Playing Hard To Get

These days I spend a fair bit of time walking our dog Farley.  He’s a Golden Doodle, being part Golden Retriever (friendly, happy, wanting to please) and part Standard Poodle (precocious, moody, way too smart and …selfish).  The walks are usually half an hour or more and we have our favorite spots here in Squamish.  We’re at the waterfront a fair bit but also love the quiet cover of the forest trails or open fields.

Farley always finds a stick part way through the walk, then he often follows quietly in my footsteps, stick in mouth, hoping we can begin the game of 'fetch stick'.  He loves the game almost as much as his dinner. Sometimes he has to swim out for it, other times he bounds over tall grass or weaves through trees in the forest to get his prize.  Some days he finds huge sticks that I can hardly throw so the game doesn’t last long.

So, the odd thing is that when he’s following me and I stop to get the stick and throw it, he runs off the trail, away from me, with the stick!  If I try to approach him, he scampers away.  He might chew on the stick, or roll on it, but he won’t give it to me, much as I ask or command that he bring it to me.  I say, “Whatever Farley,” and continue walking. 

I don’t get it.  I guess he sees it as a game, but he really does want me to throw the stick; nevertheless, we have to go through this silly ritual of ‘come catch me’ Farley and exasperated Peter.  Frankly, if I was a smarter dog owner, I’d have patiently trained Farley out of this behavior and he’d be dropping the stick at my feet, even in the midst of a gale.

When Farley finally decides to bring the stick, I throw it and he retrieves, like any responsible retriever.  He’ll even drop it at my feet!  He is never happier to finally be doing what he loves best.

Playing hard to get

Far as I can tell, we humans want nothing more than intimacy with another human.  To be understood, significant and close is the most basic need we have.  It’s called attachment. If we have that, then we head out into the storm, and overcome adversity and realize our dreams.   But it starts with intimacy and connection. 

So, why do we play hard to get all the time?  Why do we mess around with all sorts of distracted behavior, feeling out of sorts and wondering what’s wrong? There’s an epidemic of lonely, anxious, even depressed people in this country.

What we’re actually wanting is to love somebody and feel loved.  Sometimes, when I’m pursued by the people closest to me, I scamper off the trail, push away, and play hard to get.

 

 

 

 

 

Dolphin Magic

Most boaters live in cities, and cities aren’t great places to experience nature.  Too many cars, roads, buildings and lights, not to mention all the people going places.  One exception in my city is bears.  They drop by now and then in the fall to see if we forgot to fasten the lids on our ‘bear proof’ garbage cans.  Bears cause some excitement in the neighbourhood when they visit, but for the most part, we don’t see much ‘nature’.

So when boaters in BC do their yearly migration to the Gulf Islands or Desolation Sound, you might say their radars are up when it comes to nature.  They’re away from the city, moving on the water in all kinds of boats, anchoring in small bays, and exploring tiny islands.  Boaters are always looking for nature stuff. They paddle along shorelines in kayaks, looking into kelp beds, watch an eagle in a tree across the bay with binoculars, delight in a family of otters as they play beside a wharf.   Boaters are curious people.  Beside taking great satisfaction in watching each other (especially when anchoring), they hope to see mother nature strut her stuff once or twice when they escape the city.

Pam and I are no different.  I confess, we love to watch people anchoring, but we love watching nature more.  When our sailboat Tesseract takes us away, we’re always treated to displays of nature and can recall events years later when most other things are forgotten.  Nature has away of doing that to you.  She’s pretty impressive when she puts on a show.  Boaters never forget a breeching whale, or an eagle grabbing a salmon.  City people who don’t have boats pay huge amounts of money to see what boaters see every season.  We’re fortunate.  A few summers ago, Pam and I were very fortunate.

On Thursday before the August long weekend, we left the dock at Powell River before 10:00 and headed across the straight for Comox.  We wanted to get there Thursday afternoon so we could catch the Filberg Festival and ‘Blues Friday’. Canadian musicians from across the land perform in an outdoor park near the harbour for the entire weekend, and it’s magic. Listen to music all day, go out for dinner, and sleep on your boat. I guess we were taking a break from nature.

As we motored towards Texada Island, there wasn’t a trace of wind, and it was hot and smoggy, the way it gets when wind is scarce in Georgia Straight for days.  The night before, I remember taking a picture as the sun set behind Vancouver Island and the sun looked surreal, like a huge orange spotlight, with so much smog in the air.  Occasional boats made their way into the harbour in the relative cool of the evening. Everything was quiet at the end of the day.

Other than the rhythmic tapping of the old Yanmar, things on Tesseract were pretty quiet too.   Pam was down below putting on sunscreen and I stood at the helm with a coffee, resigned to another day of motoring, which for most sailors, is a let down.  And it was going to be scorcher, not a cloud in sight.  Our course would take us past the north end of Texada Island before we turned southwest towards Comox.  When it’s like this, power boaters are in heaven - sailors take to fixing things or catching up on a novel.  In the absence of wind and waves, sailboats feel purposeless, like a drill with no holes to make. 

Nevertheless, Tesseract and her crew were headed for Comox, wind or no wind.  I had been driving for a little over an hour when a flurry of wave activity caught my attention dead ahead, about a kilometre north of the tip of Texada.  It was far enough ahead that I couldn’t tell what I was looking at.  At first I thought of water breaking on a reef.  I checked the chart - no reef within five kilometres of our position, and besides, you need waves to have breaking water on a reef.  Not a wrinkle today.  I stood puzzled for a moment, then became aware of something amazing.

Mother nature showed up in an extravagant way.  From this distance, I could just make out dark fins knifing through the water.  At least sixty dolphins moved north together towards Hernando Island like a herd of runaway horses on a prairie grassland.  The surfacing motion was frantic, fast, and powerful.  These animals were busy doing something, together, with what looked to me like a sense of urgency.   I’d never seen this before.  When I snapped out of initial shock, I called Pam.

“Dolphins!  Dozens of them!  Holy crap!”  I shouted, trying to make myself heard over the engine.  Pam sprang to the companionway.

“What?  Dolphins?”  She didn’t say another word, but after spotting the animals, still half a kilometre away, she dove back in to the cabin for the binoculars.

When Pam was in high school she wanted to be a marine biologist.  She was excited, and I knew this was a big deal for us.   The dolphins were headed north at first and I thought we hadn’t a chance of catching them, to be near them.  Nevertheless, I nudged up the throttle and pointed Tesseract towards the fleeting Dolphins. I knew they were moving far faster than Tesseract and the chase seemed futile.  But after a couple of minutes, the pod began to circle and head in our direction. The pod changed directions several times, getting slightly closer, all the while, Pam watching them through the binoculars.

“Wow!  Amazing! Look at that!” she cried as they surfaced, dove, jumped and breached. 

“They must be feeding, circling around herring or something,” I offered, trying to be objective when every part of my being was giving way to pure wonder. 

 I soon became speechless because the dolphins had turned again and were headed straight for us.  I aimed the bow on a converging course and they didn’t change direction.  Pam was watching them approach through the binocularsand when the animals were less than 100 metres away, she lowered the binos and jumped because of how close they were.  That was funny.

I eased off on the throttle and let Tesseract glide towards these beautiful animals.  The sound of their activity was like sitting beside river rapids, but as they eventually surrounded us and began to dive under Tesseract and the trailing zodiac, things became more quiet, almost transcendent.  It was like we were surrounded by very intelligent beings from another planet. Sort of a “close encounter.”  Pam and I had seen lots of smaller porpoises in pairs at some distance, but we’d never been in this situation before, surrounded so many animals, so close we could look into their eyes and touch their sides.  I wondered what they might be saying to each other about this boat, and these two humans.  They must have understood our wonder.  Maybe they enjoyed our attention.  Whatever the explanation for this exchange, something magical was going on that would never be forgotten.

As we watched, the dolphins moved around us like dancers in a well choreographed routine - the arching motion of breaking the surface for air, then diving again and ripping through the dark water effortlessly, only to surface again in seconds.  Others sped off at an angle and leaped clear of the ocean.  There were always three or four who would drift along beside the zodiac almost nudging it with their noses.   A group of four or five were separated from the group some distance away, apparently doing their own thing.  Must have been the teen-agers, pushing the limits of independence, away from the watchful eyes of mom and dad.  As the pod moved, we followed quietly and the dolphins seemed quite content to include us in their group, if only for a short time. 

The Queen of Burnaby, on her run from Comox to Powell River hadn’t missed the scene either.  She was on a convergent course with Tesseract and the Dolphins so the skipper swung the helm to port and she changed course to pass to the north of us.  As the boat leaned into the turn, an announcement was sounded over the public address and within seconds at least 100 excited passengers had gathered on the starboard rail to watch the show.  No doubt many cameras recorded the event.  Nature loves a show.

 

So there we all were.  Tesseract and her crew, sixty or seventy sleek dolphins, and a ferry load of travellers on this hot, breathless day on Georgia Straight.   Eventually, the dolphins headed southwest towards Middlenatch Island and Pam and I were left alone, the ferry long gone.  Tesseract was still moving slowly, the engine just above idle.  The water was calm again and the sun was hot.  We watched the dolphins till they disappeared, all the while not saying a word, because we had encountered something so powerful, so perfect, that words seemed inadequate. 

Sharing the dolphins’ space, being in their group for a while sparked my awareness of humans’ precarious dance with mother nature.  It suggested that those animals lived in their environment far better than humans do.  Dolphins cooperate with each other, look after each well, use just enough to get by, and don’t leave a lot behind.  We don’t. And I had this sense that their world could be so changed by what we did.  They had no control over us, but we could have a profound effect on them.  We have to be more careful.

Several hours later, Tesseract fell into the welcoming arms of Comox Harbour and we settled in.  We kayaked over to the spit and cooled off with a swim.  It felt like a dream.  The next day Pam and I bought weekend tickets to the Filberg Festival.  We went out for diner, visited with friends, and listened to a lot good musicians for three days.  Their soulful tunes and the artsy displays took our attention away from nature for a while, and we had a great time in Comox.  

But the dolphins stole the show - no contest.  

 

Sailing With Farley

Imagine being at anchor in a quiet cove, and you’re falling asleep to the pitter patter of the rain on the cabin top.  You’re dry and warm, and thinking of coffee in the morning.  Even though it’s been raining for days and the forecast is bleak, at least there will be several hours of sweet sleep.  Imagine then, waking at 2 am to the sound of a moan, followed shortly by a whine. It’s the dog, and he needs to do a shore trip.  To crawl out of bed, put on wet rain gear, and get the dog into the dinghy in the middle of the night so he can pee on a bush is like eating cold porridge with no milk for breakfast. 

Boaters are usually on vacation, and part of being on vacation is sleeping well, not having to do chores or yard work, and not having telemarketers call you at dinner.  And this is why most boaters would never have a dog on board.  It IS an inconvenience.  Dogs are usually left at home with a housesitter, or at the doggie care place. The ancient term “shipshape” usually included the idea that farm animals were kept below decks, in a pen, to be eaten on long voyages to new worlds.  A deck was no place for a dog either! Considering how many ways a dog will change routines and the general condition of a boat, it would be ridiculous to add a dog to a crew list.   

Nevertheless, boaters without dogs have a lot of fun watching the comedy of a sailor, a dog and a boat, in the same place. Pam and I added Farley to our crew list and this summer, like every summer over the years, we sailed with friends from Squamish yacht club.  Tesseract, Alemeda, Fast Forward and Twist were often rafted together for the evening and the silliness aboard Tesseract as Pam and I catered to Farley, our high energy, somewhat disobedient Goldendoodle provided lots of laughs for our friends.

 One evening though, laughter turned to alarm bells when Farley chose to pee on Ron’s beautifully kept Fast 345.  Ron and Eleanor had snuck off after dinner to kayak around the anchorage.   Farley decided to have a look around so he wove the delicate web though lifelines and across decks to Ron’s boat.  Maybe a bit of food left over in the cockpit after dinner.  Farley sniffed around and eventually left his ‘calling card’ in the tidy cockpit, right next to the ignition switch. He seemed quite surprised when he saw red faced Peter awkwardly hopping across the decks towards him with a bucket and sponge.  “Nice one Farley, you idiot!” I cried, hoping I could deflect responsibility for the deed onto Farley instead of on the rightful culprit. It had obviously been too long since Farley’s last shore trip and we hadn’t trained him to row himself to shore yet.  My bad….

We met Farley at the breeder’s house when he was ten weeks old.  The black puppy scurried around the room for fifteen minutes with two other small dogs, the he came and sat calmly at my feet and locked his eyes on mine.  I looked at him for a good while, and wondered if this was the one.  He hooked me with his mournful eyes and white chest.  In fact, it took Farley that long to figure out who he needed to convince to take him home.  I was the guy, and he got it right. The rest is history.

For years, Pam and I sailed without Angus, a chunky lab retriever cross, and he was fine with that.  He hated Tesseract, our Mirage 33, and narrow decks made him nervous.  Angus didn’t have the benefit of learning to sail as a pup.  It’s true that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

So when we lost Angus to old age, the agreement was that the next dog would be a “boat dog”.  Something half the size of Angus, adept in the water, and adventurous.  Maybe a scrawny terrier, or a beagle, or even a small lab.  We would train him to climb ladders, and be well behaved in a zodiac.  And yes, he’d be a friendly, obedient dog that loved everyone.  

So off we went on a summer cruise for three weeks with an overstuffed sailboat and a 10 month old dog.  Things I didn’t consider earlier about cruising with a dog became new ways to test my sanity.  You see, now there’s a bowl of water on the cabin floor that you can kick at least twice a day.  And I need four rotating towels to dry the dog after he swims. Farley is a ‘water dog’ and there’s paw prints all over the deck because after he takes his swim from the beach, he likes to circle the deck and scan the anchorage for doggie friends and birds.  The folding doggie ramp is 18 pounds and always in the way.

One of the first things we learned sailing with Farley is something Pam pointed out after an hour of sailing upwind.  She yelled above the wind, “You have to tack the dog as well as the boat!” Turn the boat, trim the headsail, trim the main, move the dog.  After the tack, the boat now leaning to the opposite side, the dog would look at us as if to say, “What do I do now?”  He’d be falling or sliding to the low side of the boat and we’d have to help him get comfortable on the new tack.  Being a 10 month old dog didn’t help his coordination any so he sort of flopped into his new position.

One night we stayed in Lund after two rainy days, feasting on fresh cinnamon buns and enjoying Lund’s charm and hospitality.   We were tied to the inside of the breakwater and Farley thought this was good because he had his own massive dock to watch the constant bustle of life in the harbour.  As we left the dock the next day, Pam managed the bowline and I was at the stern, ready to spring aboard after the push off.  There was a breeze and not a lot of room so things had to happen quickly.  So as we prepared to push off, one foot on the dock and one on the gunwale, Farley decided to have one last romp on the deck. He lept off the boat, pranced around the dock, proud that he had changed our plans.  I think he was a bit taken aback by my reaction. He looked at me like a confused teen-ager, not sure why the old fella was so ‘spazzed out’.  I couldn’t swear loudly because there were too many people about. Pam held the bow, I quickly retied the stern and chased the wayward rascal around the dock and, no doubt, someone in the harbour was having a good laugh with their morning coffee.   We cast off and putted out of the harbour, Farley standing on the bow, nose in the air, a breeze in the face, and adventure ahead.

The next ‘adventue’ was on a shore trip for Farley in the Copeland Islands.  As usual, Farley was delighted to go ashore, romping over the moss and lichens, dashing into the ocean for a stick, and sadly, finding all matter of organic stuff to eat.  It didn’t seem to matter how long a crab or starfish had been ‘deceased’, Farley found the idea of free food on the beach delightful.  Peter didn’t.

“Farley!  Drop the starfish!  FARLEY!  PUT IT DOWN!”  I’d start to move in his direction and the game was on.  Farley with the forbidden fruit, and Peter thinking that if he shouted louder the game might actually end.  Farley would scamper away over the logs and rocks, as agile as monkey in a tree.  There was no point in chasing him, it only made the game more fun.  Once or twice we returned to Tesseract after a shore trip, Farley resplendent in his new aroma (fishy like smell…) and Peter vowing to nevermoresail with ”this mut” on the good ship Tesseract. 

One evening while rafted up in Tenedos Bay with our friends, Pam, Farley and I hosted a cribbage tournament in Tesseract’s cabin.  Farley was excited that so many visitors came to his boat and had settled in down below.  He loved the company and the excitement of a party. There were candles, and music playing and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Farley eventually became bored with the rhythm of the game and decided to take a nap by the nav station.  The rest of us were fairly cozy around two tables, shuffling and counting, snacking and carrying on the way eight adults on holiday might do. There was the familiar comfort of old friends and all seemed to be having a good time.

I’m not sure who it was that first noticed “the smell’ but within an instant, we were overcome with one of Farley’s flatulent moments.  A dinghy full of rotten eggs wouldn’t have measured up to this one.  Chuck was now lying sideways at his place, cards still in hand, moaning and laughing at the same time.

“Farley!  That’s disgusting!” Pam cried.  We pulled our shirts over our noses the way grade nine boys do in a PE class when “someone lets one go”. Being in a rather small space with not much ventilation certainly had the magnifying effect of torture.  There was no place to escape.  We couldn’t all rush to the companionway gasping for breath like victims of a high school stink bomb.  We sat, and made the same noises you’d hear from the boys in the PE class.  And then there was Ron, who looked rather pleased with himself for using his glass of Sambuka held closely to his nose as a sort of gas mask. All available hatches were sprung to bring in fresh air after Farley’s “slip.”  The dog slept through the whole incident without a blink. 

We have a kayak that we bring along on our summer cruises and Pam loves to paddle away from Tesseract at anchor to explore and get some exercise.  Farley doesn’t like to be away from Pam and made that clear with plaintive barks. “Why can’t I come with you?” Farley would say.  Of course it worked, and soon Farley was sitting in front of Pam in the kayak, facing forward like he owned the boat - this is a tenuous concept.  Kayaks can be tippy and they’re not usually designed with dogs in mind.  Although there was a bit of extra ballast in the boat, Pam seemed to be doing Ok with her new crewmate until one trip when Farley became excited by a gathering of Canadian Geese near the shore.  Before Pam could react, Farley stood and stepped up to the tiny foredeck for a better look. 

“Farley! Get back here and sit down!” Pam commanded. Of course he didn’t, and his front feet slipped off the foredeck and Farley plunged head first into the water and disappeared.  He surfaced like a nuclear sub and swam back to the kayak quite startled by his underwater adventure.  And much to Pam’s disapproval, he insisted on getting back in the boat.  Farley looked pleased with himself when they returned to Tesseract. Pam looked wet, and the kayak had to be hauled aboard and drained.

I have to say though, that we did more laughing and had more fun on our trip this year because of Farley.  He’s a good dog, and, he’s a delightful idiot.  He wasn’t much help to Pam and I as a crewmate and he never did learn to row himself to shore, but he actually adapted to life on Tesseract quite well. And when the sun came out and the wind filled Tesseract’s sails, life was good.  THIS dog, with all his shenanigans, will likely be on the crew list next summer.





Sailing Wars

It was one of those summer days at Pender Harbour that started slowly and turned itself into a love affair by two in the afternoon.  A warm breeze, playful gulls circling in the thermals, and Canadian flags active around the bay.  First one sail appeared, most likely a sabot.  Sea Wolf actually, skippered by our long time cabin friend Rob.  Then Puff, the courageous thirty year-old Mirror 11 left the dock .  Naomi was at the helm and Jeremy tended the jib.  Two sails, two proud, aging, wooden sailboats on Gunboat Bay, the way it has been ever since we started coming to the cabin twenty years ago.  Rob and I are a bit grayer now, and on this day my daughter Naomi was sailing the Mirror 11 she learned on seventeen years ago when she was five.  

I saw the opportunity and launched another sabot, eager to trim the tiny sail, and find the lazy rhythm of sailing at the summer cabin.  The breeze was perfect for our little boats. I settled onto a starboard tack, tiller in one hand and sponge in the other because fifty-year-old sabots at summer cabins tended to leak a little. Every now and then I would end up on the same tack as Naomi or Rob, and the race was on.  We weren’t racing in any particular direction mind you, just two or three sailboats trying to go faster than the other, the same way those summer cruisers in Georgia Straight seem to be coaxing every ounce of speed out of their sailboat because someone else is going in the same direction. I’ve been guilty of that once or twice in our Mirage 33.

But at some point, on this particular day, on a convergent course with Naomi and Jeremy in Puff, one of them pulled out a paddle, or maybe it was a bucket. I was expecting a friendly wave as our two boats met, and was caught totally unprepared by what came next. Within seconds, I was soaked and sitting in a pool of water in my sabot.  I had been blasted by a well aimed broadside from Puff- yes, as I recall it was a bucket of sea-water. I floundered around to find a weapon to engage the enemy.  Perfect.  I had a small bailing bucket and a half-paddle so I tacked around and headed for Puff. 

The laughter was on, war-woops were sounded and caution was thrown to the wind. We spent the next half hour going in circles, engaged in a huge water fight.  Rob joined the attack and we tried to gang up on the larger Mirror.  It was a challenge to splash another boat while sailing your own, occasionally being dinged on the head by the boom as it swung across the wind or nearly capsizing from sudden tacks.  Often I’d let go of the tiller to load my bucket or fire the paddle. Every now then boats rubbed together as the chaos built.  I remember Jeremy and I in a tug o’ war over his bucket (mine was half the size).  If I could just grab his bucket and start filling Puff with water, victory would be mine. Instead he pulled my rudder out and all was lost. I didn’t care though. I was a child again.

This game we played was like any other childhood game except there were no forts or secret passages or bicycles turned motorcycles.  Instead, we used small sailboats in a little bay.  Wind, sails, imagination and laughter.  Here was a fifty-four year old high school counselor, a vice-principal, and a couple of twenty-somethings reverting back to childplay, the kind of uncomplicated play that has no agenda, no deadline, no rules and is all fun.  I’ve raced in the Swiftsure Classic and Southern Straights, cruised all over southern BC, and played sports all my life, but the simple act of sailing a little dinghy within arms reach of someone you love and unloading a bucket of salt water onto the enemy holds my fondest memories. We laugh till our sides hurt while manouvering for a good position to fire a broadside.

Sailing wars have some history in Gunboat Bay, going way back to when our kids were little.  I remember Stan, our neighbour who taught university physics most of his life coming down to the dock one day as our family was preparing to set sail in several dinghies.

“Peter?” enquired Stan in his matter of fact way. “Do you think there might be sailing wars today?”

“Oh, I expect so Stan.  The kids are gathering seaweed as part of their arsenal.”

“Ok,  I’ll be back in a while.”

What I didn’t know was that Stan had traveled into Sechelt the day before to buy fabric to make a flag for his sixteen foot Tansar.  I regularly pretended I was the English navy and shouted out naval type commands to no one in particular as boats were grappling .  So Stan showed up that day with a large Jolly Roger and hoisted it up the mast.  I guess Stan had become a pirate.

He often came back to the dock soaking wet sporting a huge grin, the rim of the Tilly hat not quite as firm as it should have been.  And Stan sometimes brought along unsuspecting crew, visitors, who didn’t know their first sailing experience was going to be somewhat of a battle.

And then there’s Paul, my cycling buddy of twenty-five years visiting the cabin with his family and teaching everyone to sail.  It wasn’t long before sailing wars broke out and our kids became deck hands on a Spanish galleon or an English man o’ war.  One day Naomi, Megan and I were bearing down on Paul, Nathan and Neal.  We had the faster CL 14 and Paul and the boys were in Puff.  We came speeding in, upwind on the same tack, and the exchange of broadsides began.  Paddles splashing, buckets of water hurled, and maybe even a clump of seaweed thrown.  As we passed the slower Mirror, a small cleat on our boom caught the windward stay of Puff. 

“Dad!” shouted Naomi. “We’re hooked onto Puff!”

The little Mirror lurched ahead as she was being towed by the faster boat.  Paul, sensing disaster, lept with a battle cry from his helm position towards the snarl and tried to push our boom away.  Of course small dinghies don’t have much tolerance for sudden weight shifts.  Puff was dismasted, Paul was floating beside the boat, his Tilly hat not far away, and all of us were laughing and shouting at the same time.  No doubt some curious cottagers were leaning on their deck railings somewhat puzzled at the shenanigans on the water.  We towed Puff back to the dock for repairs and the story telling began.   

Richard, another neighbour, built the original cabin as well as the sabot ‘Sea Wolf’ fifty years ago in North Vancouver. He’s the guy who started all this sailing in Gunboat Bay. Now he sails ‘Sea Fox’ a fast new fiberglass sabot that’s won the Gunboat Bay Regatta several times, although in last year’s regatta he managed to capsize at the finish line in front of a giggling crowd gathered on the point to watch the races.   Richard preferred peaceful sails on the bay in Sea Fox, to counter his busy work schedule in Vancouver.  He didn’t come looking for sailing wars when he was out, but would occasionally end up defending himself from attackers like Stan or our kids.  One day after maybe the fifth broadside between three or four boats, we sailed up behind Richard and I think it was my son Nathan who leaned out of Puff and began to push down on Sea Fox’s transom.

“Stop!” cried Richard. “You’re going to sink my boat!”

“We know!” I laughed, as water poured in over the gunwales. We were close to shore so we helped empty Sea Fox, Richard scampered back in and the two boats sailed back to the dock, smiles all around. 

So on this day last summer when the wind was warm and sunlight cast diamonds across the water, four adults found their childhood again, and for half an hour, the world was perfect.  We hadn’t played sailing wars for at least five years and it was good to be back. 

 

 

 

Small Stuff

It's a fast paced world, and unless you're committed to noticing small stuff in quiet places, you miss a lot of beauty.  Some photographers figure this out and then go out and buy a macro lens.

I don't have a macro, but every now and then, I hunker down to ground level, find something to rest the camera on, and focus on small stuff.  Maybe some frozen leaves, or beads of water on a blade of grass, or maybe two dragonflies connected in copulatory bliss.  If there's no moving air, the subject just sits there, waiting, doing what nature does and going unnoticed by most humans.

pussy-willow1-web.jpg

When you stop in the field, and stare into the dew-covered spider web in tall grass on a crisp autumn morning, it can transform your day.  That moment of wonder, a visual blast of colour and form, is like a drink from a mountain stream on a hot day.  If you really focus on simple, natural elements, look deep into them, the experience can 'take you to church.' Mystery, physics, cell intelligence, design, awe - whatever happens changes your brain, right there, right then.

Of course, you might have to be in a field, or forest somewhere, and if you're stuck in traffic on the way into the city, you'll have to take a rain check and go after the small stuff another time. But beauty and wonder in small things can appear to you anywhere, even in the parking lot, if you're tuned.  You just have to be looking for it, and willing to stop every now and then and focus in.

From The Beginning

In grade eleven, 1970, I signed up for 'photography class'  Seemed like an easy way to get some graduation credits as well as a chance to work with tools.  It was either that or Mr Dirkson's woodwork class.  Mr Rand, the quirky, likeable photography teacher gave us some Tri-x 400, an old Pentax 35mm, and then showed us how to develop film and make a print. Yup, we had more than one Bessler enlarger in a rather sizeable darkroom.  Huge washing sinks, big trays, and lots of Dektol Developer.   

I emerged from the dark room once and showed him an 8 X 10 printed on Ilford paper.  It was an old fishboat at a dock on the Fraser River.  He held it up, gave a few seconds to form a response and said only," By God Peter, that's a great photo!"  Handed it back to me and moved on.

I went out and bought a Konica Auto-Reflex T with a very sweet 50 mm f1.4 lens and took pictures more than I wrote essays or read books in grade 11 and 12.  Spent a lot of time in the darkroom in those days and learned mostly by figuring out what NOT to do.

with McDuff and the Konica in the 'Southlands' - a horsey neighbourhood in South Vancouver.

with McDuff and the Konica in the 'Southlands' - a horsey neighbourhood in South Vancouver.

For the next 25 years I had an inconsistant relationship with my cameras.  I continued in the darkroom for a while after I moved to Squamish to start a career in teaching. Except, the dark room was in our upstairs bathroom and I couldn't afford a Bessler enlarger.  Prints hung from the shower curtain rod and if the kids needs to bathroom, they had to go downstairs.  And I didn't set it up that often with three kids and a wife.

I'd go for months without taking a picture and most of the stuff I did photograph was either my own small kids, or school events like the Christmas Concert or a sports day.  The photo albums started to pile up...

After the Konica manual wind, I got a fancy Konica FS-1, an auto-wind - cutting edge technology.  Next came the Contax 139 and 137, both wonderful SLR's that held Ziess lenses - a 50mm F1.8 and a 35mm.  

When manual focus cameras started to fade out, I let the camera sit for a long time, maybe a year or two, taken out only for a birthday party or Christmas Day.  Besides. I was too busy teaching, parenting, coaching and riding my bike to have any time for the camera.  

Eventually though, I bought an auto-focus, auto-wind Nikon (early 90's) and I was back in business.  Man it was so much easier to focus and just concentrate on composition.