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