Saturday afternoon. Government Wharf. The sun is shining. There are clouds in the sky but they're benign and scattered and far off in the distance. Music blankets the harbour, tossed in a blatant display from the fish boat across the dock.
African rhythms under a hot sun, spreading through the harbour, into the wheelhouse widow, swirling through the boat and out the other door. Maple Leaves flapping and dancing off sterns and masts and the Wharf flagpole, keeping time with the music and the rhythm of the wind. Down the dock, hook on a line, tied to a stick, some children have captured a shiner. Down further, Arctic Fox, Star Shadow, Peggy Sue, Octavia, and Pearl Sea. Down even further, history and people and time surround and re-group and bounce up against the pilings and some sail away and return and sail away again, and some sink to the bottom of the harbour.
"Took me a couple of weeks to get used to it here", and she gave them a visual, arms held up, elbows bent towards the side of her body, hands flapping, she displayed vibration. She smiled. They smiled. She laughed. They laughed.
"Maple Bay was beautiful but it's quiet there and subdued. It's a wonderful place to go to find a bit of peace but not like here at all. It's so vibrant and full of life here! Glorious technicolour. Look!" and she pointed out over the 'Government Dock', "It's so overwhelmingly beautiful."
Beyond the Gibson's harbour there's the Coast Range Mountains soaring to the sky yet providing the illusion of benignly bending down to commune with the sea. When the sun is shining, reflecting on the water, bright dots of brilliance beckon to the sailboats and tugs and motor yachts and pieces of history and lore that dot the harbour. Down from the sky the seagulls and crows and eagles and swans exhibit their freedom, coaxing the eye to the shoreline and then up and beyond once again. Sparkling water, sleeping giants, clear blue sky, benign sun reflecting on it all. Round and round. Round and round.
Characters abound. Rough fishermen, thirsty and tired, trudge up the dock heading for the Pub, elated after winning battle with the elements or just dead dog tired (hard work). The next day you see them, relaxing on the back of their boats, tending to their equipment or just soaking up the sun. Wharf rats wander and commune sharing stories and time. Artists and movie producers and writers share space with fishermen and anesthesiologists.
Laughter and African rhythms, grinders and sanders and engines, flapping flags and tinkling halyards, and people, all kinds of people, all getting ready to go riding on the wind.