Note: The following is a story based on real youth experience of the author.
Names, and story ending, are fictional. If you enjoy it please give it a positive rating, thanks!
No one remembered who had injected the ‘brain-wave’ into the usual excited chatter that noon hour… perhaps it was divine intervention.?
The day began normally enough. Terry’s customized English Morris Minor convertible squirted around the neighborhood picking up buddies. Their raucous 10 minute ride to school ended in a gravel-flying slide beside the shop teacher’s new Buick.
There was just enough time to jostle with the rest of the gang, while other students condemned world pollution. By the time the warning buzzer sounded a dozen cigarette butts lay crushed on school steps.
Classes dragged on even more than usual that morning. Dry school curriculum simply couldn’t compete with hypnotic shafts of autumn sunshine spotlighted pine desktops as it filtered down classroom aisles.
Acting like isolated prisoners, the youthful gang members only glimpsed each other between periods as they shuffled along crowded, green, locker lined halls to their next classes.
The student body was a multi-racial collage of shapes and sizes. Male recognition of passing friends resulted in heartily punched shoulders, while girls merely snickered and waved multi-ringed fingers.
As another long-awaited lunch hour reunion approached, final seconds were counted off. Finally the noon hour buzzer echoed through the neighborhood like amplified killer bees – it was a bugle call to freedom for the cafe crowd!
Exploding from school exits with miraculous renewed energy, some of the students foot-raced three full city blocks in order to claim scarce booth seats at the Roses’ café… (just outside school jurisdiction).
Time was of the essence, late comers and junior wanabees would be relegated to socially inferior counter stools.
A gray and grizzled waitress/owner braced herself as the first sweaty teenagers came charging in. Dusty venetian door blinds banged loudly against a steamy glass door. Moments later, all four plain wooden booths were filled…. only a few spaces were saved for less athletic but attractive females who would eventually make their entrance.
As brown-bagging students, like me, retrieved flattened peanut butter sandwiches from under shirts and sweaters, others competed for the harried waitresses’ attention by all shouting their orders at once.
Her body language quickly re-establish authority, with narrowed puffy eyes and flashes of nicotine stained teeth. The gang correctly interpreted this as the ‘cease and desist if you want to eat’ signal. It quieted them temporarily.
Brad Gawdin carefully timed his arrival to coincide with freshly delivered ‘tatter dogs and Pepsi’s to customers. His prized cherry red and chrome ex-police Harley skidded across boulevard and sidewalk, stopping just inches from the large greasy front window, (low on gas as usual).
Some of the gang acknowledged Brad with a subdued, but friendly, cheer as he made his grinning entrance, pleased to be re-united with his former school chums. Even a flicker of recognition from the scowling waitress’ didn’t go unnoticed. He quickly combed his lengthy black ‘duck tail’ hair while squeezing into the central booth.
Brad really hoped to forget his fruitless days of job hunting since quitting school at mid-term. For the moment, reconnecting by school friends, while mooching a few bites from their lunches, was comforting.
His lean semi-adult six-foot frame perfectly matched the prized Harley. He rode it with sublime confidence, hair flying up from under a vizard ‘Marlin Brando’ motorcycle cap. But away from his bike, a boy-man personality emerged with slouching posture, gaunt acne spotted cheeks; and deep dimpled chin.
His well-worn black leather jacket and sunglasses portrayed a motorcycle gang persona, but his friends knew him better.
“Good ‘old B.G.!” cried freckle faced Ron Andrews as self appointed spokesman.
Someone else chimed in;
“No books; no exams; no hassles; you’ve got it made Brad!!”
“Yeah, just call me Marlin, he said, slightly self- conscious of his noticeably deeper voice…
“Who’s got all the cig’s?”
Brad certainly wasn’t above taking advantage of the temporary adulation, besides, bumming cigarette’s served to temper the attention overload he was now feeling.
Soon a free-for-all conversation flowed quickly through familiar topics, including ‘schoolteacher dictatorships’; ‘bikes versus cars’; and of course ‘dating’. It was then that something truly unique came up…
Brad was expertly striking a huge wooden kitchen match with his thumbnail while maintaining a firm grip around Josey Scotts’ pink sweater with his left hand, as ever-grinning Gary Philips took advantage of a break in the general din of noise to ask;
“Hey, do you guys realize this is Halloween and no one’s got any plans yet?”
It was really only intended as a checkup, to make sure he wasn’t being left out of anything, but the immediate loud response surprised him.
“Yeah, that’s right!”
There was an immediate chorus of voices from all booths – each sex having a completely different agenda in mind.
“Last Halloween, me ‘n Bill laid a dummy on the Renfrew Street Hill and tied fishing line to it… we hid behind a bush”,
Gary continued between heavy bites on his tatter dog, while checking to see if he was getting sufficient attention.
“Along comes this guy in a pickup truck, screeching to a stop just before running over it.”
Gary began his very infectious chuckling…
“…so this old guy jumps out to check on the body, an’ just when he bends over to get a closer look, Bill yanks it across the street! The guy was so mad he chased us for two blocks!”
Rose cafe now exploded with unrestrained teenage cackling. The waitress could only shrug and sigh, conceding yet another noon hour without ‘legitimate’ paying customers.
Several more Halloween pranks were next recounted, some real and some imagined. Each sounded more daring than the last. Fiendish new pranks were quickly hatched with brain storming group input. Finally, as their fateful noon hour was running out, a proverbial fuse was lit…
“Hey Brad, why don’t you call the office and tell ’em there’s a bomb planted in the school, so we can all get the afternoon off!”
The source of the challenge was long debated afterwards. Now Unusual quiet suddenly fell over the cafe gang crowd, as if waiting for a mandatory response to a fight. Attention once again focused on Brad as his social instincts told him that ignoring the question might increase the growing distance with his former school peers. On the other hand he sensed an opportunity to improve his rebel image.
Brad took a deep drag on his unfiltered Player’s cigarette, dramatically allowing twin streams of thick blue smoke to flow, mouth to nose, allowing tension to build.
Then he said flatly;
“I would if I had a dime.”
A wry grin flickered at the corners of his mouth as he inwardly congratulated himself on his politically correct, non-committal, answer.
But before his attentive audience could even react, a shiny dime seemed to literally materialize right out of the smoke filled air and came spinning to a stop on the initial-carved table, right in front of Brad!
Regardless of the dime’s secret launch-site, it was More than enough reason for delighted teenage howls of laughter. It seemed to bring noon hour festivities to a natural conclusion.
In fact within minutes the whole conversation was mostly forgotten by the cafe gang. Reluctantly paying bills, they headed back to their ‘love to hate salt mines’ just in time for afternoon classes.
None had even noticed Brad scraping up the dime and stuffing it into his worn jeans’ watch pocket.
Some of his former school friends watched admiringly as Brad expertly kicked the Harley to life and roared away down the street in a cloud of smoke and dust.
It was just over one hour later as fourth period class neared the end, when the Principal’s personal secretary disrupted classes with an urgent public address summoning the principal to the main office.
Only one of the gang suspected what was coming.
But when their portly white haired Principal, himself, came on the p.a. and ordered immediate evacuation of all 2200 students – followed by nerve-jangling fire bells – many of the cafe gang began to suspect that good old B.G. had indeed answered his Halloween challenge!
Strictly controlled by teachers, students quickly filed out of the school complex. They lined up on sidewalks and school playing fields, looking like military recruits. Most believed it was just another fire drill. With no opportunity to retrieve coats, shivering students and teachers complained.
Minutes dragged by as only the cafe gang crowd realized what was afoot, and they dared not break their code of silence!
Finally, instructions were passed along outdoors: “school is closed for the rest of the day – students are dismissed”. Only teachers willing to volunteer for unspecified duties were allowed to re-enter the building at all.
Finally, any remaining doubts in the minds of the cafe gang disappeared as a police ‘bomb squad’ truck arrived, escorted by several police cars, sirens wailing!
Forty minutes later wide-eyed fellow teenage conspirators tried to burn off excess adrenaline by dancing to the beat of ‘blue suede shoes’. They had rendezvoused at their favorite after school hangout, latch-key Ron Brown’s musty basement rec room.
Now they anxiously awaited their hero.
When Brad did arrive, after cautiously phoning first to make sure it was safe, it was clear he too was surprised and a little shocked by the dramatic reception to his telephone call to the school office.
Joining his back-slapping friends, his fearless motorcycle hands now trembled slightly. Pleased as he was to receive accolades from his contemporaries for his bold telephone booth performance, small seeds of doubt nibbled at his conscience. Still it was another good excuse to collect more cigarettes from his admirers.
Some of the group actually shared his telephone conversation experience vicariously. Other’s now proudly suggested they had a role in dreaming up the idea at the cafe.
But somehow, both the originator of the idea, and the fateful contributor of the dime remained anonymous.
However, unknown to the gang, major events were unfolding even as they reveled in their imagined triumph over authority.
In fact memories were being deeply etched in the minds of school volunteers. Fearful, anxious, men and women, police and teachers, searched courageously through storage rooms; boiler rooms; classrooms; and student lockers.
And after finding the carefully wrapped package containing 13 sticks of dynamite, breathlessly defused by the bomb squad with its simple but deadly timer; none of them could possibly know that teenage school drop-out, Brad Gaudin, was, really, a ‘true hero’.
– the end –
(editors note: kids involved eventually faced youth court charges.)
Stories on the news often stimulate memories, particularly for seniors. Tonight there was a mention of the ‘False Creek’ waterway between West end Vancouver and West side Vancouver. By water it’s about 1.2 kilometers according to A.I.
My friend and I were regular Crystal Pool* swimmers in the 1950’s, not more than 13 years old at the time. After swimming in the Crystal Pool we were still filled with youthful vigor.
For no particular reason one of us, probably me, got the so-called ‘bright idea’ to boldly swim across to Kitsilano Beach (i.e. related Vanier park). It was barely in sight after sunset, directly across from the old Crystal Pool, an area known as Sunset Beach.
Since we had donned our street clothes after our swim at the pool, we had to determine how to do this challenging feat. Again we had a bright idea, namely, we would undress (possibly with swim suits on) and place our clothes on some scavenged beach wood in order to keep it dry as we pushed it ahead of us right across the harbor! Of course it also served as extra buoyancy as we hung onto it.
Indeed we did exactly that, keeping our clothes above water as we swam. I have no idea how clean the water was in those days, all I know is it was quite cool compared to the Crystal pool salt water, but not really cold either as this was in summer. Currents, and/or tides, didn’t cause us any problems, perhaps just out of good fortune. In fact as I recall we laughed about our bold endeavor as we kept in contact swimming across False Creek adjacent English Bay.
Now when we got across to a rocky beach area, it dawned on us it was going to be an unfamiliar and perhaps distant walk to the bus line needed to return to our homes in Southeast Vancouver!
Since we were flushed with success and feeling somewhat over-confident it seemed only natural we could just swim back to Sunset beach and that’s exactly what we did!
This episode in my young life has remained secret from that day to this as far as I can recall. And please note; I do not recommend it for youths, or anyone today, especially considering the great possibility of a far more polluted False Creek today than in the ’50’s and ’60’s, though I have no specific information.
Not sure when I had noticed the (approximately) 1500′ unused roadway at Parksville beach park, right in the heart of the town of Parksville. It extended at right angle from an seemingly unused area of beach straight in toward town ending in to a wide ditch, no doubt purposely created to prevent driving from street or park to beach.
In any case it appeared to me to be as perfect a short field aircraft runway as a private pilot like me could ask for!
After visiting with aviator friends at the Parksville/Qualicum airport who had departed for a short trip to the sunshine coast in their Cessna 172 I was planning to rendezvous with them there.
But for some reason which I don’t recall now I had taken on board the father of one of those other pilot’s who’s home jut happened to be quite near the Parkville beach park. So as we quickly flew over Parksville, I rather impulsively decided to land on that unused roadway right in the park!
I turned towards the beach and landed on that roadway with no difficulty at all in my Mooney M20A holding the nose up and raising flaps in order to reduce landing speed and distance. I was always delighted to land on short runways anywhere, but this was clearly not an ‘approved’ landing site by any means! Happily my mature elderly passenger was not traumatized by the sudden turn of events, and after an amicable goodbye, he was able to simply walk home from there, perhaps slightly shaking his head – as did his novice pilot son when he heard about that unusual landing!
This took place in the 70’s, and his son who is still with us will confirm this really took place on the testimony of his dad. For no particular reason other than the airplanes nearly silent gliding approach no one appeared to witness it either, even though there were quite a few people on the beach and in the park at the time, but safely away from my impromptu ‘landing strip’.. Of course my expeditious takeoff (before any public notoriety) was a lot more noisy than the landing, but then again there was no obvious beach activity. And a slight on-shore breeze probably mitigated the noise somewhat.
Of course it wasn’t a wise decision to virtually land in downtown Parksville in the 1980’s, but it was done safely and without incident. To this day I believe that isolated roadway could have served as a downtown Parksville airstrip for enlightened civic authorities. In any case it was just one more flying experience for me…. hey I said in my bio I wouldn’t exclude my ‘bads’, so consider this one of them!
Given all the interest in B.C. Ferries reminds me of a close call! I was a Quartermaster (steerman if you will) on a ferry leaving Horseshoe Bay for Nanaimo Harbour. The reason was a temp job while the Queen of Prince Rupert was being repaired (for details see my blog: The Grounding!)
It was a latter sailing after sunset, in fact it was quite dark, I don’t remember the time of year. Being a 20 something crewman on the helm at the time I was keen to obey directions from the Captain. We departed Horseshoe Bay backing out from the loading platform as per normal and began our rotation to transition to a forward course without incident, then began a port turn (left hand) to straight out our course, but this is where things went sideways!
A First Officer has the loading responsibility on any ship, and as we began our turn he was busy explaining car deck loading concerns with the Captain. Meanwhile I had been given the port turn instructions as mentioned. As the ship steadily turned to port therefore, I was left with a view of coastal rocks dead ahead! The Captain and first officer were completely distracted and not aware of our serious position. Finally with no time to lose, I spoke up to make the Captain aware of the potential danger!
He was startled at the continually turning ship toward shore, and immediately ordered “HARD STARBOARD” which I was glad to comply with! Indeed his distraction by the first officer had nearly resulted in ‘another’ ferry grounding, with me being a witness to both!
Thank goodness I could not be regarded as a ‘Jonas’ this time!
I left rather late in one afternoon and flew directly from Victoria airport over Georgia Straight and coastal mountains to the 108 airstrip. It was (is?) an excellent paved strip capable of handling larger airplanes as intended. However as the sun set I was amazed at the total absence of anyone in the vicinity, including a nearby store and golf course!? In fact even while I spent the night under the stars in a sleeping bag right on the golf course, yet I never saw a single person! To this day that is puzzling.
It was intended only as a quick educational trip to 108 ranch resort 300 miles from Vancouver B.C. Block Bros. Realty a well known Vancouver real estate firm beginning in 1960’s Vancouver, had sponsored, and financed this recreation retreat. In spite of considerable investment and promotion it never succeeded as hoped for several reasons. For more information on this project go here: http://108 Ranch Resort by Block Bros. Realty
Despite the reasons for its eventual failure, including driving distance from Vancouver, Henry Block * had developed notable features, 18-hole PGA golf course, clubhouse, swimming pool, restaurant and lounge, and a 20-room lodge, which were completed by 1972, to encourage investors.
I was very intrigued by it as a youthful Realtor in Vancouver. So sometime after acquiring my pilot’s license, and airplane, I decided to take a quick trip from my Victoria base to take a look at it.
In any case the next day, perhaps because of some disappointment at the 108, I decided to fly South before returning home. As I did I noticed a small airstrip next to Green Lake and decided to land and have a look. It was a very dry dusty landing, but just across the road there was a ‘dude ranch’* where a family from the lower mainland was vacationing that welcomed me! Somewhat overwhelmed by their hospitality, I ended up joining an evening around open camp fire, but not before a trail ride that was an experience of a lifetime in the afternoon! See this great video on the Flying U Ranch!: * * * Flying U dude ranch
With very limited ‘horse sense’, I was invited to join the family galloping (and I do mean full speed) through a forested area you could hardly call a trail! I hung on for dear life as small trees and bush brushed my legs and threatened to rip me off my steed, it really was the experience of a lifetime!
Afterward we drank some beers around a large and hospitable camp fire under a starry night. I could not believe how fortunate I was, and only wish I had my own family with me there. Once again I slept in my sleeping bag out in the open under an awesome Caribou sky as can only be fully seen far away from city lights.
The next morning I took off early in a huge cloud of fine dust from the short dirt airstrip, and after doing a low pass or two over the ranch, headed South to Vernon. At an airstrip shop there I found partners who had sold me a Mooney airplane previously. As fellow pilots, typically, they gave me the keys to a vehicle in order to briefly spend a few sunny moments on a lakeside beach! However, it was past time to head home and I did so that afternoon.
Only less than a two day experience, but as memorable as ever can be for me!
When about 8 year old I discovered books in the school library. We weren’t allowed to take them out but I read them during library class or noon hours. I was fond of reading in general, but for some reason one particular book on magical tricks attracted me.
It wasn’t long before I decided to have a ‘magician’ show, even placing a sign on our front lawn for the time and perhaps the cost, being maybe 10 cents! I set up a table in my parents basement and prepared tricks for the time specified, however when the time arrived my nemesis neighboring ‘friend’ Donald was determined to disrupt the show – requiring a plea to my mother to evict him, which she did, kindly of course.
Attendees included a few local kids, in particular slightly older girl that had a crush on me. She feigned amazement at my ‘magical’ tricks, but was really the only one impressed! Soon afterwards I decided not to pursue a career as a magician 🙂
Clipping the edges of thick cloud over the mighty Columbia River gorge, I headed for a former USAF airstrip in Eastern Washington State near the Canadian border.
Sadly this would be my last flight in Mooney N1060B.
The adventure began a few years earlier as I searched for a bargain-priced airplane, straining my eyes on those tiny Aviation Plane ads. With a little extra cash sale of a fixer-upper real estate project burning a hole in my pocket, I was hoping to pursue much loved flying hobby after several years of absence.
Eureka! There it was. A vintage Mooney, the very same wood-wing 20A model I had previously owned, and at a bargain price! Of course the reason was obvious; it ‘needed work’.
Far from discouraging me however, this was an added incentive! Having owned two previous early-model M20A’s, one with a wood wing and tail, and one with a converted metal wing and tail, this fixer-upper held no undue concerns for me.
Soon I was on an American Airlines DC-10 streaking for Louisville Kentucky and a date with a car dealer, owner of several airplanes.
Although he looked a little skeptical when he met me at the airport, possibly because I was younger that his own age of approximately 40. Still, he immediately loaned me one of his used car lot vehicles, saying he would need a day or two to get the plane ready for my intended cross-country return flight to California – only after verifying my bank draft check mind you.
The next day, after returning to the airport to recover my Canadian re-routed baggage, I tried in vain to be interested in touring the Louisville area. However my mind remained focused on the purpose at hand.
Joining up with the seller on the second day, we drove over the bridge to an airplane parts supply store in Indiana. Back at the local airport garage I watched and handed tools as he confidently rolled up his sleeves and proceeded to install new piston rings in the venerable 180 h.p. Lycoming I0-360 engine.
It was quite evident Mooney N1060B had not been flown for quite some time. “Don’t worry” the seller assured me, “I’ll test fly it before you take off for home.” Always the optimist, I was only slightly less sure of his mechanical abilities when he broke one of the new oil rings he was installing!
However, true to his word, the next day he took off and briefly circled the Louisville airport without incident. I was ready to go the next morning, but bad weather brought a solid layer of clouds and drizzling rain, preventing a normal VFR (visual flight rules) takeoff.
After waiting another full day, regularly checking aviation weather reports by telephone, I felt I could not be away from wife and children any longer – never a safe reason for making a go or no-go flight decision.
Taxiing out to the runway for the obligatory runup, I proceeded to read back an IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) clearance dictated by the control tower before rolling down the runway full throttle and lifting off. In a flash I pulled the familiar Johnson bar landing gear handle retracting the landing gear, and proceeded to punch through the persistent overcast cloud.
Soon I was ‘on top’ above the clouds in glorious sunshine! A fresh boost of pilot confidence bolstered my spirits. (While not recommended, in the USA it is legal for VFR pilots like me to fly above the cloud deck in US airspace.)
Now at 8,000 feet, visibility was CAVU (ceiling and visibility unlimited). I was ecstatically heading South in my ‘new’ 1950’s vintage airplane.
Before leaving home I had carefully plotted and mapped a return course, leaving a copy with my wife. Now I was en route to my first refueling stop at Little Rock Arkansas, about 500 miles South of Louisville. Running at a modest cruise rpm, I diligently checked my compass heading, radio aids, oil pressure, exhaust gas temperature, and fuel consumption, moment by moment. Happily the engine sounded good and appeared stable, so I truly exulted in the always gratification of human flight!
Unreservedly I sang out loudly, praising God for my good fortune and blessings. There is definitely something about flying, especially solo flying, that heightens your spiritual awareness. It’s clearly a ‘nearer to God’ experience.
The solid blanket of cloud below gradually broke open as I headed South by SW. By the time I reached Little Rock, visibility allowed for a normal VFR landing and I didn’t waste any time getting airborne again after refueling. After take-off I reported a good-sized funnel cloud in the area, what we pilots call a ‘pirep’ (pilot report).
My next refueling stop was Abilene Texas. By that time I was tired, but decided to continue on and make the most of good flying conditions. Finally, just after sunset, I landed at Deming, New Mexico, a non-control tower airport. The local service provider immediately handed me the keys to his pickup truck so I could travel the short distance into town and find a restaurant. That trusted pilot fraternity exists everywhere you fly, and it’s truly heart warming.
Returning later I slept under a wing on the ground in my sleeping bag, it was a warm summer night. Gazing up at the star-filled sky, with great humility, I was truly grateful to God that things had gone so well.
The next morning I took off with three full fuel tanks and an overly optimistic plan to make it to the Los Angeles basin in one hop, not a good decision as it turned out! In spite of scrupulously leaning the fuel mixture and running at an economical cruise speed of about 135 mph, by the time I reached California, fuel was running very low. To make matters worse, horizontal visibility was reduced to perhaps a mile or less in smog. Descending to less than 1500 feet I strained to locate an airport, any airport!
After long minutes, with fuel critically low, my heart rate was beginning to rival engine rpm. It was definitely time to swallow pride and call for help. The L.A. traffic controller responded swiftly and efficiently, ordering me to go to the emergency frequency of 121.5.
Once in contact there he ordered me to “turn right for radar identification”, i.e. to get a sharper radar reflection and direct me to the nearest safe landing site. But the problem was that at my low altitude it was difficult for them to target me. While they were attempting to do so, mercifully, the Palm Springs airport suddenly came into view nearby!
The controller immediately cleared me with the tower for a straight in landing approach. With a huge sigh of relief I landed and taxied directly to fuel pumps, it was like an oasis in a hot dessert. My good fortune and gratitude re-doubled when refueling added up to the maximum fuel capacity of the Mooney!
After a much needed bathroom break, and a required phone call to L.A. traffic control to explain my reason for declaring an emergency, namely; ‘smog reduced visibility’, I continued on with a short hop over to Oxnard airport. It was my plan to obtain a full examination of my newly acquired gem, including air frame and engine, by a recommended shop there.
But now my solid string of good fortune was interrupted! As I landed at Oxnard airport the Mooney brakes were virtually non-existent. They had been unneeded for prior landings, but now I was directed by the control tower to turn off the runway to a taxiway. Since I couldn’t slow down enough to do so, I made a hasty decision to turn off the main runway on the grass in between taxiways, attempting to climb back onto the main taxiway which was somewhat elevated. Since the Mooney only has an 8.5″ prop clearance from tip to ground, it struck the raised asphalt taxiway!
The damage resulting in a slightly twisted prop tip. However after receiving some gratus remedial straightening by the local shop, I was once again able to depart without incident. Finally landing at a temporary California airstrip location, with a friend flying escort in his Cessna 172.
The Louisville Seller was quite joyful that I reached my destination safely! A satisfying conclusion to this highly memorable flight. Indeed it was truly a ‘flight to remember’ for me!
But now, many months later, it was time to return my beloved Mooney back to the USA, after being completely frustrated by Canadian Transport regulations, ah but that’s another story…
It won’t please recruiters, but I cannot recommend joining the Royal Canadian Navy. As a 5 year recruit from Vancouver it had seemed like a good escape from teenage reality. Although I had held down a couple of jobs in Vancouver, the future just wasn’t bright. So at 17 I joined the RCN and travelled to their Cornwallis Nova Scotia boot camp
Boot camp did challenge my youthful spirit, and a subsequent posting to the navy frigate Lauzon was exciting. However my ‘Oiler’ designation was not.
So going through the necessary command structure I requested a change to ‘Radar Plotter’. It required a several week course ashore, which I topped. Then followed a 20 month draft assignment to HMCS Athabascan, a so-called ‘greyhound of the fleet’ veteran of the Korean war, followed by a similar period on the Quinte, a coastal Mine Sweeper.
Although there were some highlights, viewing amazing stars at sea is beyond imagination, a sea full of porpoises from horizon to horizon, and sweeping instant storms. For me there were some personal benefits, such as learning and accepting discipline, and visiting a few ports in Europe and the East Coast of the US. And of course I was singularly fortunate not to have been involved in wartime conditions during all 5 years.
However negatives included fending off homosexual predators, and vicious street gangs, at many, if not all, ports I visited, and that was in the 70’s. So I can only imagine today’s conditions.
Based on my own experience, all I can say is I believe there are much better paths for a youth to take than joining the RCN, please choose wisely!
It was 1982 I think. We were living in a modernized log cabin in Rock Creek. Located halfway across B.C. close to the US border crossing at Midway. It was an 8+ acre property backing on the Kettle river, last pristine one in BC some said.
I had little or no experience as a farming type but was hoping to become self-reliant, much like the hippy movement preceding that time. So when my acreage grew a fairly profitable crop of hay, I hired a neighbor with a machine to bail it for a shared percentage. Then, with the help of a visiting friend, we stacked the hay in anticipation of sales.
Some hay did sell, but a fair amount remained unsold. Noticing a large old International 4×4 pickup truck for sale along the highway one day, I offered to swap hay for the truck, partly because hay was difficult to keep. Surprisingly we made a trade; the beginning of another real life adventure for me.
My oldest daughter had secured a job eight miles away in Midway, so it occurred to me I should trade that unused behemoth for something she could use for transportation to work.
So one cold clear winter day I struck out on a back road, (Highway 33 Kelowna to Rock Creek *) and soon realized that heavy old beast, likely with age-hardened tires, was completely unstable on that icy winter road! While transiting an elevated section at slow speed, it began to spin uncontrollably! With no way to stop it, I bailed out and helplessly watched, spell bound, as it slid off the road, almost in slow motion, thundered down a 25′ bank and came to a stop with a loud bang, slamming onto a large bolder!
That was just the beginning! First I tried to restart, but ironically the ignition key broke off! At that point I thought this was definitely not my day and the truck would be a write off. Not to mention traffic on that back road was few and far between in those days. Also day’s were short with temperatures below zero at that time of year. But surprisingly a tanker truck came by before long. Driver seeing the situation stopped, gratefully I related my plight including the broken key. (This is where the story becomes truly miraculous! )
Without a word of a lie, that tanker truck driver handed me a ring full of keys he said he had no more use for, and astonishing, one of the keys on that ring worked in my vehicle’s ignition, which started right up! However being wedged up on that large rock it would not move. The driver had waited, so I climbed aboard, only slightly optimistically of finding more help somewhere down the road.
Now several miles further along there was a rare off-road dwelling came into view, so I riskily offloaded in hopes of obtaining ‘any’ help. To my utter amazement the self-reliant owner offered exactly what I needed, namely a heavy solid steel pole not less than 6′ long and 2″ diameter! (I have no idea what its intended purpose was.)
Almost as miraculous as the ignition I soon thumbed a ride back to the truck with that large steel pole in a small, convertible Triumph sports car, with the top down! Indeed the top had to be down to accommodate that large steel pole. The driver was disregarding low temperatures, while enjoying a crystal blue daylight winter sky.
Returning to the crash site, I was soon able to leverage that old bullet proof truck off the bolder with the steel pole,* * started it up, and crawled parallel to the road until able to climb back onto it! I know this all must sound unbelievable, but I swear it is the truth. And there’s even more to this story!
To return the steel pole, I drove the several miles and pulled off in the lenders driveway. At that very moment there was a loud bang under the hood! Battery damage when the truck hit the rock cracked it open and caused it to explode, spraying battery acid all over the engine compartment! It instantly occurred to me that if that battery had exploded earlier, I would once again have been stranded!
At that point I thought my good fortune must surely have run its course, but wait.. On hearing my plight the generous homesteader told my to ‘go down to his basement and take any one of his spare batteries being kept on chargers’!!
Needless to say I was dumbfounded by all this unexpected help. In conclusion; I made it to Kelowna right at sundown and stayed overnight in a motel. The very next day I was able to substitute that old beast of a truck for a reliable old Mazda! (In fact that is yet another surprising story!) That car served my daughter well for transportation to her job in Midway.
* Hwy 33, Rock Creek to Kelowna, is now ‘greatly improved’ road.
** “Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.”
I was only a beginner, home on annual two week leave from the RCN. My older brother was an instructor and partner in a scuba shop on Kingsway in Vancouver. With his basic instruction in a large tank there, I soon dove with a group of experienced divers at Horse Shoe bay, a fair distance away from the ferry terminal there.
In those days divers wore basic lead belts to obtain neutral buoyancy at about 30′ depth. Following divers down in the cold clear water with comforting wet suit on, I spotted a large cod fish and tried to sneak up on it. It appeared to be sitting on a rock unconcerned, but sensed me about 10′ away, so before I could even load my spear gun it took off like a rocket, as only fish can.
Below me I observed a pair of our experienced divers squirting some kind of powder material into what appeared to be a small cavern on the bottom. To my amazement they were soon able to pull a fairly large octopus out! They had located its liar by the tidy pile of empty shells outside it. I don’t know what they used, but it apparently numbed the the hapless creature to relax and let go of its protection.
However I suddenly realized that my fascination with their activity had allowed me to descend below neutral buoyancy. Reaching a lower than equilibrium depth meant I was beginning to sink rapidly!
I didn’t even think about dropping my weight belt, which would have been the right course if I couldn’t manage to swim upward. However I began pumping my flippers as hard as I could to return to the surface from about 90′ depth.
Thankfully being in good physical condition in those days I gradually ascended, I was now below the two divers that had pulled the dazed octopus out of its den. As they ascended above me I could see the limp creature held between them. It appeared to lazily wrap its multi legs around those two divers, a very memorable view, but my focus was on simply returning to the surface as a priority!
Evidently an octopus cannot survive for very long out of its watery element, having no physical bone structure etc, so its virtually anathema to be removed to our human environment. Sorry to say this was the outcome that day. How sad is that?
