It was late. The day drew to an end as I drove away from the partial sunlight of red flooded fields towards the mountains, and menacing clouds were gathering up to greet me into the evening. There wasn’t much traffic on the road - the only people out and about probably being chronic Sunday shoppers. I crossed New Westminster, following the Fraser River for a while and then headed north to Port Moody. Moody indeed was the sky when I got there; dark, convoluted clouds clung to the peaks that tightly surround Indian Arm, shrouding them in a tight pale robe. I dashed right through the town and turned uphill through a residential neighborhood, bound for the end of the road. Houses grew scarce, rain began to fall and the world turned black. It was a strange day to visit Butzen Lake. I would, however, be likely to find some peace by its shores on such a lonely night.

I parked in an almost empty lot as a few people rushed back to their cars, escaping the deluge. But as I was walking towards the water through magnificent trees, camera safely tucked into my jacket, I could feel the rain easing up; it seemed that against all odds, the sky might have had exhausted its anger for the night. When I reached the shoreline, merely a few drops were still troubling the mirror-like surface of the lake and while clouds still hung on to the slopes of the mountains above, a clearing was in the making at the opposite end of the valley and some blue sky timidly appeared. The light was uneven, complicated and fragmented. There was a slight flavour of my Alps in the air.

I walked around for some time, taking pictures, breathing in the humidity, listening to the forest noises and noticing an absolute absence of nearby civilization, except for an odd generator across the lake. By Butzen Lake, deceivingly close to Vancouver, one can feel isolated and forget about the city. I looked around, perplexed, attempting unsuccessfully to reconcile the two worlds that were elbowing each other in my mind, like kids competing for the attention of an adult. Here I was, mostly alone in a beautiful mountain setting, with the City of Glass nearby and the Pacific Ocean’s water just on the other side of a ridge. But then there I wished I had been, far to the east in an urban urchin of incredible size, an ant amongst millions of other ants, finding beauty in the company of just one.

Nothing is ever perfect, except, maybe, imperfection. But I sure wished Marie had been there.

Three years ago in fall, after finding mesmerizing pictures of it on a blog, I set out to shoot the cranberry harvest in Richmond. I’ve been going back ever since and it’s become a pleasant ritual, one that reminds me not only of leaves soon turning gold and approaching winter, but also of the evolution of my photography path. I shot the first season with my old trusted Canon G3, the second with the 400D and this year’s with Abetoo, my new 450D and IS lenses. Without a doubt, I’ll come back next year with a 1Ds Mark III. So what if it costs the price of a used car? I’ll be rich and famous.

As a reminder, cranberry harvesting is the yearly act of collecting all those pretty little red berries and sending them on their way to your can of juice. It’s an autumn routine that takes anywhere from a few days to a couple weeks of intensive work. The fields are first flooded, sending the ripest berries floating to the surface; the rest are mechanically shaken loose. They are then gathered tightly with long floating rubber nets and pulled to a corner of the field like a giant red tide. There, a powerful spray of water pushes them up a conveyor belt and they are loaded into trucks, while men keep herding the berries in, threading through 2 or 3 feet of fruit-covered water.

It makes for rather surreal scenes and color is everywhere. Red of berries, blue of sky (when the weather cooperates!), green of surrounding fields, and the multicolored turbans of the workers. I began, 2 years back, by trying to capture contrasts and the overwhelming reddish glow of the scene. By now, I have become more fascinated by nuances and textures, and the human factor. Hence, most of the shots today are portraits. Cranberries are nothing without the men who harvest them. It’s not such a difficult endeavour, it would seem, but rather a matter of patience.

« A huge field like this, one of the men tells me, could be harvested in a single day if we have enough labour. That’s about 9 truck loads. Right now we only have 2 trucks, so it will take a couple of days. » The flooded field he’s waving at proudly is larger than a football field. The men are happy to pose for the pictures; the poor boogers probably figure they will end up on some newspaper cover. I’m glad I don’t have to explain. Corio-what?

After watching the harvest for the third time, I still find myself drifting into a fantasy world. The red parterre reminds me of a bubble-gum ocean through which grown-ups would plow endlessly, oblivious to the magic, busy, resigned. How relevant a comparison to life in general…

Here’s a sneak peak at the full gallery, 30 pictures in all, to be featured on the new web site.

I’ve rambled about it before, borrowing a pair of very pretty green eyes to look around me and rediscover my surroundings always yields much magic. It so happens that Marie was just in Vancouver for 10 days - such a long time according to our time-compressed standards and yet so very, very short a shot at making up for months of thirst and loneliness.

Her mind was hungry for our Pacific Northwest beauty and peace, so we walked and walked and walked, and explored and tested and tasted and watched and photographed, stopping and then stopped, picture after picture, from flower to flower, until our eyes were filled with wonders and our memory bank topped up. British Columbia was enjoying exceptional September weather and it could finally be said that Vancouver cooperated fully.

While I’ll only post these few pictures (it’s being chronicled extensively at 66 Square Feet), there were many trips to Stanley Park and its famed chickadees, seeds in Marie’s hand and all ears wide open, listening for the unmistakable call. There were idyllic sunsets on the beach next door, leaning against huge floated trunks that form as many first-row seats and lazily taking pictures as the light transmuted itself and our stealth drinks sank with the sun. There was a pilgrimage evening up on Grouse Mountain for a well deserved celebration, with a visit to the grizzly bears and many more special flowers found. There was a trip to ethereal Lynn Creek to further explore the canyon and follow the river for a while. There were Greygoose martinis, very dry, shaken, 2 garlic-stuffed olives, dirty. There were frequent crossings to Granville Island’s Public Market via the False Creek Ferries, resupplying ourselves in organic vegetables, various delicacies like Aji Amarillo and lemon leaves, and most of all gorgeous meat - including the extraordinary, best-in-world-never-matched duck prosciutto. There was much inspired cooking at home, masterfully orchestrated by the Chef and humbly observed by her apprentice. And there was a ritual evening at Chambar for their exquisite moule frite Coquette.

But in the end, the grand finale was stolen from Canada by Washington’s Mt. Baker. That, however, will be the subject of another post. For now, we hunker down, we tighten our belts and we clench our teeth as 5000 km once again team up against us, forming an immense chain that acts as both an ironic link between east and west and an immense fence, each kilometer clinging to the next, as many small measures that once considered as a whole, form a gigantic obstacle made up of space and bureaucracy.

It’s all right. I have endless energy for this.

I thought it might have been the sunset of the century. I rushed out and ran to the C-shuttle stop only to find a notice of route deviation. So I went to the False Creek Ferries’ landing but it was Sunday and they were no longer crossing to the bottom of False Creek. I ran back up the hill and caught a bus on Davie. But once on board I realized we were going the wrong way, north almost to Burrard Inlet before turning east and eventually back south on Main. It’s because of the Nike Race, the driver told me, apologetic. There are road blocks everywhere. It’s been a hell of day.

When I shot off the bus at the train station a fantastic storm cloud was towering to the east, but I had no clear line of sight and none of the obstacles were worth showing. I pressed on towards the water, looking behind me as I walked fast. By the time I got to a spot where I could catch my breath and setup, the cloud had pretty much died and my sunset had misfired.

I took the time to shoot a few « I was there, any way » pictures and a pano, but I shot at too wide a focal length and my verticals are distorted. Later, in Photoshop, having stitched the 10 shots into a 239 mb file, it took me 2 attempts to apply the superb « denoise » action of FFDD6; it’s highly processor-intensive and on such a large file, it tests the very limits of my poor laptop’s endurance.

But all this is just a hazy blur. My mind is elsewhere. Soon, once again, as it has for over a year now and always will, time is going to contract itself like a snake recoiling before a bite, and then it will explode in all directions, hours turning into mere seconds and a week into an eternity. East is visiting West, the Big Apple meets the City of Glass, a terrace vs a balcony, so much fun in perspective it’s hard to breathe and accept this will not be it. Yet.

Not much to say. It’s hard to complain when widespread devastation is lurking in other people’s lives. And yet. I can’t live their life for them. But I must live mine in the most honorable and giving way I can.

The fact that I am shooting mostly sunsets, looking westward at the fleeting light and feeling darkness creep up behind me, is just a geographical coincidence. In effect, the opposite always happens. Light invariably comes in from the east and it’s westward that the night falls for me. If only I can manage to illustrate that light, I’ll be fulfilled. In photography and in real life.

I pride myself on being fit. I steadily run my 10.5K twice a week. I work out. I eat well. I usually nurture dreams of grandeur and think no reasonable challenge is a match for my stamina. I’m my own hero. Duh! And today, at the apogee of my illusions, I hit a brick wall on a trail. Or rather, the trail hit me with everything it had and left me to struggle my way back through the deep puddle of my arrogance like a crippled invalid.

My three and a half - most cherished - readers might recall that I went last week-end on a recon’ of Lynn Headwaters Regional Park. Assessing it from the bottom end, much like ones road tests a sports car by sitting in the left seat at the dealer’s and running a loving, greedy hand on the leather interior, I had decided the area had strong potential for trail running. I stood by the park’s map for a long while and since I’d done the run from Lynn across the mountain to Deep Cove in the past, I opted for the opposite direction. I would aim towards Grouse. A glimpse of genius made me elect to run downhill, from Grouse to Headwaters, since it was my first attempt. It saved my butt. The opposite decision, given the circumstances, might have cost me a very embarrassing lot more. I shit you not.

So I get up this morning, in top shape, around 8:00 am. The weather has turned out to be cloudier than expected and I take my time leaving home since the heat won’t be so much of an issue. I make myself a tall coffee and, having had a cereal bowl during the night - I had a craving - completely forget to have breakfast. Absentmindedly contemplating my bi-weekly run around Stanley Park on which I carry no food nor water, and because today’s trail is slightly (!) longer at 14 km, I decide to bring a banana, an energy gel and my camelback water pouch, which I will fill up at the chalet before getting under way. And I completely forget to drink any water.

When I arrive at the top of Grouse on the Red Skyride around 11:15 am, the place is already packed. An uninterrupted line of week-end braves irrupts from the Grind - why they choose to do it on a Saturday at noon, staring at someone’s bottom up close all the way up, is beyond me. I feel great thinking that I’m headed the opposite way, into the wilderness. I eat my banana to celebrate and fill up the camelback from the faucet of the washrooms, and because of the location of my water source, only drink a few sips of water from the tap itself, and then I head for the trailhead after tightening my shoe laces.

When I start my stopwatch at the bottom of the actual Grouse Mountain, it’s 11:37 am. I walk uphill for 5 minutes to warm up further and then break into an easy run. The last time I had done this stretch after climbing the Grind, years ago, there was snow on the path and running was difficult. But today I feel strong and the road is clean. I’ve brought the G3 camera in a belt pouch and intend to take snapshots of the run. I have a plan. A map. A small folding pocket knife. A cell phone that will have temporary reception. Money, ID, bus pass. A gel. Water. I’ve left an itinerary and ETA with Marie.

I usually don’t try to run up the steepest section of a trail run I’ve never done before. Back in the Beloeil days, I could run all the way to the Pain de Sucre, but I had done the trail so many times I knew exactly how and when to pace. Today, I’ll run the flat parts, the safe descending ones and reasonable uphills. I’ll walk the rest. The map has revealed a very rugged trail. First, I must work my way over and around the succession of small peaks lined up behind Grouse. There’s Dam Mountain, Little and main Goat, and Crown in front of which I will cut south. The trail is narrow and very uneven, definitely not a good running trail. Muddy patches soon appear, reminder that even at the end of August, the snow isn’t long gone. I was so eager to leave the crowd behind that I only remember a half hour into the run to send my departure text message. It’s noon.

My pompous plan and best estimate is that it should take me about 45 minutes to get to Crown Pass, another 15 to 30 minutes to negotiate the steep rock slide down the pass, and I’d be left with maybe an hour or an hour and a half of running down Hanes Valley and south along Lynn Creek. I’ve estimated Time on Trail to 2 to 4 hours. I’m secretly hoping for 2:30.

The first bad surprise happens as I reach the slope leading down to the pass; I had hoped for a gentle incline but a more careful study of the map confirms a spectacular drop. It turns out to be so steep that not only is it not runnable, but there are metal chains running down the muddy rocky path and I spend way more time negotiating my way to the pass then I wanted.

At Crown Pass, I get a glance of Howe Sound but the best view is towards the east down the valley I’m headed into. I keep snapping a pictures of my progress. It’s 12:30. The knees are doing great, so is the overall shape. I realize I haven’t had any water yet and suck a few sips through the plastic tube. It tastes bad despite the careful wash I gave the camelback last night.

The rock slide too soon becomes a major obstacle to my run. Its boulders are unsteady and the path leads practically straight down, not a very smart way to draw such a vertical trail. I give up on running and try to keep a steady rhythm down while avoiding loose rocks and without sending them rolling down the slope, which I’ve always considered messy and dangerous. I’m having to take deep steps down and the thighs are working very hard. I pass a few people going up and exchange ritual mountain courtesies. I pity them, the hard part is still above them. A man tells me to watch out for the lower third of the slope where, he says, a recent landslide has brought a fresh cover of stones over un-melted snow, making the larger boulders unstable.

Towards the bottom, I pass a helipad and stop briefly to take an upward picture. I’m glad to be through the slide and the rocks. The ground has flattened out a little and becomes runnable again. I’m getting tired but figure the worse is over. I should now be able to run till the end. It’s 1:00 pm. My energy level feels low so I reach for the gel and swallow it down with some water while running carefully.

The trail now follows Hanes Creek from above and the sound of water is everywhere. Many smaller streams come down from the left slope and I have to slow to a halt in order to cross them. The map mentionned that they would not be passable after heavy rains; thank god it hasn’t rained much lately. I’m sweating heavily under the thick cover of trees despite only a very shy sun above the canopy. Time is slipping fast and this section is beginning to take longer than expected. I have to start reevaluating my timing. I should have found Norvan Falls already.

Then I get to a much larger river crossing and even though I can’t see a waterfall, I assume I’ve reached the point where I must cross the creek and angle south. The map, however, showed a bridge. I see none. The creek is flowing quite strongly and I lose precious time looking for a crossing. There’s a large tree trunk thrown across the gashing water and I attempt to cross there. That’s when I notice that my legs are very shaky. The simple task of balancing myself to the other side proves incredibly difficult and I slip off the tree, slightly hurting both my shoulder muscles in the short fall to big rocks below. The wood is wet and slippery. I decide to find another way to cross. 15 minutes later, I’m still on the western flank of the creek hesitating. This is not like me. I finally choose the narrowest and least exposed gap to jump over, knowing that I will land into a few inches of water and get my shoes wet, but that’s the best I an do.

It’s around 1:45 pm. I’ve been going for 2 hours. I think I still have half way to go. I climb the steep opposite bank and begin running again, wet and suddenly quite tired and shaken. After 10 minutes, I have to slow down to a walk, feeling empty. This is not looking good. My energy level should be much higher and the last part of the trail should be easy to run.

A large metal suspended bridge appears in front of me. I understand the previous crossing probably was Lynn Creek. I am now finally in the vicinity of Norvan Falls. But I feel so le tired that I don’t even look for them, snapping a single shot of the bridge. It’s now past two o’clock. A sign on the other side points towards the south. It reads: « Parking lot. 7 km. Allow 2:30 hrs. » I suddenly feel completely exhausted. My head is spinning, my breath short even on flat terrain and I’m getting nauseous. A fierce reality is taking shape: I will not be able to run down. I’m likely going to bust my ETA. I’ll be happy to make it out the trail period.

I start walking slowly, amazed by the speed at which my remaining power has suddenly drained. The insignificant weight of the mostly empty camelback is incredibly cumbersome and I have to take the camera belt off to relieve stomach cramps. Then my legs start cramping too.

The next hour and forty five will be, incredibly, a nightmare. I’ve completely given up on taking pictures. The only accurate way to describe my condition is a collapse. I’ve heard of marathon runners having this kind of completely debilitating episode and having to give up. Except I haven’t ran a marathon. My mind is working very slowly and the world around me goes by in a haze. I have absolutely no power of concentration and can’t focus on details. The thought crosses my confused brain that I must be completely dehydrated, but I have been sipping on my water at regular intervals. I must also be starved. I wonder about blood pressure. I’m not sure. I don’t really want to throw up because it would only empty my stomach even more and waste precious energy I must save to move forward.The am puzzled to be having such a hard time in such a friendly and green environment. Around me, no harsh sand dunes nor frozen Arctic ice. I’m surrounded by a lush and humid temperature rainforest.

I have to stop and sit regularly, unable to keep moving downhill on the path that is now large and easy. But sitting down doesn’t help and my breathing remains erratic, and what’s worse, my legs instantly want to cramp up badly. I’m not talking about the regular calf twitch I’ll eventually experience running on the Seawall. These are full-fledged cramps, starting high on the thighs and dashing all the way down to my ankles. The left side almost gets out of hands a couple of times and I only get it back under control my standing up and resuming my slow walk. I must be moving like an old man, unsteadily and hunched forward, hands on my hips as it seems to help with breathing. But I can’t really slow down because I must be on time for my arrival report. This is my fault and I won’t cause unnecessary worries if I can help it.

Many times, as people approach in the opposite direction, I prepare myself to ask them for energy food, but at the last second, pride prevails and I manage a few more steps towards the end of this trial. I can only remember feeling such extreme physical distress twice in my life. The first one was during my early days of high altitude mountain climbing when I was 14, in the Meije massif. The second was many years later, in the Costa Rican jungle. I had gone on a walk and misjudged the heat and humidity, and become highly dehydrated. I now recognize the symptoms. Extreme fatigue, dizziness, nausea, short breath. At least that’s what I’m thinking.

When I finally make it to the parking lot, I’m too weak to even rejoice. It’s taken four and a half hours. I run into a couple of guys I’d met at the top of the pass and beg them for a ride to civilization so that I can catch a cab. I have to intention of waiting for a bus and handling transfers and people. I can barely stand. They drop me off at a gas station in North Van and I ask the attendant to call me a cab, which he does immediately, pointing me to a chair. I must look comically horrible. There’s mud up to me knees and blood on one of my hands, from a sharp tree branch. I buy a Gatorade but barely manage to drink half of it. Thirst, surprisingly, has never kicked in.

The cab takes me back all the way home through light traffic. I open my door and can’t believe the shape I’m in, even though it’s already coming back very fast, probably from resting on the car ride. Je jure, once more, que l’on ne m’y prendra plus.

...

In retrospect, I made two serious mistakes. I didn’t have a healthy breakfast, and didn’t super-hydrate. My last liquid went back to the night before. Coffee doesn’t count. I had my last food back in the middle of the night. Later, a banana and a gel couldn’t compete. Why I didn’t think of all this, I just couldn’t say. I was probably lured into complacency by the easy rhythm of my regular runs.

A sign on the park map and board says « Be prepared! »

I was. But I wasn’t. And I met my Waterloo. Get it?

« Next to a battle lost, the greatest misery is a battle gained. »
Source unkown

“The loss of the battle of Waterloo was the salvation of France.”
Thomas Jefferson

Lynn Canyon Park is probably the most extraordinarily beautiful, most accessible spot in the Greater Vancouver, if not the entire Lower Mainland. But it’s also relatively small and on summer week-ends, the crowd tends to get overwhelming. With Twin Falls downstream, the Suspension Bridge in the middle and 30 Ft. Pool upstream, all within a 20 minute walk, options are a bit limited and one must be willing to share the creek’s stunning emerald water with many others...

Surprisingly, the Lynn Headwaters Regional Park just above doesn’t seem to act as the overflow it should be. Much, much larger than Lynn Canyon, Headwaters stretches into the mountains for 10 to 20 km and offers serious hiking possibilities. The entrances to the two parks are located minutes from each other; they both share Lynn Creek as a center attraction, a guideline flowing down from the Coast Mountains into Burrard Inlet. The major difference, apart from size, is the nature of the valley itself. Lynn Canyon, as the name implies, is a deep and narrow chasm, yielding many impressive waterfalls and stunning pools. Up by Headwaters, on the other hand, the river bed widens and the creek runs through the valley in the open, on a bed of large boulders and pebbles, its water still crystal-clear and singing softly as it flows past deep temperate rainforest on its shores.

While not as eventful as it would have been in the canyon, my walk up the Headwaters trails this Sunday soon put a comfortable distance between the mob and me and since the river was just nearby, it was easy to find spots to go play in the water with barely anybody around. A short hour walk (and we’re talking about photographic hours, here, which include some walking and a lot of shooting) from the parking lot, I came upon a very nice pool by a large boulder, begging me to dip in; but a few rain drops were falling and since it was already 5 or 6 pm, I headed back. There must remain many surprises further up. I will have to investigate with more time ahead of me.

The large color topo map at the park entrance also revealed what could be a very nice and challenging trail run, from the Grouse Mountain Chalet, across to Crown Mountain, down to Norvan Falls and then all the way back to the Headwaters parking lot. 14 km in total, which I would do downhill the first time. I’ll need a cool week-end and to figure out what to do with my North Face Ultra 103, the crappiest trail running shoes I have ever bought, probably from choosing a size too big. Live and learn.

This year’s Grouse Mountain Fly-in was held on August 9th. I didn’t attend, not being able to meet the experience requirements. [sound of grinding teeth] Besides, I hold a serious grudge against the people controlling paragliding up there. They seem to have established a very cozy nest and obviously want to keep it private and secluded. They charge $199 for a 20 minute tandem flight (I can rent a solo Cessna for what, about half that price? And for a full hour!) and if you would like to fly as a licensed guest pilot, you’d better come recommended by an instructor, otherwise you need to have a minimum of 150 logged flights and 50 hours airborne. And even like that, you’ll always have to fly with a club member, period. Or you can wait for the annual fly-in and its supposedly relaxed rules. Let me laugh out loud. What paragliding site anywhere in the world only welcomes guest pilots 2 days a year?

I mean, I understand that our airspace is quite unique due to typical Vancouver density. Helicopters, seaplanes and other traffic have to share a corridor between the city and the mountains. Then there’s the overhead Controlled Airspace that acts like a lid on top of a pressure cooker. But still. I’ve modestly flown in many places, in many countries and many different conditions and airspaces and I’ve never seen such elitist restrictions on who can or cannot fly somewhere.

Any way. Here’s the cover of our free daily newspaper the following Monday. I’m glad to see that even from the top of their 150 flights and 50 hours wisdom, the pilots attending still managed to land on their arse. Ha!

I recently felt a need for the company of boats. I was longing for the discreet dancing motion of vessels in a harbour, the sound of halyards flapping in the wind, the gentle splashing of water against hulls, the various ocean-tainted smells of fish and diesel and paints and fiberglass and cleaners, the squeaking of floating wooden docks, the screaming seagulls circling returning trawlers, the hissing chatter of VHF radios, the notion that each and every boat present has a long loving and sometimes desperate history with the sea...

So I headed down the Seawall and caught a False Creek Ferry across to Granville Island, the island that is attached to land. There, I bypassed Bridges and its trendy crowd and angled for the small shipyard where many boats slept, hoisted up on blocks, dry and frozen in time, patiently waiting to be taken care of, fixed, scrubbed, sanded, painted, or maybe given maritime CPR.

It was late afternoon and not much was happening on the yard. I strolled around, carefully stepping over many obstacles and around protruding bows and engines, running my hands on freshly applied antifouling paint, remembering the many hours and days spent under the Caribbean sun preparing and painting our pontoon’s hull. We had our V-hull Banana Wind done professionally at Harbour House in Grand Cayman, but the 46 ft. pontoon was so light that we could pull it out of the water ourselves and park it on blocks in front of the old hangar.

Hull maintenance is nothing glamorous. Depending on how long the boat has spent in the water and how good a paint job had initially been done, it might take hours to days to get a hull prepped for a new paint. Barnacles and algae have to be completely removed, then the old paint must go too. The new paint applied is called antifouling because it prevents, to a certain extent, marine life from attaching itself to it. Most hull paints ablate over time, but hence can be scrubbed clean as the outer layer wears off. But this stuff is highly toxic and requires precautions, including wearing a serious mask while painting. I’ve done the mistake of settling for a simple white dust filter and was sick for hours.

However, in retrospect, all this hard work seemed so valuable and meaningful, almost like craftsmanship. It was driven by deep caring for our boats and the time spent initially would invariably yield proportionally lengthy years of good service.

Then there was all the work we did underwater at a mooring outside the marine park, inverted along the bottom of the boat, patiently scrubbing away while trying to keep our breathing down, or changing the sacrificial anodes, small blocks of zinc attached to the hull and ordered to commit suicide by oxidizing first to prevent corrosion on other metal parts. There was the re-coating of the deck with a special paint into which we mixed sand to turn it into an anti-slip surface. There were countless hours spent on the engines, and working on the bilge pumps, and the electrical panel, and the radios, the GPS.

And there was endless, daily and repetitive cleaning, rinsing, shining and buffing of every surface above the waterline, as boats are among man’s creations which require the most maintenance to stay young and healthy...

The Granville Island shipyard is modest in size and relatively clean and fancy because of its location. It lacks the usual stray dogs, the bustling activity, the skeleton-esk old boats abandoned on their blocks eons ago, the stains of paint everywhere. But it moved me and made my eyes shine. So I pushed on around the little bay to the fishing boat docks, and took a few shots of the city skyline.

On my way back, as I got off the ferry in the West End, the sunset suddenly fired up and I stayed on the beach for a while, my thoughts drifting far away in time and space. A boat, I thought, is more than a vehicle. Spend some time on one, learn to maneuver it, care for it, listen to its voice, feel its response, and soon it will become more than it was. It will begin to feel like home and a door will open unto another world. A world where we are explorers and conquerors all over again and in which a boat, like a sword, will really shine if handled well.

When seeking peace inside and longing to settle the chaos outside, a West-Ender needs look no further than the Seawall. (I sound like a bloody advertisement, but it’s true.) Flowers greet me at the bottom of the tower and follow me down a quarter of a block to Alexandra Park where the wooden gazebo thrones over a parterre of green grass and a neat row of more flowers lined up against Beach Avenue, which I cross and arrive on the Seawall, 3 minutes and 23 seconds after leaving home.

A few things become instantly apparent, as I shed my urban burden and leave my worries behind, jumping in stride with passers by, rollerbladers, runners, bikers and other nondescript visitors. They have all come to do the same. They all seem to appreciate the beauty around them. They are not nearly as aggressive to my system as a normal crowd would be. I seem to become instantly more tolerant.

The wind typically abates at night and late afternoons often feature calming seas and gentle sunsets. My senses tune into the environment and I listen to the sounds of joyful living by the shore. Kids are laughing and chasing each other on the beach, while a few hardcore volleyball players are still smashing at their ball in the fleeting light. Small birds are chirping behind me in the trees and larger seabirds laugh by the water and in mid-air. The muffled sounds of a cheaply amplified microphone wander in waves from across the bottom of Denman where street performers usually set camp. I hear laughter and people clapping and cheering. The guy must have burnt himself voluntarily with the flaming rods I see flying over gathered heads.

Many have settled on the beach with towels or even chairs, picnics and cameras. They are waiting for sunset. Watching sunset is an institution in a land of westward shorelines and friendly public spaces. I know I will join them, at some point, but I haven’t really decided where and when yet. I’ll stroll until a spot or a scene catch my fancy, or until maybe the sky does one of its tricks and intimates me to stop and shoot immediately.

For now, I walk slowly, looking around, taking in the many scents, flowers, vario