Hygiene Bedamned

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

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

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

A Visit to Loonyburg, Nova Scotia

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

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

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

The Inferno

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

And Then There Were Eight

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

A Rousing Game of Strappy (Gratuitous Nudity Included)

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

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

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

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

Fly Oh Fly

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