In The Mode

Cover via Amazon"Its time to get 'In The Mode".

The first time I heard that phrase was from my friend and, at that time boss, The Centurion. I was a rookie fish monger in my mid twenties, unloading boats in northern British Columbia, and the declaration was terrifying.

"In the mode"  means you go until the job is done or you die. Those are the only two possible outcomes of being in the mode. You keep going no matter what.

The phrase has come to mind often, and I am grateful to have understood its meaning. It has steeled me for daunting tasks throughout my working life.

From the salmon fishery, to the restaurant biz and at The Toronto International Film Festival, I have often found myself "in the mode."

And so it is that I have been in the mode these last six weeks. In early July I saw a deep chasm of available shifts and I volunteered for them all.

I like to travel, but in order to travel funds are required, thusly I made a commitment to get in the mode yet again.

Six weeks of 50 hours per have worn me down a tad. My back is killing me, my legs feel like lead and my patience is razor thin.

And tonight I had my Ratso Rizzo moment. Just prior to last call things were blessedly subdued, so I snuck out to the bench  on the sidewalk in front of the bar  for a smoke and a moment of respite when my nose started bleeding out of the blue.

I thought of Dustin Hoffman on the bus in Midnight Cowboy, and half laughing recalled his line, "I'm fallin apaahht heaahhh".



That may well be, but I am in the mode and I'm almost done.

And the mode has only two outcomes.

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Climbing The Ladder

Image by Artcatcher via Flickr

"Stock, we need a piece count. Go get it now!" That was the command from The Centurion as I stood on the deck of a flatbed truck parked on the edge of a dock that day in the height of an early nineties west coast summer in a northern British Columbian fishing village.

I looked over the edge to see it was low tide in these northern waters, and therefore a long way down, and a long way back up, using a freely swaying chain ladder in a high wind. Fortunately, I was wearing wet gum boots, which I am sure is the top choice of footwear for those in any extreme sport.

A 'piece count' is an estimation of what a fishing boat is carrying in terms of species, and it is done in order to facilitate the more efficient unloading and recording of the catch. In my particular case, I was unloading salmon boats, so I needed to find out, how many pink,spring, sockeye, chum and coho were on board.

Given that Pink salmon were worth 19 cents per pound and Sockeye were worth $3 or so, its important to know the difference. Knowledge of the "piece count" also contributed to trucking issues, given that we were a temp operation that relied on semi trailers for storage.

I won't bore you with all the details, but a piece count is key to unloading a boat quickly and efficiently. The salmon season is short, and unloading a boat has a lot in common with a NASCAR pit stop. Get them in and out quickly.

A deckhand or two is dispatched to Prince Rupert (30 km away) to buy about a grand worth of supplies, while the rest of the crew watches the graders (me) for accuracy. Another is stationed at the tally shack, to ensure accurate recording of the catch as it is weighed. There is a lot of money involved, so it is hard to blame the boat for having someone hanging over my shoulder as I decide whether a fish is a pink or a sockeye.

The scrutiny tended to become even more intense when skippers would learn that the guy who was grading their catch on this remote dock was from Toronto. To this day, I will give $50 to anyone in Toronto who can identify a salmon species more accurately than myself.

For some reason, this invaluable skill has not furthered my Bay Street ambitions in the least.

But, I digress. I was talking about climbing down a swaying and lengthy chain ladder.

Did I mention that I had no business being involved in unloading fishing boats, that a pussy like me should stick to pouring drinks and that I should stay well away from real men doing real work?

Oops, digressing again. This is about a long hanging ladder. The worst part was letting my lower body hang down as my gumbooted feet felt for a grip on the top rung of the chain ladder. Engaged, I began the long descent on my swaying conveyance, all the while willing myself not to look down.

As I reached the bottom, I thought I was done, but no. My landing pad was a slippery, waterlogged boom, coated in a teflon like moss. I struggled to climb on board, and was greeted by a number of arms from the crew straining to help me, much to my humiliation.

People who fish for a living tend to be like that. They risk their lives and they depend on each other in a way that you and I will never fully know, and when they see an idiot like me struggling, they reach out to help.

I got the piece count, and headed back up the ladder. By the time I got to the top, my knees were like jello and I had to sit down for a moment.

As I paused, I asked myself what some soft little city boy from Toronto was doing in this job so far from home and my element? Why am I driving a forklift? Why am I climbing this ladder?

But you know, all these years later, I am so glad that I threw myself into that unlearned world. I cast myself out into the unknown and forced myself to have a new experience. And years from now, when I am relegated to my rocking chair, I will look back on that chance I took and I will smile to myself.

I hope that you take the same chances in your own life, that you climb your own ladder,  so that when you are old and grey, you will have a similar smile on your face

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The 'Couv Is A Groove

Image via Wikipedia

In the early summer of 1972, my parents packed up everything and off the wagontrain went, westward from Calgary to Vancouver. I was not yet seven years old.

I would spend my next seventeen summers in Vancouver. More than any other place, Vancouver is where I became who I am, and oddly, it is still the place I think of when I think about home. And what a beautiful home it was. Lush green forests, soaring mountains, and beautiful beaches synchronize with my memories of those oh so formative years.

I miss Vancouver a great deal, and I don't get back as often as I should, but when I do return I still marvel at the intrinsic beauty of this rain soaked paradise. Often Canadians who don't live in Vancouver utter complaints about the amount of rain on the west coast. This is usually done just prior to their dropping the snow shovel and clutching at their hearts as they collapse in their driveway. I'll take the rain anyday.

The 2010 Olympic Games will be Vancouver's coming out party, a clarion call to the world. If the world is smart it will listen. Vancouver is by far the most beautiful city I've seen. Then again, I may be a little biased, after all we all have a place we think of when we think of home.

What comes to your mind when you think of home?

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