25, first half

Cindy was kind enough to pay us with some money, as well as shelter and food for our work, so after getting dropped off in the middle of town, we had breakfast and a cute cafe. The orange carrot soup was awesome. While Steph was attempting to make a call at a pay phone, I decided to throw my hat and some change down while picking the banjo, within thirty seconds I was rewarded handsomely, another moment after that steph was done on the phone and we started cruising down the highway towards the ferry. The rain was a bit troublesome on the banjo, but it was warm outside, so a sweatshirt wrapped it up nicely. No one was picking us up at that point, but the cruise was every so lovely, before we knew it the ferry was in sight and we had an hour to hang out before departure. We swapped stories and watched a child with dreadlocks run wild. Picking some tunes in the waiting room, approving glances and nods abounded. It was a quick ride of 45 minutes to horseshoe bay; while sharing a smoke we saw some porpoises and a older native guy with the word “elder” embroidered on his jacket. Getting off the ferry, we found out we could have bought tickets for the next on on the boat, but instead we walked all the out the terminal to purchase the tickets. I caught an internet signal at a local coffee shop and got the news that the album I recorded last month being carried along in post production. Then we had the notion to try and cook a steak I pilfered (it had been sitting out for a day) from around a camp fire. Our plan was to build a fire and cook the steak in the forty five minute window we had before the next ferry. Racing down a nearby path we found a suitable spot and began to burn a newspaper and some sticks, the fire got quite hot fast, but the sticks were all wet and refused catch. After a few attempts a blowing into and rebuilding the make shift fire, we abandoned the idea. Strolling down the gangway to the boat a slightly smart allecky gentleman commented that the boards should be ridden and not dragged, dodging the pedestrians we rode, striking some notes on the banjo got a big thumbs up. After tracking down a microwave in the sitca lounge, I popped in the steak and cooked it at three minutes a side. The flavor was more or less zapped out, but it was still pretty tasty, especially with the mounds of condiments acquired from the local cafeteria. A young fellow from a small town in Ontario talked to us about his job as a commercial diver, mostly taking dead fish out of nets in at fish farms. The week on week off schedule allowed him to travel all around, being based in Tofino, a spot I need to get to pronto. We also met a young traveler named Lynx with a beautifully painted leather jacket, colored nails, and white dread locks. We chatted about mind expanding drugs, dumpster diving, sweat lodges, busking and carving spoons out of wood. Apparently a carved knife is needed for such an endeavor, luckily he’s into black smithing as well.

24

Bright and clear morning, although the lack of sleep and bush living were taking their tole on the montrealers who began to snip at each other a bit. Goodbeys were made, Striker said he’d have me back next year, then Steph and I hit the road. The plan was to make it to Nanimo for the next night, my old pal Miles Howe had invited me to perform at his weekly tuesday night gig. Quite sunny, we rode with ease down the highway and were carried forward by a good bunch of people in cars. Outside of Roberts Creek we were picked up by a wild woman named Cindy Lee, she had the unbridled energy of a sixteen year old, but was apparently closer to 50. Right away she began talking about the magic of the universe and I knew we’d be friends for a long time when she asked to hear some banjo playing, she was the only driver on the trip, a group of about 10 people who made the request. She took us to a local beach to smoke a joint, there we stretched, did some tai chi, and she told us about her life creating a healing space in the middle of her small town. According to Cindy we are all healers and it’s simply a matter of finding out what your gift is, her place is open to practitioners of all stripes to come and practice their techniques. After grabbing a mango smoothie and some pie at a coffee shop courtesee of our friend Andrew, we went to see the Richard’s creek mandala. It’s a holy in the middle of a beach walkway, covering the ground is sacred paintings, apparently it’s the border point of Seshelt and Sqwamish territory. I like the idea of a sacred border that focuses on diverse peoples coming together, rather then the notion of a protected barrier that’s passible only by intense scrutiny. Around some bushes were Eric and Molly, the young banjo players from the day before, they were enjoying their daily six pack in the beautiful sun. Teaching them each some licks and tricks, they heaped love and praise onto me, quite the pleasurable experience. While doing a double banjo rendition of foggy mountain breakdown, an elderly gentleman in a brown coat and sunglasses started to do a jib, spin around, and executed a priouette. I couldn’t get my camera out fast enough. Cindy went to drop Andrew off at the fairy, while Steph and I strolled the board walk, we saw an otter up close and the fin of a seriously killer whale. Attempting to make fire with only sticks, the surface area was heating up nice, releasing the welcoming sent of pine into the air, but no sparks. More young folk emerged to congregate around the beach side fire pit, where perhaps every day, they sit and talk and love. It was a mirror of my old parksville crew, who seemed to gather together spontaneously at fire pits around the town. Cindy picked us up and took us up on an offer to do some manual labour, the job was painting the wellness center. Located in a community market, every corner had different styles of clothing, art, cards and nicknacks made and imported by the locals. Opening up a side door, we came into the massage therapy front room of Cindy’s space. A bit further opened into a bigger main room that serves the purpose of holding healing, in many different forms. We mixed purple paint and spent the next few hours taping, cutting, rolling and detailing the walls. Meditative in it’s practice and in it’s long term, painting that room was a great project, a work worthy of the new world and ways to live. Munching on borsh and then Ice cream, we were quite the happy hitch hikers. Cindy regailed us with stories of her youth and spritual growth. She was telling us about the extended spiritual community all starting to come together, all understanding the great shift that’s taking place. She spoke the native elders who cried with joy when approached about the prospect of canoe races, a tradition they thought had withered years ago. The great canoe’s can hold around thirteen people, with a drummer guide. The races have been gaining momentum and popularity in the area, I hope to partake asap. After painting cindy drove us to gibson’s to lay down in a basement apartment of a friends house. We marveled in the beauty and power of the day.

23rd

Steph woke around 6 with full excitement of the up coming race, she pecked me on the cheek and took off with gusto. The sound of the rain on the outside of the tarp was magnified by the tent, making it sound like it was raining heavily, also it was slightly chilly, meaning I stayed in bed until about noon, enjoying the sounds of the rain and my warm sleeping bag. Venturing forth, I discovered it wasn’t raining hard at all, quite the auditory illusion. My friend Julian who looks like chuck norris was similarly shocked at the lack of rain. Exploring a segment of the camp site I hadn;t been to yet, I got to meet Jessica from new york, who rode quite well in the slide comp, and I found out later won it. She told me she worked at something called school of rock, she teaches kids who to emulate all their favorite rock stars, as well as helping coordinate orrigionals bands and material. A pretty blond girl offered me the end of her oat meal and a fellow with dreads complimented on my music friday night. They offered a spot in their car to the big race and grabbing the banjo we were on our way. Arriving at the race spot, Daryl called to me and I joined the parksville crew up on a hill. Sitting with those folks reassured my deep connection into the fabric of that little town as well in the greater longboarding, BC and freedom cultures. Since Daryl and I have become friends, he’s taken a radical shift in his outlook at approach to life. Once he worked hard cutting grass, bought and smoked copious amounts of pot, drank a lot, then skateboarded and played punk music when he could. Now he picks mushroom in the woods, had delved deep into taro and seems to have a calmer existence, albeit with many more tattoos. We played a board game on the side of a hill and watched racers explode around “carnage corner” the one deadly corner in an otherwise calm and relatively easy race. We witnessed some wicked wipeouts, recoveries and rene bail, loose her shoe, recover, put it back on, and continue down in front of other racers. The race seemed anti climactic, not much emphasis put on the final runs of the competition, but still incredible to witness such skill and precision ridding. Pilling bails of hay into the Uhal was a fun team experience, my red and black sweater was covered in hay, a fellow with a blow wand gave me a blast of wind. Some free sausages were enjoyed slowly, a bite every few minutes and ANOTHER banjo was enjoyed on the shuttle back to camp. At the site some young locals and a native queen named Tina, all hung around picking and grinning. Molly Kennedy is a name that folks should put in their memory banks, this young lady is a fire brand. Her banjo and singing skills were superb for someone playing eight months, but she also works hard and grows her own food. Pushing Dominique on the tireswing, doing yoga shirtless, teaching youngun’s to play clawhammer was all lovely, then ross the sound guy and hoodie came up, talking amongst themselves I over heard them saying the intended to play before the awards ceremony had cancelled. I offered to play and hoodie asked if I would. After packing up a drum kit we were rolling away in the green painted station wagon of the green team, ridding in style. The kit was set up, someone asked if I wanted a drummer, and all of the sudden I was performing for a packed house again. Some of the tunes were repeated, but the general group clap/stomp/singalong was achieved again. The best part was shouting “ I say danger you say bay. Danger!...” The gig was smooth and wild, calling out to green team, red eye and the various nationalities was a crowd stoker. Ross motioned on more, I was at a loss, the rene said, “big balls”, then came my version of the song “tiger woods” by dan bern. During the set, Striker and hoodie were tossing much merch, it was humorous to see kids of all ages scamper to dive for boards, t shirts and stickers. The awards were a pleasure to see because of the appreciation the organizations, sponsors, riders and fans have for those that push themselves and those top spots and evolutions. The green wagon was full afterwards, so Hoodie and I and scoot’s sister waited in the warm evening. Back at camp, back at the fire, watching, warming, bands playing, then wild techno dance party taking, into the loco and back. Steph and I missioned for various treasures, which we found, then crashed.

22nd

Reconnecting with my old pals from team switchback, I rode with the gear in the back of the short bus enroute to the slide comp. Steph had lent me her pirate eye patch in order to test the theory that pirates used patches to train their eyes for varying degrees of light. The results were fairly trippy. Though there was some light coming through a small hole in the patch, the adjustment to the size of my pupil (spelling?) and subsequent optical rearrangement was substantial. It was as if someone had turned up the “brilliance” knob on my covered right eye. Left was the normal adjustment, fairly sunny so things started to look grey, but back to right, bam, full blast of colours. Amusing myself with these vision games, I watched all the powerfully beautiful landscape that makes up the sunshine coast, it came to me that I need a constantly streaming video camera attached to my head, so that everyone at home can see the amazing things that I get up to every day. The purpose of said camera would be to demonstrate that if one engages in the passion (in my case playing the banjo), sustenance will become an afterthought since you’ll be totally emerged in the sweet life. The slide comp was majestic, powerful innovation emerged since last year, impressive athleticism and style, full fun. The jam style was disfavorable in my opinion, harder to keep track of the riders and sharing the course made for some unwanted traffic, still a wicked show though. On the way back in an open ended uhall trailer, nick and I danced our feet on the rushing pavement below, a hand stand was attempted for the guy with a camera behind us. The brilliance of a covered eye was still shocking. More fire surfing and it it was time to ride to Madeira park with steph the montreal crew driving behind us. It was a good run, the small town was in full swing for the victoria day celebrations. Breakdancing for the local old time folk band was enjoyable for all. Chats with a local clam digger were great as well, he was quite interested in longboarding, I told him everything I knew about the sport. Up walked a fellow who had been playing drums that were suspended by springs from a wooden cube that encased it all. Called “bonggie” or something, I recalled he’d been profiled on the classic Canadian television show, On The Road Again. It reminded me of a chat with my mother about that episode, it turned out many of the shows subjects had the sub title “old people making things” and she asked me which of the segments I would remember, it was the drummer. He was in good shape, has patented the construction but hasn’t reproduced it. Wood working is his life of work, there was the possibility he’d sold the same carved bench twice. Rolling down the hi-way, a lake caught my eye, cutting down to the water two brown masses few by. With closer inspection a bald eagle was trailing a slow moving, huge, great blue heron. The heron squawked and changed direction, the eagle spun and followed suit. A second eagle joined the pursuit from above. As the Heron tried to make a move and fly right, the higher eagle swooped down, a great cry shot out, and a big brown bird plummeted sixty feet into the lake One eagle flew back to the next and the other to the fallen heron, splashing around where the bird dropped. Then with repetitive flaps every four seconds, slowly dragged the carcass to side of the lake it took about five minues. Then took it’s time tearing the flesh off the bones, the whole situation was fairly intense. Back at the park mayday festivals I watched the mechanical bull competition, a fellow named “gruff” who was quite handsome with his mustance, rode the contraption with both hands in the air. Little Quinn rode it afterwords. Pumping my legs back to the camp, the french crew picked me up and the rest of the evening was spent experiencing the lack of sleep. Eventually Steph and I crashed in her tent, this time sharing blankets and staying warmer.

Not sure which date

Warning: This blog is explicit in nature. If explicit things bother you, don’t read it.

I took an alternative, overgrown path up one side of the central stream, over a large, slightly rotting bridge which I crossed tentatively, then into the camp site. More roasted onions with Caribbean chicken sauce tasted fine as I made more acquaintances. The next few hours consisted of strolling from fire to fire, chatting with whomever I came across. Paulo from Brazil was one of my favorite characters, voyaging randomly found himself to the race. A number of introduction included “you mean the banjo boy I’ve been hearing all the stories about” or from the security “oh, the one guy we weren’t supposed to let in this year”. Reuniting with “Monster” the large, bearded bald chap who’m I skirmished with was quite amusing, as he was hugging me, he kept saying “they mixed me up for you! They thought I was the guy naked and high on acid”. I told him I fully enjoyed being beaten into the family. A dear friend Rabble, who’s got multiple face peircings, dreds and a crazed look in his eye, invited me to sample the liquid acid, I did two hits. Sound check was smooth, then I shot the shit with the extended family and awaited my turn to perform, and for the acid to kick in. The grand godfather of the race and the most central figure of the longboarding existence is a guy named Striker, who’s a mailman by day, incredibly warm and joyful soul while being a deeply silly goofball, and who happens to put together this and many other similar events. Well he plays bass in a band called loose tooth, total thrashy/metalish skatepunk, it brought me back to being 16 years old and sneaking into the various punk clubs, feelings that deep seated attraction to unbridled chaotic musical rage. The band ripped it up and the audience ripped it harder, moshing with conviction, screaming gang vocals. Punk music is alive and well in the deep bowels of BC. A lit up frizbee was a pleasure to toss as the drugs began to tingle, in pitch darkness, the lights flash and fly, prompting wild visual hallucinations and quick dashes to catch and toss. After Loose Tooth played, it was my turn up to bat. The crowd was ramped and excited, stomping out a rhythm the crowd followed with claps and the energy started to rise. Lights in my eyes blurred the vision of the crowd, by I could hear them screaming, hollering. “ Ole ole ole ole!” Started up and all sang along. With a smooth transition into What I Got, the folks were all singing along, still banging away, raw percussive devises of bottles and sticks emerged, knocking out strange counter beats. Into Fresh Prince of Bell Air theme song, with what I got lyrics, I got the whole gang rapping. Finishing off with a misfits medley, there was a whole moshpit pulsating away to the sound the banjo. A Deeply enjoyable audience, the audience partcipation was key. Black out play and the crowd was awesome. The rest of the night was spent wandering from camp fire to camp fire, enjoying the waves of LSD that flowed through my consciousness. As the sun rose, the upper field was the place to hang out, Logan kept a good eye on the megaphone and his booze, so waking everyone up for the slide competition, by banjo and skat via bullhorn, was fully enjoyable.

May 20

Greetings world, it’s 5 22pm and I just woke up in some bushes adjacent to the camp site for ATTAC OF DANGER BAY 9, the worlds biggest gathering of longboarders. Over the next few days will be some incredible partying, racing, sliding competitions, live music (of which I’m contributing to), and obscene acts of drinking, drugs and general debauchery. Tristan and I left Parksville mid day wednesday, hitchhike to the Commox ferry, rode from Powell river a good ways until camping in the woods. The next day we got a ride to the next ferry, arrived on the sunshine coast and hitched another lift to the the Lions camp ground on in Pender Harbor, arrive mid yesterday afternoon. The trip was super smooth, we rarely had to wait more then 5 minutes for a ride and all our drivers were friendly and interesting. Yesterday exploring the area, I came across an old burnt out cottage with a wood and barbed wire fence around it’s yard, upon further investigation a stable and hay shed were discovered, old tools laid unused and a weather piece of paper in a ziplock sack said “don’t come in, unsafe”. T and I had a nice long fire as we casually roasted chunks of big white unions I’d dumpstered a few days before. The onions were delicious, it was the perfect wrap up to the travel section of this adventure. In the evening we walked into the greater campsite to see what was up. Striker might be the face of longboarding, not only because he organizes the annual epicenter of international longboarding, but because he personifies the best qualities of the scene it’s self. He was welcoming with open arms and we immediately were amerced into the warm group of people I so fondly remember from last year. An good looking Australian fellow carrying a forty in a paper bag took an interest to the banjo and was asking techinal question of the construction, he then told a story about ridding home late one night and hearing the voice of a banjo from a distance. We then stumbled upon Charly, aka Clit, who’s one of the most fascinating creates in the fold. While she did just do a year of art school, she paid for it by pan handling, that method plus hitching got her down to a few races in New Mexico last month, which she both won. Quite crass but not at all rude, Charly is also a great musicians, we sang standards around a barrel fire with a rotating cast while roasting found veggies on a grill. A stroll with a young adventurer named Steff informed me that pirates used eye patches to train their eyes for night vision; allowing one pupil to adjust for daylight one for less light. After wearing the patch all day busking, she returned home one day to discover her vision radically altered. Bumping from fire to fire, I came across Scoot, leader of team green and former world champion. He’s somewhat legendary in the larger community and I’d built him up to be older and more grizzled, his bright face looked even younger then his 23. Chatting about the longboard lifestyle, the notion of “professional” I had heard he was a carpenter “hah, drywaller” he retorted. A youthful montrealer named Emily had an immediately insightful answer to the question I ask almost every new person I meet “what makes you happiest in life?”. Her joy was showing people how to follow their instincts rather then to be a result of their environments. Not listen primarily to their hearts, not the constant barrage of what we “should” be living like; especially in regards to the perceived importance of the material, when really it’s the mental, spiritual, ecological environments that are important. Sitting around a fire with Tristan, Steff and Rex, we did what folks do best around fires at 5 in the morning, talked about the meaning of life. We agreed that people at the party are definitely awakened souls and that more and more people are starting to wake up to the good life, real life, with limited possessions and ultimate freedom. The sun came up and when to crash in Stefs tent because it was raining, however without a blanket I didn’t last long and ventured over to my gear stashed on the opposite side of a creek. Last night was the first that I shared my tarp with my full pack and longboard, we were all quite cozy. Now it’s late afternoon, writing is a nice way to wakeup, I can hear hollers from the camp site, the booze must be flowing. I hear it’s going to be sunny all weekend, far out.

May 16th

Ladies and gentlemen, I was quite pleased with that last bit of writing, a pattern of growth and progress is becoming discernible, metaphysical plains of existence are becoming fathomable. The most important lesson to depart is awareness of breathing, all the way in, all the way out, when ever possible, especially when presented with a daunting or emotionally charged moment. Smoking tobacco is a stimulant, it’s the action of taking long, slow breaths, albeit sucking down poisons, that offers the habitual smoker that sense of relaxation. Combining slow breathing with other activities like washing the dishes, writing or sex, changes the dynamic of the activity to one where pace is understood, maintained and is quite a challenge, at first. Breathing slowly alters the nature of one’s interaction with their environment. Long forgotten nooks and crannies are expanded in the lungs, more oxygen is given to the brain, calmness comes to the heart.
Yesterday I awoke to mountains, beach, ocean, a steep hill, some young and an old eagle, star fish, and yet another group of people who seem to be fully entwined in the marijuana spirit, morning meditation got me going as I ran up the side of the a hill, running near horizontally as fast as I could, as far as I could, before tired muscles and gravity got the better of me, sending me cascading down the hill. The shirt was off in the warm sunlight as washed up trees acted as balancing beam from big rock to rock, piles of purple starfish sat waiting in a crevice, waiting, hoping the tide would return to their spot of rest, dry death being the alternative.