Pre-Preliminary Arguendo

Hello from a random coffee shop in St. John's, NFLD on a brutally cold day.  Nursing a hangover and resting up for a planned assault on 30km of the ECT tomorrow before the late night flight home.  Off to hopefully avoid a conversation on anything substantial before the Wild Roses pickup.  Remember that?  Much more from the airport tomorrow night after hopefully an epic day.  Until then, radio silence it is... haha.  I want to ask about the flight purchase but the better strategy is surely to wait it out...

2940 minutes

Or 176,400 seconds.  That's the scheduled amount of time you will have in the Bermudas or Somers Isles, from touchdown to takeoff.  Tick tock.

The email came in the early morning.  Rodney and I will be arriving around 3:15PM.  Exactly the arrival time of the Bermuda flight, it so happens, and which checks in at basically the same price as the simple return to Toronto booked the previous afternoon.  Almost as if it was a sign.  To go.  And so the 24 hour cancellation policy happily invoked again.

Wither the fates carry [us].  A motto of the highest order, and one to live by.  Also appealing is the place as a source for the only Shakespearian reference (apparently) to the new world, at Act 1, Scene 2, line 230 of the Tempest, and "the still-vexed Bermoothes".  A refuge for debtors and miscreants, vexed by their stills of liquor?  Me gusto.

770 miles from the Southern tip of Nova Scotia and 956 north of Puerto Rico.  A proper island, then, with its pink sand and windy shores and (surely) two more decent sunsets to experience as part of the grand collection.  A nicely secret escape, and secluded spot to sit and string some words together.

Or, perhaps, an added wrinkle (no pun intended).  One of the last texts before the latest version of the phone found the drink two weeks ago (which was not recorded here but in a longer form bedtime story version) referenced the place, so it has been on the mind.  The plan then naturally took shape, spurred on by the finality of things on Monday past.  Initiate the texts en route to the airport, referencing the gorgeous day.  Slowly bring the conversation around to the upcoming weekends, ruling out this one with the ECT.  Send on the picture of the booked itinerary, and make the casual comment about getting shown around, just in time for the Newfie flight off to close the conversation.

Only 9 short sleeps away, with 2 here on the Avalon and then a broken Canada Day week.  The uncertainty to this point as to whether you will know anyone on the plane is hilarious.  The odds for now are a total mystery.  Well poised, either way.  We shall see.

Bye, dear

Unexpected, but perhaps an eventual night.  Busy and preoccupied, and then just sadness and frustration and a feeling of powerlessness and inevitability.  Simply and crucially, there is not enough desperation to alter the course that had been unfolding.  The pressure of the situation had been building, compounded by the unending recurrences, the collective tiredness, the patterns.  Then the New Orleans announcement came in with nothing to hold onto, the Father's Day weekend passed apart (ridiculously, in Moncton with the FIFA R16) , and a long day of driving and countervailing work that left you distracted and with little energy of your own to resist.  So there it is, some 28 months after first meeting in the old Palace.

But the issues were clearly there, whether on trust or what have you.  Good to take some time and space, and fill the emptiness that you feel now with cliches of never say and anything.  There were a lot of fond memories, maybe the most with anyone, even as some things like other friendships and so on didn't always click.  I don't know with whom they would, but kudos to a long stretch of ups and downs and learnings and laughter and most of all good times.  I feel a little gutted, but cheered at least that there is ever more freshness on the horizon, including some calmness of mind that should relax and de-stress you for now.

Long term - it is remains regrettable and sad, but what can you say?  The fizz gone?  The spark faded?  Where desire to move the heavens should be, unfortunately (unluckily?) it was not.  Hard to imagine wishing more of the best for anyone.  But as a solitary man rather than a team player, this was always the better bet as to the final outcome.

So on to the ECT, the Toronto Fringe, and the Tomatina then.  To Liverpool at home and Newcastle away, and Edinburgh.  And other bucket list items of summer, we yet hope.  Still.  And to keep her in your life.  Another in the line of what might have been, and not for the lack of trying. Or maybe, in this case, it was.  No matter.  Onward.   There are cab drivers from Samarkand in this city willing you on, and other foolish and nostalgic adventures ahead.  Do write some of the past as a tribute, and never fully admit to saying goodbye.  Eyes ahead.  This hollow feeling too shall pass.

Tancookian?

Staring out the Narrows from the Marconi room once again.  Worth catching up on the last few days, given the proclivity to check back through here to June Fifths gone by.  Baptism of young N. in Ontario prevented the usual inch celebrations, but headed out the night before for a cold sail, then a productive evening of touring old favourite bars that are soon to be demolished/moved.  Would have loved to follow the original Tancook plan for the sunset, but renovation works interfered and I wonder if that wasn’t actually useful in the long run.  To keep the dreams of that island alive through the weekend and beyond.  And instead, the sunset on Lawrencetown helping demonstrate the lack of appeal of the Eastern Shore, although the Amrut and lobster salad sandwich at What’s the Scoop tasted sweet and the Finbar Guinness a fine way to end one of the days of the year.

The birthday weekend was planned and executed basically to perfection – Joel Plaskett in Bridgewater and the cheap B&B with dolls and a view on Feltzen, further spurring the thoughts of potential wrinkles that may form part of a Tancook option.  Then Gaff point, surfers and the sound of the wake on the rocks at Hurtles, lunch at Lane’s and discovery of the secret third Carter beach, and Keji seaside adjunct.  Port Joli Head not a hike that needs to be done again, but the beach past Harbour Rocks proved as beautiful and relaxed as you can hope to find.  Then gorgeous sunset at the lake, despite the ridiculous tired misunderstandings about watching the sunset versus cooking that came out later.  There shall always be such communication breakdowns, I suppose, but they are no less annoying when they occur.

(These seagull wind charms on the tops of these buildings are distracting and hilarious.  Never noticed them before.)

Then the birthday, which is well captured on the annual tape.  Not sure how much longer that will continue to be done, or when you should set aside some time to listen through them for old time’s sake.  Some further birthday decision-making, no doubt.  Waking up at the cottage, through to the sail down to the Basin (1hr 40 minutes only to the dock of the text messaged sunset from the prior post, where the invitation remains open... only the future will show whether you end up landing there before summer’s end).  Led to some adrenalin-filled moments flouncing about on the return and some hilariously poor bow-first docking.  To the airport, mom and Al and the sunset flight to St. John’s, drafting of the message in a bottle (despite the confusion again in its SOS origins), and then the perfect hike in darkness around the fabled Signal Hill. 

 

Think the first time I can remember walking it was 2003, looking out to Europe and Oxford.  There have been a number of work-themed treks since, really a lovely way to spend an hour and a half, especially considering the amount of time spent looking out at it from this board room or the hotel, dreaming away.  (Remember the joy in the frenchman's comments at the neighbouring table last night at the scene.)  The silence in which the container ship floated past in the blackness, and the spotlight out in front of it showing the way, were so stunningly beautiful - a perfect spot to finalize the turning of an age.

Sad to have to return home so soon, actually.  I could use another do-nothing evening in the hotel, some Netflix and sports... as it was quite the performance by Lebron and Curry last night... “in terms of degree of difficulty that’s a straight 10.”  Hopefully this sets up a return trip now that you are involved in master scheduling and regulatory craziness and the like.  (And so, in two weeks, you do get to return after all.)

 

This file has been a good exercise in accumulating hours, all of which is useful in the longer term compensation as you begin to consider a Plan 40 and another mid-life goal/scheme to aspire toward.  2018-19 or 2019-20 each seem like good years to possibly kick off the Arsenal season ticket adventure, if not before.  The Euro planning has also already begun in earnest, with the draft ticket application from last night.  Assuming that involves 3 weeks next June, then you may want to wait until summer of 2017 to begin any creative writing courses.  But then again, that’s no excuse not to proceed with the writing, and see about setting up that escape to Tancook to help make it happen.

Who knows... by this time next year, maybe there could even be a purchase on the horizon that could mark another momentous eight of June?  Keep reflecting, investigating, and wondering... you never know.  If Slim the taxi man in SJS has a cabin, why can't you?