10/10
On the road to Lunenburg, finally. I was three weeks between ships, and though the time was rich, I am poor. At least, poor-ER. With my ship-work winding back into action, so does this blog, and here I find myself knee deep already in my voyage back to voyaging.
As it was, I didn’t have enough money for a plane-ride to Nova Scotia, so I emptied my bank account and bought a Greyhound ticket. $73 to Montreal. That got me about half way. I didn’t really have enough for the rest, so I did some odd jobs and got some help from generous benefactors more commonly known as “parents,” and will not have to walk after all. Even still, I do not look forward to traveling to Nova Scotia in a bus.
My trip started, conveniently enough, where I was: Kansas City. Unfortunately, our bus arrived an hour behind schedule, and by our departure was an additional 12 minutes late. Our driver, however, more than made up for the delay. Not from keen driving, though. We arrived in St. Louis down another ten minutes.
Our bus driver was a commanding, middle-aged black woman named Annie. This is what she said to us as we embarked on our great Greyhound adventure:
“Ladies and gentlemen we do have some rules and regulation on this coach. first off, do not leave your bag on the seat next to you. I don’t care if nobody is sitting there; that is not your seat. If you would like to buy that seat, then I would be happy to take your money for the fare. I am all about increasing revenue for Greyhound.
Second, this is a non-smoking coach. No smoking on the coach, no smoking on the coach, no smoking on the coach.
Third, there will be no shout-outs. If you need to talk to me, then you may politely make your way to the front and I will politely answer you question.
These are the rules and reguluations. If you do not choose to follow these rules, then you choose to walk.
Also, I have one more announcement, ladies and gentlemen. We are currently 72 minutes behind schedule. Now I cannot promise that we will make up those 72 minutes, but what I can promise you, ladies and gentlemen, is that I will get you to St. Louis safely, OK? Have a nice day and thank you for going Greyhound.”
Scattered throughout the bus came timid cadences of, “you’re welcome,” from a few faint-hearted passengers.
Sitting across the aisle from me was one of the more interesting of my travel companions, a woman, early 60’s, in a motorized wheelchair, her left leg elevated.
“I shattered m’ kneecap,” she wheezed with a voice that was both smoky and cartoonishly high-pitched. “They started surgery here, but I’m headed out to Columbia where they got better doctors.”
She patted her swollen knee. “The wound’s still open. You can see all the hardware and stuff in there. All the tendons and stuff. It’s wide open.” She beamed with pride. I wrapped up my sandwich and put my lunch back in my bag.
“Only another ninety miles to go,” I said, trying to sound encouraging.
She told me a lot of things. Besides the knee bit, most of it I was glad to know.
She had won tickets to Super Bowl 27, sat in the lower level, and got to meet Mike Ditka.
Her mother was dying of cancer.
Her daughter was hooked on meth, and her grandson had been taken by the state.
This was the first of the two conversations I had during the three-day bus trip.
MY TIME ASHORE
It is good to be headed back to ship work, but my three weeks away was a very rich time.
Reunions with some of my favorite people in the world, weddings, and dancing at those weddings were the most fun, but perhaps the most important time was not a reunion or a wedding, but at a funeral, saying goodbye.
My friend Spencer died on Friday, September 28th. I was blessed with a chance to see him Thursday night. Spencer had been battling cancer for five years. Maybe even six. It’s hard to imagine it had been that long. He had had it for as long as I had known him.
He went through cycles of treatment, prayers, and remission. We went through it with him – at least, as best we could.
We sat there, that Thursday night, in the Green family living room; Spencer asleep in a hospital bed, his family and a few friends sitting around him. When he woke up we told him our names, and said we loved him, and sent love from others who couldn’t make it.
That night, saying “I love you” to a friend in his last few hours, I got a glimpse of God – the most crystal clear glimpse I’ve ever seen. Spencer’s family, his mother, father, and little brother, ministered to those of us there to visit our friend.His father and brother were telling stories and making us laugh, and his mother was offering us snacks, and asking us about what we were doing with our lives, and we all shared.
They were experiencing possibly the most painful thing they will ever face, and yet they were hopeful, and they were sharing their hope. They told us of something Spencer had said to them that afternoon, some of the last words he ever said.
He told his family, “I love you.” He told them each that he loved them. Then he asked them why they were crying. He knew he had nothing to fear in death. “I love you, and I love the Lord.” Then he added, “We all love the Lord.” He knew that he lived a life as fully as possible. He knew that he had lived out his faith. He knew that whatever the afterlife was, he could face it with unblemished confidence.
He lived and died with hope, delivered it to his family, and they in turn, through red eyes and broken voices, delivered it to us. It was beautiful. It was God.
Spencer’s funeral was perfect. I have never heard so much laughter at one before. It was a profound and intense celebration of a profound and intense life.
A rich time indeed.
10/11
5:00 P.M.
Just passed through Kingston, Ontario. I have been on the road now for nearly 30 hours. The first leg of the trip, despite being behind schedule, was full of promise; I had two seats all to myself, meaning I could lounge with my legs stretched out athwart-ships. This is key to surviving a long bus trip. However, the luxury was not built to last.
The first five hours notwithstanding, I have spent the entire trip imprisoned in these contemptible torture racks, these iron-maidens in sheep’s clothing, unfit for human use outside Abu Ghraib or Guantanamo, or some other place that rich liberals and college students pretend to care about when their reminded of it. I think that the only conceivable explanation for such shoddy (I’d like to buy a vowel and two T’s, Pat) bus seats is that they must be cast-offs from some ill-conceived chapter of the Lord of the Rings movies. I will send out a petition, and the rich liberals and college students will no doubt be enraged for a time – maybe even as long as until The Daily Show comes on.
The two hour leg from London, Ontario, to Toronto looked good for a bit, until my lounge was halved by a young Canadian man who turned out to be my second and last conversation of the bus-ride to Nova Scotia. He was a friendly sort of guy; a professional cook, had gone to culinary school, hated working at franchised restaurants, loved Led Zepplin, and was hungover. A nice guy, but he took up my leg room, and he hated football. A person can only stand so much.
So, I remained captive to my single seat, my knees jammed in the metal seatback ahead of me. When I wanted to move my legs I had to hit the side of my thigh with my fist several times in order to dislodge myself from this cruel compartment.
The countryside makes up for it, though.
As we head east, the scenery is simple but a pleasure nonetheless. The fall season is in full bloom here, and the bold colors of the trees are interrupted only by wide golden fields punctuated with a single barn, silo, or farmhouse. To our right we can catch an occasional glimpse of the Lake Ontario.
10/12
In New Brunswick now. Two and a half hours from Halifax. My friend Maggie, the purser of the Picton Castle, is meeting me there to take me the rest of the way to Lunenburg. I am excited.
I can’t wait to see my friends. The land is beautiful. The hills and valleys roll by, blanketed in a forest that’s exploding with autumn. Two and a half hours! What is two and a half hours? I’ve been traveling now for more than two and a half days! Though, right now, they feel about equal.
10/20
Finished with the first week of work. It has been varied, with no workday offering a repeat task. We’ve done everything from moving furniture, to replacing seams in the deck, to being filmed working and answering questions for a Japanese travel show. Eventually, though, I think we will settle into a nice maintenance routine. I’ve spent probably 3/4ths of my evenings at a local pub called the Grand Banker with crewmates, enjoying pints, laughing, and watching rugby. Invariably, at the end of the work day,
someone wants to go, so we
all end up going along to keep the person company. It’s not gotten old yet, though. Good company tends to stave off tedium as well as anything, I’ve found.
Fall has been nice so far, with some days warm, and some colder, but in all, this is beautiful country and beautiful coastline. Pictures coming soon, I promise.
I love the sarcasm in this warning. This attitude of "please don't be an idiot" is a good example of the unassuming air and common sense inherent here in the maritimes. This would never pass in the states. Some bloated tourist with big-ass sunglasses would probably shrill, "we get a REWARD?" and then run into the water only to be smashed on the rocks and the subject of 1000 different law suits and 12 hours of Nancy Grace bellowing, "I don't care if they were just sitting there, someone should do something about those giant rocks! They do not deserve to be alive! They've clearly shown that!"
