Miss Boaty and the Beasts

Hygiene Bedamned

2010-07-20T13:19:00.000-07:00

If the truth be known, I don't really like showering. On a boat, I like it even less. Showering on a boat is compared sometimes to standing in a closet with a wet dog. The shower on my boat is converted into a closet, so the comparison is partly true in my case. And seeing how there's often a wet dog sleeping in my bathroom... I digress.

Sailors out at sea for long periods of time often use a shower that comes in a small plastic box. It's called HUGGIES my friends. There are lots of ways to keep the important bits clean without showering. Nuff said...

Today I was interrogated on my shower aversion. I said, sure it's easy for you to shower in a house. You jump out of bed and walk into the shower. I have to get fully dressed BEFORE I shower, walk the equivalent of a city block to the shower building, carrying a backpack full of toiletries. On the way down the dock, I may run into up to six people: people who will offer me coffee or liquor; people who will ask me directions to another dock; people who will want to discuss the latest book they lent me, people who need their boat caught while docking. All of this is fine, but it does not make for a 'quick shower'. Once inside the building, I enter an area fairly unsecured from the general public. I can only assume there is a spycam watching me shower. This is not vanity. If there isn't a spycam, a member of the league of perverts has truly disappointed perverts worldwide by missing such an opportunity. OY! Once showered, I get dressed, and walk back up the dock, repeating the whole process. I guess what I'm trying to say is, showering is definitely something I unashamedly reserve for special occasions and as a courtesy to those who sign my paycheque. And to the interrogator, you know who you are, assume I will NOT be showering before you come over and let me cook you dinner...

A Visit to Loonyburg, Nova Scotia

2010-07-15T11:31:00.000-07:00

In the spring, I visited Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. While walking up and down the quaint streets of this fine maritime town, I came across a very mean kitty. When I tried to pet this charming little alley cat, it bit me on the hand. Then I took a picture!

The Picton Castle was moored in the harbour of Lunenburg. On the night of December 8, 2006, as the Picton Castle was roughly 760 south-east of Cape Cod, the ship encountered bad weather; a wave swamped the ship, sweeping one of the crew overboard. The person swept overboard was later identified as lead seaman Laura Gainey, daughter of Bob Gainey and respected member of the Picton Castle professional crew. She was never found. The ship looked damn eerie the day I saw it.

And in light of that tragic event at sea, I found this adjacent marble memorial rather moving.

The Inferno

2010-07-09T12:01:00.000-07:00

What can I say about the heat wave that hasn't already been said? I was happy to be on the lake instead of in the concrete jungle which by all accounts was at least 5 degrees warmer. Sadie enjoys cooling off at the beach, digging for morsels of dead fish, crumbs of bread and bits of ecstasy tablets left behind by naked revellers. The old yacht heated up nicely moored on the dock. The lampshade wilted like Scarlett Ohara. The stairs morphed into a ramp. And my Advil liquigels melted into one big capsule - if only I could find a whale with a migraine.

And Then There Were Eight

2010-06-13T10:12:00.000-07:00

Duck is tasty, just ask the French or Chinese. And if you can engage a Pike in a coherent conversation, he will also concur about the culinary merits of canard. At the beginning of the season, we see fresh families of ducks, usually with about nine baby ducks in tow. As the season progresses, the baby ducks dwindle down to about two or three. The pike swimming around the marina take their fair share. But kudos to this local mama who manages to keep her numbers high. In the middle of June she remains at eight. I count the ducks in this family whenever I see them swim by. By now, her small charges are almost large enough to avoid becoming Pike food.

A Rousing Game of Strappy (Gratuitous Nudity Included)

2010-06-09T09:35:00.000-07:00

This week found us over at Hanlan's Point beach sans ball. The angels sighed, the fabric of the time space continuum tore a little bit and the Yorkie whined emphatically. How could we possibly be at the gay nude beach without a ball to entertain Sir Yorkiness. The ball is his elixir. If I was drinking beer, was the Yorkie not entitled to enjoy himself equally, to frolic with the nudies and chase balls like everyone else on the beach?

Luckily we were with a resourceful gentleman, both an entrepreneur and a dog lover. He removed the shoulder strap from his cooler bag and rolled it into a magical ball like shape. Ira was very skeptical at first, but he gave it the old college try. At least someone was throwing something. The strap unravelled upon impact with the sand on the first few throws and resumed its unmagical shape of a cooler shoulder strap. The entrepreneur soldiered on, determined to create the game of fetch the dog so desired. After a few more throws, the strap became tangled and wet, assuming the slightly magical shape of a piece of soggy bark. Good enough thought the Yorkie, game on. And for the next hour he fetched strappy on the beach and out of the lake. A good time was had by all.

If it flies, floats or fu@ks...

2010-06-03T10:57:00.000-07:00

I recently ate dinner with some old tycoon and we got on the subject of boats. He said, "Darling, let me give you some advice, the same advice given to me by a Sicilian business man of my acquaintance: 'If it flies fucks or floats, just rent it.'" I already know boats are an expensive ownership proposition. Knowing what I know about boats, I assume planes are fiscally punitive too. And women! Well, I've witnessed lots of expensive divorces. I imagine renting women is probably cheaper if you do the math on trading a million dollar house for seven years of nookie. So anyway, I took the Sicilian's second hand advice and just rented a boat this year. And it's a big boat. One could say it's a yacht. Mind you, it's quite an old yacht, before you think I've gone all uppity. But what's the main benefit of yacht rental you ask? There's one that really comes to mind and it goes like this: "I live on a yacht."

Fly Oh Fly

2010-06-03T10:53:00.001-07:00

There is one fly, a friendly fly. He's on my feet and in my eye.
I wish the hell he'd just fly out. I chase, I swat, I scream and shout.
He takes a nap upon my toe. Where I am, he has to go.
He sleeps at night on a banana peel. Wakes me up at six with a squeal.
The door is open, won't he take a hint? Must I spell it out in fine print?
I grabbed a book and swat him dead. I can still hear him in my head.

Travellin' Times

2009-12-04T21:38:00.001-08:00

Y'all. We never meant to leave on a sad note. We just got busy moving and seeing our therapist for several hours a day because we had to move back to land. But we're OK now. We have adjusted back to life on land. Baths, ovens, central heating: such luxuries!

We are currently landlocked and snowbound in Alberta. That's right, I put all the dogs on a plane and we flew across the country to spend an extended holiday season reconnecting with my landlubber family.

If you've never been to my site before, please start at the beginning. If you're an old friend, thanks for reading. We will be back in the Spring for more adventures. And if I cook anything up in the meantime, I'll let you know. Happy holidays kids!

The original travelling Yorkie packed up his Hobo suitcase and hit the road:

Sadie chilling in the prairie grass, the usual complex inner dialogue running through her head:

Birdhouses:

Moving Day

2009-11-02T10:28:00.000-08:00

And so we piled everything into the car and headed for land.

The drama of the brokenhearted

2009-10-25T10:57:00.001-07:00

I feel like a high school girl spending the last week of summer with a boyfriend who's heading off to university in the fall. The young lovers spend every moment together, memorizing the lines of each other's body, the pitch of a laugh, never wanting to be far apart whether they're doing something or nothing at all. It feels just like that, except the object of my affection is a boat. In about four or five days, the boat will come out of the water for the winter. Every morning I languish in bed a bit longer than necessary, knowing I'll be waking up without her soon, on land, in a bed that doesn't rock and sway. And when I get up in the morning then, no one will yell across the dock to invite me over for breakfast. My morning pee will take place 10 steps from my bed, not running down a dock with my legs crossed to the warm bathroom trailer. This afternoon, I dozed in the sunny cockpit listening to Stuart Maclean on the CBC, feeling every story was precious. Not because I'll never listen to Stuart Maclean again, but because it will never be this moment again, with my boat, and the dogs on their sides in the sun. It's hard to keep me on land for any amount of time right now. Leaving the boat is time I'm not spending with her, time wasted. And I'm disproportionately happy when I come back to the boat, even after a few short hours away. Regular chores make me maudlin. Is this the last time I'll fill her water tank before it's over? Is this the last time I'll spray dirt off her sagging aft deck? Oh, how I'll miss scrubbing seagull shit off her wide bow. Indeed, I have been reduced to a lovesick teenager by an old boat made of fibreglass, faded vinyl and rough wood.

Functionally drunk

2009-10-22T11:36:00.000-07:00

I have always enjoyed a few stiff drinks. And I probably drink more socially than my contemporaries, those with children, mortgages and full time jobs. People who have prioritized the latter over spending an afternoon in the pub telling tall tales. I've also been known to drink antisocially. To each their own. And boats and booze just seem to go together. I remember reading somewhere that boating is no place for drunks, at least for drunks who are making a go of being sober. I climbed out of the cabin this morning and was immediately invited for coffee and Amarula by one of my remaining neigbhours. It was 9 in the morning. Of course I accepted. We hugged warm boozy coffee mugs sitting at the picnic table, red and orange leaves dancing around our feet. I wasn't always a morning drinker; I mistakenly used to believe that was the domain of hardcore alcoholics. No one civilized drank before noon. BAH, what did I know then. I don't drink any more now, but I don't drink any less. I just drink smarter. I have become enlightened to the allure of a few white wines with lunch. Millions of wealthy divorcees sitting around restaurants at noon downing Sauvignon can't be wrong. Yesterday I swilled half a bottle of Campari at 2 in the afternoon, feet hanging over the dock, watching a friend drain their oil and dry their spark plugs. It just made me more helpful. And what's wrong with a stiff martini before work? Why wait till after work like everyone else? Every passion has its learning curve. I may have become a better sailor this summer, but I also became a better drinker.

I Can Haz Cheezburger

2009-10-20T10:52:00.000-07:00

Yep, that's what it's come down to, a gratuitous kitten photo. Who in their right mind can resist a little baby kitten? No wonder they fool the humans so well, making their way into human homes, only to grow into cats. This little devil recently joined a marina family. By next year, kitty will be stalking rabbits and bringing dead mice aboard.

Full Time Jimmy Jams

2009-10-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

A blissful Saturday morning here. I went over to my girl friend's boat for breakfast. We ate eggs and bacon in our pyjamas. And then I danced to Lady Gaga with a 10 year old boy. These days, I only change out of my pyjamas if I'm going into the real world. In fact, someone just said to me, "you're like Hugh Hefner, always in your pyjamas." Maybe next year I'll get a paisley silk robe and wander around the marina, leaving no further doubt that I have indeed lost my mind.

Chicken Soup for Boaters

2009-10-15T08:20:00.000-07:00

Being sick on a boat doesn't have much to recommend it. And having a cold on a cold boat during during cold weather, even less so. At full blast, my little ceramic heater has managed to get the temperature up to about 11 degrees inside. That's 9 degrees or so less than room temperature. It's sort of like being sick in a walk-in cooler. I am sitting under a pile of duvets huddled with the dogs, trying to remember the good times. And all I can remember is being sick another time on a boat under less than ideal conditions. I contracted Norwalk Virus while sailing the Caribbean on a tall ship. Our boat was moored in St. Kitts for a day or so, right next to the Queen Elizabeth II, which was quarantined 2 weeks later for a Norwalk epidemic. TA DA, I was sick 24 hours after being moored next to the QEII.

The normal smell of marine toilets is usually enough to make me dry heave. But it's even worse when you're hugging a marine toilet during rough seas and the holding tank is full of other people's waste, stinking and sloshing about 5 feet from your vomiting face... Need I go on? Not pleasant. But I think I would trade this cold for that Norwalk virus. After the Norwalk, I was 5 pounds thinner and swimming in the Caribbean 5 minutes after it ended. This cold isn't as promising...

The Angry Risotto: A Parable

2009-10-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

Late one afternoon, near the beginning of the season, I made some risotto for an open air communal dinner. I tried something new, a sweet potato, spinach, feta, and pine nut risotto. A very vegetarian dish to be sure. Before I started cooking, in the middle of a perfectly enjoyable afternoon, I received a blood boiling text from the ex. I fumed as I started to cook, chopped the potatoes, sauteed the onion and garlic, boiled up the vegetable stock and roasted the nuts. And boy did I roast those nuts. I had been looking forward to cooking the risotto, but now it was just a chore I resented. In the movie 'Like Water for Chocolate', a heartbroken woman prepares a dish for a wedding banquet, all the while crying into the large simmering pot in front of her. When the guests eat the dish she's prepared, they all start to cry, thinking of their own lost loves as they consume her tears. My risotto was not sad, just very angry. It was received blandly by those who ate it, no one raved. Someone suggested it lacked flavour and that I should have roasted the nuts differently. There wasn't enough 'stuff' in it. I was just glad there was no fighting among the diners after they ate the angry risotto. But when you mix that kind of anger with vegetarian risotto, you get something sort of dull and unsatisfying, like anger itself.

Fast forward to now. On a recent trip to the grocery store, I walked by a beautiful display of Italian ingredients: squid ink pasta, expensive balsamic vinegars, and things I'd never heard of before. I spotted a charming little jar labelled "Crema Tartuffo": white truffle cream. The ingredient itself was unfamiliar to me, but what a thing to build a dish around I thought... And so I decided to make white truffle risotto for our dockside Thanksgiving dinner. I googled the recipe and found a variety of ways to make this dish, which the internet unanimously hailed as decadent and delicious. On a brisk and sunny Sunday afternoon, in great spirits, I poured myself a tall glass of Pinot Noir and set about cooking the risotto. Paul Simon played in the background, upbeat and infectious. I felt calm, confident and in charge. I used more chicken stock then I normally would for flavour. My shallots and garlic were finely chopped. Lots of wine. Heaps of mushrooms. Lashings of butter went in. And so did a big pile of expensive grated parmesan. A generous pour of full fat cream. And to finish it all off, a whopping dollop of white truffle cream. This was a luxurious and heartfelt risotto with nothing spared. It should have been served with a side of Lipitor. And it was a hit. The hostess had two servings, one for dinner and one for dessert. It's difficult to draw attention from the bird of honour at a Thanksgiving dinner, but women from the end of the table came up and raved. What is that dish? What's the seasoning? I said it's white truffle risotto of course; pigs find truffles buried in the ground. Well it's divine they said. So rich. Simple but extravagant. Understated but over the top. And that's how my risotto evolved in the course of a season. And me too, Grasshopper.

Great Weather for Huskies

2009-10-10T10:29:00.000-07:00

Here's one of our local banshees, Calliope. She seems practically animated as she just finished devouring the snout of a cooked pig at the pig roast.

And the most recent weather warning from our boys over at Environment Canada: "A large bubble of Arctic high pressure will settle across the lower lakes tonight accompanied with generally clear skies and light winds. This will produce ideal conditions for ground frost as the mercury is expected to dip below the freezing mark in most localities." Bring it...

Marina's Most Wanted

2009-10-08T10:38:00.000-07:00

This is one of the little urchins causing mayhem around here. There seems to be a bold and rampant population of juvenile raccoons, probably born during the garbage strike when pickings were good. Now pickings are slimmer and these little coons have become public enemy number one. They are on everyone's boat, eating whatever they can get into with their tiny little opposable thumbs. I was walking by the garbage the other day, a lidded wooden enclosure about 5 feet by 4 feet. The Yorkie started sniffing at it and subsequently lost his mind. I hesitantly opened the lid and sure enough, two teenage coons were nestled inside a garbage can. A woman I know came along and had a look too. Then some of the menfolk stopped by to see what all the fuss was about. One of the guys took the garbage can out and shook the raccoons loose. Methinks that if it wasn't for the female presence, these young coons would have met a sudden and violent end rather than returning to the wild.

Storm before and after...

2009-10-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

Storms blow in pretty quickly around here and they can blow out just the same. During a recent pig roast, a whopper descended without notice, wreaked havoc and then took off for Buffalo, like a drunk person who crashes your party while everyone else is still sober, eats all your food and then passes out on the pile of coats.

Moral Outrage in Leslieville

2009-10-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

Toronto is very much a brunch town. On the weekends, everyone stumbles out of bed and heads for that deliciously lazy hybrid meal named after breakfast and lunch. I was among the bleary eyed and hungry searching for sustenance on the weekend. My friend and I went to our usual place, Edward Levesque, but they had a lineup out the door, no thanks. And it was only noon. Their food is urbane and their Pinot Grigio cold - a couple of glasses make for a perfectly genteel brunch time buzz. I am also strangely attracted to the surly and unhappy servers and a menu that wittily discourages both children and cell phones in their place of business. Alas, we wandered down the road and found a textbook greasy spoon, the Leslieville Diner. I Urbanspooned the Diner on my iPhone and saw a couple of comments like 'terrible service' but 'reliable and average food'. We were getting pretty hungry so we went in. The vibe was strange and dingy in this small place and the servers seemed harried. We sat for a few minutes unnoticed, but my friend noticed that there was no liquor license and we both admitted to craving a spicy Ceaser. We started mulling over the possibility of leaving. After all, there were plenty of other places to dine along Queen Street. When we got up to leave, a server finally appeared and I said, "Sorry, we're going to leave. We see you don't have a liquor license." We had been temporarily seated next to a table of what I can only describe as crusty old farts. Four senior men who'd probably been sitting in the diner for the better part of the morning relaying useless facts back and forth. As we passed by their table to leave, one of them said loud enough for everyone to hear, but didn't address us directly, "It's a little early to start drinking don't you think?". We were impervious to this brunch time judgment hurled our way and tumbled out of the Diner laughing. We happened upon a most charming spot up the road at the OK Diner. We were seated immediately, brought two Ceasars and served a delightful little brunch. If I wanted judgment on a Sunday, I'd probably skip brunch and go to church.

How Quickly We Forget

2009-09-30T09:05:00.000-07:00

Marinas often have an informal book exchange located in the laundry area. I haven't found great quality books in ours, unless I want to reread Cujo, but I do find a few magazines. Recent Hello mags offer guilty pleasure. Old National Geographics are good for rainy days. Fresh Macleans supply snappy reportage on current affairs. Yesterday I found a couple of big glossy sailing and boating magazines. I like to refer to such publications as 'boat porn' because like regular porn, they often leave the reader drooling and fantasizing about completely unattainable vessels. In Yachting World I read an opinion piece about why we keep going back to sea; apparently it's because we have short memories. And I quote: "Sailing follows a mathematical formula. While this varies from individual to individual, based on the voyage type, the pleasure quotient is generally agreed to be 70 per cent anticipation, 30 per cent reality and the ratio of fun to non-fun days is 2:1... the start of a voyage, the end of it and the bits spent secured to land are the most interesting." In essence we forget the bad parts of boating and only remember the good. 'Never again' means 'maybe next year'.

The Vendée Globe is regarded by many as the ultimate in ocean racing; the only single-handed non-stop race around the world without assistance. In the 1992 Vendée Globe, Bertrant de Broc had to stitch his own tongue back on without anaesthetic after accidentally biting it off. In 1996, Peter Goss was forced to operate on his elbow with a head torch and a hand mirror. I'm not even going to pretend I endure comparable hardships. All I wanted to say is that I'd totally forgotten how cold it gets on a boat this time of year. I mean completely and utterly forgotten. And I swear, as I sit in the cockpit writing this wearing wool socks and pyjamas, a sailor preparing to haul out just walked by and said, "Are you STILL camping out?" I said, "Sure, this is just when things start to get interesting..."

Hard Old Eye Candy

2009-09-26T09:39:00.000-07:00

Boating is a macho and male dominated pursuit. At most marinas, it's safe to say that men outnumber women at a ratio of 10:1, probably more. I am not counting couples in this wholly unscientific statistic. Of the 30 or so boats moored on my dock, there is a lesbian couple down the way on a sailboat and a woman who owns a powerboat and frequently stays aboard with her boyfriend. 'Single' women owning and/or living on boats are rare. In the entire marina of about 300 boats or so, I know of 3 or 4 other women who live aboard alone or own their own boat. That puts the ratio at about 100:1 around here. Startling, even if it's actually half of that - a situation akin to Alaska where men outnumber women and women become a sought after commodity. I am going somewhere with this...

One of my neighbours reminds me of a Tony Soprano character; late 40s, Prada sunglasses, Italian loafers, social visits from the cops and a predilection for entertaining chainsmoking bottle blondes on his boat in the middle of the afternoon. Whenever I pass by, he's all "How you doin' sweetheart?" and "Darlin' where you been?", a real smooth operator - about as subtle as a ten ton truck. I was walking down the dock a few weeks ago and the smooth operator was in the cockpit drinking beer with a few friends. I saw him nudge his buddies as I approached. Then he jumped onto the swim platform and started chatting me up in front of his pack. I asked a young guy I know what this sort of male behaviour meant. Why was he nudging his friends before I approached and shamelessly chatting me up in front of his pals? My young friend said, "I think you must be the dock eye candy." This is not the answer I was expecting...

I am a woman in my late 30s who could stand to lose 20 pounds. I don't make any pretense to being a sex symbol or a femme fatale. But I guess from a biological perspective, primates will be primates and if there's a shortage of females to court, you take what's available. Around here, that makes me eye candy. So if you want to feel alive go to a cemetery. If you want to feel thin, go to a weight watchers meeting. If you want to be eye candy, come to a marina. My young friend suggested I remind the smooth operator that candy might taste good, but if you bite it the wrong way, it can break your teeth.

Tempus Fugit: Even the Monarchs are skipping town.

2009-09-24T10:01:00.000-07:00

My neighbour said, "I think we're calling it a day" as he and his wife hauled stuff off their big old Sea Ray. And then there were just a few reckless souls living aboard. The countdown has begun to the official end of the season. Boats are being hauled out of the water every hour. Staff has been whittled down. People are no longer eating outside. Even the mosquitoes have called it quits, thankfully. But there are still a few Monarch butterflies left, stragglers on the big annual migration to the warmer climes of Mexico. I think the Monarch has the right idea.

Morning Has Broken

2009-09-22T09:58:00.000-07:00

Oy, someone didn't want to get out of bed this morning (love those little tic tac teeth)...

Men Overboard!

2009-09-20T09:45:00.000-07:00

Creepy. A body washed up right next to the marina yesterday afternoon. When I was Googling for news on the event, I discovered that a surprising number of bodies wash up in the Great Lakes. Unidentified bodies. How does it get to the point where you disappear into Lake Ontario and it barely makes the news? And then I got to remembering an old statistic from boat school somewhere down the line. More than half the men found in the water have their pants undone. That's because they often fall overboard while peeing. Men, be careful out there. I am the first to acknowledge that those extra dangly bits of skin come fraught with all sorts of problems and danger.

Complacency in the Wild

2009-09-17T10:07:00.000-07:00

The raccoons are a pretty regular event onboard now whether I leave garbage in the cockpit or not. Hell, the dogs don't even bark anymore when the coons climb on the boat at 3am. The other night I heard quite a commotion. When I looked into the cockpit, there were three very large coons throwing my rubber boots around, tossing the dog bowls into the air and flinging the garbage bag to and fro. When I opened the door, they jumped off the boat and stood by the dock box looking at me the way teenage boys look at a parent who turns down the volume on the stereo. I am now sleeping in the santized and re-functioned aft berth, formerly the poop deck. The aft berth is underneath the cockpit. Most recently when I heard the roving gang of reprobates come aboard, I couldn't even be bothered to get out of bed. I just kicked the ceiling of the aft berth a few times, like a parent banging the ceiling with a broom handle when the stereo is too loud upstairs. And I heard them slowly shuffle off the boat.

Well Hello Boys...

2009-09-15T07:09:00.001-07:00

I spend a lot of time and energy training the Yorkie NOT to jump on or off boats by himself. At the beginning of the season, we had it down pat. And then I got a bit lax, allowing him to jump on and off a tugboat or my boat now and then. Dogs don't understand the concept of 'sometimes it's okay'. They subscribe more to the school of 'give me an inch and I'll take a mile'. And so now, much to the Yorkie's confusion, our original rules have been reinstated. The danger doesn't come from jumping; the danger comes from missing, especially if he's not supervised. Or if an engine is running. But during our morning pee today, we came across a big red Canadian Coast Guard boat moored up right in the middle of the marina. Ira trotted over to the boat, sniffed a crew member's leg and hopped aboard. The Yorkie's casual style indicated he was very comfortable aboard Coast Guard vessels. I expected the dog to start regaling the crew with stories about all his years in the Navy or some such. Ira was duly reprimanded for taking liberties with Crown Assets, but I had to credit his taste. Maybe I can send him on a tour of duty protecting Canada's Arctic sovereignty.

Marina CSI

2009-09-14T10:57:00.001-07:00

I am certain that on occasion, true romance is forged from the rough collision of metals; like a love match resulting from a fender bender during rush hour. But gentlemen, I can assure you, the drunken destruction of a woman's property is not usually the way to her heart. We prefer the immense pressure placed on carbon for millions of years that creates diamonds. But I digress. On Saturday morning I got up and noticed skid marks on the dock by my boat and a mat like the one you'd find on a car floor. I didn't think much of it until I went to open my dock box and found the clasp and lock already smashed off. I rummaged through the dock box, searching for the things I'd rather keep than lose. Everything was in order, but something was afoot. I sprung into Marina CSI mode with the clues I had at my disposal. It slowly dawned on me that there must have been a collision between my dock box and the drunken would-be Lothario who drives his scooter up and down the dock. I walked down to the end of the dock and made a positive match between the mat lying on the dock and the scooter parked next to Lothario's houseboat/den of iniquity. The scratch marks on the scooter were also consistent with the height of the scuffs on my dock box. I had managed to solve a mystery at 7.30am, faster than Nancy Drew, all while operating on a serious sleep deficit. Impressive.

And just out of curiosity, I waited a couple of days to see if the perpetrator would come forward himself. Human nature rarely disappoints; a confession was not forthcoming. But when confronted, he was sheepish and quick to admit to the collision. He was even a bit flirty, but not outrightly lewd like he had been a couple months ago while making a gamey proposition at a dockside party. When he came to fix the clasp himself today, I made myself scarce, not wanting to lead the Lothario on to believe that this incident might open the door for a great romance, let alone any brief or indecent coupling. I issued a flat thanks before leaving and went on my way, reminding myself not to be effusive since this wasn't the same as a favour from a man who fixes something of mine that he didn't actually break.

The Long Weekend or Nobody Pees on Baby

2009-09-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

A small photographic retrospective of the Long Weekend. They say time flies when you're having fun, but I find it almost stands still. And so it did this weekend in what turned out to be the longest weekend in recent memory. I took three separate trips to the island on two different boats. Good times were had. Pictured below is the view from the wall over on Hanlan's Point looking back toward the city. I was standing on two of three boats rafted together. Watching the annual airshow from the beach, the dogs were forced to sit under an occupied beach chair for shade. And they had to *gasp* touch. The strung out half asleep dog doesn't seem too bothered. We were front and centre for the airshow with jets flying at dangerously low and deafening altitudes over the beach. While out for a swim, the lifeguard rowed over to say we couldn't go past a certain point because we would be in the 'crash zone.' But I had to wonder if an extra 30 feet would really make such a difference if a jet hit the water or the sand. And isn't defying all the laws of gravity, physics and common sense half the fun of an airshow?

Nothing beats a reflective Husky surveying the city on the way back from the island Monday night. We had some city slickers onboard for the third and final trip to the island. They wandered off the beach to seek shade because they were wearing jeans, motorcycle boots and other non beach attire in temps of 30 degrees. When we couldn't find them, I suggested maybe they were reading a wilderness survival guide over in the bushes. My friend quipped, "Yeah, it's called 'How to Survive a Day on the Beach.'"

Battling the Stink

2009-09-07T09:35:00.000-07:00

I'm in love with the weather right now. Constantly sunny and about 25 degrees. The perfect temperature for hauling Sadie's mattress out of the aft berth and scrubbing the foam and cover on the dock. I came home last night and there was a pervasive smell of mildew, poo and dog hanging about in the cabin. And the other day, a little girl came onboard, stuck her head in the aft berth and declared, "It stinks in there", the way an adult never would. That was the last straw for me. And maybe it stinks because the Yorkie uses the aft as his personal toilet if he's not under supervision. All my scrubbing and spraying and covering the mattress over the months has done little to allay that smell. Mix in a bunch of nighttime humidity and voila, you've got a poop deck! Getting the mattress out of the boat was like wrestling a Sumo. Then pretty much everyone has to come over and see what you're doing. What's that crazy dog lady up to now? Stay tuned, who knows what she might do next...

The Indifferent Muskrat

2009-09-04T09:42:00.001-07:00

Lately while walking down the dock at night, the dogs catch the scent or sight of something and run off madly chasing the phantom scent or sight until it disappears noiselessly into the water. My human eyes and nose are not privy to whatever this creature is lurking around the dock. I assumed it must be a rat. And I was close... I was chatting to a new employee Dave, who walks up and down the docks checking for visitors to the marina. I told him about the dogs' behaviour. Dave said it must be the muskrat. He continued, "Calvin (another employee) hates that muskrat something fierce." I wondered what could provoke someone to hate a muskrat. Dave concluded, "But I think the muskrat is pretty indifferent about Calvin." Indeed, I concurred, I'm sure the muskrat is quite indifferent.

A Fall from Grace

2009-09-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

Now that I no longer look like America's most wanted, I wanted to celebrate with a nice post about the Fall: the ephemeral nature of the seasons, the winding down of a glorious time onboard, great friends and good times, blah blah blah. What can I say, I was lacking material because of all the sunshine and butterflies flying out my ass. And then the boating blog gods sprang into action. While vacuuming the endless supply of Cocker Spaniel hair in the cockpit, the stair I was standing on collapsed. I smashed my leg and hit the fire extinguisher release lever, spraying toxic yellow powder all over EVERYTHING. Maybe it was the chemical poisoning that got me thinking about a few of my boating mishaps...

Injuries I have sustained living on a boat: too many bug bites to count, endless cuts, bruises, burns and infections, two dog bites, a cat bite (which landed me in emergency via the Police boat), a near drowning, a few insults and a concussion. All in all, nothing too serious.

Things I have lost living on a boat: a phone (everyone drops a phone in the lake at some point), shoes, a frying pan, a couple of boyfriends, a laptop, and an actual boat. The brand new laptop was an interesting story. I fell off a crooked dock after two large scotches aboard a boat with some noisy old parrots and the self proclaimed mayor of the island. Had I foreseen the future, I would have just foregone the brand new Mac Powerbook and sidled up to one of those fancy big city scotch bars and ordered two rarefied shots for $1500 a piece. Hindsight and all that.

But, come November 1, they will still have to drag me kicking and screaming back to land...

I am Not an Animal

2009-08-31T10:12:00.000-07:00

Apparently, I'm going to have to start sleeping in a beekeeper hat. Something nasty bit my face last night. Imagine waking up next to this. Worse, imagine being this. Now I know how the one-eyed Tilapia feels. Maybe wearing an eye patch around today will add to my allure. So far this morning, popular consensus says it's a spider bite. Popular consensus is two people drinking coffee on their boat and one guy carrying a new fish smoker down the dock.

Now I have a Jewish mother and that's how it goes...

2009-08-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about calamari all day. So I popped by Loblaw's on my way home and got some flour, panko crumbs, eggs, and canola oil but Loblaw's was out of calamari. I returned to the marina with everything I needed to make calamari, except the actual calamari and I couldn't get that squid off my mind. So I bummed a motorcycle ride from my friend Mark to the Chinese grocery store, TNT. Neither of us had any plans, so we stopped for beer and wings on the way to TNT. A couple beers and a pound of wings later, we finally headed to TNT to buy the calamari. Once there, I texted a friend to see if they were having dinner on the dock. A few minutes later, while I was staring at a one-eyed Tilapia in the live fish tank, my phone rang. It was Esther, our marina matriarch. She was animated and high pitched: "Where are you guys? What is taking you so long? Dinner is almost ready. Get back here right now." I was confused because we had not made any dinner plans. We rode back to the marina and found a group assembled ready to eat. We were gently admonished for being so late. While I was cooking my calamari in a frying pan on the BBQ, I said to Esther, "I don't understand how I can be an hour and a half late for a dinner I wasn't even invited to". Esther said, "Now you have a Jewish mother. That's how it goes."

On Dog Time

2009-08-27T10:26:00.001-07:00

It must be the approaching autumnal equinox. I've been so sleepy the last couple of days that I've assumed dog time. That means sleeping for nine hours, getting up to pee, sip some water, and then back to bed for a two hour nap, possibly in a sunny spot. Then get up for a walk and eat some lunch. And that's when our schedules divert. I shower and go to work. They go back to sleep, naturally...

Not Keeping Up Appearances

2009-08-25T08:36:00.000-07:00

On my way into Canadian Tire to pick up some mosquito netting and a tarp for the boat, I noticed there was a sale at Mark's Work Wearhouse. I've bought winter boots and wooly socks there, but lo and behold, they had some nice looking summer clothes on their clearance rack. I guess retail marches into Fall despite daytime temperatures still reaching 27 degrees. I picked up a few tshirts, a pair of shorts and a dress. The dress is made of some miracle fabric resembling linen, patterned with brown flowers; a strappy number with a plunging neckline, an empire waist and a little ruffle around the bottom hem. I was surprised to find such a dress at Mark's Work Wearhouse, but the fact remains, the dress is from Mark's Work Wearhouse. It's hardly couture. But from the reactions I received dockside while wearing the dress, the ohhs and ahhhs, I might as well have been a debutante my at own cotillion. And my sad realization was not how great I looked, but how utterly awful I must look the rest of the time to ellicit such reactions of shock and surprise and amazement by wearing a simple dress from Mark's Work Wearhouse. I know my dockside fashion sense falls somewhere between second or third hand Nautica and homeless chic, but I had no idea wearing the dress would cause such a commotion. A couple days later, back in my cut off shorts and faded tshirt while doing laundry, one of our local bachelors asked me if I was carrying that smashing dress in my laundry bag. I had to laugh...

Fill yer Cupholders

2009-08-24T07:39:00.000-07:00

They say the happiest two days for a boater are the day you buy your boat and the day you sell your boat. About a week ago, Barb had a party. She sold her old Chris Craft after 15 years aboard because she wanted to spend more time with her grandchildren. And I would certainly imagine that grandchildren are considerably lower maintenance than a 40 year old wooden boat. And a week later, Steve had a party because he bought Barb's boat. Suffice it to say that one boat has been responsible for a fair amount of revellry around here lately.

Death can go Suck It.

2009-08-23T06:57:00.000-07:00

This is a shout out to one of my readers and condolences for the loss of your dear friend Iromi. In Iromi's honour, I'm posting two photos of a tenacious little Jack Russell named Big Al. I found him today in front of a local firehall loving it up with a stick 10 times his size.

Oh What a Night...

2009-08-21T09:55:00.000-07:00

I wasn't even on board last night when the tornadoes finally did hit the Toronto area. It's probably for the best or I'd have some kind of mad adrenaline hangover today. But in an effort to keep the boat dry in the impending storm, I tied a nice white trash tarp over the cockpit and canvas before I left, thereby contravening both marina rules and the standard rules of good taste. I was impressed with my solid knots and engineering insomuch as the tarp was still attached when I got home. My neighbour warned against such a tarp in high winds, so I assume I just got lucky. However, when the rain blows sideways at 60 kilometres an hour, the tarp does little to keep the boat dry and off to a soggy bed it was. And with a steady breeze blowing, I looked forward to a cool mosquito-less sleep. At about 2am, I woke to a stampede of dogs running roughshod over me in the Vberth to get out the half open door. A creature had come aboard the boat to rummage in the wastebasket. I assume this creature is the same small raccoon who has been climbing in through other people's hatches in broad daylight to feast on chips and crackers, leaving messes akin to the aftermath of a frat party. If the door had been open all the way, methinks there would have been a serious commotion in the middle of the night. When I finally settled back into bed, I could hear the mosquitoes buzzing my ears. The breeze had disappeared, ergo, no more respite from the squitters. So I got up again to drape everything in mosquito netting and settled back into sleep around 3am. Another restful night.

Scene of the Crime

2009-08-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

I'm not embarrassed to admit that sometimes I cry; big fat tears of sheer frustration. The old girly tears start running down my face now and then when it just gets to be too much. Days when your hands and feet are swollen with bites, you are covered in sweat, crawling around in a hot tiny berth, retching, cleaning up dog diarrhea for the third time in 12 hours. Intellectually, you know it's not exactly the end of the world, but you just get beaten down sometimes. Every single thing is 10 times harder on a boat. At that moment, when the faucet turns on, you forget about the times you're out on the water with just blue skies, feeling absolute freedom, when nothing else matters. Or biking home in the dark down the long winding road to the marina when the bay is still and shiny, feeling lucky that you live here, every single time. And so you just cry it all out and keep scrubbing. Oy, the glamour.

Gravity Creates Intimacy

2009-08-17T08:42:00.001-07:00

With a bit of speed, the bow of the boat tips up, putting the whole boat on a slight incline, meaning the dogs actually have to touch when they're sitting in the only spot they can under power. The boat has been plagued by a series of mechanical problems this season. But touch wood, she's running now and made it over to the island for 24 hours of eating, drinking, sweating, swimming and swatting mosquitoes. No trip to the islands would be complete without a swim at Hanlan's nude beach. And with temperatures in excess of 30 degrees, going swimming was actually mandatory, not just a nice leisure time activity. While I was in the water, Sadie managed to wander off. The combination of knowing we were on an island and that Sadie was wearing my phone number on her tag meant I wasn't too worried. And sure enough, about 15 minutes after the old lady disappeared, I got a call from a woman who said she had my dog. The woman said her group was sitting by the lifeguard station so off I went to retrieve the nomadic canine. I couldn't fault Sadie's style once I spotted her. She had wandered right into some kind of Calvin Klein ad full of exceptionally bronzed and good looking naked people. And now I'm back at the marina, languishing in the heat on the boat, stained, burned and bitten, like some kind of ad for the Red Cross.

Banned in France

2009-08-15T08:19:00.000-07:00

Ira, normally a fierce proponent of the secular model a la Sarkozy, is spotted sporting a head scarf late at night on the boat. Captain Ron was onboard drinking beer when he soiled his favourite t-shirt. I promised Captain Ron that if he left the shirt with me, I would use my super human stain fighting powers to return his shirt to its semi pristine state. In the meantime, Ira wrapped himself up in the shirt and said "Allahu Akbar. What's the fuss?"

Whisper This, Cesar

2009-08-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

Ira's inner monologue: "Oy. The human got another Dog Whisperer video from the library. Here we go again with the 'ccchhhing' and the behavioural modifications for a week. Why do the humans revere this tiny Mexican man with wheels on his feet? When will the humans recognize me as their natural leader? Oy."

The Complexity of a Cocker

2009-08-11T07:55:00.000-07:00

Sadie's Inner Monologue: "It's hot. I like kibble. Maybe I will spin in circles on my bum later. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Static."

Sadie's Choice starring Meryl Streep

2009-08-09T09:55:00.001-07:00

Yet another storm. Here's the weather warning on Environment Canada's website right before I hightailed it into the main bathroom with a quivering Yorkie tucked into my raincoat:

"A line of severe thunderstorms is moving through and may produce wind gusts of 100 km/h along with torrential downpours giving 50 millimetres or more in under an hour. Remember some severe thunderstorms produce tornadoes. Listen for updated warnings. Emergency management Ontario recommends taking cover immediately when threatening weather approaches. These storms have the potential to produce torrential downpours and damaging winds."

And my all time FAVOURITE QUOTE EVER from Environment Canada at the end: "An isolated tornado is not completely out of the question."

Leave it to a Canadian government employee to completely and politely understate TORNADO risk. I mean he's writing about a TORNADO, not how he replied when his grandma asked him if he'd like a cup of tea. I need to know if the END IS NEAR. And I'm not ashamed to say that when we bolted to the main bathroom (constructed out of cement) for cover, I left Sadie behind on the boat. She's heavier, not as fast or cooperative. She doesn't understand how to flee in terror. The Yorkie and I are more citified and highly strung creatures. I mean Sadie's tail was still wagging when it went black outside. You could Van Gogh Sadie's ear and she still wouldn't react. When she fell off the dock the other day and nearly drowned, she wagged her bloody tail after I hoisted her out of the water, not showing a hint of trauma. And after everything she's survived, how could a tornado be the end of her?

Permission to Buzz the Tower

2009-08-07T10:21:00.000-07:00

Apparently we are deep in mosquito season now. Some nights I have to get out of bed when I hear that maddening high pitched squeal in my ear, the telltale flyby of a mosquito like Tom Cruise buzzing the tower in Top Gun. Nothing puts a girl in a sleeping kind of mood like a bit of swatting and killing before bed, except perhaps a glass of warm milk. I duct taped some screen over the hatch, but duct tape doesn't stick too well to the carpeted ceilings. I wake up to more bites and dogs with pieces of duct tape stuck in their fur. I have taken to wearing my Hunter boots, instead of Deet, to communal dinners when it's perfectly sunny, much to the amusement of my neighbours. Dusk is never far off once a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio go down the hatch. Let's see the mosquitoes try and bite through rubber.

Holy Heck Toto, Hang on Tight

2009-08-05T08:31:00.001-07:00

Crikey. That was some kind of storm. When I first saw it tracking across the radar on NOAA, it looked small and mean, like a drunk little man itching for a bar fight. Lots of red in the centre of the blob moving across the screen, tracking right toward Toronto. And red never bodes well. I started getting nervous when Environment Canada began issuing Severe Thunderstorm warnings. Then I read about tornado warnings on another site. By the time the storm hit, we were all huddled in the aft berth hanging on for dear life. The wind was whipping the canvas right off the boat and all I could see out the window was white spray. In my mind, we were goners. Certainly a mast would come crashing across our bow when the tornado hit. Or the dock would fly through the air with the boat still attached, tossing us upside down in the middle of the lake, trapped and dramatically dead. I started composing my own tragic yet flattering eulogy. I honestly can't remember the last time I was scared of weather except driving through a very serious snowstorm in the Rockies in a tiny little Honda. During a lull, which I perceived to be the eye of the storm, I called our driver Fekadu, packed up the dogs and we got the hell out of dodge, favouring our odds on land. And what do you know, we survived.

Best. Mood. Ever.

2009-08-03T08:19:00.000-07:00

After a long week working, you have to love a day that conspires with you like a single girlfriend at a party full of good looking available men. You wake up from a perfect nine hour sleep, sunlight beaming in through the hatch. Luxuriating in crisp and mostly clean cotton sheets as you roll back and forth, knowing you don't have to get up for any reason except to pee. After the business that cannot be denied any longer is taken care of, you sit in the cockpit, smoke a cigarette while the dogs lay flat out enjoying the heat. You flip through a Conde Nast magazine you found in the bathroom, reading about St. Lucia. On a day so full of promise, you promise yourself a visit there, whenever. And when it's time for a coffee, the best one you've had all week, you blare Luba's "Let it Go" on the speakers, dancing in the cabin by yourself. You don't really care about the family that just walked by and saw you dancing. Most of the dock already thinks you're an eccentric/hermit/lesbian/pothead/weirdo. Not that there's anything wrong with that... You spill said coffee all over your leg, but who cares, cause it's time to change into your swimsuit and head over to the island where anything goes...

Hosing Down the Blonde

2009-08-02T08:47:00.000-07:00

Sadie's affinity for rolling in the dead and the decayed knows no bounds. In order to save us all from smelling like a fetid seagull, it is frequently necessary to hose the old lady down on the dock. She elicits sad clucks of sympathy from humans walking by; her head is hung low while she is scrubbed and lathered, stripped of both her dignity and malodorousness. But she manages to shake it all off 3 minutes later, like any cheerful blond should...

A Gentleman and A Scholar

2009-08-01T08:37:00.000-07:00

"Oy, you should know from books. The New York Times is expecting my reviews by Monday."

We Surrender to our Spider Overlords

2009-07-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

Boats and spiders just seem to go together. The first few nights I lived aboard, I was covered in spider bites. I could actually see the fang marks on my forearm with one particularly nasty bite. I started my campaign against the spiders. I spider bombed the boat when we were gone overnight. I sprayed the dock lines every couple days. I sprayed a lot of places. And it seemed to be working, for awhile. But then I'd step out into the cockpit in the morning only to walk through an enormous web. I started seeing spiders on the outside of the boat, webs were popping up overnight like Starbucks in gentrifying neighbourhoods. I was losing the battle. Just the other days, I was sitting in the cabin with my laptop open when a little spider dropped down from his long single thread right between me and the screen. I heard him ask, "What are you doing, updating your status on Facebook?". In May, I couldn't bear the thought of a spider in the same room with me. Now, I grabbed that nosy little spider in my fist and squeezed tight, merely wiping the carnage on my jeans. As the season wears on, you become a lot less squirmish about all kinds of things.

April Fresh Thundering Jesus

2009-07-27T08:16:00.000-07:00

Nothing beats the smell of fresh laundry. It sure the hell beats the smell of mildew, wet dog and soggy parmasean cheese on carpet. And it seems I'm not the only one who agrees. After days and days of pouring rain, the marina laundry room is a hub of activity. Usually by Monday morning, all the weekenders are back on land using their own washing machines at home, leaving the marina to the full timers. I loaded all the wet stinking things into the washer, including the sheet covered in dog blood from when we slept on our friend's boat over on the island. Sadie ripped out a claw attempting to ascend a ladder into our berth. I said to my friend, it wouldn't be a real visit from us if we didn't leave some blood or other bodily fluids behind, our proverbial signature in your guest book. We have a day or two to dry out before the rain comes again. And no one could be more thankful that the storms are over than Ira. He is a tiny ball of trembling wide-eyed terror while the thunder claps overhead and the boat bangs into the dock.

Nobody Likes a Snitch

2009-07-25T08:19:00.000-07:00

Word travels around a marina fast, like Peyton Place on meth. The list of marina rules and regulations is long and thorough. And like most rules, they are intended to protect the smart people from the stupid people. There are the obvious rules like you shouldn't fill your gas tank on the dock. One could construe this particular rule as a marina money grab, meaning you must buy more expensive marina gas rather than buying cheaper gas over at the gas station and bringing it here. But I don't mind a rule like that, a rule that prevents the stupid people from pouring flammable gas around willy nilly on the docks. I had a look at the rules the other day for the first time and was pleased to find I had broken a good deal of them, least of all, the leash rule. Rule #17 states that all dogs must be kept on leash everywhere on marina property. 95% of the dogs around here are well behaved and so that rule is frequently bent without incident. But there is a snitch among us. An anonymous tattle tale took a picture of two dogs offleash from a secret and undisclosed location and mailed it to the marina office. The rule violator owns two of the most well-behaved dogs in the marina but he received his 'first and final warning' as a result. Said rule violator unleashed his dogs for the homestretch down the dock to his boat, a distance of probably 100 feet. Grow some balls snitch cause when I find out who you are, I'm going to follow you day and night until I catch you cheating on your taxes, cheating on your wife, cheating at Scrabble and you are done for!

Six Months in a Leaky Boat

2009-07-23T06:43:00.000-07:00

It feels like it's been raining for days but what's left of my short term memory says it's only been about 12 hours. That's long enough for everything to become thoroughly soggy. Clothes, carpet, bedding, dogs... And there's nothing like curling up in a soggy bed with two wet dogs for the night. We got caught in the start of the onslaught on our way home last night. And so it is further disheartening to wake up to a pool of dog vomit on your favourite pillow when you've already been sleeping under a leaky hatch the whole night with two wet dogs and a drippy duvet. And by favourite pillow I mean the only dry one you rest your head on. The pile of wet dirty things is mounting, bringing me perilously close to doing a load of laundry. And the weather forecast promises days of more rain. I've got a little old ceramic heater I found by the garbage running in the cabin to make a small dent in our dampness. We are going to round up a pair of raccoons, swallows, spiders, gnats and coyotes and launch our ark this afternoon. And because I opted to celebrate happy hour rather than buying groceries, rations are low. Instead of cereal, toast and a frothy soy latte for breakfast, it's two tomatoes and plain green tea. That would be a great breakfast if I was at a yoga retreat in India, but I'm trying to launch an ark in Lake Ontario, dammit.

Marina Life is for the Birds

2009-07-21T09:19:00.000-07:00

I can count upwards of 20 birds in the picture above, taken while looking down onto my bow from the cockpit the other morning. And that's just the sparrows. Let's not forget about the geese, the ducklings and a random swan thrown in for good measure. I can assure you that 20 sparrows chirping 4 feet from your head through the hatch at 7am in the morning works better than any alarm clock on the market. Get the geese up in arms about something (it doesn't take much), and the cacophony grows even louder. H10, the swan, is new on the scene. Methinks he might be the offspring of George the surly swan. H10 is a young swan; you can tell by his brownish coloured head and the fact that he has been recently and unceremoniously tagged.

Dog Climbs Tree

2009-07-19T09:35:00.000-07:00

To say that Ira is a bit of a ball fanatic is to say that Mussolini was a bit of a fascist. The Yorkie found a tennis ball in the bushes over on the island. He always seems to find a tennis ball, like his prune sized brain has the same set of neural receptors as Roger Federer. He cajoled, whined and prodded the men of our camp into playing fetch for upwards of five hours. When enough was decidedly enough for everyone except Ira, I put the ball up in a tree. Even Sadie looks on in disbelief as spiderdog defies both gravity and his species to climb vertically up the tree and retrieve the ball.

A Feral Flotilla

2009-07-16T11:27:00.001-07:00

We have amassed a flotilla of boats to head over to the wall at Hanlan's for the weekend. The people who were unobstructed by that four letter word 'work' have been over there for days. The rest of us are heading out at happy hour. You will find me wearing white linen on the deck of a yacht, sipping a martini. Indeed, that's somewhat of an exaggeration. You are more likely to find me covered in sand, dirt and twigs in a couple of days, holding a half empty bottle of rum, having completely eschewed showers and all other vestiges of civilization. The dogs will be running wild on the beach, digging holes to hide fish carcasses, generally reverted to feral behaviour. WOOT WOOT!

Hippie Chic and the Littlest Homo

2009-07-13T08:20:00.000-07:00

We are back in the water, whew. Yesterday we loaded a few children, dogs and responsible adults onto a tug boat and ventured over to the Toronto Islands. The nude beach on Hanlan's Point is one of the more interesting features of Toronto's waterfront scene. On any given day, hundreds of naked gay men can be found showcasing their hardware on the long expanse of sandy beach. And the Yorkie, no stranger to gay culture, is happy to prance among men, splashing and cavorting in the water with the best of them. As we pull up to dock on the wall, his nose starts twitching and the whining begins in earnest. The synapses start firing in his brain like cheerios bumping together in a bowl of milk: 'We have returned to the magical place where the love that dare not speak its name can yell and shout and bark out loud." When I toss him off the boat, he's off in a flash, like a one dog pride parade on poppers. Sadie sits demurely on the beach, spaced out on sun and sand and the Joan Baez songs playing in her head.

Landlocked

2009-07-10T11:24:00.000-07:00

We have been relegated to land for the time being because the boat has been commandeered by a pirate. Oops, I meant a marine mechanic. The engine is farked (a technical marine term) and had to be pulled out of the water to get fixed. We are supposedly 'on the hard' for less than a week. So we occupy ourselves by chasing balls on the beach and sleeping in other people's beds. I've tentatively been offered a gig cat sitting on a yacht which might get me back to the water sooner rather than later. Who knows where that could lead, just the dinner party conversation alone: "What do you do?" "Funny you should ask. I cat sit on yachts." Inscrutable silence ensues...

A Fierce Policy of Indifference

2009-07-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

When people see the two dogs together in close quarters, they invariably croon, "Oh, they must love each other so much." Wrong. Theirs is a case of familiarity breeds indifference. Ira was around for nine years before Sadie came along. And now he wonders how he got shackled to a hefty old blond at this stage of life, his figurative ball and chain. The dogs are not 'cuddled' together in the back of a car because they love each other, there's just nowhere else to go. Ira spends a lot of calories searching for resting spots that are physically higher than Sadie. Indeed, one often finds little dogs elevated as high as they can get above sea level; it does much to ease their cute little Napoleon syndromes. Ira's policy of indifference is a vast improvement over the state of affairs when they first met. Any accidental touching on the part of Sadie was usually rewarded with a fierce snarl. It doesn't help that Sadie is clumsy and not familiar with the concept of 'play'. She might pursue a more meaningful relationship with Ira if she had an iota of canine emotional intelligence, but for now, their relationship seems destined only to the realm of tolerance.

The Exhibitionist Cat

2009-07-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

We don't even pretend to try and understand cats. What other creature would plop itself down in front of strangers, start rubbing up all over the cement and purring with pleasure. If an old man in a raincoat did the same, we would call the police.

Feeding Time at the Zoo

2009-07-07T14:50:00.000-07:00

Feeding time at the zoo is an elaborate ritual for the dogs starting with the first pangs of hunger, which prompts the staring, which usually rouses me to get the bowls, open the fridge, mix up some food, and crinkle crunkle the kibble bag. By this point, the pack is in a near drooling frenzy. Any dog whisperer would tell you that the dogs need to be in a state of submission before being fed. And because there is no actual jumping or whining involved, I would call their state just a highly anxious state of submission. Once the bowls are loaded, Ira is a delicate little eater, nibbling on each grain of rice. Sadie remains feral in some matters like food and gulps down her Senior Kibble almost before the bowl hits the floor. Then she waits patiently for the Yorkie to finish his food, for the final scene, whereby she sneaks in to lick Ira's bowl clean, in case he forgot anything. She is usually rewarded with a few grains of stray rice. And then Sadie goes back and licks her own bowl. Then back to Ira's bowl. Repeat ad infinitum until the bowls are removed by the pesky human.

Beaver Fever Update

2009-07-05T15:14:00.000-07:00

Sadie was so excited by the phone call from the vet saying we tested negative for Giardia that she started spinning like a whirligig in the V-berth. What can I say.

At the Pub between a Rock and a Hard Place

2009-07-04T10:42:00.000-07:00

Sadie, the old lush that she is (projection anyone?), sometimes accompanies her genteel master to the local drinkery. The dog waits patiently for festivities to end, tucked quietly into a corner or sitting her ample bottom upon a patio step. On the other hand, the Yorkie spends his time at the pub waiting for a server to inadvertently drop a piece of bacon off a plate or stumble and spill glorious french fries in front of him.

Beaver Fever

2009-07-03T08:09:00.000-07:00

Except for six year olds, nobody really likes to talk about poop. And nobody likes collecting stool samples and putting them in little baggies to take to the vet. But after a couple of weeks of on again, off again diarrhea with the dogs, indeed, it's time to get a professional opinion. At this point, my unprofessional opinion leans towards Giardia, or Beaver Fever. I just like saying 'Beaver Fever'. All that swimming in the suspect waters of Lake Ontario may have finally caught up with us. Luckily we were on land last night which made this morning's mess a bit easier to clean up. Cleaning poop off the ceramic tiles of a bathroom floor is considerably easier than washing load after load of soiled bedding in the marina laundry room like last week. Results should be in tomorrow.

Mini Whisperer

2009-07-01T10:22:00.000-07:00

Our young friend C. spent a good portion of the marina Canada Day party leading the dogs around the parking lot on leash made of boat line. C. is a serious young lady and undertakes all her responsibilities with understated authority and diligence. Before whispering the dogs in the parking lot, we spent some time ferrying them around in the dinghy and cannonballing off a tug boat. All in all, a rather spectacular Canada Day.

Humpy Bear in Repose

2009-06-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

Humpy Bear is one of Ira's oldest and most 'intimate' friends. Humpy Bear is half teddy bear and half golf club cover. Ira's legless lover was rescued from a charity golf tournament. The two of them can often be found canoodling below deck, sometimes merely cuddling whereas other times their activity is more vigorous. Here the two lovebirds are pictured enjoying some quiet time.

Dog Ferry

2009-06-28T10:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we took two boats over to Ward's Island and anchored next to each other. The wind was strong enough that the logistics of tying the boats together made it unadvisable. Luckily we had a small dinghy to ferry our beer swilling passengers back and forth. The dogs came on my run. Chili is a local Cairn Terrier rescued from the mean streets of Los Angeles. If you take Chili fishing, she stands on the stern of the boat, barking when you throw the lines out; some kind of fish whispering. Or rather, fish shouting.

Canine Stormageddon

2009-06-26T08:51:00.000-07:00

The dogs are looking at me like I can do something about this heat. Lying on their sides panting, lifting their heads now and then to shoot me sidelong glances. And when I don't respond, they plop their heads back down with a passive aggressive sigh. The dogs barely take my word for basic stuff like it's not a good idea to taunt swans or growl at rabid Mastiffs, so it's beyond me why they think I might be able to control the weather. But along came the storm, a huge thundering downpour that soaked everything from top to bottom. Just before the storm broke, Ira ran up from the cabin to bark at a fellow who dared to stop and chat while I was sitting in the cockpit. I was just instructing Ira to shut the hell up when "CRACK", thunder and lightening hit all at once. The Yorkie was abruptly startled off his perch and ran back down into the cabin with his stubby tail between his legs. And here they are waiting out the storm, water dripping into the pot between them, like there's nowhere else to sit but right under the leaky hatch.

Yorkie Sun Deck

2009-06-20T11:40:00.000-07:00

During the recent heat wave, we started swimming right in the marina to cool down. Our neighbour has a tugboat with a big old swim ladder, perfect for our purposes, as long as you don't mind swimming in diesel, goose shit and the other mysterious toxins of Lake Ontario. Said neighbour's generator is housed under a teak table which also serves as Ira's sundeck. The Yorkie can be seen relaxing, post swim. Clearly, it's a dog's life.

Sadie Poses for Playbitch Magazine

2009-06-20T08:03:00.000-07:00

Sadie has recently been asked to pose for Playbitch magazine for obvious reasons. Her ample udders are a fertility marker, a testament to her fecundity.

CFDs or, Canine Flotation Devices

2009-06-19T08:48:00.000-07:00

So much for shopping local. Lifejackets at the Beaches Bark and Fitz were about $80 each. For the same price I could get one of those small fancy inflatable lifejackets for myself. The human lifejackets onboard the boat are a collection of hand-me-downs and rag-tag spare parts, but they all do the job. I was not paying $160 for two dog lifejackets, so it was time to risk certain bullet wounds, get in the car and head deep into Scarlem to Petsmart. Ira and Sadie looked like two tasty little snacks in a store crowded with Rotweillers and Pit Bulls. Having secured our personal canine flotation devices for $20 each, we got the hell out of dodge, but not before a biker with a Bull Mastiff asked me on a date...

Dog walks Self

2009-06-15T08:36:00.000-07:00

Despite a strict marina leash policy, Indy the neighbour dog prefers to walk herself up and down the dock. Indeed, there are a number of local dogs who have taken to walking themselves, Sadie included. Lately she has been known to bolt to the main office while offleash, about 1/2 a kilometre away, to a secret bowl of cat food hidden under a deck. She returns of her own accord eventually, presumably sated by a salty bowl of Whiskas. And I wonder why she gets the 'runs'.

Trailers and Tiki Lights

2009-06-15T06:10:00.000-07:00

Mobility has its challenges with two dogs and a bike. At first I tried to affix two baskets to the bike to shuttle the pack around: a small basket on the front for our experienced traveller Ira and a sturdier milk crate on the back of the bike for our more svelte sidekick Sadie. I was quite pleased with the results, but Sadie was not. I loaded the dogs into their respective baskets for a trial run. Sadie jumped out of the milk crate on the first run, landing on grass. We were not so lucky on the second run. You see, Sadie has quite a fear of sticks, be they brooms, branches or hockey sticks. The mind boggles at her unknown past, but it doesn't bear thinking about. Everything seemed to be going well on the second run, just a little more practice... I could not have predicted the neighbour kid appearing out of nowhere, chasing us wildly down the driveway while brandishing two tall Tiki stick lamps. Sadie catapulted out of the milk crate this time and landed hard on the cement driveway. The boyfriend said, "THAT'S IT! I cannot watch this any longer". Off he went to Canadian Tire to purchase a bike trailer. And I had to agree that the world is unpredictable and full of sticks. One never knows when and where they might appear, so the bike trailer is a considerably safer and contained mode of dog transport.

George the Surly Swan

2009-06-10T10:03:00.000-07:00

George the Swan frequently patrols the marina, instilling fear into the hearts of geese, ducks and sometimes kayakers. He's been known to chase all three with a vengeance. Rumour has it that George's nest is on the west side of the docks and while his mate is sitting on her eggs, George wanders around scavenging for food and other entertainment. He appears most frequently during dinner time, when the scent of barbeque is heavy in the air. He usually paddles around lazily with one leg, the other tucked up under his wing. In boat terms, the slang for having one engine is 'single screw'. Two engines is called 'twin screw'. When George is paddling around more aggressively with two legs, perhaps in a hurry to hiss at a dog dockside, we say, "Old George is twin screw today'.

Driving Miss Sadie

2009-06-07T10:51:00.000-07:00

The marina is very close to downtown Toronto, but sits at least a couple of kilometres off any sort of beaten path, on a private road. At night, the drive is dark, bumpy and strangely eerie. If you hail a cab from the nearest streetcar stop to get to the marina, it's quite necessary to reassure the cabbie that you have no intention of luring him down the dark winding road into a trap to be robbed and beaten. I've had good luck in this respect, but a large biker friend of mine who lives aboard usually only makes it about halfway to the marina before he is unceremoniously kicked out of the car. The cabbies get spooked. I had the good fortune to meet Fekadu on one such dark night, a warm and engaging fellow from Somalia. He is now our regular driver, going where other cabbies fear to tread, to and from the marina. Sadie is quite enamoured of our Fekadu. She is pictured here, gently reassuring everyone that nothing dangerous lies ahead.

Ira's Porthole

2009-06-05T08:14:00.000-07:00

Ira likes to set up a window-based 'control tower' wherever he lives in order to keep an eye on the outside world. He has claimed a small porthole on the side of the boat from where he can see the main dock and every person or dog or bird who happens to pass by. This morning, my neighbours were launching a little dinghy from the main dock into our basin. I ran over to see if they needed a hand. Their big old happy-go-lucky dog 'Buddy' was running around too, clearly excited that his dog-sized boat was launching. I'm over on the main dock, about 100 feet away from Ira, but I'm right in his line of vision through the porthole... And ringing throughout the marina is the shrill bark of the Yorkie, unimpressed with proceedings. But Ira doesn't bother to come out on deck or try to follow me and bark in person at the goings-on. He just remains onboard, barking away madly from the convenience of his porthole, aka, the control tower. Why venture out when you have your own porthole?

Everything is Harder on a Boat - A Typical Morning

2009-06-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

You wake up and your foot is jammed into the corner with the mini tv, your shoulder is lodged achingly between a rock and a hard place. You wade your way out of the blankets, pillows and duvets to turn the heat off. Gawd it's hot in here. Then you come out onto deck under the canopy to discover what real heat is. Summer arrived overnight like a submarine under the radar. The dogs stink; there is dust and hair everywhere. It's time to bathe the dogs. You go back inside the boat and it's freezing. What just happened? Regardless you can tell it's going to be hot as Hades today so you decide whether to keep the boat locked down to keep the cool in or open 'er up and let the heat and breeze out. Today's probably not a good day to boil an egg for breakfast with all this humidity already in the air. And don't boil anything late at night or you'll just be locked inside with the humidity which could turn to damp if it gets cold. So you wait until 9am, knowing the student worker bees clean the main washrooms at 10pm. That gives you an hour when no one's around to sneak past the authoritative "NO PETS ALLOWED" sign and get the dogs washed in the handicapped bathroom. You pray no one handicapped needs a shower. After coralling the dogs one by one under the apparently terrifying showerhead, you sneak back out when the coast is clear. Then you bring the wet dogs back to the boat and tie them to the dock to dry off in the sun. Taking advantage of having no beasts underfoot, you start cleaning. The fridge door falls off its hinges for no apparent reason. You bang your chin on the counter leaving a nice bruise. And you continue cleaning, finding crunchy dead spiders everywhere from the Spider Ban you sprayed all over last night. Don't forget the piles of gnats - collateral damage of the spray. But you vacuum, windex, and get it all done. Time to feed the dogs, eat your breakfast, wash the dishes in cold water from a hand pump in the 10 inch by 10 inch sink. And then it's time to shower yourself. Gather everything you'll need and head over to the main washroom. Put your hair in rollers cause it's pointing in every direction. Pluck stray hairs from the unruly garden you call your eyebrows. Scare the student worker bee who comes into the ladies' to find you wearing only rollers, rubber boots and underwear. Jump in the handicap shower and pray again that no one handicapped presently needs a shower. After you're all clean, eat lunch. Walk the dogs before work. One of them rolls in something dead and smells like hell again. Oh well. The boyfriend brings you lunch and catches you reading during your 10 minutes of free time and says, "Wow, the life of Riley". Eat lunch. Get the dogs settled, close the boat down and head off to work. And then you can't find your sunglasses. Oh, there they are, in the frying pan.

Attack of the Blackbird

2009-06-01T12:42:00.000-07:00

We had an attack of Blackbird at 7am this morning while I was getting ready to leave for work. I was in the cabin downstairs and Sadie was upstairs in the cockpit area which is enclosed by canvas and plastic windows. I heard a hullabaloo that sounded distinctly like last night's wine glasses smashing around. I came busting up, yelling at Sadie, 'What the hell is going on here'... Then I see Sadie has gone feral, cornering a blackbird who had the back luck of getting trapped inside the canvas area. The bird is flapping around and shitting everywhere in a digestive demonstration of its terror. Sadie's already got it covered but Ira rushes up out of bed to get in on the action. Forget two birds with one stone, we're gonna kill one bird with two dogs. Ira is indistinguishable from a rabid Ewok, hair flying, teeth gnashing. I can already foresee a big cleaning job with just the shit alone, but blood too? I have shit on my clothes and in my hair by now. I manage to throw the dogs downstairs and whoosh the bird outside... I had no time to make breakfast after the incident and subsequent cleanup. So there's a blackbird out there who owes me $8 for a soy latte and an eggy breakfast sandwich from Starbucks. Such is life in the great outdoors.