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BEFORE DEPARTURE
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1
A QUEENāS DROWNING
Dear Editor, Sir1: It has almost been a year in our present house. More like a cottage, this charming āboathouseā sports many leaks, frozen pipes when temperatures drop, and is definitely not insulated. Our house is situated on a rocky knoll hanging out over full-grown spruce, cedar trees, and the ocean. When you look down from our deck, you see the shoreline. We have seen Risso dolphins, killer whales, gray whales, and countless birds through our windows. There is plenty of privacy considering how close we are to the ferry, although I often remind myself to close the curtains on dark early mornings when I get dressed in my room.
I think what makes this house unique is its close proximity to the ferry and the interesting relationship I have developed with its coming and going. I know the ferry schedule better than most on the island, and have spent many a night watching with wonder as the ferries pull in to dock.
Mornings are bright and early as I hear the intercom announcing the ferry arrival vibrating through my bedroom wall. The reefers hum, keeping me awake some nights; they remind me of the city sounds from my past life, a postal truck waiting in front of my house. I think of the excited sounds of people waiting for late night ferries, kids crying or laughing, dogs barking and occasional music rhythms, all drifting up to us.
Last week we returned from our March break ski trip to the mainland. We were excited to see friends and children who were busy running around reacquainting themselves. Idle chat among friends touched on strange topics relating to the ferry. How wonderful the Queen of the North ferry was when compared to our older Rupert ferry. One time the ferry slowed down and idled for a few minutes. We wondered, what might be wrong, were we going back? We chatted about how safe this ferry was.
This Monday morning, I awoke to the familiar sound of the arriving ferry and traffic moving off. I checked the time and noted that it was early; the ferry was on time and the weather good. Great I thought, we can grocery shop after school, by then food will be on the shelves. The next morning was the same.
I know the schedule so well, I set my daily activities by it, and get my weather forecast directly from looking out determining when the ferry will arrive. I even set my runs by it, heading out to Skidegate as the ferry blows its horn to announce departure. I have tried racing the ferry, me on land, and it out on the water. The ferry wins every time, but I continue to try and beat it.
Wednesday morning, I awoke to the sound of the phone ringing, it was my friend Pam whose calm but tight voice told me the Queen of the North sank last night. I could not believe it. I looked out my window, remembering the site only a day before: a clean white and blue smoke stack filling up my window view.
From this point on, our community went into a state of shock and disbelief. I was in town that morning, helping with my daughterās class trip and encountered so many staring faces looking into my eyes searching for some recognition and understanding of what has happened. We came together, people headed to town, simply to be with others, to look into their eyes and share. We are sharing the countless questions that are circling our minds. It could have been us last week, and all the children from March break.
Who was on it? Were they all rescued? What about my friends, Judy and James, and their children? They were supposed to be returning by ferry from Port Hardy any day now. Why were there only two lifeboats and do they not hold all the passengers? Would they have held all of us last week? Where are the family pets? What about the nice fellow who worked in the cafeteria, or the people who helped us position our cars: familiar faces, like the ones you see at the local coffee shop. I wonder how long the lights stayed on. I think of the seat I sat on only five days ago, the gift shop, and the artwork hanging on the walls. I know the paintings well, especially the one with the proud portrait of the ferry itself. I picture the ferry at the ocean bottom, the play area, the cafeteria, and all those cars.
This ship cannot sink; it was the good one, the safer one. How will we get our supplies? The other ferry is in for repair. People went crazy today, our dear friends who would do anything for us. We all rushed to the stores to get the last food. People filled grocery carts with milk; some took milk from other peopleās carts. It was chaos. Hermits, rarely seen, came out of the forest to buy milk. It is strange to look out my window and see the empty port, then listen to the news from the āoutside worldā to find out our destiny. Everything seems so far away from us here.
A six-year-old boy says, āMommy, do you mean the arcade room is at the bottom of the sea?ā
āYes,ā she says. Too much for a little mind to take in.
Ode to our ferry, a ship that filled our bay, its coming and going a constant mark on our horizon.
Late Winter 2007: Sailing Grenville Channel
2 on the
Queen of Prince Rupert
āItās so stupid how BC (British Columbia) Ferries advertise this route as some kind of a cruise, isnāt it?ā says a middle-aged man to his breakfast table companion, loud enough for me and the few other souls in the almost empty forward dining lounge to hear.
āYeah, they should advertise it to the tourists with a big ugly picture of your sleepy-assed face stuffed with the Sunshine Breakfast!ā she responds, knowingly loud.
They chuckle. I do too. A couple of other bystanders canāt help it either. Everyoneās eyes make contact, free of signs of embarrassment from eavesdropping. On a boat like this you canāt keep anything private. There are only forty or so passengers after the drop-off at Bella Bella
on the Central Coast, and if youāre going all the way to Prince Rupert
on the North Coast you have a whole twenty-four hours to do nothing.
Well, unless youāre an ethnographer who needs to write field notes or maybe a kid with spare change and amazing arcade skills. There are neither payphones nor cell-phone reception. No Titanic-like orchestra. No saltwater pool on the outer deck either. And there are no books or large-screen movies good enough to compete with the humbling scenery of snowcapped peaks towering one after another in endless succession, an infinite wall of trees, the possibility of spotting bears, whales, or porpoises on either side of the channel, and the neverending game of guessing how deep inland the next fjord can reach. By the time you reach port youāve drunk a lot of coffee, eaten a lot of French fries and gravy, and met and spoken with everybody about everything, especially about the ferries, everyoneās favorite topic. And my favorite topic, especially: the very reason why I am here.
As noon nears, I equip myself with a local map. I have a mission. We are close to Gil Island. The sun is out, and I decide to make my way to the stern early. I am not alone. Smokers and camera lovers alike welcome me on the outside deck.
Figure 1.1 Sailing north through Grenville Channel on a rare sunny winter day. Gil Island can be seen immediately below the Canadian flag.
āHow good is that map?ā a smoker asks me.
āItās pretty detailed,ā I answer.
āDoes it show Gil Island?ā
āItās right here on it, but you can actually see it forward to port side if you lean out a bit. To about ten or eleven oāclock.ā
They walk over to the railings then turn around: āThatās IT? How the fuck do you miss THAT?ā the younger one remarks to me. Immediately, other people join in.
āOh, is that Gil Island? Let me see.ā
āWeāre here already? Iād better go get Steve out. He wanted to see it.ā
Soon a crowd forms.
āSo, thatās the island the Queen of the North hit? What do you guys think happened?ā3 a young logger from Vancouver on his way to the North Coast asks the motley crew. A disorderly chorus of speculations begins.
āDidnāt they say they were having sex on the bridge? That helmsman and the helmswoman, right?ā
āYeah, and they shut off the navigation control panel lights so that no one could see them humping.ā
āThereās no way you could have sex on the bridge; youād have to be an idiot to try.ā
āRight, I donāt think they were having sex; but they were partying. When they radioed in for help and every time they radioed Prince Rupert before that you could hear music really loud.ā
āNo matter what they did, itās negligence on their part.ā
āYeah, itās not the responsibility of a ship to make a course correction!ā āYep! There was nothing wrong with the vessel. Nothing wrong with the equipment.ā
āI read in the paper they were on automatic pilot and when they realized they were off course they didnāt know how to disengage it.ā
āYeah, the helmswoman didnāt.ā
āThey wouldnāt wanna be on automatic pilot through the channel here, though, would they?ā
āBut automatic pilot or not, how do you miss that? I donāt care how stormy and how dark it was; the Queen had all sorts of gadgets to get through these waters safely.ā
āNah, thatās a bunch of conspiracy stuff, the reason why she sank is because she was an old boat and had single compartments.ā
āWhat? That doesnāt make any sense! Yeah, she didnāt, but so what? That doesnāt have anything to do with why they rammed her into an island.ā
āYeah, thatās the crap thatās been going around in Victoria to score some political points against the Liberals, and besides, and not that Iām taking the Liberalsā side, but thatās the way they made ships back in those days. It doesnāt have anything to do with the Queen. She was old, but she still was the best damn ship they had.ā
āYeah, no matter what actually did happen, it was human error, and we gotta live with that.ā
āYeah, we can all agree on that; thereās no way with the radars, the GPS, the alarms and bells going off on the bridge when you go off course that it could be mechanical failures. That stuff was new. They probably didnāt know how to use it.ā
āCould it have been because of the weather, though?ā
āNo way, it wasnāt that bad for North Coast standards, and she was made for that kind of rough sailing. She was used to it.ā
The chorus continues for a bit longer then the freezing winter wind finally mutes it.
Two Ferry Rides Later: Queen Charlotte City, Haida Gwaii
4 Queen Charlotte City is colder than I imagined. Itās not the puff of brittle, windswept March snow that catches me by surprise as I hurry my pace to find refuge after my interview with the mayor, but itās the remote, frozen feel
5 that its streets, waters, and buildings ooze unexpectedly. As I rush back on my
way to one of the three java holes in townāperhaps two by now at this ālateā time in the mid-afternoonāmy eyes capture a glimpse of an abandoned late-1980s Chevy truck lying on a grassy knoll, likely someoneās backyard. Things donāt get thrown away thoughtlessly on these islands. But if they must go, they donāt go to waste. They go to rest somewhere
6 , awaiting recall. When you live on a remote island you keep everything around for spare parts. The outcome of that conservationist outlook is in everyoneās sight. Pragmatic monuments to bygone needs waiting in reserve for future craft and artful make-do, rusted boats
7 , mangled cars, sleepy fire engines, dotāwithout always litteringābushes, side roads, and hidden bays. Discarded technologies on the street help you never let go of memories.
Other, more ephemeral, textual traces are at jeopardy for falling into oblivion: fleeting images of seeing the Queen cruise by; ethereal wishesālike mineāfor trips that never came true. One day here on the coast weāll ask one another where we were when we heard the Q...
