I Build Me a Boat Part 2 (11B)

From Gord's Deep Photo Files

A ride to the East Coast begins with pen and paper - S.S. Silver Walnut

I made a white cedar boat (small in size but big enough) in which I placed my father's ashes for a trip to Pennant Point, about 35 km. SE of Halifax.

I am no small ship builder but I wanted it to float nicely in the water all the way to the SW coast of Scotland- near the places my father first trained to handle landing crafts that would later transport troops to Dieppe, the north shore of Africa, the east coast of Sicily and the toe of the boot in Italy. 

Making a sturdy craft for an ocean voyage was no easy feat but I gave it my best shot.

Photos from along the way:

Some of Dad's ashes are buried beside his wife, my mother, in Norwich, Ontario

A cedar coffin, of sorts. Filled with more of Dad's ashes

The additions on the top surface changed as time went on in the workshop

I settled on a sealed structure to hold "messages in a whiskey bottle"

The messages provide details re the contents of the boat

Pretty sturdy keel, but not done yet

The Silver Walnut was a two-stacker

Screws, glue and marine varnish tightly seal the boat, I hope

Two coats of oil-based paint, please!

Navy-blue paint for the trim, of course

The trip out and back was over 4,000 km, spread over about two weeks

An engraved plaque for the boat ride to Scotland

Test run in a neighbour's pool reveals that I need a heavier keel

Saturday before my trip, my son Paul and I sell birdhouses for gas money : )

Heavy ballast: Walnut strips on keel and metal bolts from 

a northern railway line

The boat was still tippy with added walnut strips

Loading up motorcycle luggage bags. The boat's two stacks are gone,

so it can fit inside the leather bag

This motorcycle, 1100cc Yamaha Virago, was a real trooper!!

Heavily loaded, but ready for the 4,000 km trip

Gloves, keys, Tums and more; Ready to rumble

Bike is in my laneway, warming up for Day 1 of a long ride

I give grandson Ollie one last hug before I go.

I'll be back!

Photos of the trip will follow with the appropriate chapter.

Please link to I Build Me a Boat Part 1

Photos GH

A New Chapter (19)

Scotland, WW2 Books, and Beyond

 West Coast view of Scotland familiar to Doug and Gord Harrison

 Looking west from Irvine, Scotland

Looking south from Irvine to Navy Camp Auchengate and Troon

Continued from a June 24, 2015 post:

Upon reflection, do I think the column* about my trip to Halifax reveals more than positive details about accomplishing what I'd set out to do? That I took Dad's ashes east? Tossed them successfully into the Atlantic? And do I think it reveals more than a positive mood after an enlightening day in Ottawa?

Yes. But how so, one might ask?

The last line of the column reads: Will it (the boat containing my father's ashes) reach Scotland?

My reference to Scotland reveals I knew something related to one country other than Canada in which my father trained for his role in World War II. That knowledge likely came from one of the many columns Father wrote for the Norwich Gazette, though admittedly it didn't run very deep. For example, several photographs I took in Halifax and a few days later in Ottawa (e.g., at Canada's War Museum) focus on materials related to the Merchant Navy. As well, in my trip's journal I describe some of my dad's books as his "Merchant Marine books" and I was soon to learn he was not a member of that organization at any time during WW2.

 Dad's books are about the Combined Operations organization

The books are not about the Merchant Marine

That being said, it is evident that I had at least a bit of borrowed knowledge and some small personal interest in my father's wartime experiences prior to my trip to the East Coast in 2010. And I have some evidence my interest grew during the trip.

Besides photos of items specifically related to the Merchant Navy, there are many others that focus on the wider topic of 'Canada and Canadians at war', many of war memorials, memorabilia and museum displays. And in Ottawa, for the first time ever, I made a point of purchasing books that I felt might help me better understand certain events that took place during World War II that might have had some impact on my father.

The 'hot spot' in Ottawa 

I found books near the 34, then Jail Hostel (circled) on Nicholas

Safely parked beside the historic jail

I remember the experience well. Shortly after I arrived in Ottawa and started to ride west on Rideau Street toward the Jail Hostel (my accommodation for three days), I had to stop at a red light. Smothering heat hit me like a brick. I quickly raised the face shield on my helmet to catch any breeze, unzipped every zipper on my heavy leather jacket, and, while experiencing a hot flashback to the frustration I felt about getting lost in the woods near the Atlantic Coast  - under the same sun a few days earlier - I prepared to curse the sweltering sun and molten tarmac. It was then I spotted a colourful book rack on the sidewalk outside a used book store. Like it was yesterday I recall I was able to make out the title of one large book - U-BOAT WAR.

"Two used books related to WW2 didn't break the bank" - 

cheaper than parking fees

The 'lost in the woods flashback' disappeared from my mind and several other thoughts raced through my head before the traffic light turned green: Buy that book. Don't pull over now, you're boiling, you're dripping wet. Besides, it's a big book, there's no room on the bike. Check into the hostel, shower, put on shorts and fresh T-shirt, walk back here, buy that book.

The light turned green and I moved along Rideau, albeit slowly, to my destination. I checked in, etcetera, and had the book - and one more - in my possession before suppertime. Now, admittedly, the purchase of two used books related to WW2 didn't break the bank (13 bucks, about what I paid for parking my bike for three days), it does prove that during the summer of 2010 I was willing to learn more about my father's World War Two experience.

 After reading U-BOAT WAR: I asked, "Why would Dad ever

want to join the Merchant Navy?"

As it turns out, he was never a Merchant man

Together, the two columns I wrote about my trip to Halifax tell an important part of the story related to my new and growing interest in my father's wartime adventures. Since 2010 my interest has continued to grow. I've made a handful of trips in the name of research since that time, including to Halifax and Ottawa a second time, Vancouver Island (twice as well) and Scotland, and feel I've only just begun. And though I won't ever forget that first trip to the East Coast, and tossing dad's ashes upon the waves, there was something related to my time in Ottawa that made me feel I was starting a new chapter to my own adventures following faint footsteps.

A return trip to Ottawa three months later lit a fuse that burns to this day.

* the column was published, coincidentally, five years earlier than the post  - to the day, June 24, 2010

More to follow.

Link to A News Dispatch from Ottawa 18

Photos GH

A News Dispatch from Ottawa (18)

A Shorter, Almost-Fully-Positive Version

In June, 2010 I wrote two columns for The Londoner, 'London's Community Newspaper', concerning my trip to Halifax to fulfill my father's wishes to be buried at sea. One was written the day before the event, the other one week later, after I'd had the opportunity to put things in perspective and reflect on the positive aspects of the trek to the shore of the Atlantic. And, as well, after I'd had a good think related to how I should best inform my readers about the most important aspects of the trip.

When you put my newspaper account (published in The Londoner, June 24, 2010) up against what appears in this website's previous post (I Give the Boat a Toss, May 6, 2015) you might think I am two different people. The 2015 version reveals I almost gave up on my task and the 2010 news version almost sounds like a walk in the park.

Though the later story is 'the whole truth and nothing but the truth', the watered-down news column has some value too. It reveals I wanted to share with my audience a few positive details of the long journey while I was still far from home, e.g., that I'd accomplished what I'd set out to do. It reveals I was, at the time, limited in some ways by a certain-sized word count per column (approx. 600). Because I wrote the column after a very full, pleasant and enlightening day in Ottawa, one of my favourite cities in Canada, it perhaps reveals my positive mood. And upon reflection, I think it reveals even more.

From Halifax: Fulfilling an old promise to a navy vet Pt 2

Last week I mentioned a few details about my trip to Halifax, a delightful city in which my dad trained for the RCNVR and Combined Ops in the early 1940s. Let's see, what did I say? Briefly - I motorcycled, wore one pair of pants (still am), ate a lot of Irish stew and carried a small boat - named the S.S. Silver Walnut and transporting my dad's ashes as cargo - along with my luggage. I arrived safely a week ago Saturday and what I had to do next was set the boat adrift upon the Atlantic Ocean.

Sounds easy, right? After all, the whole of Nova Scotia is almost completely surrounded by water. Unfortunately, I wanted to get the boat 'out a ways' in order to reach the Gulf Stream and be carried to Scotland, another place in which dad trained for the Canadian Navy. So, on Sunday morning I rode toward Pennant Point, a promising spot 25 - 30 km. south-west of Halifax, at least according to the old road maps and blurry Google images I'd looked at (fairly carefully). Well, getting to and navigating that point of land was the hardest task I've undertaken in many years.

The ‘blurry Google images’ did not help much with navigation

First, there were no roads to the Atlantic. A gentleman familiar with the region told me to expect a 6 km. hike. Second, trails were hard to find. I got lost on occasion. Faint trails led me into the bush or onto a beach that was tough sledding. Or onto rocky outcroppings almost impossible to navigate or already occupied by young couples or fishermen or nudists. Third, my heavy sweater and jeans, perfect for biking during the cool morning hours, stuck to my body and weighed me down when afternoon temperatures soared to 120 - 130 degrees (just a rough estimate), my motorcycle boots caused my feet to blister and the 35 pound boat weighed double that after an hour.

Helpful paths were scarce but I eventually found ‘the perfect spot’

I grew exhausted and asked myself several times, should I turn back? I eventually decided to turn one last corner and climb up one last rock ledge. I'm so glad I did. I found the perfect spot - a private, flat, broad shelf of rock a few feet above the ocean's churning waves.

I prepared the boat for departure and a camera for pictures. And I read a paragraph my dad wrote about the admiration he felt for his ship and crew mates, and these last words from his longest story about his days in the Navy:

"I conclude my story of adventures aboard the Walnut with a poem by my brother-in-law, Arthur Catton. It expresses my feelings about ships.

     I don't care if it's north or south,
     The Trades or the China Sea,
     Shortened down or everything set,
     Closed hauled or running free.
     You paint me a ship as is, like a ship,
     And that'll do for me."

Then, with all the might I had left in me, I tossed the small Walnut and dad's ashes into the ocean. What a great splash it made as it disappeared under the water. What a beautiful sight it was when it popped right back up (I knew it was a good, solid boat!), turned left, then right - as if charting its course - and set off for an adventure of its own.

Will it reach Scotland? Together, let's wait and see.

And upon reflection, I think it reveals even more?

More to follow.

Please link to my short YouTube video from Pennant Point, June 2010

Please link to I Give the Boat a Toss (17)

Special Note - The S.S. Silver Walnut was found by a man walking his dog on the western shore of Pennant Point the day after I tossed it into the Atlantic Ocean. He contacted me by phone and assured me he would give the boat to his cousin who fishes off George’s Bank near the edge of the Gulf Stream. I am certain the Walnut will enjoy many more adventures.

Photos and Video by GH

I Give the Boat a Toss (17)

The Long and Short Of It

5. I Give the Boat a Toss

“No one will ever know.”

I'm not sure, but that statement might be the stupidest I've ever made. Surely I have never felt as hot and damp and discouraged and dejected as at that moment - at “the end of the deadest of dead ends in a thick part of a woods near Pennant Point, close to the Atlantic Ocean” - and if there'd been a prize awarded that day for the saddest of sad sacks lost in the woods I would have won. And, quite honestly, the day had not started out badly at all.

Just a few hours earlier I’d packed the boat upon my bike and it had only weighed about 20 pounds. Because it had been a cool morning I dressed warmly for the ride to the Atlantic Coast. I exitted Halifax without a hitch (a busy and confusing traffic circle at Quinpool Street could have caused a major delay) and enjoyed pleasant scenery along the way.

Closer to my goal, however, I needed help with directions, and asked a cashier at a variety store in Sambro the way to Pennant Point. I believe now she inadvertently gave me directions to West Pennant or Pennant Bay, and I got myself into a real mess and explored a few dirt roads that took me to dead ends and bits of shoreline that can only be recalled with the help of photographs.

Eventually, however, I found my way back to Sambro and discovered the road I needed to help me arrive safely - though much later than expected - at East Pennant and some walking trails to Pennant Point.

I parked the bike, stowed my motorcycle jacket, unpacked the boat and placed it in two or three sturdy plastic bags, added two books to the weight (they contained passages I would read once I reached my destination), listened attentively to a few tips from a hiker returning to his car and made my way to a trail that seemed to go in the right direction. I felt I was beginning the most important leg of my 2,300 kilometer-long journey and the promise to my father would soon be fulfilled. I just had to find a quiet, private spot on the Atlantic coast.

I soon learned that locating a private spot was easier said than done and the hiker I'd met back in the parking lot had forgotten to mention a couple of significant items. He didn't mention how popular Pennant Point was and that privacy along the shore was hard to find. I spotted people with fishing poles or cameras in hand, couples sharing blankets and some in tight embrace. He also forgot to tell me the clear trail ended at a rugged part of the coast and various poorly-managed trails led inland and would take hikers - new to the area, like me - off in all directions. I was soon thinking I'd picked the wrong place, or the right place on the wrong day, and I was soon making my way inland to escape the possibility of stumbling upon lovers' trysts.

I hiked slowly on rocky shores; "various poorly-managed trails led inland"

At about the same time the temperature seemed to reach the high 30s, the package I carried reached 100 pounds and the trail disappeared before my eyes. I stopped long enough to remove my sweater and wrap it around my waist but the heat only seemed to get worse. When I stumbled down a ledge and found myself in a dark corner with no path ahead - only more thick brush - I felt I'd reached the end of the line. And I made a stupid comment as I prepared to toss the boat into a dark corner where no one would find it.

“No one will ever know.”

How badly I must have wanted the day to end. A few seconds later, however, I knew how wrong my comment was. I shook my head. My father would know, and I would know and forever kick myself. But what could I do?

The answer came to me from the many lessons I’d learned while running 13 marathons during a past decade (my first was in Toronto in 1995; the last was in Boston in 2005). The marathon distance (26.2 miles or 42.2 kilometres) is daunting to say the least, and whenever I’d felt liking quitting and stepping off the course and disappearing into a crowd a few miles short of the goal (admittedly, those thoughts plagued me more than once), I would remind myself to take one more step, then one more, then one more, and in so doing start the slow march again toward the distant, but inevitable, finish line.

“Turn around. Take one step up that ledge,” I said. “Take one more step.”

Then I told myself to take three or four more steps. And I thought, look at that, you're out of the hole. You still have good legs. Come on, take three or four more steps. Good work, I said. One more short walk to that small trail ahead. The ocean is likely beyond that ridge there. Go take one last look for a quiet spot. You’re almost at the finish line.

I ultimately arrived at a high point of land within fairly easy reach of the shore and after climbing down a few rocky ledges I found, what I call today, my spot. A refreshing breeze from the Atlantic revived me. I’d made it - with dad's boat, some lines to read from a book, and some fresh wild flowers in my free hand.

The next hour is a blur. With the sound of waves splashing at my feet I read a few words I knew my dad would have appreciated. I planted one foot into a wide crack so I wouldn't fall into the ocean (the heavy motorcycle boots came in handy after all) and swung dad's boat back and forth. Then I gave her a darn good toss.

I've crossed a lot of finish lines in my life. None felt better than that mighty toss, let me tell you.

"I gave her a darn good toss"

More to follow.

Link to And What Will the Morrow Bring? (16)

Photos from June, 2010 by GH