08 Aug Grand Central Station
Grand Central Station
It has been a whirlwind 11 days or so since I arrived back in civilization July 18th. Nothing however has seemed so out of place as this, the anchorage at Sidney Spit just a few miles North of Victoria and the first stop on my way back to Gabriola.
Wall to wall boats. And I took this picture before the crowds arrived in earnest, the jetski’s started up, and the baby started wailing on the catamaran that picked up the empty mooring buoy closest to me. Nothing like getting away from it all on a boat.
It was a shock seeing so many boats all going nowhere at the same time. In fact, its been a shock just beining on the boat and going nowhere. There is zero movement on board, it is deathly quiet at night save for the ticking of the ship’s clock, and no reason to get up every 95 minutes even though I still can’t sleep longer than 120 at a stretch.
And I have to say its all strangely anti-social. There are no dinghy loads of visitors or guests bombing around the ancorage visiting neighbours or making acquaintances. I hear the word bubble over and over again as if it is some kind of offensive weapon. I am certainly in one and I find it more isolating and lonely than any I experienced 1000’s of miles away from any of the boats that I could easily swim to now.
It is a strange new world indeed and I feel a bit like a small child, groping his way to the washroom after lights out in a seldom visited Aunt’s turn of the century musty Victorian three-story haunted house. You’ve been here before, it should all be old hat, but its not.
I smile and wave at the cat with the wailing baby. No response. I hold up a granola bar and try to somehow sign that I’ve got more than I can eat in a month and perhaps they could use a few just now. No response. I suppose they figure me for a lunatic and I beat a hasty retreat before they call the local gendarme that just so happens to be cruising the anchorage in a RIB.
Down below, I find myself smiling and face to face with Sir Salty who seems not to be bothered in the least by the racket next door. I smooth a whisker that seems to have a mind of its own and whisper to no one in particular “It’s good to be home.”
Follow my tracks in real-time: