Memorial Speech for Mother

Hello, my name is Brian. Pauline is my mother. She always will be.

As a remembrance, I'd like to thank her for some of the things she gave me.

First ...  how to giggle. I have giggled more in my life with my mother than with any other human being. We'd be in "gut-wrenching" stitches over some of the most trivial things. I remember at one time setting up a camera to take our picture together. The camera was in place and the timer was set to trigger the shutter. The picture was going to be perfect. I was to run in and take my place beside her, and smile. We were the only ones on the beach and the setting was so picturesque.

I pushed the shutter, then ran to get in the picture before it triggered. As I got beside her, I slipped and bumped her, almost pushing her over. Well ...  all of a sudden she started to giggle. I didn't know why, 

I didn't think anything was funny. Perhaps it was my seriousness she found so funny. Somehow her giggle got to me and we laughed and laughed and we couldn't stop. We were in stitches and it continued long after the picture snapped. Each was spurring the other on, and we must have laughed for fifteen minutes: You know, those giggles you just can't get out of.

She was a very, very funny lady.

She taught me to be silly. Silliness is one of the most wonderfully insane ways of sustaining your sanity.

She sang us songs: Songs like "Three old ladies locked in a lavatory," and "There was an old farmer had an old sow," which she sang in a Devonshire accent. She was born and brought up in Devon, you know.

She taught me many life sustaining things, like the fight to find culture in everything. She introduced me to the arts, the symphony, the opera, painting and the theatre. And we went sailing. We went to museums, art galleries, castles, countrysides and we crossed the ocean. She even sent me on a school trip to Switzerland when she couldn't afford it.

When I was a teenager she sat me down and pointed the finger at me.
"I'm worried about you, what are you going to do with your life?" she said.
I was a dreamer. I wanted to see the world, maybe be a beach bum. I never really wanted to work.
I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know," I said.

She then said one of the most important things a parent can say to a kid.
"What do you like doing?"
I knew this was an important question. I needed to find an important answer. I finally said,

"I kinda like taking pictures."

She helped me to get my first job in photography, which led to a lifetime career as a photographer, a cinematographer and a film maker.

I did travel the world but I never became a beach bum; the work's too hard.

I have been at one with the arts and creativity all my life, thanks to my mother's push and inspiration.

People wanting a tickle might think of entertainers, but Mum could make us laugh, and she tried to entertain us throughout her life. And that smile: Oh that smile that was so infectious.

When she was lying in her hospital bed, very ill after a stroke, and was very slow to respond, I leaned in and whispered to her,
"Why did the chicken cross the road?"
With out a hesitation came the response,
"To get to the other side."

She never lost it.

I have a quote by George Bernard Shaw, who said:

"Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh."

Thank you Mum.
Keep em laughing

Fingal's Cave

From a very young age the music of Felix Mendelssohn's Hebrides Overture (Fingal's Cave) has haunted me, mainly because of my love for the sea. I was born by the sea, lived by the sea and I love the sounds, smells and the sights of the undulating rhythms and the unrestricted wildness of the ocean. Just sitting and watching huge waves crash onto rocks fills me with euphoria: Truly a magnificent part of nature to be unquestionably respected.

Mendelssohn's music can paint a picture of the emotion itself. Within the music, one can hear the rolling ocean, white caps on the waves and breakers crashing onto cliffs and rocks. One also gets a sense of the majesty and grandeur of a great cave filled with strange rocks, like organ pipes pointing to heaven. Composer Johannes Brahams said of the music, "I would sacrifice all my works to have been able to compose an overture like it."

Many years ago, when planning a trip to Scotland, I was excited by the idea of taking a trip to the site of Mendelssohn's inspiration for the Fingal's Cave Overture.

The cave is situated on the small island of Staffa, near Mull in the Western Isles of Scotland. The name commemorates the third century Irish hero Fionn MacCoul who had his headquarters on Staffa and supposedly defended the Hebrides against pirate attacks.

My traveling companion hadn't visited Britain before, and Scotland was her introduction. Happily, she also loved Mendelssohn's music, for the Western Isles in rough weather can be quite a miserable experience. One needs a purpose to be there.

The ferry to the island of Mull departed Oban in the West Highlands at 8.00am. Loaded with mail, fresh supplies, locals going home and visitors like ourselves on the last guided "Three Island Trip" of the season to Mull, Iona and Staffa.

As the ferry boat motored out of Oban Harbour in the cool morning mist, the sea breeze and salt air was fresh on our faces. Out past the breakwater and the ever-flashing lighthouse we steamed, the strange sight of a Parthenon (McCraig's Tower) looking down on us from high on the hill over Oban, sitting like a crown on the head of an ancient Scottish King.

After a 45-minute crossing to the Island of Mull, the ship's bow broke the calm waters of the Firth of Lorn, an inlet off the fierce North Atlantic ocean. The weather was fine, but the forecast was not.

From high a rocky outcrop and dominating the barren landscape, Duart Castle kept guard on the approach to Mull as we sailed through the misty rain. Many battles were fought here, as with all the castles in Scotland. This day the cannons were silent.

As we landed at Craignure, a strange mixture of Scottish and Scandinavian accents filled the air as we waited for our bus for the drive over the moors to the far western shore of Mull. A retired group of blond and white-haired Swedes were here; not to rape, pillage and settle these shores, as their ancestors the Vikings had done. Today, I presumed, they were here as music lovers.

The bus bumped and weaved across the cold, wet, barren moors picking up the odd resident or two and dropping them off a couple miles later, then picking up some more.

The steady rain blended with the scenery and a raw atmosphere of foreboding clawed the mountain tops. This was definitely the place where ghost stories originate, where large crags protrude from massive bald highlands that tower high into the enveloping low clouds. My imagination could see visions of Highlanders charging through the valleys dressed in their kilts, waving sabers to ward off the encroaching enemy.

At Fionnphort, we jumped aboard the M.V. Laird of Staffa for our nautical journey out to Fingal's Cave. Putt...putt...putt. It was an older motor boat struggling under the helm of a young, but experienced Captain navigating the protected passage between the islands of Mull and Iona. To our left lay the famous Iona burial ground of 65 Kings of Scotland and Norway, including William Shakespeare's characters, Macbeth and Duncan.

The ocean was noticeably rougher out past the shelter of the islands as the tiny vessel heaved as graceful as a horse in slow motion. It was full of tourists, about twenty five, including the group from Sweden and a couple of young men who were seated at the stern. They, too, must have been music lovers because I heard one turn to the other and say, "I wonder if they'll play the tune when we get there?"

The rain held, but not for long. Staffa was a 45-minute journey, and we rode up and down and over the sea like a cork. In the distance we could barely make out the dark shape of the island. It got colder and more blustery and the sea's swells were getting larger; the wind strengthened and the rain returned.

Somehow the music was there with me. I knew the piece so well. Of course Mendelssohn had been inspired by the same kind of weather. You could hear it in the music, and it kept playing over and over again in my head. Then the cave loomed ahead and I could see the waves building up from the west and heading for the Island to crash onto the rocks as breakers. 

The Captain's voice came over the small speaker telling us that it would be too dangerous to land everyone at the cave today; the seas were rough and people could be swept away by rogue waves. He had thought of landing at an other part of the island, but decided not to as the weather was getting worse; the tide was rising and the sea was getting rougher. This was the scene that the music portrayed so perfectly.

There it was looming over us, the open mouth of a large, cavernous shape carved by earth's upheaval and centuries of heavy pounding by the Atlantic Ocean. The island of Staffa is made of basaltic columns caused by the steady cooling of lava as it came into contact with the cold bedrock. As we studied nature's rugged work, we were being bounced. The waves would roll under the boat, lifting us high, then continue and break on the nearby rock columns with an energy of magnificent proportions.

(Fingal's Cave, Island of Staffa  by Thomas Moran)

The Gaelic name for the cave is An Uamh Binn, "The Melodious Cave:" Particularly appropriate on hearing the thunderous sounds emanating from the cave's mouth, as the water hit the inside walls.

Mendelssohn's music described this agitated place perfectly. In fact, when the twenty-year-old composer visited the cave in 1829, he became quite sea sick. Not a healthy experience, but one to make a lasting impression.

Our Captain decided for the safety of everyone, to turn the boat around and head back to the sheltered passageway between Mull and Iona.

Now we were heading into the wind; the spray was worse than a heavy rain storm, as the small boat rode the large waves. All were huddled in the bottom of the boat. Many were sick and all were quiet as the journey back took twice as long as the passage out.

I kept looking behind at the cave and the lonely island. "The Lonely Island" was Mendelssohn's first title for his music, but what caught my eye were the two young men sitting at the stern of the boat, getting the full force of the wind and salt water in their faces. They were reveling in the experience.

My companion and I felt a little sick and were soaked to the skin, but this was truly living the experience. Now, every time I listen to Mendelssohn's overture, I re-live the thrilling experience. A moment I'll never forgotten.

Art is the great connector. We, as individuals, are moved by the creative spirit. Creativity is something we are all born with and it makes us find life in a most profound way. Whether we inspire others through something we have created; art, music, painting, theatre, or one of the other great mediums, or we are inspired by someone else's creation, art gives us a new way of looking at life. In art and creativity we find the experience of being alive.

Edited parts of this essay were originally published in The Toronto Star travel section - 1987



QUOTES:
"In order to make you understand how extraordinarily The Hebrides affected me, I send you the following, which came into my head there."
- Felix Mendelssohn

(From a 1829 letter to his sister Fanny, in which he included a musical sketch of the opening notes of The Hebrides)


"Many composers, before and since, have used music to depict the physical world, but in Fingal's Cave, Mendelssohn set an example that has never been equaled."
- Geoff Kuenning

"Though everything else may appear shallow and repulsive, even the smallest task in music is so absorbing, and carries us so far away from town, country, earth, and all worldly things, that it is truly a blessed gift of God."
- Felix Mendelssohn

"Without music life would be a mistake."
- Friedrich Nietzsche

"Music is the mediator between the spiritual and the sensual life."
- Ludwig van Beethoven




This is my favorite rendition of this wonderful piece of music.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=zcogD-hHEYs


"Moods of the Sea" -1941
A cinematic tone poem of seascape set to the music of Mendelsshon's Hebrides Overture 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlbAoGSslAQ


Three Island Tour: Mull, Iona, Staffa
http://www.staffatours.com/

Disco Pacific

Ever hear of an "Earworm?"

The Wikipedia Encyclopedia describes earworm as "a piece of music that sticks in one's mind so that one seems to hear it, even when it's not being played." It's a haunting melody, a hard to shake tune, something you just can't get out of your head. Well, this is the story of one such earworm, or an album of earworms, which caught the world by storm.

It was March 1978, the movie "Saturday Night Fever" had been released a few months earlier, and flying at thirty-nine thousand feet, high above the clouds en-route to Tahiti, my headphones were rolling to the sounds of "Night Fever" by the Bee Gees. Once more the disco era, the beat, the dancing, the melodies had taken the world by storm. Songs from the new movie were being played almost everywhere in the world and this became the soundtrack for my South Pacific jaunt. 

I was on route to an assignment in the Solomon Islands to meet up with a crew to film a documentary for the CBC. Back at home-base, in the bureaucratic offices of the Corporation, the accountants were being insistent that I use up my stacked vacation days or they would pay me for them. I'd rather have the days off, so I asked to take a week off in Tahiti en route to the assignment. Of course, the women in the office, who themselves couldn't stop listening to the music of "Saturday Night Fever," were immediately jealous.

After landing at Papeete, the capital of Tahiti, and walking through the airport, the earworm was in full swing as I was drawn to the taxi driver who did the best marketing of all. He was swinging and singing along to "Stayin' Alive" by the Bee Gees. Then, his soul was on display as we drove along Papeete's picturesque waterfront, looking across at the island of Moorea. With "Boogie Shoes" by K.C. and the Sunshine Band blaring, my cab dodged road obstacles of cycles, dogs, tourists and buses. This was hectic.

Three songs had played before we pulled up to the mid-range hotel where we were met by the bellman who danced toward us singing "Disco Inferno" by the Tramps. This was my introduction to the South Pacific, and so far the trip reminded me of a musical. No, not the popular Rogers and Hammerstein musical, "South Pacific," which was set in this wonderful place; but this new, crazy dance scene.

The movie soundtrack was a compilation of old and new (1977) Bee Gees songs mingled with a few other danceable tunes from groups like The Tramps, Tavares, M.F.S.B. and K.C. and the Sunshine Band. Each group made a lot of money and sold endless tickets for what was, in this viewer's opinion, a very mediocre film. But the album became the most successful soundtrack of all time.

The next day a sign caught my eye. I had been whistling my way down a main street to the tune of the Bee Gees song "More than a Woman," emanating from a local breakfast joint, when I was stopped in my tracks. The Club Med on Bora Bora was having a three-day special. Flight, hotel and all meals, including dancing. I was on the next plane.

It was a spectacular flight along the French Polynesian string of mountainous islands rising up from the dark Pacific, surrounded by turquoise atolls, warm lagoons and white sandy beaches. This was paradise. So, too, was the Bora Bora airport, sitting on the outer reef. I climbed down from the small inter-island plane and my jaw dropped at the sight of the pure-white sand and the turquoise lagoon stretching toward the island mountain. Could there be a better place on earth? Beside me stood a young woman, also heading for Club Med, who had just taken off her head phones to gaze. The sound coming from those mini speakers was "Jive Talkin'" by the Bee Gees. Somehow I wanted to hear the old classic "Sleepy Lagoon." But that wasn't of the day.

The earworms of BeeGees and the other artists songs on "Saturday Night Fever" were everywhere, and when not being listened to, they were swirling around in the heads of almost everyone I met. I could tell by the smiles and the internal beat that everyone seemed to have. 

A speedboat ride to the island, and we were met by a Club Med mini-bus playing "Night on Disco Mountain" by David Shire on the van tape deck. Even an island at the far reaches of the world was connected to the latest culture.

My room was a grass hut and one of many built on stilts out onto the lagoon. This I had to share with another male traveler, as the rooms were only twin accommodation. My room mate was from Fresno, California, and he liked Disco; especially, the Bee Gees. 

"Saturday Night Fever" disco ruled everywhere Club Med went, from the white-sand, coco-loco picnics to dance floor crazies. But the most memorable use of this music was as background to crab races. A long box was placed on the dance floor with six individual, separate runs numbered one to six, and each had arrows pointing 'this way.' All this so Club Medders could bet on which crab finished the race first. 

To the music of "Disco Inferno" and narrated by French Club Med organizers, six large crabs, each with numbers taped on their backs, were placed in the tracks and expected to race to the finish. Crabs walk sideways, but I wasn't so sure the Club Med people knew that. Some crabs seem to know what to do, while others were placed in the wrong way and, of course, they ran backwards. They were quickly turned around to run, or saunter, to the finish line. Some crabs climbed into the next run so there were two crabs competing. Thank goodness the songs lasted as the races were quite slow and "Disco Inferno" didn't hurry them up one bit. The dance floor was then cleared and the disco was in full swing with people jumping and bumping to the music from "Saturday Night Fever," repeated over and over again. Far from the idyllic and serene paradise lagoon resort during the day, the location became a totally vibrant, rockin' world at night.

That was the year I discoed around the South Pacific. Somehow it got into my soul. I'll always remember those white, sandy beaches, turquoise lagoons, and disco crab races. When I eventually met the film crew in the Solomon Islands the next week, it seemed that they, too, were spinning to "Saturday Night Fever," as every now and again someone would blurt out "burn baby burn" or "oh oh oh oh stayin' alive, stayin' alive." It was so unnatural, but somehow it all seemed natural.

And today? Yes, those great Bee Gee classics still surface in my head from time to time to give me a spin, a shuffle and a hand in the air, disco style. Earworm indeed.

Note: 

Recently the Club Med property on Bora Bora was for sale. It sold for 10 million dollars. If only I had known. If I only had 10 million dollars to spare. For this is probably the most beautiful place on the planet, earworms or not.

QUOTES:
"Our happiest moments as tourists always seem to come when we stumble upon one thing while in pursuit of something else."
- Lawrence Block

"I never really did any disco dancing." 

- Barry Gibb

"A ticket to Tahiti please." 

- my mother

"Like all great travelers, I have seen more than I remember, and I remember more than I have seen."

- Benjamin Disraeli

"It's one of the most beautiful places on Earth."

- Clive Palmer - Australian billionaire businessman who recently bought the property that used to be the Club Med on Bora Bora.

End of the World - 2012

It seemed like a good time to buy my yearly diary for 2013. But, I did ask the sales clerk if I could receive a refund if the world ended on December 21st, as the Mayan calendar has predicted. He laughed and told me that if he was able he would, indeed, give me a refund.

The Mayan calendar ends on December 21st, 2012. That's soon. Is there any sign of a catastrophic, world-ending event about to happen? It's not that I'm making fun of what could be a disaster for all: I just can't see how anyone, let alone the ending of an ancient calendar, can predict a certain day for it to happen. There could be an unusual Earth movement, a major earthquake, a storm, a volcano or a tsunami. But some recent predictions include an asteroid hitting the earth with such great force that destruction would be worldwide. There isn't one in sight.

Perhaps another planet will nudge Earth as the magnetic forces of the universe come into alignment at this time. Then again, it could be the recently predicted earth's magnetic pole shifting. Imagine the earth's magnetic, gravitational pull, sliding to another side of the globe from the North Pole. If the skin of the Earth shifted, it would tilt the planet in another direction and hurtle all of us out into space, which is quite possible. That would be a big one and wipe us all out. But it may not last one day. It could take a week, a month or more. And, if we were involved in a real earth shift, would we really have the time or the interest to consult our calendars?

Another predicted reason for the Mayan calendar ending in 2012, is that the gods are supposed to return to Earth. These are extra terrestrials, men (and women) I presume, in space suits who fly down from another, far-advanced planetary civilization to implant us with new knowledge.

As we know, the Earth is not totally perfect for human life. Ninety-nine percent of all the species that have ever lived are now extinct. Most of the people who have ever lived are now dead and gone. We could be swallowed up by a nasty animal, drown in a rushing river, burn in a raging fire, be poisoned by bad food, succumb to the plague, be crushed by a crumbling mountain, fall off a bicycle or many other strange, and not too happy, accidents. In the long run, we are not safe. There are so many things we must be on guard against. Yet, some of us live to be a hundred years old. However, the Earth, the planet will survive a lot longer than us.

The Mayan calendar is a man-made measurement of time. While most calendars go from year to year in a never ending cycle, this one continued for hundreds or thousands of years only to stop this month. But the Mayan's never predicted a doomsday to follow. So why does it's demise need to be regarded as something sinister?

On mass, we are thinking, feeling, emotive and worry-hungry beings and every scary idea that permeates throughout humanity frightens us silly. We stew over things that may or may not happen in our future or our lifetime. Perhaps we should be more concerned about fixing something really scary that we could fix, i.e. global warming (a REAL pending major disaster), pollution, crime, ignorance, corrupt politics, peace, personal happiness. But these great personal and societal concerns continue to elude us and our societies. We live with our heads in the sand about the obvious problems and worry about everything else.

The bright light of universal energy shines through each of us. We are of this universe. We are made from the same atoms that created everything. So if we explode in a great ball of destruction it would be natural. We will be returning from whence we came, and, as many believe, to perhaps rise again in another moment of time. Life is circular, born - die - born, transcend.

The solution to the end of the Mayan calendar is to welcome the new dawn and to find happiness every day there after. It could be a new beginning, so keep loving, creating, smiling, dancing and singing along with the stream of life and consciousness we all love so dearly. Think yourself lucky you've been given this wonderful moment to participate. You showed up. Now, truly live.

And while you're at it, try to fix the world. Please.

Perhaps I'll hang on to that new diary, at least until 2014 rolls around.


QUOTE
From Monte Python's Eric Idle:

"Whenever life gets you down Mrs. Brown and things seem hard or tough
and people are stupid, obnoxious or daft and you feel that you've had quite enough.

Just remember that you're standing on a planet that's evolving

and revolving at nine hundred miles an hour,

That's orbiting at nineteen miles a second, so it's reckoned,

a sun that is the source of all our power.

The sun and you and me and all the stars that we can see

are moving at a million miles a day.

In an outer spiral arm, at forty thousand miles an hour,

of the galaxy we call the milky way.

Our galaxy itself contains a hundred billion stars

It's a hundred thousand light years side to side

It bulges in the middle, sixteen thousand light year's thick

but out by us, it's just three thousand light year's wide.

We're thirty thousand light years from galactic central point

we go 'round every two hundred million years

and our galaxy is only one of million of billions

in this amazing and expanding universe.

The universe itself keeps on expanding and expanding

in all of the directions it can whizz

as fast as it can go, at the speed of light, you know

Twelve million miles a minute, and that's the fastest speed there is.

So remember when you're feeling very small and insecure,

How amazingly unlikely is your birth

and pray that there's intelligent life somewhere up in space

'Cause there's bugger all down here on Earth."

Autumn Sky - Poem

AUTUMN SKY

Off the tip of the highest oak 

far away from us city folk

the little leaf begins to fly

falling, falling from the sky

that cloud filled Autumn sky

Blown by the restless breeze

over and through the forest trees

around and across the hard woods bare

the soaring leaf travels who-knows-where ...  without a care

falling, falling from the sky

that cloud filled Autumn sky

Fly, fly, where does it dare

across the fields harvested bare

along the meadow’s hedgerow there

and up into the Autumn sky

that cloud filled Autumn sky

Up, fly up, fly up again

around the trees and swooping low

across the pumpkin fields it blows

through the weathered village fair

down the gushing streams with care

falling, falling from the sky

that cloud filled Autumn sky

And up again and down to rest

upon a farmer who laughs in jest

a gust sweeps by and again it blows

along stone fences built so low

until the final journey slows ... and stops

The little leaf rests, no more gusts

until the snow lays deep and crush

and blankets it till spring’s wet slush

to turn it into ground and mush

to help a new oak find it’s lie

and aim up to the fresh spring sky

to grow a leaf and reach so high

with life’s true colours of green then red, oh my

When seasons turn in nature’s wise

Autumn tells the leaf “let go and fly,

begin your  journey before you die.”

So the leaf begins to fly

into the windy, cool, fall sky.

That cloud filled Autumn sky

Copyright © 2000 Brian R. R. Hebb

Photo Credit

http://www.photographyblogger.net/16-awesome-autumn-leaf-pictures/

Farewell Bounty

This week, I was devastated to hear of the sinking of HMS Bounty by Hurricane Sandy. The lure of this ship and her story grabbed my imagination when I was a lad, and in some ways, it became a metaphor for the way I learned life.

In 1963, I was living in England, when, following a family separation of many years, I was invited to visit with my grandparents in Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Meeting grandparents and other family members, cousins, uncles, aunts, great aunts, great uncles and distant relatives was thrilling, but so to was Lunenburg. I was born and brought up by the sea both in Canada and in England. Sea fishing and tide pools were my muse. In Devon, where I lived, people told tales of smugglers and pirates and their exploits, and Treasure Island was one of the first books I read. I loved adventures of the sea. To have the opportunity to wander the docks of Lunenburg, where the sea was a way of life, was an adventure. I was 14 and that summer became a life changer.

Lunenburg was a bustling community of fisherman and ship building, and most made their living from the sea. The harbour was fascinating and each day I explored the wharfs and shipyards where the overwhelming smell of freshly caught fish, being unloaded from the deep sea trawlers, permeated the lower levels of the hilly Atlantic town. At the end of a string of brightly coloured boathouses and docks was the Smith and Rhuland boat yard. Here, weathered and hardened, boat-building craftsmen were carving and molding the finishing touches to the Bluenose II, a replica of the famous Canadian racing schooner that was sunk off Haiti in 1946.

That July, I watched the long, sleek, black hull of the Bluenose II slip out of the boat shed, down the slipway and into the harbour with a shared splash of excitement for all Canadians. My grandfather had another opinion. He felt the Bluenose had been taken over by commercial interests, namely, a beer commercial for Schooner Beer. So he'd lost interest in the rebuilding and he didn't attend the launch. However, his excitement surfaced when he talked about being at the same boat slip, a year earlier, for the launch of the Bounty.

I had never heard of the Bounty, so my grandfather sat me down and told me the story. In 1788, the British naval vessel HMS Bounty, under the Captaincy of Lieutenant William Bligh, was sent on a botanical mission to Tahiti in the South Pacific. They needed to transplant some small breadfruit trees to feed the population in the West Indies. While in Tahiti, the Bounty's mission needed to wait for a period while the breadfruit plants became safe to transport. It was a long wait. Meanwhile, the sailors made friends with Tahitian women. Some got married, some had families on the way. When it came time to return to their mission, they didn't want to leave. They were forced to leave, then there was a mutiny on board when the ship's master's mate Fletcher Christian had a fierce argument with Captain Bligh about crew discipline. Bligh was set adrift in the ship's launch and Christian and the mutineers set sail back to Tahiti and onward to live on Pitcairn Island. There, they set fire to the Bounty and couldn't leave the island.

                                           (My Grandfather at the Bounty's wheel 1962)

The replica of HMS Bounty was built in the Lunenburg ship yard for the MGM movie 'Mutiny on the Bounty' starring Marlon Brando. In some ways the ship revived the Lunenburg wooden boat building industry that had floundered since the days of the old fishing schooners; and it spurred on the careers of craftsmen, sailmakers, carpenters and shipyards. The Bounty was something special to Lunenburg. It showed the quality and the passion of shipbuilding of which this town was capable, and the town was plastered with proud photographs of the ship under full sail on her trial runs.

This youth's imagination was caught by the lure of adventure: Images of sailing the high seas to exotic places like the South Pacific aboard such a stunningly beautiful vessel. This was a dream. When I returned home to England, I read the three books written by Charles Nordoff and James Norman Hall: Mutiny on the Bounty, Men Against the Sea and Pitcairn Island. And when the movie came out, I think I was first in line on opening night. I was in awe of not only the story and the spectacular location of Tahiti, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the beautiful ship built in Lunenburg. I read books about the filming of the movie and learned that the Bounty was designed slightly larger than the original so they could use her as a sailing film studio. The film makers planned to burn the ship at the end of the film, as the mutineers had done. But, apparently, Marlon Brando stepped in and saved the ship.

We humans connect with certain interests. Sometimes we don't quite know where we are going with the odd ideas and thoughts that become planted in our heads. But the dots seem to connect later in life, when we realize something inspired us. Many are led to a career or a profession, others to a hobby or a passion. The story of "Mutiny on the Bounty" showed me the exotic, the beauty, the lush and the hardship of life at sea: The good, the evil that men do. The fate of the mutineers and the adventure opened my eyes to many twists and turns of our world. Bounty was no longer just a ship, it became a key to unlock many doors; doors of philosophy, of leadership and failure, hardship and triumph. I learned to question authority and think about consequences. And it was films like "Mutiny on the Bounty," with it's spectacular photography and scenery, and other epics like "Lawrence of Arabia" and "Doctor Zhivago" that brought the idea of being a photographer and cinematographer to my imagination. I went to photographic art school and later, after returning to live in Canada, I studied and apprenticed as a cinematographer at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.

One of my many international documentary assignments was to the South Pacific. I was to meet our filming crew in the Solomon Islands for a film about western influence in Melanesia. On route, I stopped off in Tahiti for a few days vacation. Tahiti was the first tropical island I had ever visited. Here, I learned more about the tropical paradise that enticed the mutineers from the Bounty and I visited Matavia Bay where the original HMS Bounty had anchored in 1788. Here, she waited for the breadfruit saplings to ripen before being transported to Jamaica. I also learned that Conrad Hall, the son of James Norman Hall, one of the authors of Mutiny on the Bounty, who lived in Tahiti, became an assistant cameraman on the Brando film, eventually becoming a cinematographer, like myself.

For me, the Bounty story became a metaphor. It sparked possibilities in me. It was a seed of inspiration from which to set sail on an adventurous life journey. It opened my thinking and my imaginings of what could be. What I found was an excitement of the exotic through travel, life styles, dreams, escapes. I began to realize that quality of life was built through experiences, sensuality, art, colour, creativity, knowledge. In turn, I could see life as a clear slate from which to truly live and dream. It was a vessel that set me on a curious, free-spirited navigation of life. For this, I will always be thankful.

This week, HMS Bounty's Captain was trying to sail around the worst Atlantic storm ever recorded. The ships engines were over powered and she took on too much water. The Captain called abandon ship, and they did. Two lives were lost, a great-great-great-great-great grand daughter of Fletcher Christian and the Captain, who was lost at sea. My heartfelt condolences to all.

October 29/ 2012, HMS Bounty sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. She was a beautiful piece of Hollywood magic. But, Hollywood and film sets are only illusions. Unfortunately, I never got to sail on the Bounty, and in someways, that is good. Better to leave her as a dream that helped open an awareness.

For all the great timbers and craftsmen of Lunenburg who built and sailed the Bounty, and to a distant relative named Charlie Hebb who made the original sails, I salute you.

My grandfather would be very sad.

Farewell Bounty.

(photo - HMS Bounty website)


QUOTES:

"Dreams are like stars... you may never touch them, but if you follow them they will lead you to your destiny."
- Lawrence Block

"I'm not afraid of storms, for I'm learning to sail my ship."
- Aeschylus

"The ultimate value of life depends upon awareness and the power of contemplation rather than upon mere survival."
- Aristotle

"Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering.
- Saint Augustine

"The key to growth is the introduction of higher dimensions of consciousness into our awareness."
- Lao Tzu

Protest

On Monday, I attended a 3500 strong "Defend Our Coast" protest at the British Columbia legislature in Victoria, protesting the Northern Gateway pipeline. This is a planned oil pipeline running from Edmonton and the Alberta oil sands, across the province of British Columbia to the extremely rocky, yet pristine central Pacific Coast. There, massive oil tankers will navigate up a long, narrow, treacherous fjord to load Alberta oil for delivery to China or other buyers.

If the pipeline didn't traverse the high mountains and lush valleys, a multitude of fresh rivers, the sacred native lands of our First Nations, and if the coastlines weren't so pristine and seismic, it might get the go-ahead. But then there is almost a two hundred mile fjord (Douglas Channel) filled with rocky islands where hugh and mighty oil tankers will need to navigate safely. And, if the company that is hoping to build the pipeline didn't have such a bad track record for pipeline bursts, leaks, clean-ups, terrible public relations and negotiating skills, people might not be so concerned. But, the hazards of the situation have multiplied in the minds of anyone who values the country and the environment, and an ever-increasing public awareness of the situation has created a large ground swell of indignation, leading to mass protests.

An oil spill in the rivers and streams that cross British Columbia will be devastating to this environment. An oil spill along the coast will be shockingly tragic. It will ruin one of the world's most treasured places. It will kill the abundant wealth of marine life, salmon and whales along the coast. It will spill an oil slick larger than the tragedy in Alaska when the Exon Valdez hit bottom. A spill along these shores will not be clean for decades.

At this protest, native bands sang and banged their drums, their leaders, environmentalists and Green Party politicians gave rousing speeches. Ordinary folk who wanted to stand for something were roused to the point of answering chants aimed at them. "Save our coast, save our forest," they chanted. At one point a native leader asked the crowd, "Are you willing to lay down in front of the bulldozers?" A resounding, "Yes," went up from the crowd. Just being there was invigorating.

At the end of many hours of speeches and threatening weather, it began to rain, and a long, black panel was rolled out across the green lawn of the legislature, signifying the length of an oil tanker.

I left the gathering early and was glad to have participated, but I wonder if civil protests like this get through to the politicians and corporations to which they are aimed? Unfortunately, our democratic system puts ultimate power into the hands of a majority government and a protest can do nothing but be a buzzing fly in the face of a government with an agenda. Until, that is, it gets so big that it influences major votes and ousts the government. One can only hope that the other political parties, which are waiting in the wings to be elected in the next vote, will be more respectful of the power of the people and empathize with the protest.

I am an environmentalist. I came to this conclusion when I was sent all round the world filming documentaries for the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. Some were for The Nature of Things with David Suzuki. I saw for myself how dirty and polluted the world has become. In comparison, Canada was a clean gem. But not any more. Are we total idiots? What philosophy is this, to totally degrade our oceans, air, land? Everything that keeps us alive on this Earth is getting polluted in one way or another. Everywhere in the world we, as a species, have degraded and destroyed life itself. We hunt wildlife and sea life to extinction. Species are dying out everywhere because of us.

We are the most advanced and richest generation in all of history. We have the means to not only live clean, think clean and be creative with new ways of doing something like a massive pipeline, but to clean up the messes we have created. Unfortunately, we are the ones who will pay the price, because the fragile eco-systems that keep us alive cannot sustain our degradation much longer. The planet will survive. It will rejuvenate itself in a few hundred/thousand years and become like new again. Meanwhile, we have killed ourselves. We have destroyed our history, our future, our children's future. We have foolishly committed mass suicide.

For what?

Controlled and monitored far-thinking progress is good and perhaps a pipeline is needed to get the product to market.  But diminutive and backward thinking that destroys everything along the path to financial success is not good. This is a badly conceived, planned and reckless pipeline that is being shoved down the necks of decent citizens who know that there is a better way. There is also a better way to run a country than to destroy the things it's citizens hold dear.

In my own small way I join the protest.



QUOTES:

"To sin by silence when they should protest makes cowards of men."
- Abraham Lincoln

"There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest."
- Elie Wiesel

"Where globalization means, as it often does, that the rich and powerful now have new means to further enrich and empower themselves at the cost of the poorer and weaker, we have a responsibility to protest in the name of universal freedom."
- Nelson Mandela

Last Camping of the Season

I awoke with a jump. Loud voices rudely sounded from the next pad as flashlight beams painted frantic patterns on our tent walls. The night before, the surrounding sites were empty. But, sometime in the night, the next door campers stealthily snuck in. Then, just before dawn, they retreated, way before the warden could ask for a park fee. Courtesy would have kept their chatter to a whisper, but their roar moved this sleeper to rise.

Sneaking out of the tent, I greeted the dawn with a yawn or two, and stillness. They were gone. I looked out at the morning star hanging over a glimmer of breaking light on the Gulf Islands. The Salish Sea was like glass. In the distance, to my right, I could see the bright lights of the Swartz Bay ferry dock readying the 6am departure. Soon, the low rumble of maritime life would motor past.

Outdoor life is fresh at this hour. Time to light the old Coleman stove for a brew. We rested in foldable chairs, slowly sipping our coffee, watching the day come alive, bundled for the cool. The photographic-like splendor spread before us like a spectacular wall hanging.

In the brightening twilight before the sunrise, I noticed a movement along the beach. Sea life; perhaps an otter, or maybe something larger? It was another camper, a young woman who had slipped out from her tent and down the embankment. She was sitting in front of a large driftwood log and looking around as if wanting to hide from others. There were no others. She was alone.

Her long black hair partially covered her simple beauty. Like a snake slithering from it's skin, she slowly peeled her sweater and skin tight leggings reveling a beauty of pure white, in stark contrast to her black skimpy panties. Again, she looked around to see if others had seen. We were far enough away and hidden by a large rock that she must not have noticed us. She quickly removed the remaining article of clothing from her most private parts then waded into the cold water, soon immersing her whole being under the surface.

"Skinning dipping." I whispered.
"Must be cold. Go get your binoculars." I was told.

She was out of the water drying herself when I returned. I sat down trying not to be noticed as I raised my spy glasses.

"Isn't this illegal?" I thought, as my conscience tweaked. But that didn't stop me from watching this mermaid, this water babe, so comfortable in her own skin that she probably didn't care if others noticed. Beautiful, sensual as a young fashion model out of makeup. The early morning light softened the glow. Was there really any other vision worth observing at that moment?

The bushes rustled behind her and she turned to see. It was another early riser walking down to the beach. She calmly re-clothed herself and continued to dry her hair. As gracefully as a ballet dancer, she moved into a yoga pose, then another and yet another, until she was truly stretched, and eventually she sat in the crossed-leg Buddha pose with her hands together for Namaste. She was on the shore of nature's realm. Alone in her universe.

We had been voyeurs enjoying this stranger's most private moment. If she knew, would she have minded? Would it have destroyed her revery knowing that she was creating joy in our simple observation? Everywhere life is theatre. Moments are caught in time by our curiosity. We build our own moments through our senses, feelings, meanings, memories. In this, to ultimately find beauty in someone else's special moment, it became ours.

Rising slowly, she took a deep breath, then climbed the embankment and returned to her tent.

The 6am ferry subtly tooted as it observed us waving it on it's journey to the mainland. Later that morning we had packed the tent and such for our ferry home from the last camping of the season.


Quotes:
"Women are most always observed when they seem themselves least to observe, or to lay out for observation."
Samuel Richardson

"Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Only when your consciousness is totally focused on the moment you are in can you receive whatever gift, lesson, or delight that moment has to offer."

Barbara De Angelis