The Breakers Pub in Prince Rupert
FOG!!! 5:30 AM alarm. Liberty, to who we are rafted against is leaving at 6:00 AM. Nor and Yvonne were not that enthused on Tuesday afternoon when we asked if we could raft alongside. It was the only place available and Russ ignored their slight gesticulation about surge and wind (it’s a public dock), and before long was down inside their boat helping him with an electrical problem. And Yvonne was expounding on the beauty of Alaska and pirates of the Caribbean (who boarded their friend’s boat off Venezuela). They love the Northwest waters. Safe and pure and beautiful.
She had a loveliness about her. Golden honey hair with a band loosely tied and bringing it down in a short sweep over her shoulder. Eyes of blue. Her accent could have been Scandinavian. Nor (short for Norton) was bordering on frail, white-haired and thin, with sinew and a fine trace of ruggedness still noticeable. He spoke quietly and never once looked me in the eye. Very strange. Not expressive, not positive: a retired doctor by profession. They both made wine in Sonoma, where they were from and complained about the poor wine selection in Port Rupert.
“Your food wasn’t gourmet, was it?” he responded to my saying we had an early dinner of fish and chips at the Breakers Pub and that I was going back to get internet access.
“That bag of yours isn’t very compact, is it for carrying a computer?” he quietly accused as he hung his head cleaning Liberty with Simple Green with commitment and purpose. Never looking up. Watch out I might get a foot print on his squeaky clean boat! I stepped back down onto the dock and, considering the source, let the negativity roll off.
At the Breakers Pub I joined the Swiss chap. I never did get his name. He was big and tall with blonde-white-thinning –windswept hair. Muscular. But with a sensitivity and “joie de vie” attitude. Earlier at dinner I noticed him with his Toshiba plugged in, in a nook in the closed-in, extended area of the pub with big windows on two sides looking out onto the view.
“Yes you can get internet access here.” He said in a broad German-Bern-Swiss accent. “I’m sending an e-mail to a women in Mexico to get papers in order for me to buy a boat down there.” He smiled widely. “You should go to Mexico—it’s great down there. San Carlos!” His smile did not go away.
I had made the long slog to the boat and now settled in at a corner table of the pub by the window, I plugged in and fired my computer up.
“I can’t get into the internet.” I said.
“Let me show you,” and he squeezed his big frame next to me between two tables.
“By the way I know nothing about computers” he blurted.
“You must click on ‘connect to’ then choose PRYC—Prince Rupert Yacht Club. There it is—you’re in!”
“By the way tell me about South Africa!” he blurted out loud again.
“Hey, I’ve got to concentrate now. I have not done this in awhile.” I hinted he give me some space.
“I have written this e-mail six times and have still not been able to send it!” he exclaimed with a laugh.
I noticed his dinner was in front of his computer beyond his view: a big hamburger and chips, a bowl of soup and a salad. A large dinner for a big man’s appetite. The sun was getting low in the sky and the pub was filling up with customers—all in a Canada Day festive mood.
The charter boats were returning and fish were being filleted on the big stainless steel table on the dock in Cow Bay. An otter was on one of the dock fingers rolling over and over, back and forth on his back, then stomach—scratching his neck vigorously. The guests on the deck were happy nursing strawberry margaritas and beers and about 30 eagles circled and dove overhead, like vultures, almost as big as turkeys, snow sprinkled mountains in the background, fishing and sailboats and powerboats glistening in the sun.
With great gusto the Swiss chap—I’ll call him www.salmoncharters.ca (he ran a charter fishing boat)—pushed his Toshiba forward to the edge of the table to avoid the sunlight. What followed was like a slow-motion avalanche of food hitting the floor, followed by broken plates. First the hamburger with bits of bacon flying, then the soup, which made an impressive splash landing, then the salad a more gentle and light-arrayed show down. www.salmoncharters.ca was shocked and surprised. Imagine a heavy Bern accent.
“I did not even know the food was there!” He said, red faced with embarrassment. “I was trying to get the computer out of the sunlight.”
“I wondered why you were not eating it,” I said. “It’s OK. It happens.”
He got up in a hurry at the center stage with diners gawking in somewhat disgust. Again he announced to an audience within close range: “I didn’t know the food was there!” as if he owed them an explanation.
“As my daughter always said: it’s all good, even when it’s bad.” I encouraged.
He smiled and went for the cleanup help, a tired-looking and resigned East Indian man. Help though did not come for about ten minutes. Instead, a dainty first nation waitress with her little short black dress and hip hugging chunky leather braided belt stopped dead in her tracks, mouth open—balancing her try of drinks at the edge of slidesville.
“I didn’t know the food was there,” he said again with a more pronounced German-Bern-Swiss accent. “I like your belt!” he tried a deterrent tack on her. “I’ll have the same dinner order as before," he told her humbly. She melted away. Ditto when the soft, voluptuous blonde waitress came on the scene.
When it was all cleaned up and he started again on his e-mail, he came to an abrupt stop. “Does anybody know anything about computers here?” he asked loudly.
I jumped up to see how I could help, trying to soften yet another embarrassing dining moment.
“My shift key won’t work!! I can’t type in @ for my e-mail address!” He was now clearly exasperated. This was the e-mail he had started two hours ago when I first met him. “Hey, pretty girl…” it started.
True the shift key was not allowing much, so with some finagling and copying and pasting I got it to go.
“Hey did anyone tell you, you’re a genius?” he chuckled. “Would you mind if I came and sat down near you? I won’t disturb you—just want to get the sun out of my eyes” he politely gestured.
“No problem, but I need to concentrate.” I again hinted.
He shut down his computer and ate in silence, a periphery view showing a meal being enjoyed! “These are my two days off.” he said to himself and he savoured his food.
“NO!” I said. “I’m locked out my documents!! I can’t copy/paste into my blog!!” Same with the files from my external drive. I struggled the next hour!! Searching for a way to unlock my docs. “I’d never locked the things. It was like PRYC connection jinxed all!!!!” my thoughts whined.
I joined dialogue groups on Word. Sarah in cyberspace was in the same predicament. I could not follow through with resolve given her. I was livid BLUE with frustration. Blood boiling. Sweating it. Here was my one chance to input my blog material. And I was up against the wall.
I rushed an e-mail to Nancy with the attached locked files, asking her if she could try to upload. Why was I wasting time with bloody blogs!!!
“We should just throw these dam things in the bay” www.salmoncharters.ca added. He slowly got up from the table and left for his moorage at Rushbrooke. I struggled some more. It felt worse when my “kindred spirit in trouble” had left. Now I was alone with my problem. With spirits absolutely downtrodden I, too, left for the 20-minute walk to where we were tied alongside Liberty.
Russ was there having experienced his own meeting with computer nemesis—no GPS on his digital Maptech chart software, mouse gone bonkers, toolbar acting weird.
“I’d rather use a dam toilet bowl!” he said in disgust and we commiserated over our computer wounds. It was 11:00 PM, the fog had rolled in, fireworks erupted and a sound of dull canons boomed in the distance. It was Canada Day at Prince Rupert Bay.
Russ had now started the engines—Nor was quietly untying our lines. The waters were still. Yvonne was resigned and had faith in Nor. “He’s done it before!” she said when I questioned going out in such dense fog. We moved out a way to give them maneuver room. Slowly Liberty moved out into the early morning fog with not so much as a wave from Nor.
Now shafts of light seem stronger as we come close to Dixon Entrance and the Alaska time/Canadian Pacific time line. I can almost feel the line under the swell. We had followed Liberty’s suit through the fog, through the unknowns, dodging the dead heads and nearly getting a whole tree caught between our keel and prop—coming up on the proper lights, Melville Island, Moffet Islands, Green Island, Dixon Entrance!
It’s choppy. The open ocean is at influence. I feel at ease and excited about all that soon awaits us—close now at hand in Alaska!
“This f….ing thing!” I hear Russ’ voice from the navigation table below. He is facing another bad computer day. On through the gray day to Foggy bay. Tomorrow Revillagigedo channel will unfold and we will reach Alaska’s first city, Ketchikan.
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