Seems multi-tasking is not as useful a talent as I like to tell myself.

People often start multi-tasking because they believe it will help them get more done. Those gains never materialize; instead, efficiency is degraded. However, it provides emotional gratification as a side-effect. (Multi-tasking moves the pleasure of procrastination inside the period of work.) This side-effect is enough to keep people committed to multi-tasking despite worsening the very thing they set out to improve.

Why I Ask My Students To Put Away Their Laptops

If I had to describe my brother in one picture, this would be it. Talk about speaking a thousand words… Oh, and it’s important to know he’s at a sailing comp…
—Facebook, September 2014

There is so much ‘Dale’ in this picture I just had to reshare it on Facebook and then snag it and post it again here. And, as my comment above says, this image speaks volumes about the way I see my eldest brother. In it I see the middle-aged dude he is now and the stubborn teenager he was when we were mere kidlings. It is, at its core, an image of a well-lived life wrapped up in a couple of hundred-thousand pixels.

I love my brother. And you have to understand that intonation is everything with a sentence like that. It can be said in oh so many ways. Certainly in the traditional sense: he’s my brother; we’ve shared an entire world that is just ours and we’ve been there, no questions asked, when it counted. And of course there is the Hollies’ take on it: “He aint’ heavy, he’s my brother.” We all of us make up this world and we all, no matter our differences, owe each other a little love. I have also admired him for many, many years — in between the fits of eye-rolling and exasperation — for things that are very hard to explain if you can’t grasp the gestalt of what makes him him. And, of course, I love him because his is generally better (or worse) than anyone else’s brother depending on the goal of the conversation.

And that’s what makes this picture so damn perfect. Because you see, I do love my brother (so there, Mom): who he is is a source of amusement and wonder, chagrin and despair, horror and envy. He is a treasure trove of stories, a bank of bar tales and always good for the win in the ever-present one-upmanship contests of life. And just know he’s there is a source of stability and comfort. And this picture, taken on the shores of a mountain lake in early September, vividly encapsulates the person I see in my head when I think of Dale.

So let me break some of  it down, so you can start to parse the picture the way I do.

Dale is dishevelled. He has been since I can remember. While I tended to the self-conscious, fashionable following of trends and style, Dale is, was, and always will be, balls-out determined to be comfortable. Screw style and what the hell has grooming got to do with anything?

Dale is stubborn. All my best Dale stories are based on a stubbornness that precedes and transcends the mere fact that he happens to be in a wheelchair. Seriously. In any comparison, I will win every time. Stubborn.

Dale is singular in his focus. If sailing is on the schedule, then sailing is damn well on the schedule; snow is not relevant. Neither are any of the other considerations most of the rest of us use to  prevent ourselves from succeeding.

Dale is in a wheelchair. This is often more obvious to us as observers than it is to Dale.

Dale is generous, kind, giving, and a good soul. It might be a stretch to say this picture expresses that, but I can see it, and I’m guessing anyone that knows him can as well. But there wouldn’t be a Disabled Sailing Regatta without him so…

Dale like things simple. While most of us would be more interested in a warm, double mocha-frappa-chinno around the fire at the point the picture was taken, beer is simpler, readily available and the obvious choice. Of course if a good scotch was readily to hand, then…

Dale like to sail. Hobie cats, Martins, he’s on it… Newfoundland, Kananaskis… that’s what trains and trailers are for. Heat stroke, frostbite… meh, whatever.

Dale is a pain in the ass. He’s my brother; I get to say that. Look at him. He’s going to be wet, track snow all over the place, potentially freeze something, skid his damn wheel chair down a cliff and break yet another bone… But I am going to guess that at the moment this picture was taken (and frankly most moments in general) he doesn’t give a rat’s ass.

***

So much of it is wrapped around understanding of Dale-ness and intensity of Dale-nicity that is inexpressible without having experienced him and that’s what delights me about this picture. Truly I would need tens of thousands of words to express it.

Dale, if you ever read this, which I doubt you normally do but Mom may just make you: Cheers dude! Keep on, keeping on… I could never be you, but sometimes I might just wish I could.

 

So some months back Carmen said there was a duck living across the street in some boulevard shrubs. I scoffed. Then I went and looked and found an empty nest. So I told her there was a duck but it was gone.

Then she saw the duck again. So I looked. Now there was a duck in the nest.

Then I looked again and there was an empty nest with an egg or two in it.

Then there was a duck.

Then there was a nest with what looked like three eggs in it.

And then there was no duck.

And still no duck.

You have to understand, this was early June. Ducklings should have been hatched and gone. I figured it was a young mom and she’d given up. Carmen, on the other hand, had faith.

Then one day before we left to go sailing momma was discovered back on her nest. The next issue was that while they were a couple of hundred yards away from our not-yet-completed lake, it was highly likely, according to C’s research, that she would be heading for papa duck and Lake Beaumaris which was way down the block and across the busy 153 ave. C then determined to be there for the expedition to ensure no ducks were harmed.

So when we returned I asked and C said that as of 2 days earlier there had been a duck on a nest. I went and checked and there was no duck. There was, however, multiple shell fragments. I reported the happy news and it was hoped for that Momma and babies had managed to survive, but there was some scepticism and uncertainty.

So about a week after I got back C and I cruised by the edge of Beaumaris on the way to the Sobey’s and, as was our wont,  we stopped by to greet the local waterfowl. There were the usual bunch of ducks, now with their mostly feathered teenagers floating around and begging for bread, but there was this one family, Papa up on the hill, Mama at water’s edge, two tiny ducklings tucked in beneath and one brave baby out and about paddling for all it’s little yellow down was worth. So what are the odds that there would be a late family of exactly three ducks at our end of Beaumaris and them not being our ducks. It was decided that was definitely zero percent.

So, let me introduce to you, our first Greisbach duck family. Long may they paddle!

Someone’s going to Boston. If you want to learn more about all sorts of things bookish you should go to Boston too!

 

Well, it was finally doughnut day. After literally years of waiting the time was declared and the materials were gathered. It was Doughnut Day!

So what did we learn?

1. Convincing people to make doughnuts is hard work.
2. Waiting for doughnuts is hard work.
3. Making doughnuts is hard work.
4. Getting doughnuts just right is hard work.
5. Eating doughnuts is hard work.

Would I do it again? Huh, I don’t seem to be doing anything else right now so…

Arguing with a fool is two fools arguing.
— Doris M. Smith

Note: Doris is chiefly known for being the author of several crochet pattern books. I guess there are a lot of fools in the crochet circles.

The crossing was foggy. Slow-down-the-ferry, what f*ck was that, whose got the radar, foggy. But I saw a dolphin. Go figure.

We hung out with Stephen and Leslie’s parental units for a bit and got lost in a parking lot in the fog. You know those crazy weird parking lots some so-called architects are making that are senseless even in the light of day? Well, they are a hoot in a pea soup fog. If you aren’t familiar with the parking lot and you can’t see more than 20 feet except for glowing distant headlights, it’s better than Blind Man’s Bluff.

And guess what! We get to find the ferry this morning in the same stuff. If you don’t hear from me again…

Actually it’s much clearer this morning!

So it occurs to me seaplanes don’t fly in fog. So we checked. They don’t. That might make tomorrow’s return a bit interesting.

The ferry ride. Brings a new meaning to foggy. I really feel for the captain of this thing; he’s gonna be stressed by the end of his shift.

Met Tina Lynch at the ferry dock and did a whirlwind tour. Amazing, gorgeous, fantastic place. We almost talked ourselves into moving after I pick up the boat we bought yesterday… Oh. Wait…

I met Debbie Peterman! I met Debbie Peterman! But more on that later…

YVR. Vancouver. The L.A. of Canada. And this weekend, boat heaven. L and I are here for my Xmas gift redemption: checking out the 2014 Vancouver Boat Show at BC Place and, more importantly, Granville Island, home of the floating portion. Boats galore! I was expecting a dozen or so boats based on the website, but there must have been over 50. Cats, tugs, trawlers, cruisers, lots of sailboats and a few ostentatious floating palaces. Oh, and a whole lot of used car salesman types… it was grand.

We spent the whole day there checking out millions of dollars of boats Fromm a 57′ Hanse with more beam than my apartment to a 39 year old CHB trawler that was perfect for 2 friendly couples. I took exactly one picture. It was a 50 or 60 foot power cat that was a palace on floats. Owned by an Edmontonian it seemed. Blech.

The lovely man from Island Cruising tried to talk us into a 40′ Jeanneau and the nice man from Jeanneau tried to talk us out of buying all together. The charter guy said charter, the sales guys said never put a boat in charter and the Catalina guy ignored us. It was fun, fun, fun.

As the day wound down we headed back to BC Place for the static displays. We chatted with Shari and Ian from Nanaimo Yacht Charters, schmoozed the authors at the book display and popped in to Le Boat to talk Europe. And lo and behold, there was my all time favourite customer service person: Debbie Peterman. Ms. Peterman works for Le Boat out of Florida and has been my point of contact person for all our European canal boat trips. She has helped make each trip the perfect experiences they were. And I got to meet her!

The next morning we popped back in to tour around again. Talked to Dawn at Cooper boating about the Broughtons and Alaska at picked up some flyers from real estate agents.

It’s off to Nanaimo on the ferry now and part two of the lets-spend-some-money January tour.

So last night just before midnight a huge crash was heard. I didn’t think much except that maybe someone was dropping off a bin (at the construction site) and dropped it too fast. Then the yelling started.

I hopped up and looked out the window and there were a bunch of cars and a couple smashed into Mark’s (our neighbour) car. I immediately thought there had been an accident and that the yelling was the typical resulting violence. I grabbed some clothes and headed to the balcony. A woman with a gun on her hip was walking below me and the cars were all now sporting police cherries.

Turns out that a bunch of undercover cops were working some drug thing when some poor unfortunate schmuck of a would-be criminal chose that moment to rob the local Macs. Needless to say, a police chase ensued and the wicked ice in front of our house spelled doom for Mark’s poor car. The bad guy’s truck took out his rear end and part of our much abused light pole (2012), and one of the unmarked police suv’s finished off his front end.

Excitement indeed.