"Heigh, my hearts! Cheerly, cheerly my hearts! Yare, yare! Take in the topsail, tend to th' master's whistle-- Blow 'til thou burst thy wind, if room enough!"
-Boatswain, The Tempest
I've never really been a man of the sea-- it's cold, salty, and often smells like poop. However, Vancouver is a port city first and foremost, and accordingly, this summer has been full of intrepid marine expeditions. It all began with a heart-stoppingly eventful afternoon of fishing off of Granville Island, as Cyrus, Dara, Karl and I chartered a boat skippered by the meaty Scott, who was almost as unimpressed with our decision to bring Phil Collins' No Jacket Required and Best of Bowie as the only musical selection for a 3-hour tour as he was with the single fish we caught:
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| "It was THIS big..." |
It wasn't a total loss though-- I think Scott said that our catch could be used as bait to catch a real fish. One is arrested by the poetic beauty of this ichthyological circle of death.
Our next scrumptious adventure was a slight change of pace-- from the primeval, eternal rhythm of the ocean to the lascivious 1-2-3 of Tuesday night salsa dancing at the Red Room on Richards (the alliteration of which appropriately sounds like the trilling Castilian rrrrr's of Cuba). Awkward fun was had by all, especially Baxter (who thoroughly enjoys PDA's [Public Displays of Awkwardness]). My partner was a 6-foot Dutch girl, which meant that I had to employ my white boy jump skills whenever it was my job to twirl her--twirl her!-- imagine a young child hopping impotently to reach a cookie jar (where the cookie jar here has some oblique euphemistic subtext).
I've decided that my humble prose simply cannot do the fluid poesie of Baxter Robinson's dancing proper justice, so for the edification of your mind's eye, picture this:
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| Ooh, bare sensuality |
I've decided that my humble prose simply cannot do the fluid poesie of Baxter Robinson's dancing proper justice, so for the edification of your mind's eye, picture this:
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| Thankfully, no one was injured by his flying elbows |
To further reinforce our growing sense of rhythmic inadequacy, Red Room was full of middle-aged Asian couples who strutted about the place with a sort of haughty erotic fervor, dazzling us with their Salsa mastery, and covering us in a dust cloud of condescension and shame.
After drying off, we sauntered on over to the Cambie, a lovely little pub situated in Gastown that Karl harbours an irrational, mortal fear of (it all reeks of some repressed Freudian trauma, if you ask me). The night is really only noteworthy because Karl narrowly avoided peeing himself at the fear of being shanked.
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| Yes, I think that underage hipster-lite lad in the DC T-shirt is looking to start some serious shit... |
Yea, tremble in horror ye who look upon the fearsome patrons of the Cambie! You will never find more wretched hive of scum and villainy!
But back to the ocean...
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| Your mom's a deep cove. |
Cyrus, Dara, Karl, and I have made a point of frequenting Deep Cove this summer. In fact, Dara goes water skiing there all the time-- with some tasty waves and a cool buzz, he's basically the Jeff Spicoli of the North Shore. We, his adulant friends, bathe in the luxuriant aura of his local celebrity: we share his easy, suave rapport with all the kayak shop employees, they recognize us at the pizza stand--NBD really.
(Actually, if anyone in "The Cove" recognizes us, it's almost certainly with a cringe of disdain as the obnoxious, overly-bro-ey, "we're-definitely-brightening-your-boring-day-at-work-with-our-hilarious-Apatow-esque-banter-and-hijinks, kayak shop lady/waitress/cab driver/every single person in earshot" guys.)
So with Lilize Gilliam Maree stoutly in tow, we decided to go wake-boarding. The seas were calm, and the water was as warm as the pee on Karl's pants when someone at the Cambie says, "Excuse me, sir, pardon me. Just need to get by here, thanks so much." Below, Pilar bebbies Cyrus, and talks him through the pre-game jitters of his first time wake-boarding:
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| Photography: it's all about negative space. |
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| Karl actually brought a god-damned pot roast on the boat. |
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| Possibly the most fucking intense facial expression I've ever seen. Ever. |
I think Lilize managed to stay afloat by bending the laws of hydrostatics through sheer tyranny of will. By the end of the day, she, Karl and Cyrus were all carving, dipping low, and throwing up "the splitter" like nobody's business. After encouraging my friends through their Bambi-on-ice first times on a wakeboard, I was all like "540 McTwist, yo!"
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| Then I was all like, "Pop shove it, manual, kickflip, manual, pop shove it, manual..." |
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| Cyrus demonstrates the splitter. |
All-in-all, I think I'm making some serious progress through the metaphorical tour pamphlet of this summer: fishing, salsa dancing, and-- truly mystifying all expectation--waking up at 5 AM every morning. I'm like an "early to bed, early to rise" Benjamin Franklin, if he also fished and danced, instead of just being a didactic douchebag all the time (as Poor Richard says, "it's definitely not cool to make fun of that handsome Ben Franklin gentleman!"). All of these are things I certainly would not have anticipated doing this summer (or ever), yet have, in their own way, each been new and refreshing experiences. Hell, I even finally got around to doing the Grouse Grind...
It seems I'm becoming quite the outdoorsman. Like a blogging Hemingway or Thoreau, or the bad guy from Jumanji.
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| "You miserable coward! Come back and face me like a man!" |
Tune in next post for death-defying hikes! Exotic eats! Existential soliloquies! A trip to Playland! In the meantime, blast some Phil Collins and keep dancing...
-Max
Twitter: @MaxSzentveri
FIFA 99 Update: I still haven't beaten Arsenal on "World Class" difficulty, even by playing with Arsenal. Stay posted.
Cast and Crew
People in this post:
Dara Djafarian:
Karl Heilbron:
Lilize Maree:
Cyrus Navabi:
Baxter Robinson:
