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.

Friendly Birds

Commercial fishing can be a lonely life, so it’s only natural that any friendly visit  would be welcomed. When my husband is away fishing near the Queen Charlotte Islands, now renamed Haida Gwaii,  he is often visited by pigeon guillemots, some of the friendliest birds on the coast. These two dropped in for a visit on the bow of the troller. They’re very curious birds and have to check out everything.

These little sea birds with bright red feet don’t seem to mind people at all. They roost on cross braces between pilings at the wharves, or on the bull rails of the floats, often engaging in noisy high-pitched bantering among themselves. Because they often nest on shore not too far from the beach, they are no strangers to fishboats that anchor close to shore.

Unlike crows or seagulls, they are not content to sit there doing nothing. They have to explore, run around the deck, flutter up onto the roof of the wheelhouse to run around scritchety-scratching with their feet, and hop down again to see what’s new on the skylight for the fo’c'sle and every other part of the boat before flying away again.

Having checked out the bow, they are back again to inspect the stern of the boat. The shiny gear kept there catches their interest.

What’s behind this bucket?

And oh, look! There’s a whole little room down there where the captain stands when he fishes. Must check this out.

Come on, Georgie. Time to go. Jump back into the water.

You go first. I’ll be right behind you.

And so they take off to swim with their heads under so the water just barely covers their eyes. They’ll feed on tiny sea animals and in a while maybe they’ll need another rest on the fishboat. The fisherman will be happy to have them come back to entertain him on those long lonely days.

PS Don’t forget to check out my sister blog, Anneli’s Place.  I’m sure the pigeon guillemots will check it out.

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 Nine – Dolphins

Gary held the 12 ft. aluminum skiff steady for me.

“Thanks. Do you think we’ll see any dolphins?”

“We might if we get out some distance into the bay. Let’s push off and we’ll putt out a little way and have a look around.”

We glided over the glassy water easily. A couple of hundred yards from the beach, Gary cut the motor and we drifted in the sudden silence.

Now that we were sitting still and the air was no longer whooshing past, I felt the soothing rays of the sun soaking into me. The early morning wisps of mist had lifted from the bay, leaving clear blue sky reflected in a deeper blue sea. I filled my lungs with the fresh, salty air.

“Have a look.” Gary handed me a pair of binoculars. “Look for fins or tops of their bodies breaking the surface. If you see any, we’ll try to get closer without spooking them.”

Moments later, I pointed. “There!” At a slower, quieter speed, Gary angled the boat towards the school’s probable destination, so that eventually our paths would cross.

Hundreds of sleek bodies broke the surface only to curve and dive down immediately and reappear a few yards farther on. Gary cut the motor again and we drifted, a mere speck in the middle of the huge Bay of Conception, closer than we had hoped to a huge school of dolphins, all aiming for the head of the bay.

“Listen to them!” I whisper-shouted. The mewling, whistling, singing, and crying, as they repeatedly broke the surface of the water, was an eerie choir piece. Hauntingly beautiful, it gave me goosebumps in spite of the warm day. Gary’s face mirrored my feelings exactly—somewhere between awe and ecstasy.

Still trying to come to terms with the amazing spectacle we had just experienced, we sat a moment longer watching the last of the dolphins disappear in the distance.

“Uh-oh!” Gary pointed towards the open end of the bay. “Whitecaps.” He started the motor and turned the skiff towards home. Within minutes, the breaking waves had moved much closer and the glassy smooth surface changed to ripples that grew into an uncomfortable lump. I’d heard fishermen talk about the lump in the sea. Now I knew what they were talking about.

“Hang on. It could get bumpy. I’ll take us to the nearest point of land and then we’ll work our way home along the beach.”

I gripped the gunwales of the boat where they began to curve towards the bow. We bucked into the choppy whitecaps that had now overtaken us. In no time, the sleeves of my blue cotton shirt were soaked from the spray. Two-foot waves didn’t seem like much but they followed one after the other so briskly that the small skiff took a pounding. My stomach clenched into a knot of fear as we were tossed in every direction. I tightened my grip against the bouncing of the boat. More waves splashed over the bow, soaking the front of my shirt. I was glad the water was warm. It would have been an ordeal to be splashed with icy water every few seconds. The finer spray wet my face so the drops were running off my chin. I glanced at Gary in the stern of the boat. He was completely dry except for a bit of salt spray in his hair. I could only imagine what I looked like. Drowned rats came to mind.

“We’re almost out of it,” Gary yelled above the engine noise. He saw that I was bearing the brunt of the beating at the front of the boat. I could only nod as I looked over my shoulder at him.

Closer to the beach, we zigzagged to avoid rocks. Beaching the boat here would be difficult. We continued along the shoreline until we rounded a point and entered the mini bay where our own sheltered beach lay.

“Whew! That’s better,” I said.

We pulled the boat ashore and secured it with a line to a huge rock far above the high tide mark.

All the rest of that day we couldn’t get the dolphins out of our heads. To be so close to them was like a small miracle and we had been lucky to be a part of it.

Baja Getaway – Part Eight

(Click on photos to enlarge them.)

 

After descending the Santa Rosalía hill, the last of the challenges of bad roads and mini disasters were behind us, we hoped. The next leg of our trip would bring us to our destination in about two hours.

Luckily we had been forewarned not to try to take our rigs through the town of Mulegé. We unhitched and drove only the truck into town. Some of the streets were narrow, most were one-way, and the buildings that came right out to the corner of the road were not about to move to make room for anyone requiring a wide turning space. Trailers not recommended. We headed straight down the main street, filling up a couple of 20-litre jugs with drinking water from the agua pura shop before visiting Saul’s Tienda for any and all sorts of groceries we felt we might need for the coming week. With our supplies loaded, we drove back to our rigs and hitched up again for the last part of the trip to the beach where we would be setting up our camp, 27 miles south.

El Requesón beach is very picturesque, but a bit too touristy for our liking so we continued on a little farther to a much quieter beach. There we set up camp, putting much of our camping gear in the palapa to make room in the Boler for sleeping and unpacking more than the basic necessities. This was to be our home base for the next couple of months.

The next morning, the sunrise alone was worth the long drive, and life would only get better from this point on.

Baja Getaway – Part Seven

I forgot to tell you about the swaying motion of the Boler. Yes, the Boler bounced up and down too much because of the weight of the trail bike on the back, but even after  mounting the bike on the front of the truck, the Boler still had a tendency to sway back and forth. This wobble usually started after hitting a pothole, or overcorrecting on one of Baja’s many curvas peligrosas – those tight, tight, dangerous curves.

I monitored the passenger side mirror constantly, announcing the beginnings of the whiplashing motion in hopes that Gary could correct the sway before it got too wild. But if I thought we had troubles, they were nothing compared to one of the transport trucks we followed for many a mile before daring to pass it.

This truck carried a load of what looked like agricultural packing boxes, stacked extremely high—way beyond the height of the sides of its trailer. It caught a lot of wind and the load had shifted some time ago, so the truck had to travel slowly. That may have been a blessing in disguise, since its back wheels were way over to the right of its front wheels. The whole frame seemed to be askew. In order for the rear wheels to be on the pavement, the driver had to put the front wheels of his tractor well over the center line, into the oncoming lane. From time to time we saw the right rear wheel leave the pavement and wondered if it was just a matter of time before the whole load tipped over. Since we had no opportunity to pass him as long as he used both lanes, we kept well back.

After many miles of watching this poor fellow dogleg along Mex 1, we came to one of the few Pemex stations along the way. The rig pulled in to the station and rolled into a wide gravel area. The driver wiped his brow as he got out to inspect his precarious load, while we did the fastest fuel up in history and got back on the road before he resumed his trip.

At San Ignacio, we stayed a couple of nights in an RV park right on the lagoon that makes this small town special. It’s an oasis of lush greenery in the middle of the desert. Gary and I put our skiff in the slow moving river and enjoyed the birdlife on the river and its banks while our fellow travellers took advantage of the water to rinse out a few bits of laundry with a minimum of soap.

The next day we walked into town to see the old Jesuit mission built in 1728, still a beautiful structure after all those years.

When we continued the last leg of our trip to our camp south of Mulegé, we first had to negotiate the famous Sta. Rosalía hill. This part of the highway made such an impression on me that I decided to use it in my novel, Orion’s Gift. Although my characters, Kevin and Sylvia, don’t have a truck with a Boler swaying side to side as they traverse this mountainous stretch of road, Sylvia, driving her new VW van found it terrifying enough. Kevin is behind her in his truck and camper. Here is a small excerpt from Orion’s Gift from Sylvia’s point of view. She has a Mexican doll named Annie hanging from the curtain behind her seat and sometimes talks to Annie to bolster her courage.

From Orion’s Gift:

I felt the van slowing down as the elevation rose. I was climbing a long hill, sometimes winding around small hills, sometimes straight, but constantly climbing.

“Pretty gutless for a new van,” I muttered to myself.

On one of the long straight stretches, was a huge propane-filling plant. I was glad to get past it. Places like that always made me nervous. I had visions of someone tossing a cigarette butt and blowing the whole thing sky high. I concentrated more on the road now, as it twisted in and out, clinging to the edge of the mountainside. At one point I had a fantastic view of the Sea of Cortez, and ahead of me lay the town of Santa Rosalía. The same hill I had just come up, had to be driven down, and it seemed to me that I would be down the hill in a very short time, judging by the steep grade of the road.

“Holy smokes, Annie!” I squealed. “If I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, I’d be hanging on to the steering wheel to stop myself from falling into my own windshield.

“O-h-h-h-h-h!” I wailed. The narrow road was etched out of the mountainside, twisting and winding along the steep grade. I was pointing downhill at a frightening angle and yet I was having to make sharp turns. I could smell the burning brakes of motorhomes ahead of me. I was glad my lane was on the mountain side of the road. No guard rails! Crumbling shoulders! Oh, my God! And tight curves! The crowning touch was when I stupidly looked to see how far down it was. There, far, far below me, was the burnt out wreck of a transport truck. I almost started to cry from fear. I glanced in the mirror and saw Kevin right behind me, his face pale and tense. Still, he gave me a thumbs-up. Thank God he was there even if only for moral support.

A few minutes later, I had survived the Santa Rosalía hill. I coasted the last mile or so into town and pulled into the Pemex station to refuel.

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Find Orion’s Gift for Kindle at amazon.com  http://amzn.to/QnhEck

For Kindle and all other e-reader formats, find Orion’s Gift at smashwords.com http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/213638

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.