Sail 7Cs

Tarps, tarps, tarps.

I suppose my ambivalence about tarps has its origins in the family vacation of 1962. I was 7 the year we embarked on a vacation so ambitious I would never undertake it, even if I had had a choice, which of course then, I did not. July, and summer family vacation time came, so off we went to circumnavigate the Great Lakes by Volkswagen!

Now we were a picture. We were a family of four in the car and we carried the family canoe on the roof and of course we dragged along all our considerable camping gear under a tarp in a laden utility trailer. For those of you more than 30 years old, you will remember the Volkswagen car from those days as the cramped affairs they were, pushed along by a pathetic, inadequate, air-cooled engine bellowing away from some dark place under car’s rear end. Later, as an adult, I understood from my father’s recounting of the tale the Volkswagen was never again the same and neither was I. Those hills north of Lake Superior were murder and I was a complete shit the whole trip. I think Dad still feels guilty about selling the car that fall, and I still feel guilty about my attitude that summer.

But I suppose I should give myself a break. Riding in the back seat of a Volkswagen for four weeks with a three year old brother is no holiday in any condition. My brother was a sweet kid, and is today a sweet man despite the venom I visited upon him those endless hours droning along, the heat from the struggling engine making the back too hot to sit on. I survived the long hours laying in whatever space I could steal from him, eyes closed, day dreaming the day away. But worst of all was making camp every single, bloody night. At the end of each insufferable day on the road, we hunted down a camping spot, pitched two tents, dug trenches around each tent, set up the camp kitchen, and strung tarps everywhere. My job, after I blew up four air mattresses, was to hold this corner or that of the hated canvas, while Dad danced around the tangle of lines looking for the elusive ‘sky hook’. You see the tents leaked, and we had no modern caravan trailer to cook or sleep in. The tarps made it habitable, but Jesus, what an endless process making, then breaking, camp each day.

Fast forward 2011. Here I float on our boat on the other side of the world – in Malaysia – with a sun downer gin and tonic in hand, taking in the sun just before she sets. The monkeys and end of the day bird calls are just starting up in the jungle around the marina, and the sky is taking on a deep orange light. Swifts bomb the surface of the water around the boat I am sitting under the dry, cool of the ships boat cover, surveying my little kingdom. It’s the beginning of the monsoon, unbearably hot when the sun steams up the world between the many rain showers. Around me in the dusky light, I see the tools and dust everywhere form a week’s labour on the aft deck, sanding and varnishing the 26 floor boards hauled up from below. Then POW! Just as the sun touches the horizon it in dawns on me: With a laugh, I see the circle closing. This day, this moment in this magical kingdom, is possible because of the ships cover and of course the ships cover is just a bloody .....tarp!

I miss my family -- my Mom, my Dad and my brother. But the tarps that keep me cool and dry connect me to them across the miles, the years and the memories.