west of the Mississippi.” There was no need to add to my guilt by reading the words aloud.

We had been Marta’s cheerleaders over ascents and were gleeful when she was able to control her speed down the descents. Her curriculum had been rigorous and to us she had graduated Magna cum laude when she reached the Virginia rest stop at the end of day two.

As night fell, on day three, just before the rest stop, Haydn questioned, “What is that sound?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it’s getting louder!”

“Shit!” “Since we left the last gas station, I’ve been driving in second gear at highway speeds.”

“Boom!” As the rod in the engine blew!

We had to leave when the tow truck arrived, because we would have bawled like infants at the sadness of seeing her crippled and being towed on a hook.

Marta had not warranted her doom. There had been a Herculean urge to place a pacifier in her grille.





Marta's construction: http://www.geocities.com/sylley2000/





Before her re-birth:

A Day of Remembrance

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In memory of the men and women of the armed services, who were not able to return to their home countries, and dedicated to the families who mourned them.

Ceremonies Clock

Eight: as the sun smiled from its corner and filled the sky, a long snowy gown with lace, ruffles and ribbons had been worn at the christening ceremony. A minister intoned the service and made the blessing with droplets of water on my tiny forehead.


Ten: flowers eagerly quenched their thirst on its rays. I had worn virginal white for confirmation services, followed by a first communion with burgandy-coloured wine in an ornate silver chalice. The morsel of bread was received in cupped hands. Spirited organ music, and the choir’s voices reached the vaulted ceilings before and after the service conducted by the Bishop. The sweet smell of lilies and delphiniums from the altar filled the air in the pews.


Noon: the sun blazed high overhead. My wedding dress was Caribbean blue silk with pale crinolines that prompted the turquoise gossamer material to billow. I had carried a small white bible with two bleached satin ribbons and miniature blood red roses at the ends. Low-heeled, pale shoes elevated me almost to the shoulders of the groom. A petite frosty pillbox with three peaks and a small veil adorned titian-coloured hair.

Two: psychedilic coneflowers sought shelter from thr intensity of the sun's fire. We were blessed with a healthy female baby. Milky colours flowed for her baptismal ceremony. The water blessing welcomed her into the world.

Four: blue, verdant or white-stripped hostas, saucy-faced violets, and elegant ferns vacationed under treed umbrella beds. Our daughter flowered into adolescence. Her confirmation was celebrated wearing a spotless, cloud-coloured dress and veil with fragrant lily of the valley guilding her curly straw locks.

Darker, more sombre colours stamped the funeral services of our grandparents.

Six: as the shadows grew long on the ground, our offspring had chosen a traditional chalky gown and trailing veil for a formal June wedding. Bridesmaids were no competition for her loveliness as she floated down the aisle carrying a large spring bouquet of daisies, tulips and daffodils. Her reception was joyful, and the dance floor crowded with well wishers. Toasts were made to the bride and groom in sparkling, clear champagne flutes filled with tasty wines. The day culminated with confetti rain.

Eight: with the kaleidoscope of the setting sun, ivory gowns characterized our grandchildren’s baptismal sanctification. Their baby faces were smooth, round and full, unblemished by life's toils and strife.

Ten: as darkness descended, ebony marked our parents’ deaths. Funeral processions had flown flags from automobile antennas to cremation memorial services.

Midnight: my life had been peppered with many birthday and anniversary celebrations. Mine had been the most frequent ceremonies, fewer for our daughter, and markedly diminished for our grandchildren. A prayer of thanks was offered before the expected joining to the crystalline quasars where partners could embrace in the cosmos.

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Collage of story and Venice 24-hour clock in the background. Click the picture to view a larger size.