6/24

Campbell River is organized, the marina surrounded by a tall rock wall against the ridiculous tide, like 20'? little floating sheds for whale watch, wildlife tours, "so much commerce here!" i xclaim to the gal with the clipboard, waiting to sign up tourists for the tours, good on ya.

It's a beautiful blue sky sun day. Why ever leave the north of Strait of Georgia?

Piled on the dock, folks preparing to leave, chainsaws, hardhats, logging gear. "What are you fishin' for?" Soon they head out, their stern's a little out there, they'll crash the dock, but they have more than 1 guy aboard, 1 of em just sticks his leg out, kicks off the impending pier, it's nothing. Me, alone, i cud'v never done that very simple act.

i blog at starbux, doesnt everyone? then groceries, automatic transmission fluid for the trim-tabs, which i think leak; a scrub brush to clean the floor, shamefully fouled by shell debris when i hurried hauled up the anchor to miraculously avoid a rocky collision; alcohol fuel for the stove. At the Marine store, they sell Pollen sweaters. I buy a Desolation Sound cruising guide, to replace the one loaned me by Evelyn, then wetted by the maga-cruise-ship-wake that rendered me briefly a submarine, and relate the story to Vicky, the manager. She tells me say hi to Ev. I feel like a local.

Walking the dock back to the boat, a whale-watch boat races into its slip, reverses at the last split-second, parks perfectly. An old hobbled no-doubt-fisher-man walking by shouts to the pilot: "you can drive, girl!" And truly she could.

It's 1 incredibly beautiful warm sunny dramatic day.

Despite "ree-laxed" i'm nervous as heck, makes no sense. Finally ~noon i'll be on my way, i'll feel so much better, moving. But the wind is blowing, when i release the bow line, it wants to blow into the adjacent boat surely before i can get inside and exercise some ~control. I enlist a passing gentleman to assist. He tells me he can handle it, he's a boat handling instructor and former boat-police-guy. Perfect. And indeed he is. Fuel, and i'm off.

Just outside the piled-rock breakwater, i stop to pull in the fenders/etc, and now back to the helm, look up, the wind's blown me within 2 boat lengths of the massive steel piles of the BC ferry terminal. And this boat length is not very long, eh? So close to the finish: i can still fail.

The sky stays sun, sea is perfect, snow-cap mountains, i'm to Lund in no time. My gosh if every day was like this: one would never recognize Grace. Could Grace be the perfect weather, not saved from a boat-(&life)-threatening following sea?

Nearing the End, i don't feel triumphant, or that i'v accomplished anything. I feel purely lucky, Graced, to have survived, and it wasnt me, there was something that let me do it, preserved me, and even that is philosophicly problematic, because then 1 explanation is it saved me because i'm special. And i'm not.

~success, but ~destroyed. it's what i'm wrestling with.