And What Will the Morrow Bring? (16)

The Long and Short Of It

4. And What Will the Morrow Bring?

When I promised to bury my father at sea we didn't shake on it, sign a promissory note or write up a legal document together. He passed away in February 2003 and, a month or two later, after I'd constructed a box for his ashes (for a spring interment) and discovered it was too small for the job, I said something to the affect that I would take the remaining ash and bury him at sea as he had requested in the 1980s. I said those words aloud, spontaneously, while I stood - a bag of ashes in hand - in my basement workshop. I said those words to my father. I said those words to me and there was no need to write anything down. My promise was a matter of the heart. I'd remember.

One day, about seven years later, and out of the blue, the penny dropped. I confidently felt I would cart my father's ashes on my own to the Atlantic Ocean on the back of my motorcycle. It sounded like a grand adventure - oh, trust me, it surely was - and I decided to do it, and after much careful planning I was on my way on June 8, 2010.

I biked an average of 465 kilometres a day and frequently cooked meals along the side of the road. For example, I heated up more than a few tins of Puritan Irish Stew - with those famous preformed chunks of meat - and cups of Mr. Noodle soup at the side of the road. Admittedly, I also splurged on occasion. I spent a fair bit of my birdhouse money on the grilled pork tenderloin with apricot sauce at Isaac's Way restaurant in Fredericton one pleasant evening, and it was superb.

"Quick lunch on the way to Fredericton, N.B."

I took major highways and numerous secondary roads, stopped here and there and everywhere to take scores of photographs, stayed overnight in pre-booked hostels (e.g., in Kingston, Trois-Rivieres and Riviere-du-Loup), loaded and unloaded my bike every day, and when I finally reached Halifax on Saturday, June 12, the fifth day of the trip, I'd covered about 2,300 kilometres. I was exhausted and exhilarated in equal amounts and I hadn't even reached my ultimate goal yet. I still had to bike another 30 kilometres or so to Pennant Point, a place south-west of Halifax that would provide me access to the Atlantic Ocean, with father's ashes in hand.

But that short trip was for the morrow, Sunday. On Saturday night I found Rogues Roost, a good pub, and penned 600 words for an upcoming newspaper column entitled ‘From Halifax: Fulfilling an Old Promise to a Navy Vet’ (published in The Londoner, June 17, 2010). The last few lines reveal I didn’t really know how this whole thing was going to turn out. 

  

Five days ago I loaded luggage and a homemade wooden boat (aptly named 'S.S. Silver Walnut,' after dad's favourite wartime vessel and home for several months in the 1940s) onto my motorcycle, headed toward the 401 and hung a left. And now I'm beside the Atlantic Ocean with dad's ashes safely sealed - thanks to four coats of Super Spar varnish - inside the lower deck of the Walnut.

From my perch at the Rogues Roost I'm wondering what tomorrow will bring. Will I be able to find a friendly cove? Will the wee boat float away - gently and carefully - on a final adventure?

From where I sit now, about five years later, I know the answers to most of my questions. I also know a very distressing, dramatic part of the morrow’s story line by line. It jumps out at me when I reflect on my adventure and goes something like this:

Lord, I just wanted the day to be over. I stood facing the end of the deadest of dead ends in a thick part of a woods near Pennant Point, close to the Atlantic Ocean, about 30 kilometres out of Halifax. I didn't know which way to turn. The S.S. Silver Walnut, a wooden boat that I'd built in my basement a month before to hold my father's ashes, weighed over 100 pounds. My motorcycle boots weighed another 50, my clothes were also heavy and sticky with sweat and I could hear (but not see) other hikers on some trail not far away, but exactly where I couldn't tell. So I decided to toss the damn boat into some brush and go home, that's if I could find my way out of the woods and back to Halifax.

I said, “No one will ever know.”

And I didn't say it sweetly.

"And what will the morrow bring?"

More to follow.

Link to We Were As Two Ships 15

Photos from June, 2010 by GH

We Were As Two Ships (15)

The Long and Short Of It

3. We Were As Two Ships

"We've been lucky"

While motorcycling to the East Coast in 2010, especially after reading some of my father's stories related to his experiences during World War II, I began to feel a part of a very lucky generation, in that we haven't been called upon to give up several years of our lives to battle overseas against a determined enemy. 

At some time during the third day of my travels I wrote the following in my ever-present journal: 

   My gosh we've been lucky, i.e., my generation. Longest I've been away, 10 days, 2007,
   Thunder Bay on bike. Now 14 days to Halifax to send off a wee boat w dad's remains.
   When my promise is fulfilled I just want to get back home to my own family.

According to my notes, my thoughts about my family were triggered by my father's story about a female friend he had while in England. His tale, started in the previous post, concludes below. 

The Silent Pact and its Epilogue  

The remainder of this story doesn’t sound so consistent with the Silent Pact. I suppose it is a Silent Tribute to all the WAAFs, I don’t know, but it’s all true. Events were to prove, in my own mind at least, that I did not lose in the shuffle in the black-out doors of the Top-Hat Pub at Southend.

I am reminded of those often repeated words by Humphrey Bogart to Audrey Hepburn in the movie African Queen, “This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship” because that was what it turned out to be although it wasn’t to last too long.

The WAAF Cpl who worked in the kitchen or bakery of an Air Force barracks nearby was named Gracie Purvis. Her home was in Croydon and she established very early in our relationship that she was engaged to an English Army Lieutenant with Montgomery in North Africa. She was firm that she wished to remain faithful to him. I accepted this loyalty which gained my respect for Grace and our friendship was free of all encumbrances and we became very good friends. 

"Our dreams and aspirations"

Each day or evening we were free of duty we met at the Top-Hat Pub and had a drink or two, a sandwich, a game or two at the Penny Arcade and sometimes we walked arm and arm around Southend wishing in our hearts that there wasn’t a war and things could be different. We spoke of Mums and family and the Army Lieutenant. Also we spoke of letters sent and received, about after the war, our dreams and aspirations. They were quite the same; a home, a family, a time free of war.

The barracks I was at was HMS Westcliff, I believe, and I think the time was after Dieppe and prior to the North African invasion. Grace and I arranged that if either of us were no-shows for two nights, she had been posted or I was on my way somewhere else and she alone promised to write. We had pleasant time because she was a pleasant person. I often think of her and her fine qualities. It wasn’t to last because I became a no-show. There were no good-byes or “I’ll see you again.” No more spearmint gum or cookies from the baking either.

Six weeks later we arrived back from North Africa to Liverpool on the Reina-del-Pacifico and in a few days the mail arrived from FMO and among my stack was a letter from Grace, now serving at the summer resort town of Blackpool. Could I get a weekend leave and if so she said she would arrange rooming quarters and give me a phone number to call at a precise time? If things became favourable for me, which they did, and quite soon I was stepping onto the train platform at Blackpool with Grace waiting with open arms.

Blackpool, 19402: Photo credit - British Isles Past and Present

I had a 72 hour pass and stayed at a Seniors Boarding House with a lovely room. I sat down at meal times with Seniors dressed in formal bib and tucker to shepherd’s pie - and Brussel sprouts, of course.

Friday night and Saturday night we had a drink or two and enjoyed a dance and restaurant and renewed our friendship. Then I went back to the boarding house. Sunday (this would be late November, 1942) we went to see a large aquarium, sharks and all. The weather was foreboding, like the feeling in our hearts. On the surface we were enjoying ourselves but underneath I think we were both quite sad for we feared the end.

We walked with arms about each others’ waists out over the shallow beach water on Blackpool’s famous long pier. The cool wind blew our hair and we sat on a bench at the end of the pier. I shared my Burberry (raincoat) as we huddled there and I confess I felt more than a friend as we spoke again for what we both knew would be the last time, of our meeting at Southend, our homes and what we both hoped would be in our future. This loyal lady had still kept up correspondence with her Lieutenant. I had deep admiration in my heart for her as I felt her warmth and sadness under my coat.

Blackpool's Pier: Photo credit - Postcards of the Past

We strolled back to the beach area where there was a type of midway still operating along the beach and we attempted to lift our mood by taking rides on ferris wheels, etc. Grace had a few small red burns on her face from flying burning fat and declined to have her photo taken.

I returned to the boarding house to pick up my attache case and all too soon I am again on the train platform, whereas 72 hours earlier we had had such a happy reunion. A mist swirled around us as we once more shared my Burberry. Through it all not a word was spoken of future letters or anything else. We were friends just hanging on through the tears. I’m not prepared for the “All Aboard.” I never liked good-byes. I still wanted this moment over with. It was taking too long. “All Aboard.” We kissed good-bye. I climbed aboard and my guts were churning as I took a seat by the window. Grace stood so alone. This was not a happy moment. The train slowly moved out and Grace Purvis of Croydon turned and walked away. We were as two ships that had passed in the night.

I have been unable to locate Grace. I pray her Lieutenant came safely home and all her dreams were fulfilled. We filled a need in each others lives and I have no regrets. From St. Nazaire to Singapore, pages 47 - 48

Eleven days after reading the above I was safely back home in London, definitely a tired man, and perhaps even a wiser, more understanding son thanks in part to my father's wartime stories.

And what about the task of burying my father at sea?

More to follow.

Link to A Few More Miles to Go (14)

Unattributed Photos by GH

A Few More Miles to Go (14)

The Long and Short Of It

2. A Few More Miles to Go

"I'm glad today I kept a journal"

I'm glad today I kept a journal on my way to the East Coast. To this day it is a thorough record of one of the most significant motorcycle rides I've ever taken, or ever will.

Glad too that I carried a few books (e.g., two volumes of stories by World War 2 veterans of Combined Operations, including some by my father), some to donate to The Maritime Museum of the Atlantic in Halifax and others for my own interest. As it turned out, the museum was delighted to receive the Combined Ops books and I was drawn to them as well as I journeyed toward an approaching shoreline and promised deed. Dad's stories were not only welcome company during a few supper times but they kept my head in the game, so to speak.

"A story (with) a completely different flavour"

More than one reference to his stories appears in my notes, along with some of my reactions to certain tales. After arriving safely in Riviere-du-Loup and enjoying supper on the third day of my trip I wrote the following:

"Began to read another of Dad's stories. Last night I read about his time in the water, off coast of Scotland, up to his neck at times - and all alone. Close call, I say."

Even just a few years before my father died I would have shown only a passing interest in the story and cared little for its setting or the adventures he experienced during a time of war. In 2010, however, I was glued to the set.

I continued:

"Tonight, (I read) a story with a completely different flavour, re a female friend (he had) while in England. - both married, both faithful to spouses, but good company for each other. I guess I can understand how that works."

What I didn't understand at the time is that they were both single, though his girlfriend Gracie was promised to a Lieutenant in Montgomery's Eighth Army. And here is how Father begins the story, as published in St. Nazaire to Singapore, The Canadian Amphibious War 1941 - 1945.

"Sailors on the Prowl" - Drawing by G. Harrison

The Silent Pact and its Epilogue

My Navy buddy, Frank Herring, and I engaged in a Silent Pact overseas. When we were not required on board for duty we conspired to be the first ashore to get the pick. No Liberty Boat inspection for us - case the joint and slip ashore quickly and hopefully unseen.

Excerpt from St. Nazaire to Singapore, page 48

Ashore very early at Southend-On-Sea, we went straight through the black-out doors into the Top-Hat pub. Oh Boy! Two WAAF Corporals, a beautiful blonde and lovely brunette. With two or three Johnnie Walkers tucked under our belts for courage, we asked if we could sit down with them. The answer was in the affirmative. I sat by the blonde and Frank by the brunette. Things are great, going according to plan. Time passes and all too soon it’s “Time Gentlemen Please” by the governor.

It was suggested by the girls that we go to a penny arcade down the street where there were pin ball machines and even one-armed bandits. Away we go. No pain. I grasp the arm of the blonde and Frank the brunette. There is a big pile up at the black-out doors. People going out and some coming in, trying to get a last beer. We finally manage to get out into the darkened street and when we arrive inside the lighted penny arcade Frank has the blonde and I have the brunette. Such is life. 

"What happened back at the door?" "What back door?"

Photo credit to NN Antiques

More to follow.

Link to I Take Me a Trip 13

Photos GH

I Take Me a Trip (13)

The Long and Short Of It

2. I Take Me a Trip

"Before the bike trip, son Paul and I sell birdhouses for my gas money"
Saturday, June 5, 2010, at Gathering on the Green, Wortley Village

"I hug grandson Ollie, then hop on the bike, Tues., June 8 2010"

Some woodworkers will say that if they finish work with all their fingers then it's been a good day. Motorcyclists likely have more than a few ways to describe the end of a successful ride. What can I say about the first day of a 2,200 kilometre-long trip to the East Coast on June 8, 2010?

At the end of day, though I'd biked about 35 kilometres farther and arrived in Kingston ten minutes later than predicted, I was relaxed and all in one piece. I parked my bike in a waiting garage, inspected my room in Skweek House (hostel) and was eating supper by 7:15, at least according to my notes. I wrote, under the heading 'impressions', four words about the scenery between London and Newmarket: NFB (National Film Board film) just for me!

Here are a few other impressions formed while riding 527 km from London to Kingston via the back way:

      Canada is huge, no wonder Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone

      Bike is top heavy but OK. It will be lighter on way back

      Note to (wife) Pat - I should have packed my red longjohns

      Oh - excellent! (A description of a microwaveable stew. I cannot recall if I
      am serious or joking)

      Regal lager - good starter, (I) want another one, but different!! (No doubt
      about it, I enjoyed a couple of tasty pints at The Kingston Brewing
      Company before hitting the sack at Skweek House)

Proof is in the pudding. Like a woodworker happily examining all his digits before turning off the lights in his workshop, 'it's been a good day' seems to truthfully sum up my thoughts about June 8 as recorded in my journal. 

Though the ride was my first to Halifax, and the scenery and experience was wonderful, a hint or feeling of seriousness often crept into my thoughts and notes. For example, on Day 2 my first words in the journal were about breakfast, but even then, while sipping a cup of tea, I knew I was on the road because of my father's wish to be buried at sea, and I was somewhat inspired and affected as he was by his years in the Canadian Navy. 

I said, "Up early. Took awhile to get organized but kitchen and shower were great. Thermos of tea, cup of tea, cookie, oatmeal with cranberries, rye bread. Pretty dry - like hard tack - therefore, (it's) like being in (the) Navy."

"Rye bread was like hard tack... like being in (the) Navy"

As well, on Day 3 I travelled from Trois-Rivieres to Riviere-du-Loup, a shorter ride than the average, and while eating supper in a comfortable, shared kitchen and dining room I listed ten things I recalled about the day's events. Most were really not much to write home about: (In Trois-Rivieres) "Didn't go out after supper, watched a bit of hockey (NHL playoffs on TV), in bed early - 10:00 PM - ish, continental breakfast in Tr. Rivieres, prepped bike in 30 minutes," etc. But as I prepared to put my pen down a more serious thought entered my mind, not for the first time. "I'm on a mission, a good one. It will be a special, unique moment to put the wee boat into the Atlantic." 

"I'm on a mission, a good one"

Indeed it was 'a special, unique moment' when I jammed my motorcycle boots into tight spots in slippery rocks - so I wouldn't fall in - on the Atlantic Coast a few days later. It was a day when my short frame was worn down by heat and bad directions. It was also a day when I found the perfect spot on the rocky shore and stood tall, if but for a moment in time.

But still, there are a few more miles to go on the motorcycle.

 "The Walnut's stacks are lopped off so it can fit the saddle bag"

"It's final voyage began at a hard-won and perfect spot"

More to follow.

Link to The Long and Short Of It 12

Photos GH

The Long and Short Of It (12A)

The Long and Short Of It

1. I Plan Me a Trip

"I later modified my list of daily destinations by striking out St. John, NB"

After the boat for my father's cremated remains was built I had one major league task left to accomplish, and that was to transport it to some rocky shore on the East Coast of Canada and give it a ceremonial toss, so to speak, into the Atlantic Ocean - and return home safely. As I did a few years earlier before motorcycling to Thunder Bay by way of the ribbon of highway that hugs the north shore of Lake Superior, I grabbed pen and paper and completed, what might seem like to some, a mountain of prep work.

With the help of a 'Canada Road Atlas', Google, Hostelling International website, The Weather Network and a few other vital resources ("What's my bank balance by the way?"), I compiled list after list, all very helpful in my opinion. Over the course of a few days I planned my route, nightly accommodation at hostels, recorded my estimates for daily mileage and gasoline costs, purchased a new camera, and among several other things ("I'd better let The Londoner Community Newspaper know I'll be sending in columns only as long as I can get internet service"), set aside a new notebook to use as a daily journal.

The following photographs of my prep work will surely help you understand how neat and well-organized I can be at times:

"Though I under-estimated each day's mileage, I often arrived at my destination

ahead of schedule because it didn't take me long to heat up soup and coffee" 

 "I created quite a few lists and most items were checked off"

 "I ultimately spent more on gas and a good deal less on meals.

Mr. Noodle, melba toast and tins of food filled one saddle bag"

 "I experienced one drop of rain on June 8, but stayed well

ahead of trouble for the rest of the motorcycle trip"

About the journal: I am very glad I kept a daily log of highlights and lowlights I experienced along the way. Today I would only be able to recall 10 per cent of what occurred during the trip, if that. And in the future, if any other family members (e.g., my two sons) wish to retrace my steps and visit the Atlantic, I have - along with 100s of photographs - helpful notes to guide them in the right direction.

For example: My sons will appreciate taking a break in Arthur, Ontario at noon on the first day of travel to Halifax. The soup and bagel combo is delicious, and a thermos of 'Roaster coffee', like I had (purchased in London before I set off), will came in handy and save them money along the way.

To this day, some of the journal comments are revealing, as above.

I liked going in a northerly direction and through Arthur because I was nervous about taking the 401 highway from London early in the morning. Sure, it took me more time to get to Kingston the way I biked but I felt I had the time. I write, "I lose time but I have time, e.g., 80 km/hr. average pace w 2 hr. break/lunch time. Great motorcycle country north of Dorking and Drayton near Lake Conestoga. We love the water." ('We'? I must be talking about the bike and me. We must have bonded during that first day's long ride.

More to follow.

Link to I Build Me a Boat 11

Photos GH