Going swimming in your snowmobile suit

And I’m not talking ice-fishing here; I’m talking let’s hitch up the boat and get out on Georgian Bay! I’m sitting in my car by the boat launch in Wiarton, just a couple blocks from the hospital that provided me such a hospitable (!) stay a month ago. It’s a bright sun-drenched morning with a brisk breeze blowing straight up Colpoy’s Bay out of the North-East. It’s gotta be friggin’ cold out there! According to Environment Canada the air temp last night was 4 C, and the water temp was 3. That’s a scant two degrees above ice forming on the surface. There’s a medium chop and the waves are at a half-metre. Nobody in their right mind goes out on a day like this. Of course, anyone who knows “serious” fishermen, or “fishers” if we must, will know that serious fishermen are by definition not in their right minds, and as if to prove my point, at that very moment a small aluminum boat comes bobbing around the end of the breakwater, heading for the boat launch. I can’t be sure, but it looks like Billy-Bob from Desboro, his brother Darrell, and his other brother Darrell, and get this; the three of them are bundled up in snowmobile suits! At least they’re getting more than three weeks use out of their winter gear! I wouldn’t want to vouch for the buoyancy of a water-logged snowmobile suit in a worst-case scenario, but hey, maybe these lads are really strong swimmers. Just as a point of interest, I’m a mere two kilometres from the Wiarton International Airport. This must be one of Canada’s smallest international airports, but I did some digging, and they are an official entry point to Canada. As far as I know, never in its history has Wiarton ever hosted any regular scheduled foreign flights. The Canadian Border Services personnel posted here must have one of the sweetest gigs in all the land. Bet they have lots of free time for fishing! I like to come here to contemplate the sorry state of our world. It’s impossible to follow current events without getting mired in grim foreboding. Maybe that new Pope can bring some hope? He’s from Chicago, after all! Just like Barry O, another purveyor of empty hopes. Then again, Rahm Emanuel, Richard Daley, and Al Capone were from Chicago too… The Trump Circus, meanwhile, has become a full-blown three-ring international extravaganza. Mafia Don has thus far failed to end the war in Ukraine or the genocide in Gaza, but did manage to stop a Pakistan-India war nobody even saw coming. I’m guessing that’s relatively easy because Pakistan is effectively a US dependency, whereas both Israel and Ukraine have proven far less dependent than many assumed. If there is any hope at all for the Palestinians in Gaza it lies in the fraying of the Israel-USA relationship. Polling shows a majority of the American public across both parties now disapprove of Israel’s policies of ethnic cleansing and mass murder. Prominent Republicans as well as some Dems are balking at criminalizing criticism of Israel. If polling trends continue, there’ll be a stampede of congress-critters abandoning the Chosen People as midterms get closer. The arc of history may not be bending towards justice quite yet, but I detect a shift in the wind. Meanwhile back in my world, I’m focused on recovering some of the strength I’ve lost to CHF. I’ve got a two km track laid out- the first km on the flat, the second up the Burgess Sideroad hill. First timed it at 45 minutes a couple days after I was discharged. As a reference point, that used to be my time for a a 5 km walk. Anyway, I’m doing it in 20-25 minutes now, so obviously some recovery is possible. When there’s not a whole lotta hope, hold tight to what you can find.

The bong people

The Holy Father passed to his reward on Easter Monday. Of course he did! Funny how his health management, or should I say, death management team, managed to make his demise rhyme like that. The only possible dates more apropos for the death of a pontiff are Good Friday and Easter Sunday. A week before, on what is known in households more pious than mine as Holy Monday, my earthly father went to his reward. He was a modest enough man and made no claims to holiness. In fact, he would have seen his demise on Holy Monday as a happy accident rather than pre-ordained. It was only a week before that a keen young doctor had informed me, after a brief hospital stay, that I was fast in the grip of congestive heart failure, or CHF as the acronym-happy medical profession shorthands it. That’s something I’d normally consider a newsworthy development, but under the circumstances I decided to keep it under my hat for the time being. Dad only gets to die once, and I don’t want to steal his thunder. So, the Pope’s a goner, Dad’s a goner, but, at least for now, I’ve got a life to live and many medical appointments to attend. In fact, I had one in Guelph the day after Dad’s funeral. Decided to get a room and stay over instead of making the five hour round trip afresh the next day. Set up camp at the Super Eight out on Woodlawn. It’s right next to the former Holiday Inn Express. I say “former” because during the Covid times the city leased the property and turned it into a homeless shelter. I shit you not! Homeless in Guelph? Y’all come on down to the Holiday Inn and take a load off, courtesy of the Guelph taxpayer! Stay as long as you like! That boondoggle must be over, because they’ve tidied up around the joint and it sports new Hilton badging. Jeez, you just wanna hope they had the fumigators cranked to eleven! But what a beautiful Easter story… death and resurrection! But I digress. At the edge of the parking lot Super Eight’s got a couple picnic tables and a gas BBQ under an enclosure, with a sign; Designated Smoking Area. Don’t let anybody tell you Super Eight has no amenities! I had a good view of the set-up from my room, and it appeared many of the clientele took the sign literally. Nevermind an old codger guiltily pulling on a ciggy, or perhaps even a joint - this crowd brought out the neon-coloured two-foot-tall glass bongs! Oh, well, live and let live, I always say. Next morning, long before anything is astir, I’m the old codger guiltily puffing on a smoke at the picnic table. Somewhere a door slams. There’s three pre-teen girls heading my way, wearing pajamas and carrying a Walmart bag. I quickly stub the smoke because I’m acutely aware I’m setting a bad example. They sit down across from me and pull out a two-foot-tall neon orange bong out of the Walmart bag. Holy shit! Now I’ve seen everything! At some level you want to scream, where are the friggin’ parents, but you know it’s way too late for that. What I learned at my medical appointment was I have two options. One. Put my feet up, fire up a bong, and wait for CHF to carry me to a better place. Two. Put my feet on the ground and lace up the walking shoes. Between diet and exercise I’ll get another ten-fifteen years out of this mortal coil…Or die trying!