Heard this great tongue-in-cheek commentary piece on NPR this afternoon. This fellow was proposing that America wage a “War On Weather” in light of the recent winter conditions in the American northeast.
What’s this? In Canada, they call this sort of weather “winter”, and it happens once a year, like clockwork. Maybe that’s why us Canucks are so loopy; the cold is character forming, no?
There’s this evening programme on Canadian public Radio called “Ideas”. A few years back, they broadcast an interesting bit on the connections between northern people, as part of a documentary on an international social forum involving (principaly) delegates from Canada, Russia, Denmark, and the Scandinavian countries. These folks all tended to agree that there where certain characteristics shared by people of northern countries. There was also the feeling that that northern countries tended towards Socialism and social democracy in similar veins.
The reason? The cold. Long winters force people together, and force them to look after one another. There’s something about the ice, the snow, the frozen fingers and toes that differentiates northern peoples from others, and shapes the way their societies have evolved.
i don’t want to get too exclusive; there’s people all over the world who have their character and society shaped by their climate and environment. It’s just curious to see how non-northerners react when they’re faced with an actual winter. In many ways, i’m still reacting to this perpetual Caribbean summer.
Up north, my life seemed to be measured by the seasons. At least by the summers. In my reminiscences, i measure events as “three summers ago”. Likewise, when times where trying, i have measured my progress by the winters. Summers in the bus are sometimes indisticnt, but the three full winters are etched in my mind.
Sure, in the northern USA, they have winter. Still, when the US weatherman talks of “Arctic fronts”, we know where the weather is really coming from…

Got the Dink back together Sunday morning. i sanded the cheek-scarfs smooth and, without even a pause for fresh paint, dropped the mast back in, and went out for a sail. i bit the bullet, and despite the poor winds, and set out for Smuggler’s Cove.
The expected north-northeast winds shifted southerly, and i was forced to stand waaay out towards Sandy Cay just to make the angle into Smuggler’s. It took me about two hours altogether to sail there. i was surprised along the way by the several butterflys i had wing past me, out there in the middle of the north sound. The landing through the surf went fairly smoothly (didn’t embarrass myself in front of the tourists too much), and after stowing the topmast and sail, i trotted up to the honour bar.
A burger and few fine mojitos later (the bar at Smuggler’s makes the best on the island), i launched into the surf for the sail home. This time, the wind was with me, but unfortunately, dying down fast. Getting past the currents off Steele Point was as annoying as expected, and it took a few lousy tacks to discover the “just right” finger of wind to follow up along Little Thatch before tacking over towards the J.R. i blew one tack when a pair of dolphins popped up beside me, a few yards away.
Darkness dropped like a (very dark) stone, along with the last of the wind, and i motor-sailed (paddled) the last hundred yards or so. The trip home took about three hours. Good fun, but needed more wind. Well, saying that, i’m remined of the hours spent repairing the mast from the last “fun wind” day… Could a larger, more robust dingy be in the works? Stay tuned…

When we watch the movies or read the books, the fiction we encounter is subject to a certain suspension of disbelief. It seems difficult to apply that same feeling to our “real” lives. Why? Why not? What’s the question?
It’s so easy to slip into identifying with the character on the page or screen. Of course, that’s part of how a good fiction works. After a good encounter with fiction, i have to shake myself out of it a bit, and return to the real world. Inevitably, reality seems a little stale in comparison. It’s so easy to imagine myself as the hero if the fiction, identifying with the failures and triumphs, passions and pitfalls. Outside of the fiction, i sometimes have a hard time identifying with the hero of my own reality.
Really, my own adventure is pretty freakin’ cool. The problem? Maybe it’s just that the fictions tend to gloss over the nuts and bolts. The adventuresome hero is seldom left washing their own socks, ever horribly hungover, or unable to find the correct screwdriver for the task at hand.
How does the saying go? Attitude is the difference between adventure and adversity? i’m remembering that my life is a grand adventure, that i am the hero of my own fiction, and that “reality” needn’t always be so intrusive. Not if i choose to not let it be…

Just checked the Lady website, and have noticed that Jesse Loge is back aboard, and this time as Bosun. This is a right and proper thing; i see many good things in the future for the Lady’s rigging!
The whole time i served with Jesse, he was The Man Who Would Be Bosun. About time!