The Oil Man and the Sea by Arno Kopecky

Author:Arno Kopecky [Kopecky, Arno]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: environmentalism, oil tankers, activism, British Columbia, environment
Publisher: D & M Publishers
Published: 2013-10-06T07:00:00+00:00

Before they die, salmon are morphed by freshwater, the effects varying according to species. Some develop hooked snouts, while others grow humped backs.

OVER TWELVE hundred marine traffic “incidents” were reported off British Columbia’s coast in the decade leading up to our trip, but Foxy did not feature among them. The closest we came to an incident was on August 2, as we motored up the middle of mile-wide Seaforth Channel. We’d left Koeye and were heading north again; up Fitz Hugh, through Lama Pass, past Bella Bella and Shearwater—just two hours past, in fact, when Suzy made a sound like her 37 horses were beset by wolves. Ilja slammed a greasy fist into the kill switch and dove below decks, leaving me at the aluminum wheel. The sun was shining. To starboard, a tug was overtaking us with a football-field-sized barge in tow, laden with machinery and oblivious to our predicament, as were the three sportfishing boats bearing down off our port beam. Ilja, absorbing different information in the engine room below me, shouted up in expletive-laden terms that the impeller hose had burst.

“What’s an impeller hose?” I called back.

“The Pacific fucking ocean is pouring into our engine room!”

That I could picture. But Ilja swiftly resolved the crisis by turning a valve that stopped the water coming in. Never panic. No longer sinking, we unfurled the jenny and gybed downwind, sailing away from the rocks towards a narrow bay sheltered from the wind by a steep mountain. As we entered the mountain’s lee, our sail deflated and Foxy drifted to a halt in time for us to drop anchor in forty feet of hazel water, and we were safe.

We weren’t alone. Michael Reid and Sarah Stoner were right behind us in the Skomalt. They were headed to Hartley Bay, home of the Gitga’at Nation and our next stop, as well. There were a dozen routes we could have taken through the labyrinth to get there, but Michael said he knew of a good one, so we’d arranged to meet up in Whiskey Cove and sail north together.

The Skomalt followed Foxy to safe harbour and rafted up as soon as we’d anchored. “Thanks guys,” Sarah said as they tied on, “Bowie was ready to go for a walk anyway.”

Bowie was Sarah’s enormous live-aboard mutt, who didn’t have the best sea legs; she took him ashore for a beach walk while Michael and Ilja went below to look at Suzy.

“Pretty grim,” Michael said.

“I think I can patch her up at least enough to get back to the mechanic at Shearwater,” said Ilja. I was relieved to hear it. A tow would have cost over a thousand dollars.

“I think you guys should have a beer with me,” I said.

They did, and Sarah paddled back to join us too, which was a good thing because the smell of her dog had attracted company. A guttural howl arose from the woods and a pack of pale wolves trotted out onto the rocks where she’d been five minutes earlier, sniffing intently.

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