The Ferry III

Nobody thought there’d be a remake of the remake. Today nobody even remembers the word “remake” it’s so passé. There are no remakes, only series until I don’t know how much more I can stand, even Game of Thrones. I wish I knew what it’s about. It’s not that bad. Mostly I get it. Mostly because I’m not overly interested in what other people are doing, I’m only interested in what I’m doing. So I don’t watch it. Whatever it is.

Those aren’t bad words to live by, as if anybody could live by words when that meaningless expression “words to live by” was invented, much less now. But actually lots of people have lived by words which would have had no connection to whether they believed what they were writing or how they were living or what-not. I’m going with what-not.

The living is occasionally good and more often bad to non-existent. That’s why there’s other jobs. The Ferry III is a job like any other. It’s an all volunteer crew of one. Sometimes that’s all it takes. And I know nothing about the actual work of running the actual ferries, those boat things that float and go on the water. All the cute little BC Ferries. Even the big ones are cute. No one and nothing can help it if they’re attractive.

There’s no way forward in all these multitudes of fantasylands but there is a way forward right here with The Ferry III. Join me and get stranded on Ferry III. Oh, that darned wind.

I wish I’d been on the Queen of New Westminster. I mean for the experience. I’ve never had ferry plans ripped to shreds before my eyes and thrown away in the wind, completely destroyed like they were nothing. They were something to me! So it’d be kind of good for research.

I read the Queen of New Westminster took shelter in “calmer waters near Pender Island” after taking a look at Active Pass and declining the nomination. That has to take extraordinary circumstances because the Queen of New Westminster’s a tough old bird and doesn’t back down easily. I wouldn’t want to be up against it.

The news feed, the only kind I eat, didn’t say if it was North Pender Island or South Pender Island that provided the shelter of calmer waters. Doesn’t matter. North Pender likely unless it was way off course, the ferry that is.

I’ve taken the shelter of calmer waters near Pender Island myself and can’t say for sure today whether it was North Pender Island or South Pender Island and not only have I taken shelter near Pender Island I’ve taken shelter on Pender Island and that was definitely South Pender Island but we did a lot of partying on North Pender Island as well. Just thought I’d throw that in there.

The Queen of New Westminster returned to Swartz. Probably a good idea, better than running out of fuel spending hours idling away, taking shelter near Pender Island. Something like that would really put the pickle in the pot.

But trapped on the ferry! Were babies crying? Babies don’t like taking a lot of crap, especially from ferries. They show their displeasure early and often. I think everything must have been okay though. A cancelled trip is better than dying.

The ferry, for all it does, has an enviable safety record.  Nobody’s died since the  “Queen of the North”.

I missed the excitement on the “Mayne Queen” too. Of course I did. I was nowhere near a ferry last Saturday morning. I’ve never been on that museum piece when it did a u-turn and you’re back on the island you just left because of a weather event. That darned wind. I can only imagine it’s the normal stages: rage, grief, acceptance. Even if it means you have to sleep in the dirt tonight. The ferry can be a great source of wisdom too.

Thomson Park III

It’s a state of mind when you get to the third in the series and at the start you didn’t even know it was going to be a series.  Is this one any good? Does it suck?  Is there too much animation, cardboard plots and bad acting? What is it?  As a professional critic we get paid to get out to things otherwise we might not go.  We might do something else. But this one is pretty good.  It’s right up there with the others.

Thomson Park III is a hit!  Get down!  Get down there and get all over it!

By the strangest coincidence, the most bizarre concatenation of events all too common when you get right down to it, there’s an article in the current Saturna Scribbler about this selfsame patch of ground Thomson Park. Just when I’ve got another movie coming out.  That’s great.  Syncronicity is still out there.  I believe.

There it is in the distance, the “Thomson Park shelter structure” which needs to be improved, apparently, “so it better reflects the historic, social and even spiritual values of this place.”

I just wonder what that can possibly actually mean?  It’s looking like a bomb-proof heavy steel pavilion structure on a concrete pad with a bunch of big, solid picnic-type tables under a pyramidal green metal roof.  With barbecue. There’s no improving on that. But we understand that it’s all volunteer. That’s what we’re doing ourselves.

Thomson Park is a “site” apparently.  It has a “spacial configuration” and a “functionality over time” and a “broader context in which it played a role”.

I must pause to ask the author of the article what is meant by “deep history”?  Is there “shallow history”?  Is there “not too deep history”? There’s one kind of history.  But that’s enough of this.

Wild speculation that the population of the region may have been “one million” just sounds like bunk.  I’m sorry.  And on to the concept of “settler”.  I’ve seen this before.  This was invented, this idea of “settler” or “settler communities” by one person, somewhere, somehow, in a dark, bureaucratic hole of bureaucratic bs.

There is no “settler” and no “recent settler community” and never was. There are no “settlers” around here and never were.  It’s an academic invention with an agenda and time it was exposed.  It’s heartbreaking.

We need first of all better writing about “Thomson Park” and what it is and what it was before it was “Thomson Park”.  You can’t have lousy writing talking about a special place. It diminishes.  Everything is turned into highly unsanitary mush.  Let’s get with it.  My opinion.

That isn’t what we’re talking about here.


First Nations Logging Show III

Oh deer, what is happening to my habitat?  Make them stop, mother.

We left Bob Stanley in good shape at the foot of Fiddler Rd.  We said “hi” again and told him we had to head back to civilization.  Everybody laughs at that joke and Bob was no exception.  Practically overnight he’d become like a diplomat and a diplomat trying to stay warm standing around all day in this beautiful cool, clear skies week.

He’d had to interact with all sorts of wonderful people with different, wonderful opinions on what was going on here and he was getting through it.  He was okay. He seemed to be a man of many moods, all of them good and the feeling emerged he’d been exactly the man for the job. Good on him and good on good old Campbell River where Bob’s from. Woo woo!

Shadowlands of the Blue Dogs

 

Had to wait on my girlfriend up on the hill in old Point Grey until she returned to her mansion. She left me a late phone message that I didn’t get until about an hour before the ETA I’d given yesterday in my message.  Doesn’t matter.

My girlfriend’s off to Peachland, British Columbia tomorrow to attend, with his consort, once more, the “Remembrance Day” ceremony there on Sunday.

His older brother’s name, as you will recall, is one of the dozen or so on the fine, small, granite cenotaph on the waterfront.

Raymond H. W., although in the RCAF, was flying with RAF bomber command squadron 51 out of Snaith, Yorkshire, England.  It was his third “mission” as they used to be called. The Handley Page Halifax Mark III four engine bomber, LV857, didn’t return from the attack on Nuremberg the night of March 30-31, 1944.

R.H.W. also has a grave marker in the Hanover, Germany war cemetery. He was 22 and grew up in Peachland.

So his younger brother, the old girlfriend, who will be 85 next year, heads up to place one of the wreaths, as he has for the last several years.

The ceremony takes place in the community centre rather than on the waterfront at the cenotaph itself, as used to be, as some of the old guard are getting a tad elderly and it can get a bit cool down there in November.

Indeed, some of the participants of the past, since they brought the day inside,  have past on.  My dear girlfriend has the little place above the lake on Lakeshore Boulevard, a dead-end two lane blacktop with a fine view of Okanagan Lake.

Summerland and Penticton are to the south, West Kelowna and Kelowna to the north.  His parents owned the place starting in the 1920s.  It was the little cottage up behind the house they lived in on a fine, sloping patch of ground at the south end of town.  The house as well as the cottage are still there, but the house hasn’t been in the family for decades.  The highway has more traffic now than it did in the 1920s.

In fact the whole town has expanded alarmingly in the last few years. But there’s no return to the past.  People like my girlfriend remember how it used to be.  Is he really my girlfriend?  Sure, in a jokey sort of way.


“Not necessarily a blue dog moment.”  — American TV commentator.  No one outside of himself had a clue what he was talking about last  night.