We’d spent August gallivanting “Not funny,” Paul said promptly. his chest, sat quietly in the cockpit and
up to the Arctic by van, so for weeks “Exactly,” I said. looked eagerly at the view of moving
the Inuksuk had been attached to the “For Friday, south wind 10-15 water and splashing seals. And no
dock by salt-stiffened mooring lines knots,” said the radio. “Wind waves wonder the seals splashed! What an
20-feet long with spider webs of under one foot. Partly cloudy with awful racket our engine must make
similar dimensions which, from the a chance of showers. Probability of underwater.
look of them, belonged to boat-spiders precipitation 30%.” When I poked my head below I
the size of wharf rats. “We need to go I snapped the switch to “off” and decided I didn’t like what I saw, so
somewhere,” I complained to John. looked at John. “Perfect weather,” I I climbed down the companionway
“We’re trailing streamers of salad from said. “With three sails up and ten knots ladder and cleaned the teak with vinegar
our bottom a foot and a half long and of wind, we can get enough way on to and scrubbed corners with detergent
Paul and I are bored, bored, bored. tack every time.” and an old toothbrush and changed the
sheets on the berths forward and aft.
Then, taking advantage of the propane
Day Trip
sniffer not having set off its alarm the
way it often does when the boat is
stuffy, I fished a spare lemon from the
fruit hammock and baked a lemon loaf.
The wind brushed past my face and chilled my fingers as the
A propane oven is a thing of rare beauty.
As I set my plastic timer and put it in
sun warmed us in the lulls. With each snap of the sails my
the sink I contemplated my luck at
heart lifted. With each clack of a halyard and slap of a wave
owning one. My oven was a second-
hand European model and though the
I was happier yet.
stainless steel was not as shiny as it
– By Catherine Dook
might have been, and the fiddles were
black and the oven interior was small
and one of the stove top elements had
Mom and Dad have headed back up “It might rain,” said John a loose part that shot around the cabin
the Mackenzie Highway to Yellowknife doubtfully, but I could tell his resistance like a bludger when the seas were
after escorting us south, so now there’s was weakening. rough, it baked surprisingly well. The
no excuse. “Why, didn’t we buy all that foul- temperature routinely shot beyond the
“It’s raining,” said John. weather gear this summer?” I asked. numbers on the controls, like diamonds
“Hmph!” I snorted unpleasantly, “If we use it we’ll be downright toasty. for Christmas when cubic zirconias
but he was right. Solid grey clouds And there’s only a 30% chance we’ll would have done, but I was expert at
stretched from horizon to horizon even need it.” 15-minute lemon loaves, four-minute
out of which fell sheets of shiny rain. “That’s true,” said John. cookies and 20-minute pies. Roasts
That morning Paul and I had gone for I turned to my son. “Paul, do you were done in less than half an hour and
a walk to the park and we had come want to go sailing with Mommy and chickens crispy in no time, at least on
back so wet our hair was plastered to Daddy?” the outside.
our scalps and we’d had to change “Um,” he said, and quickly signed John held the Inuksuk on a steady
out of our sweatshirts and pants into for “please”. course; the engine vibrated and the
something dry. “Well, how about “There,” I said to John. “Paul wants fruit and vegetable hammock swung
tomorrow?” I asked. to go too. What do you say to Fulford rhythmically. There were clouds, but
“Check the weather,” he said. Harbour? Calm bay, clean docks, nice a sunbeam poked its fingers sideways
I reached up to a porthole handle walk to the village and the ferry Skeena through the hatch in the main saloon
in the main saloon and took down Queen has never even clipped us.” and scratched a glint from the swinging
a small radio tuned to the weather We set out after breakfast the next brass lamps in the galley. I climbed
station. When I flicked the switch to day in water as flat as a monotone. The the ladder to the cockpit and checked
“on” a droning voice filled the cabin. length of the hull that gets sunlight on the men, and even though both of
John and I leaned forward and listened trailed yards of green ropy wisps, but them looked as blissful as if fresh air
intently. “It’s French,” I said. “It’s our engine pulled us away from the was chocolate, I fed them 14-minute
the Canadian broadcast for sure, but dock in a straight line. Our neighbour lemon slice and coffee I’d perked in
heavens, who on the West Coast speaks Fred handed me our bow line as we the old stainless steel coffee pot John
French?” I shook my head. backed out of our slip, then sketched Norman had sold us for $10.00. Then
“Jean-Paul,” said John smugly. a farewell with one hand aloft and I slipped into my own lifejacket and
“AND Angelique. She’s in grade three, turned and walked back to his own suggested we put up a sail or two. “Can
French immersion, and she speaks dock to patch the fiberglass on his deck. I take the wheel?” I asked. The wind
better French than you do English.” The air was muggy with a light wind nearly always blows into Cowichan
“We don’t want to talk about it,” I and no rain. Paul, who was wearing a Bay; after years of sailing the waters
said, “Do we, Paul?” blue lifejacket wrapped snugly around of home it didn’t confuse me to steer.
48° No r t h , Se p t e m b e r 2009 pa g e 72
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