Lynn Canyon Park is probably the most extraordinarily beautiful, most accessible spot in the Greater Vancouver, if not the entire Lower Mainland. But it’s also relatively small and on summer week-ends, the crowd tends to get overwhelming. With Twin Falls downstream, the Suspension Bridge in the middle and 30 Ft. Pool upstream, all within a 20 minute walk, options are a bit limited and one must be willing to share the creek’s stunning emerald water with many others...

Surprisingly, the Lynn Headwaters Regional Park just above doesn’t seem to act as the overflow it should be. Much, much larger than Lynn Canyon, Headwaters stretches into the mountains for 10 to 20 km and offers serious hiking possibilities. The entrances to the two parks are located minutes from each other; they both share Lynn Creek as a center attraction, a guideline flowing down from the Coast Mountains into Burrard Inlet. The major difference, apart from size, is the nature of the valley itself. Lynn Canyon, as the name implies, is a deep and narrow chasm, yielding many impressive waterfalls and stunning pools. Up by Headwaters, on the other hand, the river bed widens and the creek runs through the valley in the open, on a bed of large boulders and pebbles, its water still crystal-clear and singing softly as it flows past deep temperate rainforest on its shores.

While not as eventful as it would have been in the canyon, my walk up the Headwaters trails this Sunday soon put a comfortable distance between the mob and me and since the river was just nearby, it was easy to find spots to go play in the water with barely anybody around. A short hour walk (and we’re talking about photographic hours, here, which include some walking and a lot of shooting) from the parking lot, I came upon a very nice pool by a large boulder, begging me to dip in; but a few rain drops were falling and since it was already 5 or 6 pm, I headed back. There must remain many surprises further up. I will have to investigate with more time ahead of me.

The large color topo map at the park entrance also revealed what could be a very nice and challenging trail run, from the Grouse Mountain Chalet, across to Crown Mountain, down to Norvan Falls and then all the way back to the Headwaters parking lot. 14 km in total, which I would do downhill the first time. I’ll need a cool week-end and to figure out what to do with my North Face Ultra 103, the crappiest trail running shoes I have ever bought, probably from choosing a size too big. Live and learn.

This year’s Grouse Mountain Fly-in was held on August 9th. I didn’t attend, not being able to meet the experience requirements. [sound of grinding teeth] Besides, I hold a serious grudge against the people controlling paragliding up there. They seem to have established a very cozy nest and obviously want to keep it private and secluded. They charge $199 for a 20 minute tandem flight (I can rent a solo Cessna for what, about half that price? And for a full hour!) and if you would like to fly as a licensed guest pilot, you’d better come recommended by an instructor, otherwise you need to have a minimum of 150 logged flights and 50 hours airborne. And even like that, you’ll always have to fly with a club member, period. Or you can wait for the annual fly-in and its supposedly relaxed rules. Let me laugh out loud. What paragliding site anywhere in the world only welcomes guest pilots 2 days a year?

I mean, I understand that our airspace is quite unique due to typical Vancouver density. Helicopters, seaplanes and other traffic have to share a corridor between the city and the mountains. Then there’s the overhead Controlled Airspace that acts like a lid on top of a pressure cooker. But still. I’ve modestly flown in many places, in many countries and many different conditions and airspaces and I’ve never seen such elitist restrictions on who can or cannot fly somewhere.

Any way. Here’s the cover of our free daily newspaper the following Monday. I’m glad to see that even from the top of their 150 flights and 50 hours wisdom, the pilots attending still managed to land on their arse. Ha!

I recently felt a need for the company of boats. I was longing for the discreet dancing motion of vessels in a harbour, the sound of halyards flapping in the wind, the gentle splashing of water against hulls, the various ocean-tainted smells of fish and diesel and paints and fiberglass and cleaners, the squeaking of floating wooden docks, the screaming seagulls circling returning trawlers, the hissing chatter of VHF radios, the notion that each and every boat present has a long loving and sometimes desperate history with the sea...

So I headed down the Seawall and caught a False Creek Ferry across to Granville Island, the island that is attached to land. There, I bypassed Bridges and its trendy crowd and angled for the small shipyard where many boats slept, hoisted up on blocks, dry and frozen in time, patiently waiting to be taken care of, fixed, scrubbed, sanded, painted, or maybe given maritime CPR.

It was late afternoon and not much was happening on the yard. I strolled around, carefully stepping over many obstacles and around protruding bows and engines, running my hands on freshly applied antifouling paint, remembering the many hours and days spent under the Caribbean sun preparing and painting our pontoon’s hull. We had our V-hull Banana Wind done professionally at Harbour House in Grand Cayman, but the 46 ft. pontoon was so light that we could pull it out of the water ourselves and park it on blocks in front of the old hangar.

Hull maintenance is nothing glamorous. Depending on how long the boat has spent in the water and how good a paint job had initially been done, it might take hours to days to get a hull prepped for a new paint. Barnacles and algae have to be completely removed, then the old paint must go too. The new paint applied is called antifouling because it prevents, to a certain extent, marine life from attaching itself to it. Most hull paints ablate over time, but hence can be scrubbed clean as the outer layer wears off. But this stuff is highly toxic and requires precautions, including wearing a serious mask while painting. I’ve done the mistake of settling for a simple white dust filter and was sick for hours.

However, in retrospect, all this hard work seemed so valuable and meaningful, almost like craftsmanship. It was driven by deep caring for our boats and the time spent initially would invariably yield proportionally lengthy years of good service.

Then there was all the work we did underwater at a mooring outside the marine park, inverted along the bottom of the boat, patiently scrubbing away while trying to keep our breathing down, or changing the sacrificial anodes, small blocks of zinc attached to the hull and ordered to commit suicide by oxidizing first to prevent corrosion on other metal parts. There was the re-coating of the deck with a special paint into which we mixed sand to turn it into an anti-slip surface. There were countless hours spent on the engines, and working on the bilge pumps, and the electrical panel, and the radios, the GPS.

And there was endless, daily and repetitive cleaning, rinsing, shining and buffing of every surface above the waterline, as boats are among man’s creations which require the most maintenance to stay young and healthy...

The Granville Island shipyard is modest in size and relatively clean and fancy because of its location. It lacks the usual stray dogs, the bustling activity, the skeleton-esk old boats abandoned on their blocks eons ago, the stains of paint everywhere. But it moved me and made my eyes shine. So I pushed on around the little bay to the fishing boat docks, and took a few shots of the city skyline.

On my way back, as I got off the ferry in the West End, the sunset suddenly fired up and I stayed on the beach for a while, my thoughts drifting far away in time and space. A boat, I thought, is more than a vehicle. Spend some time on one, learn to maneuver it, care for it, listen to its voice, feel its response, and soon it will become more than it was. It will begin to feel like home and a door will open unto another world. A world where we are explorers and conquerors all over again and in which a boat, like a sword, will really shine if handled well.

Inspired by a post on the Turning Gate, I’ve decided to give the good old Lightbox 2 and Greybox scripts a break and am now testing Shadowbox as the engine for all slideshows and web links on this blog. So far, the new script seems to be performing as well, if not better than the others and offers the added convenience of handling all media under one roof (I previously had to use Lightbox for images and Greybox for web pages.)

As usual, all images in an entry can be clicked on to enlarge and start the slideshow, which is then conveniently navigated with your left and right keyboard arrows; web links will open inside an overlay that avoids having to change windows, tabs or to reload or go back after visiting the new page.

I’ll be looking for comments and feedback, don’t be shy!

When seeking peace inside and longing to settle the chaos outside, a West-Ender needs look no further than the Seawall. (I sound like a bloody advertisement, but it’s true.) Flowers greet me at the bottom of the tower and follow me down a quarter of a block to Alexandra Park where the wooden gazebo thrones over a parterre of green grass and a neat row of more flowers lined up against Beach Avenue, which I cross and arrive on the Seawall, 3 minutes and 23 seconds after leaving home.

A few things become instantly apparent, as I shed my urban burden and leave my worries behind, jumping in stride with passers by, rollerbladers, runners, bikers and other nondescript visitors. They have all come to do the same. They all seem to appreciate the beauty around them. They are not nearly as aggressive to my system as a normal crowd would be. I seem to become instantly more tolerant.

The wind typically abates at night and late afternoons often feature calming seas and gentle sunsets. My senses tune into the environment and I listen to the sounds of joyful living by the shore. Kids are laughing and chasing each other on the beach, while a few hardcore volleyball players are still smashing at their ball in the fleeting light. Small birds are chirping behind me in the trees and larger seabirds laugh by the water and in mid-air. The muffled sounds of a cheaply amplified microphone wander in waves from across the bottom of Denman where street performers usually set camp. I hear laughter and people clapping and cheering. The guy must have burnt himself voluntarily with the flaming rods I see flying over gathered heads.

Many have settled on the beach with towels or even chairs, picnics and cameras. They are waiting for sunset. Watching sunset is an institution in a land of westward shorelines and friendly public spaces. I know I will join them, at some point, but I haven’t really decided where and when yet. I’ll stroll until a spot or a scene catch my fancy, or until maybe the sky does one of its tricks and intimates me to stop and shoot immediately.

For now, I walk slowly, looking around, taking in the many scents, flowers, various plants, ocean, hotdogs, pot. Minuscule waves are licking at the shore, ever so softly cleaning it up, willingly manipulated by a rising tide. A lonely raccoon crosses the path before me, on its way to Raccoon City further towards Lost Lagoon. A couple of dogs do see it and show immense interest, but they are half its size and their leashes are held firmly by worried hands.

Some people informally salute each other on the Seawall, nodding in a friendly way or smiling as you pass by and therefore labeling themselves as locals. It’s a beautiful custom that reminds me of another highly civilized and respectful scene where saying hi to everybody is common practice, the mountains. My stress level is falling by the minute. The Seawall is creeping back under my skin, a welcome invasion that should be daily and weather-independent.

Eventually, I settle for my own share of picture folly, staying well into darkness, watching the city lights come alive behind me and the ocean go to sleep in front, as the night approaches from both sides and closes in on the brighter line that still links me to a now disappeared sun rushing forward around the globe to go greet an angel, far behind me, in a new dawn on a tiny terrace. It could all be confusing, but the peace around me so blissfully seeps in that in the end, it all makes sense. We are just so very lucky.

When patience finally pays off, when the many fruits of a long labour are ripe, when sweet rewards fall from the sky like rain on a hot summer day, when distance is abolished and life becomes simple and fluid, when sunsets turn into sunrises, dusk into dawn, when regulations and bureaucracy return to the dark stinky closet they should never leave.

In the meantime we push on, always forward, without ever resting, somehow breathless but teeth clenched, tired but ever so resolute.

The time will come.

Abe was my first DSLR. She was a Canon Digital Rebel XTi (or 400D). Her name was a short for « Aberration chromatique », the French for, yes, you guessed it, chromatic aberration. Of which she didn’t suffer that much, but wasn’t totally free either. She succeeded to my trusted Canon G3 and has taken amazing pictures. For reference, Utah was shot with the G3, South Africa and most of my HDR with Abe. I loved them dearly.

A month ago, on a plane from Newark to Vancouver, a ride from here to there, a trip between longing and belonging, I had bought two photography magazines and spent most of the night - I was on a red-eye - reading about this year’s top-rated cameras and lenses. To my childishly excited surprise, the XTi had a new sibling, called the XSi, or 450D. Both magazines were reviewing it, and I soon realized that both reviewers had been charmed. My ears rose, my eyes watered and my tail wagged. So to speak.

I looked at prices. As it is happening in the computer field, camera designers these days are caught in a maelstrom of technological breakthroughs and exponential competition increase. As a result, prices are dropping like pigeon poo out of the sky while the technology gets better and more incredible every year. I soon figured I actually had a chance to upgrade to the new model for a minimal expense. I was hooked.

Less than a month later, I am sitting at home with Abetoo throning on the table next to me while Abe is on her way to Southeast Asia with some dude. Such is life. Abetoo is a black body Canon XSi with the 18-55 IS kit lens, and I’ve switched my old Sigma 18-125mm DC lens for a Canon EF-S 55-250mm IS. Now let me get something straight: I am a poor photographer, as in broke, and these are a poor photographer’s tools. I am very aware of this and remain humble about the distance that separates my gear from that of professionals. But I afford what I can and try to make the smartest moves possible, and I must say that this was a very sweet move indeed. Let me explain.

The XSi is the fourth generation of its kind. When Canon launched the first Digital Rebel, the 300D, it innovated by leaps and bounds and brought for the first time a reasonably priced DSLR to entry-level photographers. Since then, the market has gotten much more competitive with Nikon, Sony, Fujifilm, Pentax and Olympus all competing hard to appropriate their share of a very lucrative realm. The subsequent releases by Canon of the 350D and the 400D were received with mixed reviews, improvements having been modest and indecisive. The 400D was, however, one of the best selling DSLR’s of all times.

With the recent release of its 450D, Canon set the mark up once again and blurred the boundary between professional and entry-level cameras. Rather than cut their costs to a minimum, they decided to adopt many features available on their much pricier models in order to appeal to a more mature group of photographers. It has paid off.

The XSi is a little gem. It rivals its bigger and more expensive cousin the 40D in many areas and even beats it at times. Blessed by a new 12.2 megapixel CMOS sensor and the DIGIC III image processor, the new comer has already topped the 40D’s resolution. Its Live View modes have also been improved, and while the technology has by no means reached maturity, it’s quite a welcome and encouraging start. If you’re wondering what Live View is, it’s the ability for a DSLR to offer a live preview of the scene on-screen, the way all digicams do. For the longest time, I stayed away from DSLR’s for that very reason. I was so used to my G3’s rotating LCD screen that I couldn’t even remember the old days of framing through a viewfinder.

The XSi’s Live View is still raw and imperfect and yet was very much worth the wait. It offers a manual and two different autofocus modes. It’s not a feature I would use all the time, but it will, in some cases, prove to be invaluable.

Being equipped with an APS-C sensor (smaller than a full-frame sensor the size of 35mm film, compromising image quality slightly in exchange for space and cost reductions, and multiplying lenses’ focal range by about 1.6x), the XTi comes with an EF-S 18-55mm f3.5-5.6 IS lens that equals a 28-88mm on a full-frame camera. That’s ok. What’s really cool is the IS, Image Stabilization. Granted, it’s not top-of-the-line optics, but compared to the old kit lens, it seems to be better and most of all, the IS gains you up to 4 stops of usable speed!

The EF-S 55-250mm f4-5.6 IS (equivalent to a 88-400mm on a full-frame!) is even more remarkable for someone like me who had never used IS lenses before. It focuses faster and more accurately than my Sigma did (which isn’t surprising since it is a Canon lens on a Canon camera) and a few nights ago, while shooting test pictures of boats on English Bay, I suddenly realized it was a half hour past sunset and I was still shooting hand held, full zoom, very acceptably sharp pictures (on the Auto ISO setting, which meant 200 to 800 ISO in the dim remaining light). Now that’s cool! So the EF-S 55-250 IS is just a very, very neat, extremely affordable lens.

What else? The XSi features many other new refinements, like 14 bits A/D image conversion, a larger 3.0 inch LCD with 170 degrees viewing angle, a dedicated ISO button on top of the body as well as in-view finder ISO reading, Tone Highlight and High ISO Noise Reduction, fast 3.5 frames a second shooting speed, auto ISO mode (not as perfect as Nikon’s but better than none), a revised, clearer and even more customizable menu display, a larger viewfinder, slightly improved ergonomics, spot metering, much improved battery life and excellent noise levels in the entire 100 to 1600 ISO range (of course by excellent I mean low!)

The downsides are few; Canon has decided to switch to SD and SDHS from the original Rebel line CompactFlash format, which means that upgrading implies new memory cards too. However with the rate at which prices are falling on these too, one can hardly complain. Same thing with the grip. Different solution. Mine hails from Honk Kong, but one gets what one pays for...

Also, the XSi is definitely built much, much less sturdy than the 40D. That’s both a blessing and a curse. If you are planning on abusing and banging your camera around, the 40D would be a better bet. However if traveling and mobility are your main concerns, then the XSi will shine. It’s incredibly light even with the 55-250mm and the grip mounted and will travel on your shoulder or in your bag barely noticed.

So for more pictures with the new gear, stay tuned.

Oh yeah, and Abetoo with her kit lens shows almost no chromatic aberration. Oh well.

The Cayman Islands, a British Overseas Territory, sit by roughly 19º Latitude North and 80º Longitude West in the Caribbean Sea, tucked below the large landmass of Cuba and just to the west of tiny Jamaica. Composed of three islands, the country has a population of roughly 50,000 souls, 90 percent of whom live in and around the capital of Georgetown on the main island, Grand Cayman. The two others, called the Sister Islands, lie 90 miles to the east. They are small and almost identically shaped, about 12 miles long and 2 miles wide in their center. The Brac is the most populated with a little over a thousand inhabitants. Little Cayman, until now, has resisted growth and only claims around 200 permanent residents, all of which are very fond of their home, and usually a touch strange too. Island life isn’t for everybody, and if the mythical fever doesn’t strike soon after arrival to kick you off, you can assume you are « different ». And fit for the rock.

While Grand Cayman earned a reputation as an offshore banking paradise, the Sister Islands have remained very modest, even though completely different one from another. In the Brac, not much pleasure to be had. One works and survives. And drinks, but that’s common to all three islands. There are only 2 major resorts, but an decent size modern airport. Brackers have an odd reputation. It’s all been done, there, and crime is an issue.

Little Cayman, on the other hand, is the jewel of the family. She’s unspoiled, quiet, mostly wild and all about fun. Six resorts make up most of the island’s civilized infrastructure. A single road circles it, not entirely paved. Electricity is provided by loud diesel-powered generators. There is no supply of fresh water and folks use cisterns and reverse osmosis plants. One public restaurant and each of the resort’s facilities constitute the only choices for eating out. Or one can shop at the local grocery store, the size of a North American 7-Eleven, which also doubles as the hardware store, gas station, movie rental and furniture and appliance depot. The bank outpost, not much larger than a ATM booth, opens a few hours now and then, when its two staff members manage to fly in from the Brac’s branch.

But to fly in, one must like island air hopping. The ride takes 7 minutes - the islands being within sight of each other - and most planes don’t bother climbing higher than a thousand feet. In Little Cayman, the landing strip is a stretch of grass and dirt cleared from the bush into a gentle hill, so that pilots cannot see one end of the field from the other. Short and soft take off techniques are in order there. Full power before releasing the brakes. More flaps than usual. And fingers crossed because accelerate-stop distance is a luxury Little Cayman doesn’t really have, unless a house can be considered to be proper stopping surface. On arrival, taxiing aircraft must cross the road to park on the other side. It doesn’t matter, half of the island’s cars are already parked there waiting for the flight. There will be food on board, and supplies, and the mail, and many tourists which are greeted by their respective resort’s representatives in a completely informal way, often barefoot, always smiling.

It is said that the two very first cars to arrive on Little Cayman, many years ago, got into a accident together. There are many more, now, and yet no traffic lights, no pedestrian crossing signs, no notion of jay walking, no parking problems. The island-wide speed limit is 25 mph and there are a total of 3 stop signs. Iguanas have retained a legendary right of way and the largest specimens are almost half the width of a car. A lot of bicycles are used on the island, many of them supplied by the resorts as a courtesy to their guests. Resort employees circle the island regularly in a pick-up to recover their bikes abandoned all around, usually at a bar after a late night.

Little Cayman lives for and from scuba diving. Every resort there offers it. The island sits on the edge of the 8000 meters deep Cayman Trench and is hence surrounded by deep water and famous for its wall dives. Very little shore diving is done because of the presence of a barrier reef on most of the iron shore coastline. The resorts being built on the south shore, inside the mile-wide and very shallow South Sound, dive boats exit the sound by the only cut into the reef and round the western point to go dive world-famous Bloody Bay about a third of the way on the north side. It’s an easy ride a stone’s throw from land that will take most dive boats 30 to 60 minutes depending on the conditions.

But the Little Cayman waters, as those of every other location in the Caribbean, are far from always being subdued. At best, they are often spiced up by the dominant southeasterly Trade Winds, which usually blow 10 to 20 knots and make for potentially rough seas and difficult rides. The worse happens during hurricane season, form June to November every year. Tropical storms are frequent. Hurricanes not so much, but they are terribly devastating. Everybody in the Cayman Islands will remember 2004’s Ivan for many years to come.

...

But this was just another storm. It crept in from the east during the morning dives and by the time boats were going back out in the afternoon, the weather was already changing fast and getting more unpleasant by the minute. But the prevailing winds blew from the southeast and made Little Cayman’s south shore undivable. Boats had to go around to the north in search of calmer and clearer conditions.

Pirate’s Point Resort had a single dive boat. She was a custom 42 feet Newton and was called Yellow Rose III. Her operating dock was located near all the other docks, in the middle of the sound. Her schedule was offset from everybody else’s because of the radically different rhythm that prevailed at the resort. That day, she ended up going back out a little later. She must have passed some of the earlier returning dive boats on her way out to Bloody Bay.

By late afternoon, the storm was raging. Heavy rain was falling in thick curtains and limiting visibility to a few hundred feet in all directions. The wind was howling and building up 10 foot seas. And light was failing early. All other dive operators had called it a day and boats were resting at their storm moorings while on land air compressors were roaring life back into empty tanks. Then the call came in, and the news spread almost instantly across the small island. Yellow Rose was missing, lost in a squall. They had left their dive site in limited visibility and heavy rain and seas, and tried to rally the base by navigating around the island, a little further offshore than usual to avoid running aground. But they had gone too far and missed the narrow tip completely when they came back in towards land. They’d then gone back out and back in, trying to gauge if they were too far south or too far north. They didn’t have a GPS on board. They had become completely lost.

Faces were grim on land. The night was falling fast and there were only a couple of dive boats that were equipped well enough and skippered skillfully enough to go back out through the extremely hazardous breakers of the cut and into the mad darkness, on a search that involved hundreds of square miles of ocean. Ours sure wasn’t. Banana Wind had a very low bow and did poorly in heavy seas, the South Cut turning into a deadly roller coaster once the waves had reached a certain height. I was both relieved and deeply sorry I wouldn’t be able to go back out. It wouldn’t have helped much, though. Yellow Rose would have to find her way back alone.

Every one who owned a handheld VHF radio scattered across the island to try and establish the lost boat’s position according to the clarity of their radio signal. There was thunder and lighting and for a long time, we attempted to figure out where the Rose was by comparing the direction and timing of the lightning. Nothing matched. They seemed to be quite far away. Their signal was getting weaker. The two crew members on board did their best to stay calm and reassure their passengers, but they reported that all were wet and very cold.

The night had by then long fallen and a few people were dispatched to key locations on land with flare guns and we tried to fire in sequence, hoping for Yellow Rose to spot one of them. They never did. Doubt was creeping into people’s minds that we could find them at all. The night still had long hours of fury to unleash and one way or another, the boat was going to drift far offshore and possibly run out of fuel. However with the morning would come the hope of sending an aerial search party.

Then suddenly, almost five hours after they had gotten lost, the crew on board Yellow Rose broke a long radio silence and announced: « We see some lights, north of us! We are either south of the Brac or Little Cayman. » We held our breaths. It turns out they were just past Point of Sands, the easternmost tip of Little Cayman, just off the breaking reef. They slowly navigated along the breakers, trying to remain at a safe distance but unwilling to let go of their line of sight with shore, until they found the cut and headed back in, after a run at full power to pick up speed and avoid having the breaking waves crash on the stern and make the boat broach and capsize.

It was a close call. Every captain on the island made a mental note to always carry a GPS on board even if only going from the beach to the boat on a dinghy. And everyone was reminded, once more, that the minute we stop respecting or even maybe fearing the ocean, it kills.

Once in a while I run into something I really like, a service, a product, a piece of software, a recipe, a movie, something. And then I plug it. Not for the rewards, not for the fame, not for attention but just because I think a compliment costs me nothing and goes a long way. So the opinions expressed hereby are mine solely and most likely biased. After all, I’m from the south of France where objectivity is often replaced by passionate enthusiasm and colorful language.

A few weeks ago, my sister sent me the link to BetterWorld.com, an online used book reseller with a conscience. I visited them, did a few searches, found an old book I hadn’t seen on any shelf in years and years, and ordered it. It was cheap. Used books should be. They shipped cheap too. Free in the US, $2.97 worldwide. My book took a while to arrive, maybe 10 days. So what, I was in no hurry.

Then a few days ago, their follow up email arrived. I read it and smiled. Well done, I thought. Some humour, some shameless self-promotion, nothing out of this world, just a nice touch. I have bought very expensive stuff on the internet for substantial sums, and rarely does the seller bother with following up. Better World Books did, even for the $3.98 purchase I honored them with. That’s what I call good business. I will buy again.

« Hey Vincent,

We’re just checking in to see if you received your order from Better World Books. If your order hasn’t blessed your mailbox just yet, heads are gonna roll in the Mishawaka warehouse! Seriously though, if you haven’t received your order or are less than 108.8% satisfied, please reply to this message. Let us know what we can do to flabbergast you with service.
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If you’ve really got some gumption, there’s one other thing you can do to help. Become our fan on Facebook by clicking this link. It’s the easiest way to let your friends know that you’re part of our movement to fund literacy by buying books.
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Today I took Abe Second Generation around Stanley Park looking for wildlife. On Saturdays, the Seawall is almost like the beaches of Coney Island and I figured the only thing that wouldn’t yield hurriedly to the crowd was marine life. I had starfish in mind. I came back with something else, entirely.

As soon as I got to English Bay, I realized this was an exceptionally low tide. Hundreds of feet of shoreline had been left exposed and a billion mussels were roasting placidly in the sun. I began my quest for the elusive starfish, patiently and unsuccessfully. There were oysters, mussels, crabs, thingies and birds, though. But no starfish.

Kent Avery was on location, selling pictures of his work on the Seawall’s, err... sea wall, but his balanced stones weren’t that impressive this time and the whole thing had a vague smell of tourist trap, so I moved on. Finally, between Siwash Rock and the Lion’s Gate Bridge where the water at low tide is a good ten or fifteen feet below the path, I spotted one.single.starfish. Climbing down a pile of large rocks to the water below, I walked on the slippery shore and took a few pictures of my discovery.

But when I got back to my pile of rocks, improvised staircase to the Seawall, I found it occupied. A family of raccoons, mother and three cubs, was in the process of climbing down my way. The three younglings being rather small, it wasn’t a simple affair. I whipped Abetoo out of its bag and for the next half hour, as people stopped above me and took pictures too, I had the front row to myself and enjoyed the cutest family outing.

Later, having circled the park, I found a stranded heron and a funny river otter at the bottom of Coal Harbour. That’s Stanley Park for you. Tucked right against the third largest Canadian City and third highest population density in North America, it’s full of surprises, it’s beautiful and it’s next door.