Copper Painting

Last week I helped my husband copper paint the bottom of our troller. It’s an annual job  that I hate more every year I do it. It’s smelly, messy, sticky, and dirty. The worst thing is that it’s awkward to paint the underbelly of a boat when you don’t have much room to maneuver. You’re crouched down under the boat as it sits on a slab of cement that is still wet from the tide going out, so you don’t get on your knees. Now twist around with the roller full of copper paint and roll the paint onto the hull above you. Don’t let your head brush on the hull. Copper paint isn’t fun to get out of your hair.

This photo shows the boat hauled out of the water onto a parking lot. It’s much easier to work on a boat here than on a slab of cement near the shore.

We didn’t go to the shipyard this year, but used the grid (cement slab) instead. This means waiting for the tide to drop until the boat rests on a slab of cement near the edge of the shore. Once the water level drops enough, we can work on the boat  while the tide is out.  It’s always a bit of a race to finish painting before the tide comes back in.

I’m adding this bit because I’ve been asked about the ending. I was a mess by the end of the day. I felt I hadn’t worked this hard since last year at this time. I moaned and groaned and went to bed early.

It was that kind of situation that my character,  Andrea, had to deal with when she helped Jim work on his boat in my novel, The Wind Weeps.

Excerpt from The Wind Weeps

Jim looked me over and scowled as I approached.

“What?” I asked. “Something wrong?”

“Yeah. I thought you were going to wear your worst clothes.”

“These are them.” I raised my arms up and dropped them limply at my sides.

“You have no idea, do you?”

I felt my face heating up. He shook his head and climbed up the ladder that was tied to the side of the hull. Above me, in the wheelhouse of the Serenity, I heard him moving things around, and moments later he came back down the ladder. “Here.” He tossed me a bundle of clothes.

The coveralls were way too big and I had to roll up the cuffs of the legs and arms. They covered me completely, but the crotch was down by my knees. They made these things to fit giants. Oh well, it wasn’t a fashion show.

Jim looked at me and laughed. He climbed the ladder again. This time he brought a pair of gum boots down from the boat. “You’ll have to put these on,” he said. “Those dainty runners just won’t cut it. We need to work on the bottom as soon as the tide goes out far enough to expose the hull and that often means standing in a bit of water. Anyway, even at dead low tide, it’s mucky down there.”

I was embarrassed to think how unprepared I was. I stuck my feet into the boots and put the runners on the cement retaining wall beside the boat. The boots were huge. I clomped around in them struggling to lift them with each step, hampered always by the low crotch of the coveralls. I felt hobbled. I took a deep breath to renew my determination. “So what would you like me to do first?”

“You can do the power washing of the hull. Have you used a power washer before?” At my shake of the head, Jim sighed. “No, of course not.”

He went up to the shop at the top of the beach and got a coil of hose. He tossed it over towards me.

“Go attach the end of the hose to that tap over there.” He dragged the power washer to the side of the boat, attached the other end of the hose to it, and set the machine on the retaining wall.

“Turn on the tap,” he said. “Now watch carefully.” He started the gas engine on the power washer and showed me how to run the wand back and forth to clean the boat.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it,” I reached for the wand. “It looks pretty simple.”

But Jim didn’t hand it over. He picked up a block of wood. “Watch.” He held the nozzle of the wand a couple of inches from the wood and squeezed the trigger to start the spray. Seconds later he stopped. “Now, see that?”

I nodded and tried to remember to keep my mouth closed. “Wow! It sure chewed a hole in that wood.”

“That is what I do NOT want happening to my boat.”

“For sure. I’ll be really careful.”

“Stay a good distance away from the wood and don’t stop and spray one spot for too long.”

“Got it.” I reached for the wand again, but Jim pulled it away out of my reach.

“And another thing. Don’t ever forget that the pressure in that spray is strong enough to chew up your toes right through your boots if you’re careless about where you point the nozzle. Think of it as a loaded gun. And don’t ever point it at a person—or yourself.”

I gulped and finally took the wand from him. I’d come to help and it seemed all I was doing was making more work and worry for Jim.

The power washing turned out to be fun though. I loved the way the gunk flew off the hull with the powerful water spray, leaving the wood so clean. Green sludge and hairy seaweed were forced to loosen their grip on the wooden planks. I got all the higher parts done first, and as the tide ebbed, I was able to crawl under the boat’s big belly where a few barnacles clung stubbornly to the underneath parts. I stepped back to admire the clean surface from bow to stern. The rusty burgundy of the previous year’s copper paint had soaked right into the wood.

“It hardly seems to need painting,” I said. “It looks so pretty the way it is.”

Jim crawled out from the cramped space where he was working near the bottom of the hull on the other side. “It’s cleaner now, but without a new coat of anti-fouling paint, it would be covered in weeds and barnacles in no time. Can’t afford to have any teredos latch on and start digging into the wood.”

“What’s a teredo?”

“It’s actually a kind of clam but looks more like a worm. They call them shipworms. If they get into the wood, it’s bad. Like getting termites in a house.”

“Oh, no wonder you have to do this copper painting then.” Now it was starting to make sense to me.

Jim nodded. “I’ve got the zincs replaced on the far side. I’ll trade you sides.”

“Yeah, okay. Why do you have to put zincs on?” I know I sounded like a complete idiot, but I wouldn’t learn if I didn’t ask.

“Electrolysis would eat away the metal parts of the boat, like the propeller, the rudder, and the nails that hold the boat together. I put zinc bars on for it to eat instead.” My face must have had a blank look as I tried to understand what he was talking about.  He waved me off. “Never mind. Too complicated to explain. Trust me. They’re needed.”

I made a mental note to look up electrolysis. “Wow! You sure have to know a lot of stuff to run a boat. I used to think you just had to get aboard and steer.”

“Yeah, I can see how you’d think that.” He shook his head as if he was barely able to tolerate having me around.

“Guess I left myself open for that one. But you know, we have things back East that maybe you don’t know everything about.”

“I’m sure,” he said, rolling his eyes and turning away.

I picked up the power washer wand to get back to work. I could see Jim was running out of patience with all my questions. Way to go, Andrea. You’re too stupid for words. I would just have to show him I could do a good job and impress him that way.

I held the nozzle at the distance he had shown me and began to wash the far side of the hull. Sticky, stinky copper spray flew everywhere. As I glanced down and saw the condition of the coveralls, I realized what Monique was talking about when she told me I’d have to throw away my clothes after doing this job. I concentrated on the planks and cleaned them one by one. I felt all-powerful. Barnacles, mussels, and green slime—gone with one pass of my magic wand.

A long lump was sticking out between two of the planks, so I held the nozzle a little closer to get it out. Just a quick zap. The lump was a bit stubborn so I gave it another quick zap. And another, and another. At last it was starting to come off. God! It was a long one. Must be one of those teredos Jim was talking about. Well, he’d be glad I found it and got it out of there. I blasted it the whole length of the plank until a long piece of it plopped onto the ground. I laid down the wand.

“Jim! Come see this. Get a load of this teredo I found.” Since I had gloves on I didn’t mind picking it up to show him. When he came around to my side, I held it up and he looked shocked, just like I figured he would.

He turned pale and stammered. “Wh-where’d you get that?”

“Right here.” I pointed to the space between two planks.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelled. “Didn’t I tell you not to get that nozzle in there so close?”

“B-b-but I had to get it out of there.” A stab of fear went through me.

“God dammit! You are the stupidest broad I’ve ever met!”

“I don’t understand.” I could feel tears welling up. I blinked hard so they wouldn’t spill, but it was useless.

“This is the caulking between the planks. It stops the water from getting in. Oh, Jeezus!” He threw down his wrench and stomped off in the direction of the shop.

I sat down on the retaining wall and stared at my boots. No, not my boots—Jim’s. My chin quavered as I fought to hold back more tears. I clasped my hands together between my knees and wondered what to do next. Should I get out of these coveralls and go home? No. I wasn’t a quitter. I had really messed up, but I had to make it better or I’d never live it down.

For more of the story, read The Wind Weeps.

You can find The Wind Weeps on amazon.com, amazon.co.uk, amazon.de, and smashwords.com

Curious Company

Returning home along B.C.’s rugged coastline after the salmon season, the commercial fisherman anchors his troller in a remote bay. He stands on deck in the cool morning air and stretches. The sun is up and promises to burn off the low mist that hangs over the calm sea. A raven’s chuckle echoes among the trees along the beach. The only other sounds are made by the waves washing the beach clean and …fish jumping! Coho waiting for rain to swell the creek.

The fisherman removes the number 8 graphite fly rod from its aluminum tube. With his saltwater rod and reels and an assortment of flies, he climbs into the eleven-foot tender skiff and rows towards the creek mouth. As he anchors in about three feet of water he wishes he had his chest waders.

The floating line doesn’t work. Quick! Switch to a reel with a sinking-tip line. Tie on a bright green minnow pattern, and out it goes.

Immediately, a coho snatches the fly, but the thrill lasts only for seconds before the fish spits the hook. The fisherman is still retrieving the line when the second coho hits. Oh yes. This is going to be good. All around him coho are finning and jumping in the crystal clear water.

Look for the second wolf farther to the left. He or she is darker than the one in the center.

But now a slight movement on shore catches his eye. He has company. Speechless and in awe, he continues to fish while covertly watching two wolves watching him. They stare intensely. The larger of the two, a light tan, steps forward in hesitant stalking mode; the smaller smoky gray one holds back slightly. Seeming more inquisitive than afraid, the wolves watch the visitor. The fisherman knows not to make eye contact or they might leave. At the same time, he is no longer wishing for his chest waders.

Five pups romp out from their hiding place behind the logs. They have enough baby fat left on them that their playfighting antics have them tumbling to the ground awkwardly. They wrestle and tussle with each other, practicing survival skills they will need as adults. One pup leaves the others to begin a new game with the large wolf, nipping at his ears and tugging at the longer fur of his throat. The adult wolf stands statue-like, tolerating the play without complaint. In contrast to the carefree behaviour of the pups, the adults never waver in their watchfulness.

Meanwhile, the coho continue to hit the flies regardless of colour or pattern. Never has the fisherman had so much backing running off his reel, as he brings in one coho after another. As he releases them he wonders if any of these same fish will become future offerings to the wolf family once the creek waters rise.

A low moaning howl snags his attention. He stops to watch and listen as the adult wolves throw back their heads as if to serenade him. The eerie howling sends goosebumps down the back of his neck. The tension is broken seconds later when the pups join in with their little heads thrown back, yipping and yelping in harmony with their parents.

For about forty-five minutes, the wolves watch the fisherman, tolerating his presence as he respects theirs. Then they herd the pups away from the shore and return without them. Effortlessly, the adult wolves lope over the rocky beach with lightning speed, leaving no doubt in the fisherman’s mind as to their hunting prowess. On their return, they collect the pups and disappear into the timber.

The fisherman savours the rare experience; a careful visit, man and wolf silently assessing each other, drawn together by curiosity and the pursuit of fish.

Mr. Cool

***My 99 cent e-book special is still on until Monday, April 1. Please find it on the post before this one, called Easter Special. Be sure to look there for the coupon code. You need it to get the discount.

And now, for an embarrassing fishing story.

This little article I wrote was published in Canadian Fly Fisher magazine a few years ago and was posted on this blog in 2011. For the record, the trout pictured below is not the one in the story. This one was released after its photo op.

Mr. Cool Goes Fishing

I now believe that lawn chairs should come with a warning label: “Not recommended for use by fools in small boats.”  My cold splash of reality came on a sunny day.

Gary and I love fly fishing, but two people standing in a small boat isn’t safe. However, it isn’t particularly comfortable sitting on cold aluminum seats either. To please me, Gary came up with a solution. He would put lawn chairs in the boat so they straddled the bench seats. We knew it was a bit risky placing our centers of gravity up so high, but we were old hands at boating and decided we would be safe enough fishing for trout on the calm, reedy edges of one of our local lakes.

The day was perfect for shorts and T-shirts. We had brought a picnic lunch in our cooler bag, a thermos of tea, cell phone, and the usual clutter of fishing tackle. We cast towards the lily pads.  In no time, Gary had hooked a trout. I offered to net it and wisely, I thought, slid down off the lawn chair to gain more stability. Net in hand, I dipped for the fish, but it darted under the boat. Gary, still up in his chair, leaned over to see where it went, and that was the end of our lawn-chair fishing.

Over I went, head first into the lily pads. I kicked away the entangling lawn chair that threatened my demise. Lily pads! As I floundered underwater thrashing through their long stems, my mind flashed to the story of a woman who had drowned in lily pads at Swan Lake when I was a child. Determined not to repeat history, I kicked and fought my way to the surface, inhaling water and belching. Madly treading water, I gulped for air.

Several meters away, Gary shook his head in slow motion and I blushed to realize how unimpressive my plunge was from the point of view of a perfect swimmer. I grabbed sinking articles near to me and tossed them into the half-sunken boat wallowing nearby—cooler bag, thermos, tackle box, my fly rod, even the old life jacket I had been sitting on instead of wearing, and of course, the accursed lawn chair.

I glanced over at Gary, bobbing calmly in the lake, scowling at me.  Mr. Cool. His entry into the water, like that of an Olympic diver, had been almost soundless with barely a ripple. His frown suggested that I had been making quite a fuss and had attracted unwanted attention.

Two men who had been spincasting farther out on the lake, reeled in frantically. “We’ll be right over,” they called.

“That’s okay,” Gary yelled back. “We can stand.”

“We… can?” I spluttered.  It hadn’t occurred to me to try to stand. My toes stretched down into the gooey silt, and my mouth went under. Being a couple of inches taller, like Gary, would definitely have been an advantage.

By this time the spincasters had paddled over. They held the side of our half-sunken boat as I scrambled in as gracefully as a calf moose. I began to bail water double time to keep the boat afloat. Gary, who had been steadying the bow of the boat, waited until there was enough freeboard and then hopped in easily. We thanked the men, sheepishly chuckling about the story they would tell their wives that night.

As we took inventory, Gary netted his trout, still hooked after all the commotion, while I wondered which fish was swimming away wearing my expensive Serengeti sunglasses.

Ocean Treasures

My 99 cent e-book special is still on until Monday, April 1. Please find it on the previous post. Be sure to look there for the coupon code. You need it to get the discount.

And now, for Ocean Treasures:

For the men and women who go commercial fishing and endure the harshest of weather and sea conditions, there have to be reasons besides earning a living that make the lifestyle worthwhile. On the plus side, life on the sea has many beautiful moments. Having pigeon guillemots land on your boat to entertain you is one such moment. One of many others is the discovery of little treasures that float by on the tide.

For many years, the Japanese fishing fleet attached glass balls to their nets to keep them from sinking to the bottom. Often the nets were connected into huge combinations of netting that sometimes broke away and drifted unattended, harming many birds, fish, and sea mammals. But this aspect is another issue for another day. Once a net is lost, or broken up it can drift for a long time until the glass balls come loose and float away without the net. The floats drift for thousands of miles across the Pacific, and often for many years, before coming close to shore. Sometimes that shore is not the country of origin. Fishermen of the north coast of British Columbia have found all sizes, shapes, and colours of  glass floats that originated in Asia.

One of the most beautiful glass floats my husband has found was floating by his troller on the west coast of the Queen Charlotte Islands. It was partly covered with gooseneck barnacles that would have looked very decorative if left on the net webbing that encased the float, but once out of the water, they would have died and become quite hummy. What to do? Make lunch, of course. While they were still fresh, he steamed them up and had a good feed of gooseneck barnacles, a delicacy.

Over the years we have found many interesting “treasures” on the beach or floating past the boat. A huge piece of bamboo floated ashore one day – a 12-foot-long pole about five inches in diameter. It has been sitting in our yard for 30 years still waiting to be used in an original way. Coconuts have washed up on the beaches of the Queen Charlotte Islands, hoping in vain to find warmer sprouting weather.

One day we walked along the beach and found a heavy rubber glove sticking out of the sand as if to suggest that the rest of the man were buried there. A short distance away, lay his white plastic helmet. We wondered what might have happened to the fisherman. About twenty feet farther along, we found the answer – an empty bottle of Japanese Suntory whiskey.

Once when I was deckhanding, the skipper (my husband) spotted four sticks floating vertically in the water up ahead of the boat. He told me to get ready with the gaff and reach out to hook whatever it was and bring it aboard. He angled the boat so the “thing” would be close to the side of the boat as we passed and I reached out as far as I dared to snag it. Neither of us had any idea what it was until we got quite close to it. I managed to get the gaff into it but when I tried to bring it aboard, there was no way I could begin to lift it. The skipper took the boat out of gear and hustled out onto the deck to help with the lifting. It took both of us to haul that floating treasure out of the water. When we turned it right-side-up on the deck it was much more recognizable. The four sticks that floated vertically were the legs of a cruise ship deck chair with European style numerals on the underside. I say European style because the 9 was made like a g. The chair was so heavy because it was waterlogged. It dripped like a rainshower as it sat on deck.

There’s only one thing that bothers me about this chair. Since it seems to have fallen off a cruise ship and was floating upside down, I can only assume the direction its occupant must have gone.  What do you think? And by the way, tell us, have you found any treasures on the beach?

Orion’s Gift – New Publication

Beautiful and remote, but would you want to live there without the option of leaving?

Last January I published my novel The Wind Weeps, set on the West Coast. It is the story of Andrea, a pretty young woman who is new to the coast and is quickly swept off her feet by a handsome commercial fisherman. Before she realizes she has made a mistake, she is out of reach of help, and finds herself in grave danger. The book highlights the beauty and remoteness of the BC coast. Andrea’s predicament adds suspense and drama to this story. When I finished writing The Wind Weeps, a dark but gripping story, I wanted my next book to have a lighter theme without losing the page-turning tension factor.

You can see the covers of The Wind Weeps and of Orion’s Gift at the side of this page.

Perfect retreat for a young couple – or is it?

In Orion’s Gift, my characters are also looking for love and adventure, but this time the coastal setting is farther south. Sylvia, a California girl, receives a letter that causes her to leave her philandering husband and her fancy home near San Diego. At the same time, Kevin, an Alberta hardware store owner divorces his bullying wife and leaves everything behind to run away to Baja. When Kevin and Sylvia meet and fall in love, two things stand in the way of their happiness. One—the secrets they keep from each other. Two—their vindictive ex-spouses hunting them down. The exotic landscape of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula, provides the backdrop for this story of romance and treachery.

My palapa or yours?

My articles have been published in Canadian Stories Magazine and The Canadian Fly Fisher, now called The New Fly Fisher E-zine. I am in the process of publishing my third novel which should come out early next year.

The third novel was actually the first one I wrote. It is the story of a woman’s struggle to survive the hardships of the aftermath of WWII and the strange circumstances that brought her to Canada to the Dawson Creek area. It is being prepared for publication now and should be out in the early spring. More about this book in a few months.

For an excerpt from Orion’s Gift, click on the link: http://tbrtheblog.blogspot.ca/2012/11/tbr-welcomes-anneli-purchase.html?

Here are all the links you need to find out more about my books!

Links for Orion’s Gift:

On Amazon.com http://amzn.to/UhJE00

On Smashwords.com http://bit.ly/MFOcOX

Links for The Wind Weeps:

Amazon http://amzn.to/RclGVT

Smashwords: http://bit.ly/yPQvEP

Blog: http://wordsfromanneli.wordpress.com

Website: http://www.anneli-purchase.com

Baja Getaway – Part Five

At El Rosario, we had gassed up our truck and extra fuel caddies and continued on as far as the Cataviña boulder patch. From there we still had quite a long drive to the nearest Pemex at Villa Jesus Maria. The total length of the dry stretch was a little over 200 miles. You can easily imagine that this gas station could name its price.

Next to the Pemex was a grocery store with a fascinating assortment of produce. Fruit and vegetables were stored in bins on sloping shelves against the walls and in crates in the middle of the room. Eggs on trays of 30 were stacked like the leaning tower of Pisa. I bought half a dozen and watched in amazement as the clerk put them in a plastic bag and weighed them. How sensible and fair to charge for eggs by weight rather than having to trust that they were small, medium, or large, but a plastic bag? I’d have to carry them carefully not to end up with them scrambled among my avocados, tomatoes, and green peppers. The temptation was great to buy more fresh fruit and vegetables, but we were only a few miles from the north/ south Baja border at Guerrero Negro. The produce would be confiscated if we tried to take it through.

After a conference with our traveling companions, it was decided that rather than cross into south Baja that day, we should once more take a risk and drive a sandy back road, this time to a wonderful bay called Laguna Manuela. Near the turn off about half a mile down the road we spied a tiny store where we bought frozen chicken legs for the barbecue. All set, and looking forward to another lovely camping adventure, we bumped and ploughed through the soft washboard side road until we arrived at the bay and set up camp on the beach.

The long sandy beach looked gorgeous for walking on or swimming from, but Gary would rather have had a rocky shore for snorkeling. More sea life hovers near the rocks than on a flat beach. Next morning, with his diving gear in the 12-foot aluminum skiff we pushed off to check out the coastline. A shrimp boat stood offshore. We waved, and continued on to a tiny rocky bay with a small sandy beach where we surfed ashore on some hefty waves.

After pulling the skiff to safety, we scrambled up the steep hillside marvelling at the pink verbena that covered it. At the top, we were surprised to see a Jesus statue. We were told later it was meant to be a blessing to all fishermen as it overlooked the bay.

We took advantage of that blessing when we tried to re-launch the skiff. Out in the open water, the surface was almost like glass, but with swells. As they reached shore, they formed good-sized waves, and in this small nook of a bay between two rocky embankments, those swells broke and crashed onto shore. After a few unsuccessful attempts to get out and start the outboard before being washed back to shore, we realized we would have to get wet. Gary got into the skiff, ready to pull the outboard motor’s starter cord, and I stood waist deep in the water and held the skiff steady against the waves. After a wave crashed to shore, we shoved out quickly, survived another wave, and shoved out some more. Gary started the motor and dragged me into the skiff. I was glad the water was clear and warm.

On our way past the shrimper, they waved and called to us. We hove to and they asked for cigarettes. We don’t smoke. What about soda? Anything? Trade for shrimp? We made a circle motion with our hands and took off. The campers contributed what they could spare in the way of pop and candy, and since we had neither, we contributed some T-shirts and caps. Returning to the shrimp boat, we were greeted eagerly by several deckhands. We handed up the goodies and watched them grab and argue over who got what. The T-shirts and caps were popular, so on another Baja trip I would remember that and bring more.

The crew loaded us up with huge bags of shrimp. We thanked them and came away happy. Looking back at the shrimp boat, we saw that the feeling was mutual. They were all grinning.

That night we had a wonderful pot luck supper. After a day of so much fresh air and sunshine, we slept well. But what a surprise we had in the morning when we stepped out of our Boler into water.

Feeling like the Clampetts

It happened to be one of the highest tides of the year and although we were well away from the beach, the flooding tide had begun to trickle under the Boler. Gary hitched up the Boler and prepared to drag our rig to higher, dryer ground while I went around knocking on our fellow campers’ doors.

Waterfront property isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Making Fire

When we were in our twenties, living in the Interior of BC, my husband and I considered ourselves very capable campers. The canoe was usually on top of the VW van, ready for action each weekend. It took very little for us to prepare for a camping trip because we never really unpacked. The basics were always ready. We threw in a few clothes and groceries and off we went.

We had discovered a good fishing spot way out in the boonies where it would be rare to meet another person. The plan was to go back there, but this time instead of bringing our trout home to cook, we would make a fire by the lakeside and fry the fish right there. I loaded our black cast iron frying pan, a bit of butter, salt and pepper into our mess kit of camp dishes and cutlery. All was set, and off we drove.

The lake and the surrounding meadow and forest would have made a perfect calendar photo. The weather co-operated; not too hot, but just warm enough to be comfortable. A beautiful day. We canoed the small lake and enjoyed the bird life around us. Trout begged to be allowed into the canoe. We had to force ourselves to stop fishing when we had enough to eat.

Back on land, glowing from the fresh air and healthy exercise of paddling, we stretched our legs.

“I’ll clean the fish.” My husband took the trout and walked some distance along the shore.

“I’ll get a fire ready.” I put a few big rocks together to build a firepit on the gravelly  beach. I gathered dry wood from the nearby woods and built a good teepee of sticks with very small bits of kindling in the middle. Then I brought out the frying pan, butter, salt and pepper.

“Do you have the matches?” I asked my husband when he came back with the cleaned trout.

“No, I thought you were packing all that stuff.” He slapped his pockets looking for matches or a lighter.

I rummaged in my purse. Small chance of finding anything in there. Not only was it a jumble of junk but neither of us smoked so we weren’t in the habit of carrying matches or lighters on our person. I looked in the glove compartment, in the mess kit, in the box of supplies from home.

We stood there looking from the fish to the pan to each other. The wheels were turning in my brain, and I thought, “We’re two outdoor types with lots of camping experience. Surely we can make a fire. How hard can it be? So think. What would a person lost in the woods do? ”

“I know,” I said. “We could use a piece of glass and let the sun heat up the kindling or a piece of paper.” I held a drinking glass over a piece of Kleenex and focused the sun’s rays on the paper. It wasn’t exactly a scorcher of a day and the rays were feeble. Nothing was happening, not even a hint of smoke. “Hmm … well … we could rub two sticks together?”

My husband shook his head. “It doesn’t work just like that.”

“What do you suggest?” I had already run out of ideas.

“I suggest we take the fish home and cook them on the stove.”

I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “How about like in the cowboy movies?  You know, where they pour gas on something and then shoot into it and it lights up?”

“Aw, that doesn’t work.” He waved me off and started to pack up the fish.

“Well, couldn’t we try it?” I so much wanted to fry those trout on the campfire. I had everything else ready right down to the napkins.

“Okay, I’ll do it just to show you.” He brought his .22 rifle out of the truck. From the spare gas caddy, he poured a bit of gasoline on the teepee of sticks I’d built. “Stand back then.” He fired into the gasoline.

I was all ready to unpack the trout and throw them into the pan. I was sure we’d have a roaring fire in the next few seconds. But what did we have?

“There!” he said. “Are you satisfied? It only works in the movies.”

I’m sorry to tell you that there’s no happy ending to this story. Two over-confident seasoned campers didn’t get to use their seasoning on the trout. Instead, they went home to a big helping of humble pie.

The fire that I wished we could have made.

Excerpt from The Wind Weeps

The Wind Weeps is featured on Frontrowlit today  http://frontrowlit.com/?p=2579.

Escape?

Throughout January, and into February, Robert was often out fishing with the skiff. His blowups were less frequent, but when they happened they were more intense. I had several bruises now and was doing my best to avoid getting any more, agreeing with him on everything. He hadn’t been to his Powell River appointments since before Christmas but I wasn’t about to bring that up and have him explode again.

“Almost Valentine’s Day,” I said. I winced as I set a cup of coffee in front of him. My wrist was red and sore from where he had twisted it last night.

“Soon be time to think about doing some boat maintenance.” Robert dropped his head and ran his hands through his hair.

I brightened. “Are you taking the boat to PowellRiver? I could help you scrub the hull and paint.” Oh God! A chance to get out of here!

“Yeah, I was thinking about it. I need to get a bit of gear too, and probably I should change that water pump. It’s starting to make tired noises.” He scowled. “More money down the drain. Fuck! It never ends. Seems like more money goes out than comes in.”

“Well, we don’t spend much out here,” I offered, hoping to smooth things over and improve his mood.

“You complaining again? What do want from me? You want to go shopping? Don’t I provide everything you need?” His voice got louder and louder as he worked himself into a rage.

“Robert! I wasn’t saying anything like that.” My heart thumped louder and my throat tightened, anticipating an explosion.

“No, but you were thinking it! Goddammit. Women! They’re never satisfied.” He slammed his fist on the table spilling his coffee. The hot liquid ran down onto his lap and he jumped up in a fury. “Now look what you made me do!” The expression on his face.… I thought I was going to pee myself. My knees quaked as I stood up. Oh no! Here comes trouble!

Robert grabbed my arm and threw me against the door. It hadn’t been latched tightly and my weight flung it open. I landed on my backside on the porch and scrambled to get up. The Hawkeye bobbed gently at the dock. Could I hide in there? No way I was going back into the cabin now. I ran for the boat. The skiff was tied to the float. Even better! If I could undo the lines quickly enough, I could push off and be safe. Robert probably expected me to come back into the cabin and so turned his back long enough to give me the head start I needed. I untied the lines and tossed them into the skiff, jumped in, and pushed away from the float. Safe! When Robert got to the float I was out of his reach—just.

“You fucking bitch! Get back here, right now! What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Crazy bitch. You get back here, or I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” His words came out in a roaring scream. His face was contorted with rage as he shook his fists at me.

Now what? I was sure he really would kill me if I came ashore again. There was only one solution—make a break for it. I squeezed the rubber bulb in the fuel line to put some gas into the carburetor, pulled the cord and the motor came alive. I put it in gear and took off. A glance over my shoulder told me I had made the right decision—the only possible decision. Robert stood at the end of the float waving his arms wildly. His mouth was opening and closing, presumably shouting obscenities. I was glad I couldn’t hear them above the roar of the outboard motor.

Buzzing with adrenaline, I crossed the bay towards the channel. The light chop on the water was enough to slam the skiff up and down repeatedly. Okay, calm down now. Slow the motor down. No need to pound the waves so hard. I cut back on the throttle and still cruised along at a good clip. On the other side of the bay now, entering the channel, I kept close enough to shore so I wouldn’t be in the worst of the weather or the waves, but far enough from the beach so I didn’t hit any hidden rocks.

Now that I was away from Robert, I started to shake. Some of the shaking was the terror catching up to me, some was from sheer cold. I’d had no time to grab a jacket—hadn’t planned to be on the frigid gray sea in February. The icy wind cut through my sweat shirt and the chill of the aluminum seat seeped into my jeans as I motored along. I didn’t allow myself to dwell on the cold. I only had to get to someplace where there were people. If I could get to Hope Bay, I’d be safe. Squirrel Cove might be closer, but I didn’t want to risk crossing the open water in this little skiff. Better to hug the beach and make a beeline for Hope Bay. Later I’d find my way to Lund. Oh Monique, it’s going to be so good to see you. I can hardly wait. Tears filled my eyes. I would be out of this nightmare at last. My chin quivered and I gulped back the tears of relief at having left Robert behind.

I glanced back to the point of land that marked our bay. “Oh NO!” I screamed into the wind. The Hawkeye! Black smoke poured out of its smokestack. Robert had it roaring at full throttle, like the maniac he was.

Still, I knew I could easily outrun him in the skiff. I opened it up and bounced along the choppy waves. My kidneys took a beating with every jolt. Away! Away! Away from that crazy madman.

I could see the entrance to Hope Bay ahead of me. Not far beyond that was freedom and safety. I was putting good distance between myself and the Hawkeye. Suddenly the skiff jerked and lurched and began to slow down. The motor sputtered. No. No. No.

I picked up the gas tank. It was disappointingly light. Oh no! No, no it can’t be!  I turned it on its side and tried to drain the last drops into the fuel line. The motor coughed and the boat lurched forward again. Just another half a mile and I could be safe. But it was not to be. The outboard gave one last sputter and died. Silence.… The waves lapped sadly against the sides of the skiff. I turned and saw the Hawkeye relentlessly belching out smoke, in dogged pursuit.

With trembling hands, I rammed the oars into the oarlocks and clambered into the middle seat to start rowing. Now, facing the back of the boat I watched in terror as the Hawkeye gained on me. I rowed furiously and fought the waves, but made no headway. I realized then that the tide was carrying me back two feet for every one I rowed forward. I thought of going ashore with the skiff, if the tide would allow it. The Hawkeye couldn’t follow me there. But steep cliffs lined the shore all along. Not a hope of beaching the skiff. Still, I kept rowing. I couldn’t give up now. I knew what awaited me.

I could see his face in the wheelhouse. His jaw was set in determination. When he pulled alongside he grinned.

“Hello, Andrea,” he said pleasantly. “What brings you out here on a day like this? A bit chilly for a joyride, isn’t it?”

To order The Wind Weeps, go to http://amzn.to/KpAB7G or  Smashwords at http://bit.ly/yPQvEP

Jim – (excerpt from The Wind Weeps)

Excerpt from The Wind Weeps.

Andrea has been visiting Jim on Vancouver Island and is about to return to Powell River on the ferry.

Andrea gave me a light kiss on the cheek. “I’d better run.” She looked over her shoulder. “The foot passengers are already boarding. Take care of yourself, Jim.” She picked up her overnight bag and hurried after Monique.

Turn around and let me get one more look at you. I watched as she crossed the parking lot towards the ferry. Almost there, she turned to give me one more wave. Her smile was genuine, natural, beautiful.

Driving home from the ferry terminal, her smile hovered in the front of my mind.  She had me chuckling to myself, as I replayed so many of our moments together. There was something easy and comfortable about being around Andrea. I didn’t feel I had to role-play and try to impress her or be on my guard about what I said or did. I could just be me. She had an innocent way about her, didn’t want or need impressing. I loved that about her.

So unlike Sarah. Most of that woman’s sentences started with “I.” When I went out with Sarah a couple of years ago, I thought she was pretty in an earthy way – the artsy type. But what a left-wing greenie. Nothing wrong with wanting what’s best for the earth, but most of her beliefs involved way too much theory. Great ideas, but in practice, forget it. They just didn’t work.

“Everybody has a right to have enough food,” she said.

“Well, of course, everyone has a right to it,” I agreed, “but sometimes circumstances prevent that from happening, and it doesn’t matter if you have a ‘right’ to it or not. If food’s not available, you don’t get it.”

“How can you be so hard-hearted?”

“I feel bad for starving people, but the reality is we can’t save everyone.”

Then she rolled her eyes and shook her head as if she couldn’t believe my lack of understanding. She walked away muttering something about the bigger picture.

I could have just snapped her up and married her. She’d look good on my arm. But how would we pass the time when we weren’t having sex? Yes, sex. It was just that. It wasn’t making love with her—you need more emotion for that.  But suppose we’d married and had the rest of our lives to spend together? I had a little taste of what that could be like when she deckhanded with me. There were hours sometimes when the fishing was slow and it would have been nice to have a conversation.

“What do you think is going to happen with this new Euro coin they’re trying to get all of Europe to use?” I asked her one day after hearing about it on the radio.

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Who cares anyway? That’s way over in Europe. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

“Well, sure it does. It’s going to affect the whole world economy. It’ll probably have a trickle-down effect on the price of my fish.”

“Is that all you can think of? Money?! You’re just like all the rest of those capitalists.”

“How can you say that? It’s what feeds me and pays my bills. What’s wrong with that? And believe me, what happens in European markets will affect all of us here.”

“Oh I sincerely doubt it,” she said.  She blew out an exasperated sigh and picked up one of her paperbacks with the picture of lovers on the cover.

Not a deep thinker. I was disappointed in her. She looked good, worked hard when we were into fish, and was pleasant enough to be around, but something was definitely missing with her. She was all about herself in the here and now. Her only thoughts about the world at large echoed what her left-wing friends repeated. The only original ideas she had were in her artwork; never about practical things.

It just didn’t work for me. Fishing was a hands-on job. About as real as you could get. There was no room for a lot of idealism on a fishboat. If you had a tangle in the lines, you had to get it out fast and get that line fishing again. You couldn’t stand there and philosophize about how many chemicals went into making all that perlon and how it was ruining the environment. Sure I cared about the environment, but this was not the time to get out the placards and protest the use of polyester products in fishing lines.

“Did you know that wearing polyester underwear lowers your sperm count?” she said.

God, she was way out in left field.

“Mine’s cotton.” So there. For once I got the last word.

And now, a couple of years later, in spite of all Sarah’s earlier left-wing green talk, it seems she’d turned into quite the little capitalist after all with her gift shop in Lund.

I pulled into my driveway, shaking off thoughts of Sarah and wondering why I ever had anything to do with her when I could have someone like Andrea. I would call tomorrow and make sure I didn’t let her slip away. Andrea was a keeper.

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The Wind Weeps is available at any of the amazon sites (amazon.com, amazon.ca, amazon.co.uk, and amazon.de) as a paperback or Kindle version. If you have an e-reader other than Kindle, you will find the e-book available at smashwords.com.

If you live in the Comox Valley you can find The Wind Weeps at Blue Heron Books and at Laughing Oyster Bookshop.

For more about The Wind Weeps, visit anneli-purchase.com 

The Wind Weeps – Chapter 1

In my novel, The Wind Weeps, Andrea is a naive girl new to the West Coast. She starts her new life in the small community of Lund, north of Powell River. Too quickly she falls in love and makes life-altering decisions. The fisherman she marries is handsome, but what Andrea finds out too late, is that he has a dark side.

The Wind Weeps

Chapter One.

I knew I must have the wrong address. He was absolutely stunning. My heart fluttered and thudded frantically. Heat rose to my face. I ducked my head in embarrassment, but couldn’t keep my eyes off him.

I glanced at the scrap of paper in my hand—Single girl looking for roommate to share expenses. Call Monique. 604-483-5866
The guy who opened the door to the ground level basement suite was serious model material. Lean, broad shoulders, tight jeans, red plaid shirt—the healthy, outdoorsy type. His dark brown hair stuck up in spiky tufts when he took off his cap to greet me.

“Hello. Ah…er…Is Monique here?” I rechecked the address I had scribbled down when I talked to Monique on the phone. “Maybe I have the wrong place?” I backed up a step or two, looking for the house number again, unsure what to do next.

“Andrea?” he asked.

I nodded. “Do you live here?”

“Of course.” He looked puzzled by my question.

Three’s Company? What was I getting myself into?  “Monique didn’t say there was another person sharing the suite.”

“No, dere isn’t. It will be just de two of us.”

“I don’t think so.” No matter how good looking he was, no matter how tempting he was, I wasn’t about to move in with a man I’d never met before. I turned to leave.

He reached for my hand and pumped it up and down. “I’m Monique.”

“You’re Monique?” I stood there with my mouth hanging open as a second surge of warmth crept up my neck to the roots of my hair.

“Don’t worry. It ’appen to me all de time. People t’ink I am a boy because of my short ’air and de way I dress.”

“I – I’m sorry. How stupid of me.” Relief—and disappointment—washed over me.

“Come in. ’Ave a look around and see if you like de place. You say you from Ontario?” I nodded. “Eh bien, we are almost neighbours den. I am from Québec.”

“Have you been in B.C. long?” I scanned the room behind her as we talked. The place looked clean and bright.

“About a year.”

“So what brought you here?”

“Why did you come ’ere?” She smiled as she threw the question back at me. “Probably de same reasons, eh? To be by de sea, to get away from de crowd, to be independent, to find romance, adventure? Am I close?”

“You’re right on.” We’d get along very well. “I like the place and if you like me, I like you.”

Monique smiled broadly displaying beautiful white teeth.

“So you would like to move in?”

“I think so. Yes. But, Monique, if I don’t find a job. You know … I explained on the phone I can only pay for a month or two if I don’t find work soon.”

“Dat’s no problem,” she said. “Dere is always work around ’ere in de tourist season and den after dat, we see.”

She sounded so sure of herself. I wished I had her confidence. It had taken every bit of courage I could muster to come out here by myself.

“It’s too far. Won’t you change your mind?” My mother had clung to me, her face wet with tears. I almost changed my mind right then.

My dad shook his head. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can convince you to stay? I hope you won’t regret it. You’re too stubborn for your own good.”

I had put on a brave face and said something clichéd, like “I’ll email you,” but I had no idea if I’d even have access to a computer in Lund. It looked like a small place when I had chosen it at random on the map. As it turned out, I was right. It was a very small hamlet over four thousand kilometers from home.

No job, only $800 in my purse, no family, no friends—and now this gorgeous hunk of a man turns out to be a woman.

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The Wind Weeps is available at any of the amazon sites (amazon.com, amazon.ca, amazon.co.uk, and amazon.de) as a paperback or Kindle version. If you have an e-reader other than Kindle, you will find the e-book available at smashwords.com.

If you live in the Comox Valley you can find The Wind Weeps at Blue Heron Books and at Laughing Oyster Bookshop.

For more about The Wind Weeps, visit anneli-purchase.com