So long, Someday

It gives me great pleasure (and more than a tinge of sadness) to announce that

SOMEDAY HAS BEEN SOLD!

She was my constant companion for six wonderful years, but the time had come to hand her over to someone who could give her more quality time.

I bought her in Charleston, South Carolina, in 2000. That was the very reason I was there: to find a good boat, live aboard her, get some sea miles under my keel, then sail the Atlantic single-handed.

Which is precisely what I proceeded to do, although things took a little longer than I thought. Five years, instead of the three I was originally thinking.

Not that this was five years of hardship. Not by a long stretch. South Carolina has a very agreeable climate, and during my time there I met a very special and beautiful woman (who I ended up marrying). Morning on the beach, tanning, swimming, maybe a beer. Afternoons we’d often head out for sail in the harbour, definitely a beer. Once back to the dock, I’d congratulate myself on my docking, then get the BBQ going as Sharon would marinate the shrimp. Drinks and dinner in the cockpit, watching the river and the goings on at the marina. Then to the stateroom, about which I’ll say no more.

We had a pretty good life there when Sharon was visiting.

When she was back in Scotland or Peru or wherever else, I’d work on the boat, go for solo sails, and drink too much at the local bar.

I did work hard on this boat – she certainly needed it when I got her. But finally, in July 2005 she was ready, and so was I. I set off solo from Charleston, South Carolina, and seven weeks later, arrived in Troon, Scotland. It was an incredible trip, with lots of ups and downs. Storms, equipment failure, sea-sickness. Excitement, exhilaration, serenity, satisfaction.

The weather here is certainly a large factor in my decision to sell her. I’ll drive a motorcycle in any weather, but I prefer sailing in tropical conditions. But I also have less time: since arriving here two years ago I’ve gotten married, bought a house, and sired a son. I’m not complaining, mind you. Our house has a view of the harbour, my wife is lovely and generous (and my best friend), and my little boy is a joy. I guess I’m just no longer interested in maintaining a 37-foot blue-water yacht.

She’ll need work and money to bring her back to pre-Atlantic condition, but that’s what boats are for. To work at and to sink money into. Many sailors I’ve met spend many more hours cleaning and working on their boats than actually sailing them.

The proud new owners are a nice couple from Hartlepool. They certainly know their stuff, and seem to have a passion for strong classic boats. Many thanks to Western Horizon Yachts who did an excellent job on both her on-line presentation and on getting the word around to the boating community.

I’ll miss Someday. She’s a beautiful, strong boat, full of character. She carried me safely through many thousands of treacherous miles. Someday we’ll get another.

(also see related post Coming Soon).

Phoenix Lander lands successfully on Mars

Most of our attempts at Mars fail, so I’m always delighted when we get a successful landing. This is from NASA’s Phoenix Lander, taken yesterday.

This one is amazing. This is the Mars Orbiter getting a picture of Phoenix on the way down. How cool is that?

It cost almost $600 million dollars to build and launch. I’m no rocket scientist, but that still seems like a lot to me.

There’s a Canadian weather lab on board, at the cost of some $37 million. I’m glad Canada still plays a role in space exploration. But how can you spend $37 million on a tiny weather lab? I’m not complaining, I just want to know. My Casio Pathfinder watch cost me $100, and it has temperature, tides, barometer, barometer history, moon phases, and who knows what else. What about just sending up a couple of those?

Phoenix will be analyzing the soil, using a low-tech scoop and high-tech ovens, looking for water and other building blocks of life. I don’t expect them to find any martians in the soil, but there’s a good possibility they’ll find evidence of previous life. That will be as important a discovery as finding current life. This is going to be fascinating.

See http://phoenix.lpl.arizona.edu/ and http://www.nasa.gov/.

Coming soon

Isn’t she beautiful?

More pics here and here.

This is the 2008 Kawasaki GTR 14, known in the US and Canada as the Concours.

It’ is based on the fastest production bike on the planet, the venerable ZZR14.

Smooth as silk. Fast as a fighter jet. Variable valve timing. Four-pot double caliper brakes.

1400 CC’s of goodness.

And it’s mine! I’ve placed the order. I’ll meet her next week. I can’t stop grinning. And with this bike, the grins are only just beginning.

Trouble in the Garden

Today when I got home from work I noticed a bit of a mess on the hall carpet. I was about to pass it by when I had a second look – what exactly was all this fluff and stuff? Feathers, too. Lots of them. Had the cats got into a pillow? Wait, no… Fuck.

Ruby had caught the bird finally, and brought it in for a wee bit of torture. It looked like she’d been at it for awhile. Maybe Shackleton had joined in. A nice afternoon of tag team torment.

Why do they do that? And why do we still love them?

Down on the landing there was some bird parts amongst the feathers and fur. Not as many as you’d think though. Just the skull, with a few feathers still attached. The feathers were black, striped with a rich blue. They were beautiful.

The cats must have eaten the entire body, including the spine. There was also a foot, and part of a talon. And more feathers. A wee spot of blood on the main landing. Savages.

Sharon wasn’t home yet – I decided to clean all this up sooner rather than later, so I tossed out the few tiny parts I could find and vacuumed up the rest. I left the blood where it was.

The nest had been inside a retaining wall holding up the top level of the back garden. Mummy-bird would land on a tree overhanging the wall, check things out, then make a perfect line in and through her wee hole in the wall. She’d feed her chicks and soon emerge, off to look for more.

 

 

I’d been watching mummy-bird and her nest for awhile. But the cats soon figured it out and they wouldn’t let up. It was the hunting spot for the locals. Mostly it was Ruby, crouching, waiting, for what seemed like hours at a time. Sometimes Shack took an interest, and the black mongrels from next door. But this was Ruby’s bird.

I watched from the window of my study. I liked seeing mummy-bird, following her mummy-bird instincts. But I couldn’t think what to do about the cats’ useless instincts. There were options, sure, but they involved 2 by 4’s and chicken wire. I wasn’t up for it. I decided that instead of busting my back I’d just let nature take its course.

But now I can’t help asking myself if my laissez-faire attitude is a symptom of something deeper. I made my choice, but what does that say about the broader human values within me? I feel torn. I did have a choice. But instead of saving her and her chicks’ lives, I went for the easier option and let “nature” take her course.

But what course is that? Letting my sadistic cats mutilate and torture this poor bird over a period of hours, while the chicks died of starvation?

After Sharon got home I went up to the wall and had a peek. Darkness. I put my ear to the hole. Silence. I stayed for a few minutes, listening at the various other cracks and holes. Nothing. Later on I went back with flashlight for another look. I was just about to give up when I saw it. My breath caught for a moment. He was tiny, but his beak looked formidable. I bet he would have caught lots of good stuff. A single black bug was crawling over him. No feathers on this guy yet. His skin was still glistening. He was dead.

I came back to my study and thought about it. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I felt so sad, yet there was something aside the sadness. I could almost feel my heart closing. I heard the clink, saw the dull glint of hardened steel.

The hole is too small to get the dead chicks out. Maybe, if I really tried, but then what? For what? I can’t describe how sad that makes me. Not just that they’re dead. It’s more the clink I heard that saddens me.

Maybe I should also mourn all the worms and bugs that mummy-bird killed to feed her young ‘uns. But I have no connection to worms and bugs.

Our backyard seems empty now. It’s incredible how much life this one little bird brought to it, just flying here and there, finding the good stuff, flitting and singing and perching. She seemed a happy bird, enjoying her work. I’m sure Ruby enjoyed her work too. But hers was a cruel work, without purpose and mindless of consequence.

There’s plenty of hidey-holes left in the wall. Maybe next spring we’ll get another nest. If so, you can be sure I’ll be ready with the 2 by 4’s and the chicken wire.

Motorcycles, Roundabouts, Placentas… and Bruce

This is a follow-up post to a Guest Post I did for Elgin Street Irregulars, in Ottawa. Who knows, maybe they’ll post this one too…

UPDATE:

Now posted on Elgin Street Irregulars, complete with an excellent illustration by 4D.

Motorcycles, Roundabouts, Placentas… and Bruce

I need to do something about the placenta in the freezer. My wife refuses to put anything into the same compartment. She says she won’t eat anything that’s been near it.

My plan was to dry it and crush it up, then bring the powder to my father’s cottage in Wakefield, Quebec. I was going to plant a maple tree with it.

But apparently it takes about 12 hours to dry a placenta properly, and it smells up the house. She’s having none of it. So. Seems I have to get rid of it.

Speaking of motorcycles: I like the roundabouts here, but I sure miss driving on the right. It’s the biker wave. You can’t really do it properly over here. The controls are on the same side, but because the roads are backwards, the wave looks like you’re waving to someone on the sidewalk (pavement) to your left, rather than someone across the road on your right. (Most of us have learned that the wave must be executed with the left hand, to keep the right on the throttle and covering the brake). So if you want to wave, instead of just coolly letting your left hand off and giving a wee flick, you have to raise your hand high enough so the other guy will see it. It’s too awkward. I won’t do it.

Bruce is 11 and ½ weeks old now. (Why can’t he just be three months old? When do we stop counting in weeks?) He turned out to be more than I thought. He’s just so beautiful. I get to see him change every day, developing, figuring stuff out. He looks at me this certain way sometimes, this look that says: I am alive, and I find it quite good indeed.

But the thing is, he doesn’t look like a baby. He looks like his own witty wee soul. He’s already here. He’s sentient, self-aware, and already has a sense of humour. And I’m his Dad.

At first I tried the head nod. But what if you were just bouncing over a bump? It wasn’t clear. Then an Irish biker friend told me that Europeans wave with their feet. Good idea – that right foot isn’t usually doing anything special anyways. So I tried it. I felt stupid. Like, really stupid. So I tried something else – using my right knee, foot on the peg, but opening my leg a little. It didn’t feel stupid. It felt wrong, like I was sending a signal. And I never got a response. I wonder what would have happened if I tried that in Germany. In black leather.

Back on the Bike That Blew, I settled for the head tilt, a popular option in Scotland. A nod with a rightward spazz of the neck. But it was so unsatisfying.

The new Kawasaki Versys I’m riding has a high slam trigger switch, like pulling the turn signal stalk on a car. This is how I now acknowledge my motorcycling brethren. No contortions of the head, no left arm raised in the air like some fucked up salute, and no encouraging the Germans. Just a flick of the high beams.

The wave is an important part of the biking experience. It means more than just hey, look at us, we’re bikers! It means we recognize the awesomeness of it. It means we respect each other for keeping the rubber side down. It means we’ll help each other when we’re in trouble.

I can’t wait to get Bruce on the back of the bike. My wife says, “No. No way in hell”. But I know just what she means. She means: “I know there’s no way of stopping you. Just promise me you’ll be safe”. And I will.

All the firsts are all the time. Just like that, he’s now telling us stories. I don’t understand every nuance, but I think I’m getting his drift. It’s a hell of a thing! He’s going to blow my mind when he first speaks.

The placenta? I can’t just throw it out, not after all this. So I’ve been meaning to bury that placenta in the backyard. I just haven’t got around to it. And it’s sure to come up again, in the middle of an argument about something else entirely. I need to head that off. But I just can’t seem to find the shovel.