A Rather Damp Christmas

It was dusk on Christmas Eve when we set out from La Coruña, Spain and headed north across the dreaded Bay of Biscay toward Brest, France. Bob and I were aboard my 39ft Alan Buchanan designed sloop, Mary Poppins.

After a number of years living in the Dominican Republic, I’d decided to head for the south of England. Why I chose this particular time to make the change escapes me now. What I do know is that the time of year was a factor in my ending up with Bob as crew—he’d never sailed before and consequently had no idea of how bad the North Atlantic could be when the winter storms came howling across it.

The Bay of Biscay has the reputation of being second only to Cape Horn in its ability to send ships and their crew to Davy Jones’ Locker. The reason being that during winter especially, the westerly gales build huge masses of water and send them surging right across the Atlantic. Off France, they get funneled into the shoaling waters of ‘The Bay’ where they build to terrifying and destructive heights.

The Dreaded Bay

Bob and I had been sheltering in La Coruña for over a week, waiting for a break in the weather. Finally, a local forecast gave us the all clear—winds from the south, fifteen to twenty knots for the next forty-eight hours. Perfect.

Off we went.

Well, the forecast proved to be spot-on—for about the first two hours. Then the wind piped up to a full gale. We’d been running under headsail only so it was no trouble to furl it in to a manageable size. As the wind continued to strengthen, I cranked it in yet more until all we had was a small corner of the sail showing. But this was enough to scoot us along at around six knots.

With the heavy following sea, the Aries self-steering gear was having a hard time keeping us on a straight course, so I disconnected it. A little later, I gave Bob the tiller while I went below to examine the chart.

We stood no chance of returning to La Coruña against the gale but I figured we might be able to head off on a close reach to one of the ports in the south-east corner of the Bay. But then who knows how long we’d be stuck there. In the end I decided we might as well keep going….perhaps the storm would blow itself out.

Normally I don’t favour safety harnesses—having once almost drowned by wearing one of the wretched things—but on this night I made sure that whoever was topside was wearing one.

The hatch boards were in place so the waves that came crashing over the stern stayed for the most part in the cockpit. From below I could feel when the big ones hit—a shuddering of the vessel followed by a muffled string of expletives as a fresh load of frigid water found the gaps in Bob’s foul-weather gear.

I’d been below for perhaps ten minutes when from the bow came a brief whirring sound followed by a loud WHUMP. Then Mary lurched onto her beam ends. I opened the hatch and poked my head out. A glance aft showed Bob up to his waist in water wrestling with the tiller. Up forward, we now had a full number-one headsail thrashing in the howling wind. The reefing line had broken and the whole thing was out there threatening to pull down the mast.

I jumped into the cockpit, released the sheet and made my way forward. By this time the sail had begun to thrash itself to pieces, shaking poor Mary like a rat in the jaws of a dog.

At times the boat found herself on an even keel as she surfed down a wave. On one of these occasions, with halyard in hand, I made a dash across the foredeck toward the bow. But my feet had no sooner touched the deck than they went shooting into the air and I found myself on my back. The bottom part of the roller-furling gear had literally exploded and there were about ten thousand ball-bearings turning the foredeck into a skating rink.

After a half-hour struggle, I’d managed to haul and cut the sail away from the forestay and consigned it to the sea. By the time I’d cleaned up the mess of lines it was time for Bob to go below. This was no great privilege as gallons of water from breaking waves had found their way past the hatch and hatch-boards to the bunks. Once again, I heard Bob’s muffled shriek of displeasure as he settled into the sodden bedding.

We had not a shred of sail up but according to the log we were doing close to four knots!

The night was pitch black. The only time you could see the foaming waves charging up behind was when the feeble glow of the stern light caught them. By this time it was too late to duck if they were planning on breaking into the cockpit—which a good many of them did.

Despite the south wind, it was bitterly cold on deck—too cold to stand longer than a one-hour watch. And so we went, running blindly through the night, alternating between the flooded cockpit and a sodden bunk.

It was closing in on two in the morning and I was nearing the end of my stint on deck. If anything, the wind was increasing rather than easing off. And as we got further out into the Bay, the seas grew bigger. I sat in the cockpit with my back to the west so I could divide my time between the compass and the waves rushing up astern.

 I didn’t see the sneaky bastard coming. It hit me from behind—from the west. I have no idea as to the size of it but it must have been huge. All I know is that it drove me down hard into the bottom of the cockpit. Then I was swimming. The boat had gone from under me.

I remember that moment clearly. My first thought; “The boat’s gone.” Second thought: “I’m tethered to it by my safety harness.” I fumbled desperately for the knife at my waist.

Just as I got it out, good old Mary popped up under me. I hate to admit it but I hadn’t given a thought to Bob, snoring away below—not that I could have done anything for him if the vessel had continued her plunge.

That monster wave flattened the seas completely when it came charging through. For a couple of minutes after it had passed, the surface was all foamy like shaving cream. Difficult to imagine the volume of water that came crashing down on us, but it must have been substantial in order to drive a forty-foot boat that far under the water—at least six feet because when I was swimming I felt nothing beneath me.

Bob managed to sleep through the whole episode. He had no idea he’d been submerged until I told him when he came on deck.

It took us another seventy odd hours to make Brest. And that wretched wind didn’t ease up for a moment.

Got to give credit to Bob here—a first time sailor. He never got seasick during the entire voyage. And surprisingly, neither of us caught even a sniffle despite being soaking wet for three days. It’s as if the body knows it won’t be in its best interest to get sick at times like this.

Peter states that he can’t recall why he chose the middle of winter to head over to England. I’d lay odds that it had to do with either:

  a) Some floozie;

            or

  b) An altercation with Dominican officialdom.

                                                                      Davina

Smokey Joe and the Smugglers

I see the Spaniards are getting in a snit over Gibraltar once again.

The 1713 Treaty of Utrecht ceded control of the peninsular to Britain and the Spanish have been bitching over what their ancestors signed ever since. Although Gib. still retains ties with Britain, it is basically run by the Gibraltarians and they are perfectly happy with the way things stand.

Kalinka--once again

When I was living there aboard the Kalinka in the late ‘70’s, Spain had closed the border and lofted helium balloons on steel cables to prevent planes arriving at Gibraltar from impinging upon their airspace. I recall some interesting landings when commercial aircraft were forced to swoop down to the runway like World War II dive-bombers.

The land border was closed, so to get from Gibraltar to Spain you had to go by ferry. But you couldn’t go direct. You had first to cross the Straights to Tangier, Morocco and then re-cross to Algeciras.

An acquaintance of mine devised a rather unique way of making the voyage to visit a girlfriend across the border though: He’d weigh down a wooden fruit crate with a couple of stones and swim out from the beach where he’d dump the stones, position his head under the crate and allow the tide to carry him to Spain. On an outgoing tide he’d repeat the process.

Predictably, the ruse was doomed to eventual failure. After three of these flotsam-like voyages, followed by three nights of passion, my friend was nabbed and spent six months in jail.

Gibraltar was chock full of miscreants plotting various schemes and scams. Almost wherever you looked, something was going on that shouldn’t have been.

In the boatyards, dubious-looking characters could be seen raising waterlines on pleasure craft in order to have them appear a little less obvious when burdened to the gunwales with whatever illicit cargo they were destined to carry.

A local character who went by the name of Maxie always wore a wide-brimmed Stetson and cowboy boots. One night, toddling home from the pub at around two in the morning, I spied the silhouette of Maxie’s Stetson under a pier. What he was doing up to his waist in water at two in the morning is anyone’s guess. Certainly not anything he should have been doing.

Charlie, a mechanic who occasionally did some work on Kalinka regaled me with tales of the old cigarette smuggling days. Gibraltar was a free port. Cigarettes and various other goods were stockpiled there for legal transhipment to other ports.

The accounting involved with these stockpiles appeared to be rather sketchy however, as from what Charlie told me, a good portion of the smokes left the port illegally in vessels meticulously tuned for high speed. Although not mentioned, I gained the impression that Charlie performed a good deal of the tuning.

MTB Boat

The vessel of choice was the World War II, seventy-three foot MTB which was powered by three Rolls Royce Merlin aircraft engines. According to Charlie, these supercharged engines could push the boats along at around seventy knots.

Most had been fitted with armour-plating on the lower part of the wheelhouse, which contained a second small wheel and compass mounted on the floor, offering the helmsman some protection from the Spanish patrol boats.

At one stage there were twelve of these vessels operating out of Gibraltar. The Spanish opposition fielded two patrol boats—one being an ancient corvette known as Smokey Joe. Depending on who you listened to Smokey was driven by a wood, or coal burning engine. She was still around when I was there so I can attest to the fact that whichever fuel she consumed, her moniker was well deserved.

It was apparently quite the event when the boats made their run. Thirty-six aircraft engines would be throbbing away throatily as the skippers waited for the right moment. When Smokey Joe and its companion were far enough apart to give the smugglers an opening to dart through, a lookout stationed on Europa Point would radio the go-ahead.

Upon receiving the signal, engines were given full throttle. Their bows would lift from the water and the whole rock shook as if from an earthquake. As they darted from the harbour, the patrol boats would attempt to intercept—but they were much slower. Smokey would blacken the sky with her ancient breath while, above the roar of the engines, the faint chatter of Spanish deck guns could be heard.

Arrrrh! Those were the days.

Hmmm. Always struck me as strange how Peter invariably found himself in ports where illegal activities appeared to be the order of the day…!  Davina

Cloudy with chance of Snow and Idiots

I can’t remember the exact circumstances, but somehow around 1970 I met up with Peter Lumby—AKA The Lump in Toronto. He sold advertising and I was a graphic designer. I rented an office from him. A perfect marriage…except, I was rather gullible and The Lump was not averse to profiting from such weakness.

As an example, he was buddies with the manager of the bank where I foolishly kept my money. I don’t know how he orchestrated it, but on one occasion—when he was a little short of the readies—he managed to talk his friend into extracting a thousand dollars from my account and depositing it in his! (Some fifteen years went by before I recouped it).

But despite such skullduggery, we got along well. I paid him back in other ways—such as depriving him of his trousers and underwear and dangling him by the ankles from my second floor apartment on Avenue Road during rush hour.

But on with the story.

It was a Friday afternoon in the middle of October. The Lump and I had taken a long liquid lunch at our local grog-house. We emerged from the trough around four in the afternoon to discover a rather substantial shroud of the white stuff adorning the city—the first of the year.

Our plan was to head to back to Peter’s place and order pizza to get something solid into our stomachs.

As we approached the car-park at the back of our building, Lumby chirps up, “You Australians don’t know how to drive in snow—race you to my place.”

In those days, driving with a few grogs aboard was not a hanging offence—most of us who imbibed did it on a regular basis. I eagerly embraced the challenge.

I owned a Mustang fastback—Lumby had a Buick something-or-other. I was blocking him in, so I took my time clearing off my windscreen before heading out onto Dalhousie Street—more of a lane really, its only purpose being to give access to parking spots behind the buildings on Church and Jarvis Streets.

Shuter East was the best way to get to Peter’s place. It was perhaps a hundred yards south from our driveway. I’d covered about sixty yards and was slowing for the intersection when The Lump came flying past me, head turned, grinning triumphantly.

As soon as he pulled in front of me, his brake lights shot on. But he’d left his slowing down far too late. He began to slew sideways. Then he over-corrected and went the other way, mounting the curb and charging straight into a telephone pole—which was probably fortunate because it prevented him from flying out into Shuter Street and getting T-boned.

I pulled up beside him and was about to offer my gleeful condolences. But he leapt from the car—completely ignoring me—darted around to the front and jammed the seriously bent hood down. He then dashed back, jumped into the driver’s seat and started cranking the engine over. For him, the race was still on.

When I heard the car start, I turned onto Shuter and began cruising east. A glance in the rearview mirror showed the distorted snout of the Buick emerging. As the car straightened out, I noticed that the front passenger-side wheel was tucked under the vehicle at an alarming angle. And although my windows were closed, I could hear—above the racket of the city—a horrible intermittent screeching sound.

Not wanting to wait too long for The Lump, I took an early turn in order to treat myself to the longer, but more scenic route.

I was a block or so from his apartment when I began to hear that intermittent screeching sound again. I looked in the mirror—no sign of the bent Buick. But the sound was getting louder. As I slowed for an intersection, prior to making the turn onto Peter’s street, the sound became almost painful—SKREEEK, SKREEK, SKREEEK…

Suddenly the Buick went flying past in front of me. Once again, The Lump was leering at me triumphantly through his window. He’d won the race!

I believe, incredibly, that he might even have re-stated that Australians didn’t know how to drive in snow.

How grown up is that – silly idiots! Davina

Davina teams up with Saint Jude

I harbour a vague suspicion that she’s trying to do me in!

I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with, but this is taking things too far. She’s almost always very pleasant toward me—perhaps this should’ve been my clue. Why would she suffer me in silence unless she wanted to lull me into a false sense of security—throw me off guard.

First she gets me over to England—onto her home ground—under the pretext of having me repair some windows in her London house. Then along comes Saint Jude—the worst storm to hit the country in eleven years.

This, of course was luck, pure luck…. but then a certain degree of luck is involved in every nefarious scheme.

Around seven in the morning, when Saint Jude was blasting hurricane-force winds across London, her ladyship looks out the back window and announces in plaintive tones that the cover is being torn off the bicycle—knowing full well that yours truly will spring to the rescue of the vehicle like a knight in shining armour…which of course he does.

Now the next bit takes a bit of explaining: I’m out there in the lashing wind and rain and I decide to move the bike closer to the house—a crucial element in her plan.

“How could she have anything to do with this decision of mine?” you might ask.

Arrow shows where the slate hit

“Simple,” I reply. “Telepathy.”

While I’m out there struggling in the storm, she’s mentally broadcasting through the window, “Move the bike… Move the bike… Move the bike…” Somehow the message filters through the glass and I move the bike.

As I bend over the front wheel tying down the cover there’s a loud CRASH beside me. A slate has been blown off the roof and come whizzing down two stories before shattering on a paving stone.

The gouge in the stone shows that it sliced down vertically—like the blade of a guillotine. Six inches further over and it would have been curtains for me.

Again you might wonder how she could have managed to get the slate to fall at that precise moment. A fair question. But I thought of that. Once I was in position she could have darted up to the attic and thumped on the roof with a broom handle to dislodge the slate. Not too much of a stretch.

Back in the house I blurted, “That thing almost got me.”

“How terrible,” she replied rather calmly. Then added softly to herself, “And the windows are only half done.”

Now there was a point—I hadn’t finished the windows. Perhaps it was just an accident. Nonetheless, I’m keeping a vigilant eye open.

Drat. Foiled again!

Davina

Hops, Malt and a Bicycle

For some ten years, I lived on Ward’s Island, which is situated just south of downtown Toronto—one of the ‘Toronto Islands’. A really neat spot in that it’s a ten minute ferry ride to downtown, yet when you’re over there, you feel completely detached—in another world.

The X is where I lived

From the north shore you can vaguely hear the rumblings of the city but not loud enough to be intrusive. Only service vehicles are allowed there so for the most part, the loudest vehicular noise might be the rattling of a poorly lubricated bicycle chain.

Waterways criss-cross the place and in these, with the help of a small boat you can escape completely—in some places you’d swear you were a thousand miles from nowhere.

About a ten minute walk from my residence is the Queen City Yacht Club, of which I was a member. Many a pleasant summer afternoon was spent out on its balcony quaffing a few cold pints with fellow members—and sometimes we even went sailing.

On the last weekend of July, the Ward’s Island Picnic is held. There’s music, games, good food and a huge beer tent. I was with a bunch of cronies in the tent one time when who should show up but Pat Coyle, an ex-Islander who’d moved to Paris. I hadn’t seen the bastard for years.

After a few glasses of suds had been consumed while swapping catch-up stories, ‘The Coyle’ and I decided to check out some of the other activities. We were walking across the bridge to neighboring Algonquin Island when we spied something that looked rather interesting to our vaguely befuddled minds.

One of the residents on Algonquin had set up his own event and, as we discovered later, had somehow inveigled Air Canada to provide a first prize of a return ticket to Vancouver. I’ve forgotten the guy’s name, but he had a house fronting one of the canals. On the end of his dock, he’d rigged up a plywood ramp.

What Coyle and I saw from the bridge was the spectacle of a cyclist hurtling at great speed down the embankment, onto the dock then up the ramp. Bicycle and rider shot into the air then landed in the canal. The bicycle had a piece of Styrofoam tied to it so it could be swum back to shore.

This was definitely something of interest. Without a second thought, Coyle and I dove off the bridge and swam over to the dock where we signed ourselves in as contestants. The judges—who were perched on chairs off to the side with clip-boards—were looking for three things: Height, distance and style.

Coyle and I were simply looking for some fun.

Most of the contestants were about twenty years younger than either of us and looked like downtown courier types—bulging calf muscles, determined jaws and long-distance eyes. None of them appeared to have touched a drop of grog. Steroids perhaps.

Each rider had three shots and was judged on his best effort. Coyle and I were the last two riders.

Me. Height and distance good. Style? Hmmm.

To get sufficient speed, you had to begin at the north side of the island and accelerate all the way across it. There were people along the way to make sure pedestrians, dogs and small children were not flattened by deranged cyclists.

I must say, the first run was a trifle daunting. Charging down the street you couldn’t see the dock—just two upright sticks that marked the entrance to the rather narrow ramp that lead to it. The ramp went down at quite an angle so you lifted off briefly—and when you hit the dock you squished down.

But you had to keep thrashing away at the pedals throughout—speed was crucial.

The end result: Coyle first, me second. I suspect that the hops gave us our height and distance, and the malt…well, who knows.

 Edited by Davina

Rogue Waves

Rob and I were sailing through the Canary Islands on my twenty-six foot Westerly Centaur. We’d left Gibraltar some four days previous and were headed for Antigua in the Caribbean. It was the last week of July—a bit late to be crossing the Atlantic with hurricane season just around the corner so we weren’t planning any stops on the way.

The wind was blowing a good force seven from astern, kicking up decent sized waves that occasionally broke over the counter and flooded the cockpit. Because of this, I had the hatch closed and the storm boards slotted in so Rob wouldn’t be disturbed. He’d come off watch at six and was doing a Rip-Van-Winkle in the quarter berth.

It was now around eight in the morning and we were running between two of the Canary islands—Tenerife and Grand Canary. I was perched in the cockpit watching the ocean go by.

People often ask me, “Don’t you get bored during these long trips of yours?”

“Never,” I tell them. I can sit in a forest for maybe an hour, watching chipmunks and squirrels darting around and mushrooms and things growing, but then I want to move on. But the sea—I never get enough of it. I guess because it’s as restless as me. We get along just fine.

Anyway, there I was, happily bobbing around as the waves slid under the boat and the wind shoved us south toward the pristine waters of the Caribbean. Then something changed. It took me a moment to figure out what. The wind was still blowing strong but the sea was calm. How could this be?

The Westerly in more placid waters

I looked back and there was my answer.

The ocean was flat as a pond for perhaps three hundred yards. Then it began to slope up…and up…and up…

I’ve been through three hurricanes at sea. They give a few hours warning and I’ve always thought I had a fighting chance. The fact that I’m still here shows I wasn’t off the mark. But this thing…this thing was so big there was no chance of fighting it. This thing was a wall with a little white beard at its top. This thing would crush me like a bug if it decided to do so.

I never wear a safety harness—I find them too restrictive. But with this monster looming behind me, I improvised my own by winding the tail end of the main sheet around my chest and tying it off to a couple of cleats. I felt sure we were going to perform some acrobatics when this bastard got hold of us.

There was no wind now. The wave had blocked it off completely. We just drifted forward under our momentum, sail hanging loose.

Rob - later in the voyage

I disengaged the self-steering gear and clutched the tiller tightly as the wave approached. Before, there’d been the noise of a strong wind—waves splashing about and the creaking of rigging. Now there was nothing but a kind of low hiss made by the breaking top of the wave.

It eased under the boat and began lifting us. Higher, higher...and higher. But we weren’t tipping forward. It was weird—the boat was almost level, with the stern kind of poked into the wave and the bow sticking out. Up and up we went. It was probably one of the most amazing moments of my life. Looking over the side was like looking down the face of a cliff.

We got almost to the top of the thing then the bow tilted down and off we went. We were flying. The bow wave was like that of an old, deep-hulled speed-boat, enclosing me in a tunnel of flying water. But this only lasted for perhaps ten seconds. Then the breaking top of the thing splashed into the cockpit as the peak slid under us.

The wind caught the sails again as the back of the wave eased us down ever so gently.

I looked astern, and there was another one as huge as the first. The same thing happened. It lifted us up to near the top before the bow tipped down and we did our brief mad dash until the wave slipped from under us.

By the time the third one came along I was beginning to feel like an old pro at this surfing business. I took off my improvised harness and stood up as the peak passed under us. Quite amazing. It was like standing atop a huge ridge in the middle of the ocean. For that brief moment, I could see Tenerife and Grand Canary clearly—each of them some twenty miles off.

When that third and last one passed I found myself regretting that I hadn’t had the presence of mind to wake Rob and shift him up forward. Perhaps with his weight up in the bow we might have been able to ride one of those babies all the way to the Caribbean. Imagine that—a three day crossing of the Atlantic!

But then again, with his weight forward, we might have dug the bow into the water and performed the acrobatics I’d initially anticipated. As it was, Rob simply snored his way through our little adventure.

A year or so later, I got talking to a U.S. navy captain in a bar somewhere. He’d encountered a set of waves like I described only once in his thirty-year career. He said they were usually caused by an underwater seismic shift and could be up to one hundred and twenty feet in height. I put my three at around eighty feet.

Edited by Davina

Hot Peppers & A Mutt

I was staying in Coconut Grove, Miami with an ex-girlfriend Patti. Although we were no longer ‘going together’, we had an easy and comfortable relationship and always managed to have a good laugh.

An incident that occurred when my buddy Willie came down for a visit however, provided splendid amusement for both of them. Unfortunately, their hilarity came at my expense.

Patti - ten years earlier

I was cooking breakfast one morning with Patti as my sous-chef, whilst Willie perched on his butt in the living room doing absolutely nothing.

A couple of months prior to this, in Canada, Willie had played some kind of prank on me—I’ve forgotten exactly what it was, but it had to do with a beer I was drinking. Now, I decided, it was payback time.

I extracted the seeds from some jalapeno peppers—the hottest part of them—and crushed them with a fork and my fingers. They were to be a surprise additional ingredient to Willie’s scrambled eggs.

“Two minutes your lordship,” I called gleefully toward the living room when the eggs were almost done.

Ahhh, the anticipation of sweet revenge!

So preoccupied was I with my vision of a red-faced, goggle-eyed Willie with steam hissing from his ears that when the urge for a quick pre-prandial pee hit me, my pepper-smeared fingers failed to register as a threat.

The peppers made their presence felt when Private Part was summoned to action. It was as if he’d been hauled out from barracks by hot tongs. With tears of agony streaming down my cheeks, I somehow managed to finish what I was doing then darted back to the kitchen.

Willie & Me - ten years later

“Quick,” I said to Patti. “Get me some ice cubes.”

“What on earth…?” she began to ask—but my anguished appearance and desperate tone of  voice conveyed the urgency of the situation and she let it go. As she went for the ice, I grabbed a glass jar off the counter and filled it with water.

“The peppers,” I gasped out as I submerged the soldier in soothing water. Patti added the ice cubes. Upon grasping the significance of my predicament, the corners of her mouth gave a cheeky upward twitch, which I didn’t appreciate.

“What’s taking so long?” calls his Lordship from the living room. Patti couldn’t answer—her jaws were clamped shut in order to contain her mirth.

“Won’t be a minute,” I squeezed out through clenched teeth.

Of course Willie picked up on my distress and came sauntering out to the kitchen. His jaw dropped open at the spectacle of me dancing around with my equipment in a jar of steaming water (well, maybe it wasn’t quite steaming, but it felt like it should have been).

He seemed puzzled at first—and I was not about to enlighten him—but when he spied the gutted peppers on the counter he quickly determined their significance. His eyes lit up gleefully as he began to convulse with laughter. And of course this got Patti going.

My misfortune was the cause of much merriment

So while I’m dancing around in agony, the two of them are hooting and cackling like a pair of hyenas.

Now comes the dog.

Those of you who are thinking, hmmm, this sounds interesting will be disappointed. The dog story has nothing to do with the peppers. The two are related solely by time-frame.

The dog came a couple of days after the peppers when I’d partially recovered from my ordeal. I say partially because there were actual blisters involved.

Anyway, the three of us were sitting out front when this thin, mangy-looking canine trotted in off the street, tail thrashing happily in (what I determined later) a desperate attempt to show goodwill. The thing had no tags on it and seemed to be in dire need of nourishment.

Patti gave it water and a bite of something then we scooted inside so it wouldn’t think it had found a home. The message proved to be overly subtle for this mutt though. Next morning, when I went out onto the porch the beast greeted me as if we’d been pals for years.

I was in no position to take in a dog—I planned to head down south somewhere in a month or so—and Patti didn’t want the responsibility. More drastic measures were called for.

I bundled Fido into the car and drove about ten miles to a nice neighborhood in Coral Gables where I dropped him off—figuring someone there was bound to want a pet. For a few blocks the wretched thing chased me, but I’d learned a few tricks from my bank-robbing days (joking) so was able to give it the slip.

Several hours later, as the three of us sat out on the porch sipping Bloody Mary’s—what should appear but our exhausted friend. How he’d found his way back from ten miles away I’ve no idea. And why he’d singled us out as potential parents was equally obscure.

Needless to say though, after that sterling effort, he found a home with Patti.

Edited by Davina

My Father-in-law the Scoundrel

My ex-father-in-law was a sailor, but mostly a scoundrel. He was rather bright in some areas—he built Canada’s largest tall-ship, the Empire Sandy, from a World War Two steam driven tug boat—but somewhat naive in others.

Norm was not a popular man around Toronto Harbour but he did earn my admiration for some of his antics.

At one time, he was running a private ferry service between Toronto and the harbour islands. His vessel was steel and didn’t leak a drop so he had no cause to use his bilge pump. But for the annual Coast Guard inspection, a working bilge pump was a requirement.

The night before this annual inspection Norm discovered that the pump didn’t work. Attempts to repair it failed, and the inspection was to take place first thing in the morning.

Norm’s devious mind came up with the solution.

As the Coast Guard inspector—a chap by the name of Wyberg—asked Norm to demonstrate the functionality of the various components on his list, Norm would comply with a military repetition of the request.

This must have disarmed the inspector—this civilian’s apparent respect and deference to his authority.

Wyberg might ask for navigation lights, and Norm would respond with, “Navigation lights on,” as he moved the switch.

When it came around to the bilge pump, Norm once again made his announcement as he switched the appropriate switch. “Bilge pump on.” At this time a crew member who’d been crammed into the bilge took his cue by making slurping sounds from beneath the floorboards.

“She’s a rather dry vessel,” Norm commented proudly as Wyberg ticked ‘Bilge Pump’ off his list.

But Norm couldn’t resist crowing about his deception and in due course it got back to the Coast Guard, earning him the enduring enmity of that organization.

Around Toronto Harbour, a non-functioning pump became known as a ‘Wyberg Pump’.

Norm was in my wife Cathy’s office one morning (she owned the party boat ‘River Gambler’ which I worked on), when I mentioned that I was going to Woolfe’s, the scrap metal dealer, to get a piece of pipe.

Norm, having had frequent dealings with this outfit chirps up. “Mention my name and they’ll probably do something for you.”

I followed my father-in-law’s advice and Mr. Woolfe offered to shove the pipe up my rear end.

Norm was never a modest man regarding his achievements or knowledge. Whenever the opportunity arose I derived great pleasure in taking the wind out of his sails. He was only a year older than me so I felt I owed him no paternal respect.

One such opportunity came about with a visit to a Canadian Tire store. I mentioned to Cathy that I was going there to buy a few things and Norm, once again in the office, pipes up, “I’ve got some stuff to pick up there. I’ll come with you.”

Well, ‘some stuff’ included a bench drill and other heavy items that required the loan of a dolly to wheel out to the truck. When we’d unloaded his purchases, Norm threw the dolly onto the truck as well.

A few days later I was talking to Cathy on the phone and she mentioned that Norm was in the office—he spent more time there since he’d handed the company over to her, than when he was running it. A plot came to me. “I’ll call right back,” I said. “Tell him the call’s for him and watch his face.”

When Norm came on the phone I put on my best French accent. “Ahh, Mister Rogairs, zis is Jacques La Pierre of Canajan Tire. I am wondering when you will be returning ze dolly you ‘ave borrow.”

“What dolly?” he demanded.

“The one you have put in your red truck.” I then rattled off the license number.

“THIS IS PREPOSTEROUS!,” shouts the pater-in-law into the phone. “I haven’t borrowed any dolly.”

“You ‘ave been seen to put this dolly in your truck,” says Jacques. “But it is okay if you are wanting to keep it. We ‘ave your credit card numbair, so we will just add the dolly to your bill.”

“YOU CAN’T DO THAT!” Norm shrieked.

“Ave a nice day Mister Rogairs,” Jacques said. “We much appreciate your business.”

Cathy told me later that Norm’s face was red as a beet and the veins of his neck were standing out like hawsers. He apparently fumed for a good half hour after our little conversation.

A month or so later I was at a party where the host wasn’t aware that I was related to Norm or that I even knew him. He began to introduce us. “Norm Rogers,” he announced. “This is…” But before he could finish, I thrust out my hand. “Jacques La Pierre, Canadian Tiare.”

Much to our host’s surprise, Norm loudly proclaimed I was illegitimate.

Edited by Davina

It’s only a F’ing Wind—famous Last Words (almost).

(Excuse my f’ing prudishness, but some office computers reject the language of sailors).

After my first couple of winters in Canada I got to thinking—when falling leaves began threatening my Australian bones—what the hell am I doing up here?

So I packed my bags and headed for Florida.

I ended up in Coconut Grove, South Miami, where I managed to get a job as a sailing instructor at an outfit called Biscayne sailboats—owned by an eccentric old salt by the name of Alan Bliss.

Captain Bliss

Sailing was anything but blissful though at the Bliss establishment. Why the Coastguard didn’t condemn his entire fleet remains a mystery to me to this day. Almost every voyage involved a breakage of some kind.

One afternoon Alan, a couple of his cronies and me were standing on the dock swapping stories and quaffing beers. Business was slow because the weather appeared a little threatening, with the sky gray and scowly.

As we looked out across the bay, a ridge in the clouds developed a kind of tail that slowly extended itself down to the water and started coming toward us. “Waterspout!” Alan exclaimed, grabbing his cash box. “Let’s get out of here.”

Never having seen the likes of this before, I was curious. While the other three ran for Alan’s car, I held back.

“It’s a f’ing tornado,” Alan yelled. “Get in the car!”

With no experience of tornado’s before, I yelled back, “It’s only f’ing wind.”

Alan jumped into the car and sped off.

In front of the dock was a bunch of moored sailboats, the nearest perhaps 100 feet away. Behind them stretched a low island covered in scraggly Australian pines.

Path of the Waterspout

The waterspout appeared to be attracted to things that stuck out of the water. When it reached the island it paused to thrash around and uproot most of the trees, sending branches flying up into the air amidst clouds of sand.

It was then I realized that this was no ordinary wind.

Having virtually leveled the island, the tornado went on to attack the moored vessels—fixed keel boats of around thirty feet in length—instantly turning all of them over onto their beam ends and sinking about a third of them.

It was then I realized I should have gone with Alan.

Fortunately for me, the monster spied more attractive prey further up the dock. As I watched, it pounced on a two-storied houseboat of around forty feet in length. Plucking it rather delicately from between two other boats it sucked it some fifty feet into the air where it twirled it around a few times. Tiring of this sport, it dropped the unfortunate vessel sideways onto a wooden piling which skewered the thing right through.

When the spout moved off in search of other mischief, I ran up the dock to see if anyone was inside the houseboat. As it turned out there wasn’t. But a rather confused-looking German Shepherd poked its head out through a shattered window.

Amazingly, the two boats on either side of the houseboat suffered little damage.

The bay ended up covered with debris from wrecked vessels and it wasn’t long before small boats of all descriptions ventured out in search of treasures. As they picked through the wreckage, some wag on shore yelled, “It’s coming back!”

Well, you should have seen the thrashing of oars and paddles. The water was churned white.

I watched one guy desperately trying to get his small outboard started. He’d obviously left it in gear and was too panicked to take the time to put it in neutral. He must have propelled himself some twenty feet by pulling on the starter cord before the engine kicked in. 

Edited by Davina

’Twas An Ill Wind

One of my earliest memories is of my father’s morning bathroom performance—of which he appeared to be rather proud. In our house, it was considered impolite to expel wind in any other room. Dad made the most of the bathroom exemption. Looking back, I can’t imagine how he managed to contain the volume of gas his innards generated over the course of a night, but his rendition each morning attested to the fact that he did.

My family’s particular euphemism for the act of expelling personal wind was known as ‘making a gun’. I guess it was either my brother or me who coined the term—Dad’s morning sessions reverberated through

the house like a naval bombardment.

Mum, Me & der Vater

I remember once innocently asking my mother why she never ‘made guns’. “Ladies don’t do such things Peter,” she replied primly—and it was years before I discovered otherwise. Not from  Mother of course—she always acted the lady.

At North Sydney Technical High School I took German. Had I gone to a regular high school I would have been given French as a second language. As it was a tech high though, it was German—presumably because of that nation’s engineering prowess—and one of the first phrases we learned was der Vater (the father). Vater was pronounced with a soft ‘v’ that sounded more like an ‘f’. How wonderfully appropriate, I thought.

Even Mum couldn’t complain about my use of Vater in referring to Dad—I was simply improving my German. In time, with frequent use, the word lost its unpleasant connotation and simply became Dad’s nickname. Even Mum came to adopt the name in the more endearing form of ‘Fartley’.

Gug

When my brother moved to New Guinea, his room was taken over by Mum’s mother—affectionately known as Gug. She was even more proper than Mum. The other resident was our dog Sac, who was not so proper, being prone to rather malodorous emissions. Sac did not adhere to the ‘bathroom rule’.

After supper, we’d all retire to the living room to watch TV (except Sac of course who’d just lie there, usually snoring). Occasionally an unpleasant odour would befoul the room and Mum would turn to Dad. “Alec, was that you?” (Whenever she switched from Fartley to Alec it signified mild rebuke). I don’t know whether Mum had a nose that was capable of distinguishing between human and canine wind—but it was normally Dad who came under suspicion.

The unfortunate Sac

His straight-faced reply was invariably, “It was the dog.” Then, turning to the unfortunate beast, he’d order it from the room.

There’s no telling who was actually responsible for these discharges—I might even have snuck in an occasional quiet one myself—though I am certain that nothing of this nature would have come from Mum or Gug.

It got to the stage where Sac, upon detecting an unpleasant odour in the air would, without being told to do so, rise to his paws and, growling softly, stalk from the room.

An ill wind, it is said, blows nobody any good. In this case though, it was always poor old Sac who bore the brunt of the blow.

Edited by Davina

    

Wine Tasting in Brest

Must have been the end ’78 when John Morris and I were holed up in Brest, France aboard the Dutch fishing boat De Toekomst, waiting for a break in the weather to allow us to cross the dreaded Bay of Biscay. We were headed for Gibraltar where we planned to give the vessel a lick of paint prior to crossing the Atlantic. Haiti—where John had some sort of fishing business—was our final destination.

Low tide in Brest

We’d entered Brest at the height of a gale—with waves crashing over the bow, sweeping the deck and slamming into the wheelhouse. Before gaining the relative calm of the port, we passed a number of fishing vessels being hammered by the storm yet with crews still working their nets.

To this day I have a mental picture one of those fishermen’s faces—a young man of perhaps twenty with long blond hair thrashing wildly off to the side of his face in the shrieking wind. He was clinging to a rope staring at us—mouth agape as he sucked air through the flying spume.

“Those bastards are mad,” I remarked to John as we struggled toward the port entrance. He nodded agreement. We later learned that five of the boats had gone down with all hands. I wondered if the young man had been among the drowned sailors.

We’d been stuck in Brest for over a month as storm after storm pounded its way through. One morning a battered freighter limped into port, its bow bent to one side by huge waves out in the Biscay. ‘The Bay’ is reputed to be second only to Cape Horn in its ability to send both ships and men to the sea floor.

In Brest we met Ronald, a Scotsman living there. On a number of occasions he acted as translator for us. Just after Christmas he invited us to a New Year’s Eve party at a farmhouse owned by one of his friends. It turned out to be a place out of history with thick fieldstone walls, slate roof and a hard-packed earthen floor inside. When we arrived, a pig was roasting on a spit in the huge fire-place.

Around twenty people were there—none of whom possessed more than a smattering of English—but they made us instantly welcome. We sat at trestle tables in front of the fire and began tucking into the delicacies heaped before us—truffles, oysters, shrimp, mussels and a variety of cheeses.

Me and John--local celebrities

At one point, as I attempted to take a swig of wine after downing an oyster, the man seated next to me, lightly grabbed my wrist. “No Monsieur,” he chided me. “You must ‘ave zis wine with the oystair!” He then proceeded to pour me a glass of the correct grape.

At this early stage of the event, I learned much of French etiquette from my table companion—which wines were suited to the various foods; which foods should precede or follow other foods.

But by the time we got to the pig, all protocol had gone by the board—wine was being haphazardly gulped from bottles; raucous singing filled the air, and the unfortunate pig’s head was flying around the room. A couple cleared a space on one of the tables and danced until a trestle gave out and the table—along with its burden of food and wine—crashed to the floor. It was becoming my kind of party.

The moral of the story is this: If you drink enough of the right wine with the right food, in short order you won’t give a rat’s rear end what you’re drinking or what you’re eating—or for that matter, what day it is.

Edited by Davina

Killer's Killer Spaghetti

I arrived in Toronto in early 1967. About a year later, a friend from Sydney—Terry Kilderry—joined me. My apartment wasn’t big enough for the two of us so we looked for other accommodation. We found the ideal spot on Eglinton Avenue, just east of Mt. Pleasant. A couple of Englishmen had the house and were renting out rooms.

Killer & Lightning*

During our search, while driving around in Terry’s car, for some reason the two of us began clowning around belting each other on the arm. “Careful,” Terry warned me. “They don’t call me ‘Killer’ Kilderry for nothing.”

“It’s you who should watch out,” I replied. “I’m known as ‘Lightning’ Lawson’.”

Whether Terry made up his name on the spur of the moment I don’t know. I did with mine and to this day I’m still known as ‘Lightning’ to some people.

When ‘Killer’ and I moved into the house on Eglinton, the only other tenant was ‘Big Dave’ Small—another Englishman—making for a total of five residents. ‘Big Dave’ was a strange bird. While the four of us spent the majority of our evenings out bar-hopping or partying in pursuit of females, Dave appeared content to remain at home. I think he disliked the idea of spending money on anything that would eventually find its way into a toilet.

We’d leave him perched upon a beer-barrel in a corner of the kitchen drinking a cup of tea. I’ve no idea what he did during the time we were out but he was usually there on his barrel when we arrived home—a fact which often presented a problem whenever one of us returned with a young lady in tow with seduction in mind.

Dave’s barrel afforded him a perfect view of the front door. He was like a spider lurking on the fringes of its web waiting for a fly. “I’ve just brewed a fresh pot of tea,” he’d announce. “Surely the lady would like a cup.” He was sneaky that way, addressing his offer to the girl, who invariably found it difficult to refuse.

So, rather than getting on with the intended business of the evening, Dave’s victims would be forced to endure polite idle chatter for half an hour or so whilst forcing weak tea down their gullets.

Six months or so later, ‘Big Dave’ bought himself a used Ford Falcon. But not having enough money to insure it, the thing sat out in the back garden while he accumulated his pennies. Every evening after supper, he’d take his cup of tea out to the prized vehicle, start the engine and sit there with the radio playing.

One night, ‘Killer’ threw a dinner party for about ten of us. The meal was to be his famous (according to him) spaghetti. As it bubbled away on the stove we sat around the table guzzling beer and telling tall tales. Dave was out back sitting in his car with his tea.

‘Killer’ was in the middle of a lengthy anecdote when Dave burst into the dining room in an agitated state. ‘Killer’ ploughed on with his story despite our house-mate’s obvious distress. Only when the punch line had been delivered did the ever-polite Dave interrupt the proceedings. “Excuse me,” he said. “But my car’s on fire.”

One of the guys grabbed a fire extinguisher as we all raced outside. Sure enough, smoke was issuing from the vehicle’s engine compartment. While the one with the extinguisher stood poised ready for action, someone else lifted the hood.

With the added oxygen, the previously smouldering fire burst into life. The trigger of the extinguisher was depressed and a gob of foam plopped to the ground. Unchecked, the flames leaped into the night sky.

It was then that ‘Killer’ sprang into action—he went darting back into the house, returned with his huge pot of spaghetti and heaved the contents onto the car’s engine. The flames were no match for ‘Killer’s’ ‘famous’ concoction.

But the vehicle was beyond repair. Dave had owned the thing for perhaps two months and had yet to actually drive it. Next day, poor old Dave could only watch forlornly as his pride and joy was towed from the back garden on its way to the wreckers.

*We were congratulating ourselves after converting a canoe into a square-rigger with the aid of bed-sheets. She wasn't bad downwind.

Edited by Davina

Clam Comes into the Chips

Memory blurs—I can’t recall exactly what took me down to Nassau, Bahamas on this particular occasion. Some sort of monkey-business I imagine. I’d planned on flying in and out the same day.

Last time I’d been there—some six months previous—my old diving buddy, Alex 'Captain' Clam had been camping out aboard his nineteen-foot Seacraft runabout at the Nassau Harbour Club. I had a few hours to kill before my flight back to Miami so I took a cab to the Harbour Club and asked after Alex at the bar.

Captain Clam

Any other time I’d had cause to make inquiries after my friend Clam, I’d always noticed a degree of disdain accompanying the reply—a wrinkling of the nose as if at an unpleasant odour. But on this particular occasion the bartender was strangely deferential. “Mister Clam? Yes SIR! Pier One, berth A.”

Tied up at Pier One, berth A was this monster of a power boat. She was around eighty feet long and rather handsome for a stink-pot. Ahh, thinks I—Clam’s got himself a captain’s job. But I was proven to be wrong.

I took myself aboard, banged on a door and a few minutes later Clam emerged in a silk, monogrammed dressing gown. “Lawson,” he exclaimed upon seeing me. “Welcome aboard my new vessel. We’ll take her for a spin around the island.” Clam had always held the vague belief that he was the re-incarnation of W.C.Fields. In his everyday speech, he affected the deceased actor’s unique drawl.

Well, in the six months since we’d last seen each other, this seemed like an extraordinary step up the financial ladder for him; from sleeping under a tarpaulin aboard a nineteen-foot runabout to this?. “Your fortunes appear to have improved considerably since I last saw you,” I remarked when we got under way.

“Ah, yes,” he replied with a wide grin. “Let me tell you how I got this little baby…”

I jumped in quickly to cut him off. “I’d rather not know, Alex.” I knew it must have been something shady and, as one never knows when one might be summoned to give evidence in a court of law, I've always considered it better to remain ignorant of certain matters.

Clam's New  Vessel

By the end of our voyage we were getting close to the end of a bottle of rum and Clam invited me to stay on. I had nothing pressing happening at the time, so I did—for two weeks.

But there’s no such thing as smooth sailing where Captain Clam is concerned—a week into my vacation, the vessel was seized by the Bahamian authorities and a watchman put aboard to make sure it didn’t leave the dock.  We were, however, permitted to remain on board until matters were sorted out.

Clam gave me a rather colourful version of the circumstances behind the seizure, painting himself as the wronged party. But then the Captain was prone to telling an occasional fib—even to his friends. I later discovered that he’d put a down payment on the boat and sailed off to the Bahamas, neglecting to complete the transaction.

As it turned out, the night-watchman—an amiable chap who went by the name of Lincoln—was a bit of a lush. No, I lie. He was an out-and-out lush. (and coming from me, this is quite a compliment). Clam and I conducted experiments and discovered that Lincoln would imbibe anything put in front of him.

So, Clam and yours truly plotted to exploit this weakness: We would re-take the vessel on Lincoln's watch. Our plan was to feed him alcohol until he passed out then sneak away around one in the morning. We’d drop him off at one of the out islands then head for the open sea. We even bought a mosquito-proof tent so Lincoln wouldn’t be drained of blood while he awaited rescue.

The morning before the planned recapture of the vessel, I happened to emerge from the breakfast-room at the Harbour Club to find Clam on the public phone. I caught a snatch of his conversation, “…a drunk. Lawson and I are taking the boat tonight...” Clam was incapable of talking softly—half of Nassau could have heard him. I gave him my darkest scowl of disapproval.

When I moved away, I spied Lonnie Pinder lurking in a doorway. Lonnie was a local who kept his boat at the Club and harboured a deep hatred for Clam for some reason. He was grinning wickedly—he'd obviously heard Clam’s every word.

That evening, at the change of the watchman shift, there was no sign of Lincoln. A new, rather serious-looking fellow had taken his place. When Clam offered this new man a drink, he declined. “No thank you Captain,” he said with a smirk that told us everything, “I’m not partial to strong drink.”

Needless to say, Clam lost the vessel.

Edited by Davina 

Reputation Surpasses Ability

I met Geoffrey whilst living in Coral Gables, Florida, sometime in the early 80’s. An educated Londoner, he was always ready with a witty retort to any slight or insult I might throw at him.

On one occasion when I mentioned that he appeared to be getting a trifle large around the backside, he looked down his nose at me and sniffed, “Lawson, you don’t drive a railway spike with a jeweller’s hammer.”

It emerged that Geoffrey had once worked at the legendary Scotland Yard police headquarters in London.

During one of our many sessions at our local bar, I asked him if there were any ‘bent’ coppers working out of the Yard. He mulled the question over carefully before replying, “As far as I know, only two: My boss and myself.”

Normally, I have nothing but contempt for criminals who hide behind a badge, but from what Geoffrey told me of the exploits of him and his boss, they seemed more like a pair of Robin Hoods rather than real criminals.

Apparently, a few of the lads from the Yard drank at the same pub as some of the villains.

“One night,” Geoffrey told me, “I was downing a couple of pints when someone I knew as Sid—a gentleman of dubious character—took me aside and thrust an envelope into my pocket. ‘See what you can do for Blackie,’ he said.

“Well, Blackie was an old lag who’d managed to skate by the law for most of his life. But this time he’d been well and truly stitched up. This time he was going away for a few years and there was absolutely nothing I could do to help him.

“I palmed the envelope back to Sid and told him, ‘Blackie’s had it this time. There’s nothing I can do.’ But Sid wasn’t to be deterred. ‘I know you can help,’ he says, shoving the envelope back into my pocket and slipping away.

“Well, by some miracle—and it truly was a miracle—Blackie managed to get off.

“The next time I’m at the pub, Sid sidles up to me and thrusts another envelope into my pocket. ‘Thanks Geoff,’ he says with a wink. I hadn’t done a bloody thing!”

Edited by Davina