Happy birthday from another world

My bum is numb. Most of my outer layers of skin have lost feeling, but for the random involuntary shivers. This hockey rink is freezing. Despite my efforts to stay warm – donning a full body sleeping bag/coat, thick stodgy Uggs, and matching teddy bear hat and mittens, complete with bulbous knitted nose and ears. Very chic.

I sip at my flask of pretend coffee, wiping the deep red wine stains from my lips after each little swig. I’m trying to fit in here and hoping my teeth aren’t noticeably purple/grey.

The parents in the stands jump and shout after each play. “Noah! Rebound control buddy!!!” It’s all very aggressive and serious. The players out there are 7 and 8 years old. The smallest one is my nephew.

It is our last day in Canada – unless the winter storm warning in effect delays us by a day. We’ve been here, visiting the house I grew up in, for over two months. At once I am sucked back into the rhythm of suburban winter life, and also repelled and alienated by the contrast to the life I’ve led for the past 21 years away.

My captain – so far out of his ocean realm, sits beside me on the stands, enthralled by the fast paced game on the ice below. His new cozy winter toque, pulled down over his ears, he blows into his bright red, dry and freezing hands in the futile attempt to warm them. I’ve dragged him here, into my family, my past, my people. And despite hockey’s foreign rules and cultural intricacies, he has fit right in.

Hot chocolate, egg nog, minus 21 temps. He’s shoveled snow, used the snow blower, poured warm water on our frozen car doors to get them open. Welcome to Canada baby!

I cannot believe it’s been 4 months since we left Shiloh and our sailing life behind – left her to face hurricane Matthew alone while we visited potato festivals in West Virginia and sampled Moose pie in Newfoundland. We 'oohed' and 'aahed' at the colours of the Cabot trail in Cape Breton, and marvelled at the 40 ft tidal swing at the Bay of Funday. We walked the red sand beaches of Prince Edward Island and sampled the world's best scallops in digby Nova Scotia.... Luckily Shiloh and her boatyard friends all weathered the storm without a scratch.

It’s been months since I had to steer the 15 ton boat up to a fuel dock, weather a storm, navigate a port entry… All my life stresses have been replaced by GPS driving stresses, finding motels, and finally juggling all the family and friend visits over the holidays.

Everything about life is in flux. Within a few days we will evolve from our hats and scarves to capris and flip flops.

Everything has been in flux – we’ve visited over 80 cities, towns, villages, islands in 2016. We are lucky. And yet the worst tragedy to befall a mother is my reality.

There is the matter of my six year old son, who today would be eighteen.

There are things I can reconcile – weather, financial strains, family differences, friends who disappoint.

But my baby boy – the one who coveted his can of red Pringles, who cuddled all the girls and declared that food is not food without rice! My Shiloh – who loved Power Rangers and Bob the Builder and Spiderman. My little guy, with stubby brown fingers and a soft blond peach fuzz on his silky little neck…  that he was born 18 years ago today. I cannot reconcile this in my feeble mommy brain. My mommy heart has missed the years between 6 and 18 where my boy would have grown, but where instead there was a void. A void within my heart, a place where the world stopped spinning and simply sat, dumbfounded by a loss so great.

 

So today, as I watch my little nephew barreling down the ice, caught up in the spirit of the game, I decide there is no reconciling the things that happen in this life.

We simply find ourselves in places in time and we must soak them in. We must exist in the here and now – all the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘could haves’ held at bay. Life is in this moment. This right here. The smell of warm chocolate contrasted by the bitter cold air and the cry of the overbearing parent.  The sour kick of red wine with the metallic aftertaste of the flask. My boy is gone but this boy is here, and he is life – all new and hopeful. And there is love that transcends. It holds families together, it holds us all together across time and space. But all we have really is what is in front of us right now.

I have memory, and love and family and the frivolous concept of plans. Adventures await.

For now, happy birthday my angel boy and Go Adam! Our boy of the day.

Holli's random number of signs you've been away from your boat for too long:

Those telltale signs you’ve been away too long:

1.   1. You’re pale

2.     Your feet are actually getting used to close-toed shoes

3.     You plan your trips around road traffic instead of wind patterns

4.     You are starting to take running water for granted - hot water for dishes, tap running during teeth brushing, longer and longer showers – shame!

5.     You start thinking it’s normal to blow dry your hair

6.     You find yourself shopping and thinking of buying plug-in appliances!

7.     You’re actually noticing fashion trends – that don’t involve Crocs.

8.     You’re actually getting used to TV – with commercials!

9.     You haven’t seen a hand tool in months

10. You forget what it feels like to sweat

11. You’ve migrated from rum punch to red wine as your drink of choice

12. The regal sunset, hidden behind the highrises of the city, has faded away and no longer plays a role in happy hour, or indeed your lives. 

13. Sundowners? What?

13.5 You (I) really miss that connection with the sunset…. sigh

From suburbia to the deep blue sea

It’s times like these that I know I’m crazy. Completely off the rails. When will I wake up and realise I’m a little suburban girl from Canada, raised on shopping malls and bike rides through paved parks. Raised on safety handles and guard rails. Keeping me away from trouble and adventure.

When? Today? As my knuckles ache from the tight grip I keep on tables, counters, poles, jostled and thrown from side to side by the relentless waves of the ocean, my captain and partner at the helm, navigating through the swell.

As he shimmies along the smooth fiberglass surface, out of the relative safety of the cockpit to adjust lines and sails and other sailor-type-things, I start to contemplate my fate, should he be thrown overboard.

About all I know is the tiny man with his arms raised on our chart plotter – push that! – it’s the ‘man overboard’ button and it takes the GPS coordinates of where the ‘man’ was lost. Then what?! Our sails are up. Engines off. We are zipping along through huge waves. Turn the boat around? And what would happen to the sails? The boom would swing violently over… then I realise I don’t know how to take them down. Not really. I’ve seen JW a hundred times, I know the lines, the nicely labeled cleats, the winches and the rest, but doing all this myself? It seems I am a goldfish student as far as all of this goes, I get my command, I do the deed as best I can, and then I’ve forgotten.

As I watch him edging away, each moment a potential sea surge could throw him 10 feet, I start to think I should have taken sailing lessons. I should have spent more time practising knots and sails and less time slamming dominoes and beer! Less rum, more learning.

An hour earlier I did my ‘panic dance’, as JW likes to call it. Headed out of the calm bay, anchor up, and full sails rigged. The wind was 4 knots, then 12, then as we rounded the cliff it hit 25 knots in an instant. My eyes became saucers and every muscle clenched. 20 tons of boat jolted up, tilting with the full force of the wind in the sails. JW jumped to the ready, asked me to hold a line on the winch I think, but it’s all a blur, he had to ask me to move aside as my hands started to shake.

“Relax!”

When, on this 9 hour journey, he needed to go down below for a bit of rest, having tethered me onto the boat with a bright yellow line, I took over the helm on watch. 5 minutes in I heard a snap bang. Looked around but couldn’t see much. After a while I noticed one of the ropes (lines) hanging down from the mast, looking broken and loose. I looked behind me and there was the same colour rope hanging out behind us in the water. Oh shit! This can’t be good. I had to wake the captain. Turns out the topping lift line had snapped and nothing was holding up the boom. I had no clue!

The day before we’d had a smooth sail – steady winds, calm seas, sun shining. Engines off, sails up, the wind carried us along confidently. We listened to music en route, sat on the bow, checked e-mails and facebook. Basically the kind of sailing I can handle. On days like those I think I’m really getting a grip on this sailing thing, that I’ve learned a lot and that I’m pretty cool. What a life! Carefree. 

 And then SLAM! The ocean gives me a face slap and I find myself trembling and of not much use to anyone in a situation where knowledge and experience are king. Where panic is superfluous and calm is necessary. Thank god for my captain.

My skills in blogging and Scrabbling have no use out here on the ocean. I realise my past lives have ill prepared me for this one.

But like I got used to 6 months with no power in Ghana all those years ago, sleeping on the floor and fending off malaria infested mosquitos for a good 5 years, I will also face up to the less-than-easy side of life on a boat.

I vow to pay more attention to words like halyard, rigging, topping lift, hove to. I promise to learn and practice some nautical knots and watch how the engines are maintained.

As long as I can soak up the beauty of a sunkissed mountain jutting out of the ocean on our arrival at a new island, try the bright pungent local fruits in the many bustling markets once we’ve arrived, and swim with the mind boggling number of wild and wonderful fish living just under us on this journey.

 And as long as I can find a good cappuccino, a bagel and cream cheese (dare I say with smoked salmon?!) here and there along the way, I wouldn’t trade it back for the safety of suburbia at all. 

I'm not scared anymore...

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Weeks and months have passed. I spent them in the bubble.

Today I sit once again in the lap of paradise, palm trees swaying, this is Grenada; serenaded by cool jazz as the sweat pours down between my shoulder blades, tickling it’s path down to my waist.

It’s Monday. I proclaimed it laundry day and headed solo in the dinghy, over to Whisper Cove Marina to blog and wash. And so it is.

I am slowly finding my sea legs again and easing into the sore muscles, random bruises and blisters from rope pulling.

I am back home.

But the bubble consumed me for quite a while, lulling me with it’s ease and comforts. Long hot showers, air-conditioned rental car, restaurants of every description and a glut of shopping venues. But for the first time I was more excited in Home Depot and Canadian Tire than clothes stores. Solar lights caught my eye, instead of cute shoes. My boating self did come with me to the bubble.

It is tempting to feel at home, with family and old friends near by, barbecues by the pool, and everything so accessible. We took the opportunities around us, on road trips, ferries out to Toronto Island, the vibrancy of the city is wonderful...

Yet I found myself getting lazy, hazy minded. I lost the will to write, nothing happened that scared me or amazed me or kicked my creative butt. I craved the return to the boat, to take on new challenges, to conquer more fears.

But something strange happened on our arrival.

Despite the downright aggravations of the first 48 hours – flooded, flat dinghy, rolling dock, musty, moldy boat interior, mountains of unpacking, tools, laundry, dead batteries, sweat, sweat and more sweating, there was a paradigm shift within me.

I am not scared anymore.

Anchoring, pulling the boat up alongside a dock, heading out of a bay into the unknown sea; I’ve experienced all of these in the last 3 days and I took them all in stride. This is what I’ve been wanting for so long. No changes in my breathing, no squeezing my palms and shaking and fearing the worst. Dare I say I am now a cruiser?

Up to now, my fear has kept me from feeling genuine. Like a fraud, I’ve been chatting on the beach with real sailors, wondering what it was that made them who they were, and why I couldn’t be like them.

It is a life lesson. We are who we want to be. Act it, do it, and be it. Time is a wonderful teacher, healer, friend.

I’ve come back from my first long break, ready to visit new places, sail, feel the sea and the wind.

I don’t need the bubble. I know it’s there but I am ready to push the envelope. I’m looking forward to a nightsail. A solo watch, just the moon, the waves and me.

I’m going to try making some jewellery. I am going to buzz around in the dinghy alone. I’m going to write more. Write for the sake of it, to flex the muscles of the mind alongside my arms and legs.

I’m alive! 

Canada's ugly secret and their annual celebrations

Shiloh along with all the other yachts in Grenada, have survived a few hurricane scares, as the storms dissipated or swung north.

Meanwhile I have been learning some shocking realities about the country of my birth.

Canada enjoys a great reputation in the world. Canadians are seen as friendly, non-aggressive, neutral. We encourage immigration from around the world and offer free education and healthcare. No one delves deeper. No one wants to know about the disease that plagues her. No one looks at the open wounds she carries. The ugly legacy of the Indian treaties and the modern day aboriginal dilemma.

But one only needs to drive outside the suburban numbness of southern Ontario. Something I never did when I lived here. Something most people don’t take the time to do.

It’s uncomfortable because there is no easy answer. Blame is useless. Children suffer.

Indian/Aboriginal Reserves are everywhere, dotted across the countryside. They have their own tribal councils and are exempt from many of the laws of Canada. They are a legacy of colonialism and they are not working. Poverty is rife. Education and healthcare is non-existent. Drug abuse is rampant. Child abuse and sexual assault statistics are disproportionately high.

Our native population has not fit into the puzzle of society. Residential schools took the children from their families and prevented the learning of traditional languages. Land was taken and treaties were signed. Today the people are looking for their land and welfare and a way to remember their history. They are dealing with alcoholism, poverty, depression. Casinos are not the answer, tax free cigarettes or ‘smokes’ are also not helping. The government and the chiefs have let their people down. The government looks at overcompensation in the wrong way, and the chiefs take the financial reparations and hoard it. Nothing trickles down to the reserves.

But there is one tradition that persists in native communities across the country. The Powwow.

These alcohol-free events are annual celebrations in aboriginal communities that follow a general structure, with the focus on dance and costume as well as traditional music, speaking of native languages (though only spoken by less than 25% of aboriginal people). There are spiritual speeches and prayers and gathering around a fire. And of course there is food and lemonade and vendors of t-shirts and dream catchers and miscellany.

And when we pass the many First Nation signs on the road all through Ontario, my curiousity is always peeked. Visiting a powwow is a way to see the people at their best and learn a bit about a lost culture and every time I visit now, I make sure a powwow is on our list.

This year, after the family reunion, and the sad stories around Fort Frances about the land that is being reclaimed by native communities and then falling into disrepair, it was time for some positives.

We headed to Serpent River and their annual event.

Welcome sign written in Ojibway and English

Many were camping, some in traditional teepees

Some of the costumes and dancers

A community elder who spoke at length in Ojibway and English about the importance of women

One of the leaders of the traditional bands, deep in song

This was the 'shrine' of a medicine man who danced in a trance around the centre

Among the spectators - an adorable little boy

And another...

When we saw this vendor first, I wondered what such a name meant, what it's significance was. I thought it might be a south American name. But then it dawned on me, as I saw many cool young guys in these hoodies. It was the youth, embracing their community and making it their own. It stood for 'on - the - reserve' or On da rez!!! Gotta love it!

I learned alot that day. Firstly, that Indian/Native/Aboriginal doesn't have one face. Doesn't mean only one thing. There are positives. There is a ray of hope. But things as they are, do not work. The pow wows are thriving in spite of every other aspect of their lives and the way the treaties are being dealt with. Should the reserves be abolished? If not, how will they assimilate and prosper in Canada as a whole? How can we/they improve healthcare and education? The faces of the kids got to me. They are caught up in the mess that carries on between our government and their leaders. It needs to change.Just can't think how.

JW was amazed and appalled at the secret Apartheid Canada harbours. He was shocked that the local and global media does not highlight the problems. How is Canada able to live with the problems we've created? Meanwhile the doors are open to thousands of others from around the world who come here for a better life and opportunities to prosper. Yet the very people who settled this land so many centuries ago, we cannot figure out how to ensure this future for them.