Best Summer Job - Sailing The High Seas at 16 - Part III

As my first real summer job, five months on board Canadian Coast Guard vessels was definitely in the best ever category. And when you throw in a trip to the Arctic, it became pretty hard to top. This was an extraordinary encounter made all the more fun because it was so unanticipated and it started with skipping school. This is Part III of III of The Best Summer Job Ever.

We cleared temperate waters and charted through the Strait of Belle Isle, the Labrador Sea, Davis Strait and into Baffin Bay beyond the Arctic Circle at 66° 33’. The days seemed endless, an undulating horizon, grey expanses, little to break up the isolation. The muted tones of Baffin Island’s sheer striated cliffs were our only visual relief. Thank goodness for our on board diversions – three beers per day, table tennis in an empty hold back aft and, for the newbies, our induction by baptism in freezing water to the Order of the Bluenose. Having sailed into the northern polar regions, we had now become official companions of King Neptune and his cronies.

Finally, we hit landfall in Thule, Greenland – 1,100 kilometres north of the Arctic Circle. North Star Bay was a spectacular delight. There were scores of icebergs bobbing in bright sunlight each an individual sculpture carved and teased by windy sea. After two or three weeks in confined quarters these crystalline reflections were like long, cool drinks, sirens leading us to safe harbour.

Thule was our one appreciable foray ashore during the trip. We whooped it up at the BX filling our faces to a level of piggishness that surpassed even our habitual excesses. We were after all in an outpost of the home of the free and the brave and we felt a need to demonstrate our manliness to the Yanks. This was their northernmost air force base and in ’74 it must have been a plum assignment because it meant you weren’t flying missions into Vietnam.

Liquor was cheap and plentiful on the base. Just over two dollars for a 40 pounder. The official word from the chief mate to us bejeezly labourers was that the booze was off bounds. None was to come on board. It’s a good thing that no one took the prohibition edict too seriously because over a few hours the base BX was nearly sucked dry and the Canadian boys had ample hard liquor to consume for the rest of the voyage.

Our next and last landfall was the community of Resolute Bay a couple of weeks after our Thule escapade. We steamed west and north through the channels separating Bylot Island from Baffin Island. Just offshore of Pond Inlet, two Inuit kayakers glided across the sound’s smooth surface. They came to trade. That evening, crew and officers ate arctic char. The Inuit made their way to shore with tobacco and alcohol we had purchased in Thule.

Everyone was promised a trip to Resolute long enough to make a phone call. The Louis’ draft was too much so she had to sit offshore, the largest human imprint for hundreds of miles. We were ferried there and back three at a time on the ship’s helicopter. This virginal helicopter ride pretty much beat anything I had ever tried on the carnival midway. We were ship to shore in a couple of minutes whirligigging over abandoned wreckage that lay where it had crashed on the approaches to the airstrip.

The phones were well used that afternoon with calls south to loved ones. We only had a few minutes each and it was sometimes a little difficult to hear what was being said through the satellite skip. This time delay echo was like a third party companion on the call interjecting with comments that had already been made.

After this brief respite in the town that had signposts for the North Pole, South Pole, Las Vegas and Columbia it was back to sea. Aside from delivering supplies for a scientific expedition based on Ellesmere Island, it didn’t seem like we had accomplished a lot. In fact, we only broke ice once and that seemed to be at the whim of the officer on the bridge. To the untrained eye, it looked like we could have skirted the floe without too much of a diversion. It must have been a challenge for the ice observers on board to keep at the top of their game, to maintain some form of motivation.

Not that I was complaining. School had already started back south and here I was raking in the dollars as the night steward supporting the officers on watch with coffee and snacks. Every morning at the end of my shift I racked up two hours overtime to butter toast destined for the officers’ palates. I liked the money but I detested the rank separation of officers and crew. The worlds were physically separate – different messes, different accommodations, different
off-hour gathering spots. There was virtually no socializing, no fraternizing across these two solitudes.

As we started steaming south for Halifax the shipping lanes were closing behind us. Open channels were fewer and fewer. The season of small steel ships was over as the crushing ice expanded its grip. Now I was getting eyed up as the steward that would provide dedicated service to the old man, the captain’s kiddy. For a couple of weeks I cleaned his stateroom and served meals in his private dining room but I have no recollection of the man, his likes, or dislikes, any words he shared with me. But apparently he wanted me to be on duty for him.

By the time we tied up in Dartmouth my desire for the sailing life had greatly diminished. I was lonely for home and had missed family and friends. There was an expectation from the Chief Steward, or at least a desire, that I would be staying on in the captain’s kiddy role.

I didn’t have the heart, or the courage, to let them know I was leaving. Despite the adventure and the good wages, I knew I had to get out and get on with the business of completing high school. I called my Dad and asked him if he would drive the 300 kilometers round trip to pick me up and bring me home right away. He never hesitated, never questioned my judgment. He just came to get me and took me back home. I was so happy to see him. I walked down the gangway that night a few inches closer to being an adult, to being a man, but still very glad to be a son, a boy loved by his parents.

The New York Times recently reported that the Arctic is experiencing growing stress. Many scientists believe it is a weathervane for our global ecosystems – its health is a pre-requisite for planetary well-being.

To chart the Louis St. Laurent’s modern day journeys, visit this tracking map.

P.S. Unlike some hapless teens that signed on board in the summer of ’74, I was never sent to the Purser’s Office to ask for my masturbation papers and, after five months at sea with the men, I managed to stave off my desire for a crazy, colourful, trumpeting tattoo…………..

From Japan with Love

Our son loves Moyo. She’s his best friend. Over the past five months they’ve been inseparable. I was there each weekday morning to witness her arrival and each time she rang our doorbell I was reminded of our good fortune.

Immediately on hearing the chimes, our lad literally dropped whatever was at hand and lunged in the general direction of the front door. Whether he was strapped into his high chair, or snuggled up reading, his drive was to get close to Moyo as quickly as possible. All the while he would repeatedly shout out her name in a cadence that unmistakably said – and so much more eloquently than mere words – “we’ll have great fun again today Moyo”.

If Noah-David happened to be on the main level of the house and he saw Moyo’s face appear at the door, the fun would get off to a rollicking start. Our young boy would propel himself to the entrance and begin an energetic dance full of pirouettes and gyrations of happiness, his little body an animated exclamation mark of pure, unrestrained joy. As she walked through the door, the dance intensified and Noah would approach Moyo requesting one of his favourite activities.

One morning, shortly after arriving, Noah-David took Moyo’s hand and led her into the living room closing the door behind him. He was on a mission and I was curious to find out what was on his mind. As I gently pushed the door open, I felt resistance from the other side and heard Noah’s tiny voice exclaiming ‘no’ as he emphatically closed the door. This sharing moment was between friends and didn’t require a Dad on the journey.

In the five months that Moyo came to our house, there were only tears on three occasions as I left for work. Our standard adieu shtick consisted of an enthusiastic send-off with waves and blown kisses whose real subtext was, “thanks Papa I was despairing of ever having Moyo all to myself”.

What a great feeling at the outset of the day’s adventures to know with certainty that your child is playing happily - learning, loving and being loved. That’s the nub of it all, what Moyo embodied was much more than childcare. She gave herself totally and unreservedly to our boy. She shared her enthusiasm for hopping, jumping, bubble blowing, drawing, reading, walking, making believe and so much more.

On a recent morning as I prepared to leave, Noah-David and Moyo were crouched in the living room, two friends lost in the wonders of modeling clay. Noah-David was rolling roundness in the palms of his little hands. Tiny orbs were populating the floor for no discernible purpose. It was tactile creation, texture, shapes, colours, and fun. It was the becoming of a new world under the direction of quick, smiling eyes.

For Noah-David the five months with Moyo represented nearly one-quarter of his life. As August came to an end so too did our time together. Our Japanese friend left Halifax last week. She is continuing her travels en route to Belfast, Dublin, London, Paris and Amsterdam before returning home to Hyogo prefecture on Japan’s west coast.

Late one evening while preparing Moyo a small gift – a movie of her adventures together with Noah-David punctuated with still photos - I was struck again by how present this young woman had been for our son, how much there and in the moment. Several times as I was editing, reviewing clips and inserting favourite music, I was overcome by tears. I cried in happiness for each magic moment they shared. I wept to mark the passing of a formidable love.

That night it was hard to believe that there would be no more rainbow flotillas of chalk drawing boats on our driveway, our fences, our deck, or our front steps to greet us as we arrived home. We will make sure this playful tradition lives on. The mighty armada, with the S.S. Noah and the S.S. Moyo as the proud flagships, will continue its adventures on Young Street’s calm seas.

On our last day, Moyo presented us with a beautiful parting gift, an album of photos starring Noah-David. It was a tough afternoon, difficult for the adults to say goodbye. Noah’s intuition told him something was amiss and he was unsettled. Dropping Moyo off at her house on Pepperell St., there were tears all around. It was our last chance to say thanks one more time in person. It was hard to let go.

As Moyo flew east to Europe, we flew west to Québec for a few days. Our destination was chez les grandparents in Sorel. Tante Danielle’s horses, walks along the river, dancing with Grandmaman and Tante Stéphanie, kicky-ball with Grandpapa and fun and games with la petite cousine, Maxime kept Moyo’s absence at bay.

We’re into a new week now and it’s no longer quite the same relaxed, languorous, carefree start to the day in familiar home surroundings. Noah-David is off to day care. Two weeks prior to her departure Moyo helped with this transition. She was so proud to see how her little friend was adapting to and embracing this new experience.

It’s been a great run for all of us. Thank you for everything Moyo. We love you.

Best Summer Job - Sailing the High Seas at 16 - Part II

Thirty years down the road I can still taste the adventure. Looking out from monkey’s island, the most elevated deck on the icebreaker immediately above the bridge, I can feel the gusting wind working itself into a gale and storming waves are gyrating the vessel propelling us like a corkscrew. Even 60 feet above the water’s surface, salt spray soaks through permeating the air each time the bow crashes into the grey Atlantic steel.

Although the Louis dwarfed other ships in the Coast Guard fleet her mass was as nothing in the open ocean. In the couple of storms I experienced we were tossed about like so much jetsam. There was always a quiet undertone of vulnerability, of risk. In this expansive environment where sea kisses sky there was ample opportunity to experience, or at least reflect on humility.

Not that there was a lot of humility in this all male, testosterone charged world. For the younger members of the crew the basic life philosophy could be summed up as work hard, play harder. For some there was a slight variation, work hard at avoiding work to stay fresh for some real serious play. Our engine room oiler friend really pushed the envelope on this approach.

In early August, the Cornwallis was docked in Dartmouth prior to another run to repair, paint and replace buoys off the coast of Nova Scotia. I was called into the personnel office one morning and told that I’d have to pack my bags and head for home as the person that I’d been relieving was returning from leave. To soften the blow, I was advised that I might get a call to join another ship over the next couple of weeks.

The call came much sooner than expected. I was summoned to the personnel office that same afternoon before I had even fully packed up or said goodbye to my Pictou buddies and friends that I had made on board.

Asked if I would consider working on an icebreaker and being flown to Montreal where it was in drydock at Vickers Shipyard, I nearly catapulted out of my chair in my eagerness to accept. Personnel guy who had metamorphosed in a few short hours from Mr. Prick to Mr. Congeniality told me to take a week to get “my personal affairs in order” and then join the Louis.

I had only just turned 17 and my last year of high school was to get underway in a couple of weeks. A six-week voyage in the arctic would not get me back until mid-October. My father, worried about the possibility of my never resuming school, did not support my decision. I left for Montréal in defiance.

Vickers was in the eastern part of the city only steps away from some fine working class brasseries on Ste. Catherine East. The crew had made themselves at home in these beer and pool emporiums over the many weeks they had spent in drydock. You could say that for many of us sobriety during off work hours was a highly suspect state of mind.

And let’s not forget the times, alcohol was not the only mind altering substance in vogue. Some enterprising lads found a connection downtown in the Disco Araignée. The one time I visited this labyrinthine nightspot it was bursting at the sequins, pulsating dance on every square foot of floor space, bodies jammed and jostling, strobing lights careening, voices no competition for the volume, volume, volume.

It was really a paean to debauch, a bacchanal workout, a homage to peacocks everywhere. Dilated pupils and perma-press smiles were the norm and so was the absence of women. None of us heterosexuals were going to get lucky there except of course to score some of those happy substances, those instant laughter smoky remedies.

Our circus life in Montréal finally came to an end. We were a bit the worse for wear having succumbed night after night to a variety of liquid grains and those soporific natural herbs and spices. On board we lazed in the netting back aft suspended above the stern deck and cooled by the river’s eddying breezes. Sorel, Québec City, Rivière-du-loup, Tadoussac, Matane all bid us adieu as we made our way out into the Gulf homeward bound to Nova Scotia.

There were a few beer soaked nights of stagger, dancing in Dartmouth’s finest watering places as final preparations were made for the six-week north trip. The alpha males took the opportunity to stoke up on some lovin’ and the occasional fisticuffs. Those with families headed home for a last cuddle with kids and the missus.

The third and final installment of the Best Summer Job will be posted later this month.