Christmas Holidays

Grey follows grey,
cascading through November
into December:
washed-out days
falling like the pages
of those animated calendars
in old B movies
indicating
passage of time.

Rain and sleet
driven by persistent easterlies,
chiselling at the foundation
of human patience,
seeping insidiously
into our pleasant equanimity,
and fogging soggy reason.

Relief then,
as suddenly the Season
is upon us.
Friends call,
relatives visit,
and festive lights
create magical spaces
enhanced by holiday smells
of spiced wine,
and steaming puddings.

Familiar music soothes tired soul,
and the laughter of children
brings fond remembrance
of absent friends,
of departed loved ones
whose presence is still strongly felt
in this time of love shared.

The temperature drops,
and pregnant clouds deliver
a gift of pure
and silent snow:
a vignette of Peace
in a season of Joy.

Early November at Greyhavens

Autumn Morning at Greyhavens

The Barn Watches

Window Ablaze

Southwest 1

Southwest 2

Green, with variations of Grey(havens)

Barn Burning

This is one of those wonderful fall days, with drizzle in the air, the wind from the south, laden with the smell of salt and the far-off tropics. On the verandah it is like being on the bridge of a ship in a gale, plowing through a seascape of pines, hills, roads, and grasses.

Greyhavens Morning: October 9, 2008

Tai Torii: Harmony Spirit Gate

Father and Son

Oh I know that I provided 
the mandatory basics:
food, clothing, shelter.
But it goes beyond that:
it’s about the wonder
of observing development,
watching the dawn
of understanding.
And feeling your delight and joy,
aching with your pain, 
and waiting with your anger:
about trying to give
some small insight
into me,
so that you could, knowing me,
recognise more of you.
And keeping a constant supply
of love for you,
stressing its vital importance
in life.

But we never played sports,
(I was not that kind of dad)
and I fear that I neglected
to give you choice.
We never spent close time together,
(you were as solitary as I)
and I feel we missed something
that we were too privately busy
to find together.
And, in asking what you thought,
I listened, but never really heard,
the marvel that is you.

You were older than I thought
in your life,
and,
now that you have grown,
I find myself searching
for your lost youth.
And wondering if the pain 
of our separation
will ever fade.

Brahman’s Blossom

If I have made
my mark on you, my child,
and instilled within your heart
any of that brave stuff
which is my essence,
   I have done that which I was placed
   in this time to do.

If one seed has been planted
that blossoms into knowledge
it took so long to glean;
one kernel of eternal Truth
that arrived in me so late,
   my long fallow has ended,
   and my stewardship is done.

If eternity approaches
and I return my Brahman spark,
leaving some small word
that I have spoken
to flourish in your life,
   then that Spark will glow brighter
   for having sheltered within you.

An Irish Heart

Fair Erin’s shore calls loudly
to her children far away
whose families had to leave her
to keep starving death at bay.

Her siren songs still call us
across these many years:
the echo of the uillean pipes
still brings forth heartfelt tears.

The ballads, myths, and legends,
are taught to us from birth:
the poets, heroes, kings, and knaves
prove well seanachie’s worth.

Though we may not be with her,
we’ve been too long apart,
we’ll always have her with us
within an Irish heart.

     —Seamus OFionnain

A Time To Say Goodbye

To each of us
there comes a time
when an action
becomes right:
   a time of birth,
   a time of death,
   of sadness, or delight.

The clarion call
to fall in love,
the urge
to change direction:
   a time for each choice
   to be made
   as we strive for perfection.

For me
the hardest time
of all,
no matter how I try,
   is when the clock is still,
   and it
   is time to say goodbye.

A Day Never Passes

A day never passes
without I contemplate
another wondrous facet
of our love.

I never look upon you
without that sense of joy
you awaken
in my heart.

Your love is a beacon:
the candle in the window
that lights
my way home.

The Fool and the Mountain

I once stood on a steep hill
watching a fool stumbling his way
s l o w l y
and painfully to the top.

He didn’t
follow the path, but instead
a diversified route through rocks
and trees
and rose bushes.  I thought
him foolish, considering
the smooth simplicity of the path.
For hours I watched him, amazed
by his actions as he rolled in the grass,
dug under stones and such.

At last he stood beside me on the peak, 
smiling.  I questioned him at length
on his trip, stating how pointless
it seemed.  He said, “I helped a young robin
back into its nest;
I watched the sun set in the west,
through a rose bush;
I counted the petals in a daisy-chain,
and cried at the waste;
I found a quartz crystal
that had swallowed a rainbow;
I watched a fieldmouse nursing five children;
I spied on a bud that bust forth as a violet;
I heard the universe speak
through the throat of a swallow.”

And he left me,
standing sad on the hill.

              

The Forest of Shadows

I am pursued through the forest
where there is no colour,
save that of feigned understanding.

Underfoot the rustling
of long-dead rumours
clutch at me like
the slime-laden claws
of some prehistoric
bastard crustacean,
spawned in hatred of change
by a dying mammal
made obsolete by the birth of man.

And the whispers, that were once screams,
that I hear through pounding eardrums,
are still persistent, yet false
as ever.
But I heed them less.

I stumble barefoot and breathless,
through the myriad graveyards
of the Seven Churches: besieged by bells,
garroted by rosaries, choking on the words of men
who would seek to lead, while their
need is to be led:
but they are not.

Dying with every step,
I am beaten, and in frustration
turn
to meet my pursuer;
then weep with futility,
for that dreaded Face
has my own image.

Seal Harbour Days

Eternal fog still caresses these beloved shores
today, as in years past.
Scrub spruce, crowberry bushes, and ferns
now grow in profusion
where once houses stood defiant
against Atlantic gales.
Alders pay homage to fields
where fox pens made vain effort
to supplement
meagre income.

Through the mist a lone saddleback
laments the vanished bounty
his ancestors enjoyed: two pleasure boats
quietly rock
where dories, punts, and skiffs waited patiently
for the fishermen’s return,
or the freedom occasionally granted them
by small, seafaring boys.

At the two small cemeteries
the fog lingers quietly for a while,
like a brief visit between good friends
for whom words are not necessary
to define their kindred spirits.
The damp stillness attenuates a gentle echo
of remembered laughter,
of shared tragedies,
of birth and renewal,
of departures overshadowing
infrequent returns.

Wispy shapes can almost be seen,
in oilskins and Leckie boots,
and in patterned cotton house-dresses
that button up the front:
proud, brightly painted homes
seem to shimmer just beyond
the limit of vision,
and the smell of drying salt cod
and lobster bait mingle exotically
with that of home-baked bread,
molasses cookies, and johnny cake.

In the small village church
a diverse group of people
from near and far congregate
to share their common heritage:
skits, poetry, songs, and storytelling
express a strong sense of community,
a poignant feeling of something lost,
and a bittersweet remembrance
of departed family and friends.

One cannot help but feel that,
as the fog hangs outside the door,
yesterday still exists just beyond our sight,
remembered voices and smiles continue,
and small boats sail with the tide
to return with the sea’s harvest.
Children play in tidal pools,
returning to country kitchens
blessed by the benediction
of home cooking.
At the store down the road,
conversation rules eternal,
and the fog mixes with the smell
of Zig-Zag tobacco,
while comfortable nail kegs
host men who were giants in their time.

And down the gravel road, a small boy,
holding tight to his father’s hand,
walks, unknowingly,
towards a future
that will celebrate his past.

The Grown-up

(For my children, Kelly, Erin, Geoff, and Siobhan)

It wasn’t a magical star
granting a childish wish
      that made me grown up,
nor was it an evil wizard’s
vengeful spell
      that made me old.

She looked at me,
secure there on my lap,
      Pooh flannel ‘jammies’
wrapping her in the security
of being young, and safe
      in Daddy’s arms.

I used to fly with Wendy and the boys,
run from pirates with young Jim Hawkins,
      that was the boy I was!
It seems only a few minutes ago
Gordon and I fought the Dervishes
      at far-away Khartoum.

It wasn’t cosmic stardust,
falling one mystic night,
      that wrought this change
from the carefree boy I was,
the discovering, exploring, querying
      consumer of countless books.

It was the knowledge, my child,
the sure and wondrous certainty
      that you awaited,
with your brother and sisters,
that made me run, singing,
      to be here with you today.

The Net Mender

He sits there on a lobster trap,
Outlined against the sky,
With mended fishnet on his lap,
And sadness in his eye.
          For he longs to sail the sea once more,
          And hear the gale wind's mighty roar;
          To match his wits against the sea;
          To pace the deck where the wind blows free;
          To lie in the shade of a tall palm tree;
          But he is old, and sad, and he
                    Must mend the nets.

His weathered brow is paler now:
His keen eyes not so bright:
Still he longs for the surge of a schooner's bow,
And the crackle of canvas, pulled tight.
          How well he remembers Jamaican night,
          And the reefs of the Great Australian Bight.
          And he longs for the life of the days gone by,
          Knowing that soon he surely must die.
          But when he has gone to his port in the sky,
          Where stately schooners and clipper ships ply,
                    Who will mend the nets?

The Northern Banks

The once-proud schooner rots on the shore,
and hears the breakers’ endless roar,
to ride the flood tides nevermore,
to fish on the Northern Banks.

The flood tides oft’ had borne her away,
to face the North Atlantic spray,
and filled her holds day after day
with cod, from the Northern Banks.

But she was Queen of the Sea in her day:
beneath her bowsprit would porpoises play,
and through winter gales, her captain would pray
to the god of the Northern Banks.

Yes, she was Queen of the Sea, in her prime,
and through her rigging seamen would climb,
and strain ‘til they heard the cry sublime,
“Fish ho!” on the Northern Banks.

Then with holds full, she’s homeward bound,
and through town streets laughter would sound,
and her crew would smile, for word was around,
“She’s the best on the Northern Banks!”

Now the Queen lies asleep, with the beach for her bed,
and children play in the sand ‘round her head,
but she doesn’t mind, for her heart has led
her home, to the Northern Banks.

Siobhan Video: Full Metal Alchemist - 24 (For Wendy)

Epitaph

I hope it is an autumn day
when my magic journey ends,
with scarlet maples blazing forth,
caressed by western winds.

My wish would be for cumulus clouds
scudding across the sky,
with a flight of geese heading south
and honking as they fly.

My family and friends would gently smile,
and recall a life of joy,
and a loving man who looked at life
with the wonder of a boy.

The last of my wine should freely flow
and a Jameson’s or two,
and glad memories would be exchanged,
unembellished, and joyously true.

And my ashes would be scattered
on the waters of the bay,
and my spirit would take flight:
thus I would pass away.

And my people would remember me
when the wild nor’easter blows,
when the moonpath is on the harbour,
and when the lupin grows.

And my spirit will be out there
and their memories will not dim,
and sometimes with a smile they’ll say,
“that reminds me of him.”
.

Distraction

It wasn't through planning,
nor thoughtful foresight,
that I have arrived at this point in time.

It was, rather, through a series
of accidents: procrastination or blunder,
the guidelines were not clear.

It was the passage of time,
unnoticed, sneaking by me
as I, looking elsewhere, was distracted.

Such distraction, I see now,
has lead me here, today:
has made me who I am.

This distraction, with all
of its errors, its omissions:
this now; this joy; this life of mine!

Irish Echoes

Long ago, as another me,
I sat by campfires in a grove of holy trees,
enthralled by the druid's tales of battles
fought by warrior kings who were my kin.

I knew the fear that shrank my body
and sped my heart as we,
naked but for shield and sword,
ran to meet the foe.

As swords flashed amid screaming men,
I sang of my village, my sept...
my love, I sang of you. Your hair
knotted in a neck loop of sacred design
protects me.

Long ago, as another me,
I marched with my clan
to the plains of Boyne
to repel the false King William.
I raged as we were slain:
two uncles, proud and tall,
five cousins, and my brother:
all dead amongst the strangers.

Long ago, as another me,
I was driven by hunger, by need
to preserve my name,
to ride the famine ships west.
Today, in celebration,
my children are taught,
in story, and in music,
to acknowledge who we are.

Autumn Wine

Sometimes, during those infrequent moments
when the lack of outside stimulation
permits continuation of my quest
for inner peace and tranquillity;

Sometimes, when the melancholy rantings
of my Irish soul abate;
when all the things I have done,
and still have to do, stop clamouring;

Sometimes I catch the glimpse of a young man's visions.
Many and varied they prance before me,
Breathing soft sighs of "what if, what if?"
I smile sadly at their adolescent petulance.

Sometimes I hug them to my chest to soothe their confusion,
and tell of dreams: dreams distilled by time,
filtered by love, by experience, by life,
into the heady brew I sip today.

The Desktop Time Machine

On the desktop of my office computer sits a magical device: a screensaver loaded with pictures downloaded from WEBSHOTS. Now generally I am not given to calling software, however cool, magical, but in the case of my screensaver, it becomes, when my computer is inactive for five minutes, a time machine. In twenty second segments, it shows flashes of my life.

Flash: looking down from the mountain café overlooking Bergen harbour. In the fall of 1963 HMCS Bonaventure visited Bergen. Billy Nickson, Neil Parent, Dave Edgar, Mike Arnold and myself got up one Saturday night and sang “Tom Dooley” at a local wine bar. The crowd considered it a welcome respite from the house band, who mostly did Spanish music. We took the funicular up to the top of a mountain overlooking the city, and drank chianti on the patio, overlooking a city that sparkled below us in the crisp autumn air, like a diorama for a god’s Christmas tree.

Flash: the harbour in Mousehole, Cornwall. Terry and I visited in, I believe, 1988, driving down from Heathrow and visiting Stonehenge, “Jamaica Inn,” and Plymouth, enroute. We had small room in a hotel that was composed of various old fishermans apartments overlooking the beauty of Mousehole Harbour. We visited Land’s End, nearby, and viewed a presentation on the death of Arthur.

Flash: the waves breaking in a cove at the Tangalle Beach Hotel in Tangalle Bay, south coast of Sri Lanka -1986. Terry and I could sit on the deck at night and watch the lanterns, carried by the night fishermen in their dugout canoes, with outriggers. The myriad lights, bobing on the night water looked like some of the stars in the southern sky had decided to go for a moonlight swim.

Flash: the Corniche at Cannes - 1964. HMCS Bonaventure was visiting Toulon, and Moe Turmel, Mike Arnold, Neil Parent and I rented a car and drove along the fabled Cote d’azur, visiting Monaco, Cap d’antibe, Cannes and Nice.

Flash: the beach at Grand Anse, Grenada, where Terry, Geoff and I had an absolutely horrid several days in 1992. The air conditioner did not work, the meals at the hotel were too late for Geoff’s schedule, and the humidity was unrelenting. Geoff fell down a cement step and crashed our one attempt at eating at a reasonable time.

Flash: the dunes of Ras al Khaimah -1985. Jack, Mary, Terry and I drove through this lunar landscape on our way to the Holiday Inn at Khor Fakkhan.

And on it goes....every 20 seconds a scene comes up showing an actual place that I have stood, breathed and wondered. And for a magical 20 seconds, I am transported back to the sights, sounds, and feelings of there and then.

The time machine is available for download at daily.webshots.com. The searching for locations takes a lot more time, but, at least in my case, has been well worth the effort.

Leading Seaman Sullivan and HMS Victory

A recent visit to the website of HMS Victory brings to mind my several visits to HM Dockyards in Portsmouth, the site of HMS Victory. HMCS Bonaventure made three visits to Portsmouth in the early to mid 60s. This was at the height of the British Invasion of music, and the sounds of the Beatles, Dave Clark Five, Freddie and the Dreamers, Cliff Richard and the Shadows, the Rolling Stones, Herman's Hermits, the Yardbirds, Billy J. Kramer and the Dakotas, the Hollies, the Animals, the Bachelors, and the inimitable Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, were everywhere.

The Bonnie was tied up at a jetty about 10 minutes walk from the SouthSea Gate, and to get to the Gate, we had to walk past HMS Victory. One of our favourite haunts in Pompey (RN nickname for Portsmouth, as Slackers was for Halifax, and Diggers was for Digby) was the NAAFI Club, where thirsty sailors could get bargain basement Watney’s Red Barrel, Double Diamond, Rum and Black, and, of course, Newcastle Brown Ale. Oh, and as an aside, the less important things like steak, egg, and chips, Pork Pies, and Steak and Kidney (called Snake and Pygmy Pies by the non-PC Brits) Pies. On the way back to the Dockyard, one passed the Roundabout by the WREN’s Quarters, where Larry Tyce, in the nude, stalked returning WRENs (see my story in Files “Larry Tyce and the NAAFI Roundabout”). Further down the road was the HUGE dancehall called Sunny Southsea, where many of my mates found stimulating female companionship, and excellent music. (One of my mates, Steve “Spiff” Patterson, met his future bride there) Then, just before arriving back at the Dockyard gate, there was typical Fish and Chip shop, in the finest British tradition, where, at that time, they still served wonderful battered slabs of haddock, and the greasiest, but tastiest, chips in the civilised world, wrapped in greaseproof paper and the morning’s newspaper.

Leading Signalman Sullivan was an outstanding sailor, and, as Signals Yeoman, was the Flag Officer’s favourite during exercises. Sully liked his drink, to use a hackneyed euphemism, and was given to closing the NAAFI Club bar every night. He also, as was his right as a Canadian of Irish extraction, disliked the arrogance of the British Navy (remember this was in the early 60s, when the sun never set on the British Empire).

Each night at the NAAFI Sully would hold court over a table of messmates and discuss how we could, in the centre of the British Navy heartland, strike a blow for Canadian naval supremacy. Finally he came up with the idea of floating the Victory. Nelson’s Flagship was in a functioning dry dock, the flooding of which was controlled by hand operated wheels. Sully figured, after a night of Watney’s and several Rum and Blacks, that he was the man for the task, and set the timing of the deed for the next night.

The following night Sully showed up at our usual table with the Canadian Flag hidden under his tunic (no, not the Maple Leaf, but the ‘other’ flag that we had). Our navy flag, the White Ensign, would be no good for masthead flying as it was the same flag used by the RN. Sully left about a half hour before closing time. We tried to prevail on him to wait for our help, but we wanted to close the bar, and Sully was anxious to get on with his challenge.

Walking back to the ship later, replete with fish and chips and a full load of Watney’s aboard, we encountered a flurry of activity around HMS Victory. Shore Patrol were out by the score, and a platoon of armed Royal Marines were surrounding Nelson’s pride. We spoke to Shore Patrol and found out that an RCN Leading Seaman had been taken to cells after being caught trying to flood Victory’s dry dock. What both the Marines and the Shore Patrol missed was Sully’s calling card: we looked up at the Victory, and there, proudly flying over Nelson’s Quarterdeck, was the Canadian Red Ensign.

The flag was discovered by a RCN sub-lieutenant returning to ship later on in the evening, and duly reported to the authorities. Sully was released to our Bosun the next morning, and charged with contradition to the Queen’s Rules and Regulations for the Canadian Navy, in that he “did commit an act to the prejudice of good order and discipline in the Queen’s Royal Canadian Navy” and was sentenced, I believe, to 14 days stoppage of leave.

This epic event so inspired Sully’s shipmates that three of them, Leading Seaman Jim Fanning, Able Seaman Paul Thrasher, and Ordinary Seaman Dave Lister went on the following year, while visiting Roosevelt Roads US Navy Base in Puerto Rico, to liberate the American Flag complete with brass eagle, from the Quarterdeck of the US Marine’s Enlisted Mens Club, much to the chagrin of the United States Marines. Hey, they might be good at the Halls of Montezuma, and really proud on the Shores of Tripoli, but EM Club security leaves them scratching their heads.

The following was my favourite marching song while in the RCN. It never failed to bring goosebumps to my arms, and send a frisson of pride down my spine. Here then, the first verse and chorus of Heart of Oak:

Come cheer up, my lads! 'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, not press you like slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

Chorus
Heart of oak are our ships, heart of oak are our men;
We always are ready, steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.

Larry Tyce and the NAAFI Roundabout

As I had mentioned in "Larry Tyce and the Magnolia Tree," Larry was one of the junior seamen in our Mess (#33), the Communications Mess, on HMCS Bonaventure. In autumn 1964, the Bonaventure was visiting Portsmouth, where we tied up in the Royal Naval Dockyard.

We had been in Portsmouth several times before, and our favourite (and the cheapest!) watering hole was the NAAFI Club, about 3 kms from the Dockyard. The NAAFI was a wonderfully large eating and drinking establishment run by the Navy, Army, and Air Force Institute. It was located on one side of a large roundabout, with the WREN’s barracks on the other side. The roundabout itself was circular, with a fountain at one side and the centre covered with hedges and small trees.

One evening, after a night of drinking Watney’s Red Barrel Ale, and Rum and Blackcurrent, Larry excused himself from our table (where we were discussing the better points of several new British groups: the Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and The Dave Clarke Five), and said he was going back to ship.

About half an hour later, a nurse from the WRENs came in laughing at the sight she had just seen in the middle of the roundabout. Evidently she had heard singing in the roundabout and, coming closer, saw a naked male splashing in the fountain, singing "She loves me, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah." She yelled, and the man ran into the bushes in the centre of the circle.
It was not a great leap of our collective imagination to realise that Larry was "drunk and disorderly." So off we went to rescue him (yet again) from himself. We need not have worried: we found Larry behind the bushes, popping out frequently to amuse a small group of WRENs that had collected to see the crazy colonial in all his splendour. We retrieved his clothes from the fountain, and helped him get dressed and back to ship without further incident.

As a "by the way," HM Dockyards in Portsmouth (called Pompie by British and Canadian sailors) is home to Admiral Nelson’s flagship HMS Victory, which resides in a dry dock which happened to be on the route from the main gate to HMCS Bonaventure. I have, of course, a story about this which I shall relate later in a piece called "Leading Signalman Sullivan’s Trafalgar: or, Sully and the Attempted Launching of HMS Victory."

Larry Tyce and the Magnolia Tree

One of the many places I visited during my ten years in the Navy was Bermuda. It was my first really foreign port, and I had the privilege of visiting there over a dozen times in my career.

The capital of Bermuda is Hamilton, a small neat and very proper town, with pastel painted houses, stores that were also pastel painted, and only a little bigger than the cottages. Hamilton was also the place that, in several establishments around town, had signs posted stating "no sailors or dogs allowed."

When our ship, the aircraft carrier HMCS Bonaventure, went to Bermuda, we either tied up at the old RN facility at Ireland's Island, or anchored just off Ireland's Island. Duty boats ferried us back at forth at regular intervals to the dock in Hamilton.

One of our favourite watering places in Hamilton was the American Legion, Outpost Number One, as they served decent meals and indecent drinks at prices that were geared to destitute young servicemen. Outside the legion was a beautiful magnolia tree, with branches overhanging a sidewalk that led to Hamilton's finest church, the Cathedral of the Most Holy Trinity.

On the day in question, a bunch of us had taken the noon duty boat and had lunch at the legion, spent the afternoon touring on motorbikes, to return to the legion for supper at six. By eight, we had finished dining and were well into sampling Zombies, Margueritas, Singapore Slings, and Tom Collinses.

Larry Tyce was the junior (called OD in the Navy vernacular) in our group, and was very prone to overdrinking. (Larry will is the subject of another vignette called "Larry Tyce and the NAAFI Roundabout.) Larry was falling asleep at the table, so one of us suggested that he take himself down to the quay to catch the next duty boat back to ship. He left with no argument.
A short while later our libations were disturbed by the sound of outrage from the street. A group of pious members of St. George’s Church had been "taking the air" prior to evening church service. It was a beautiful evening, without a cloud in the sky, when suddenly they walked into a shower.

There was Larry, comfortable in the branches of the magnolia. Rather than coming back inside the Legion when he had to empty his bladder, he merely sat up, unzipped, and let it go.

It took some heavy diplomatic negotiations, involving dry cleaning bills, apologies, and a degree of humility uncommon to the Canadian Navy, to resolve the incident. Suffice it to be said that Larry escaped the clutches of the Military Police, we left the Number One Outpost with lighter wallets, and the Number One Outpost was off-limits to Bonaventure personnel until our next trip to Bermuda waters.

Bruce Manson and the Loneliness of the Long Distance Swimmer

The HMCS Algonquin was my first ship, and was small enough in the Communications Department, for fast friendships and for a great esprit de corps to develop. Some of the names I remember (all the way back to 1961!) are Chief Cliff Howell, PO1 Moe Ash, LS Frank Arsenault, LS Ed Gale, LS Bruce Manson, ABs Whitney Wiper, Rick Forward, Jonno Johnson, Arnie Sevigny, Dennis Nolan and Ordinary Seamen Jim Fanning and Rick Stayzer.
HMCS Algonquin (DDE224 callsign CZJX) was a converted V Class destroyer, along with her sister ship, HMCS Crescent. I joined Algonquin in July of 1961 and left her in June of 1962. On Algonquin I travelled to Frobisher Bay, Hamilton Inlet (Labrador), St. John’s, Charlottetown, Bermuda (twice), Newport, Rhode Island, New York City, Charlotte Amalie, US Virgin Islands, Culebra, US VI, San Juan, Puerto Rico.

As a very junior OS, part of my duties was to clean the Officer’s Head. I shared this dubious honour with Jonno, Rick S. and Rick F. We had imaginary contests where we saved and traded pubic hair from the various Officers in the ship. For example, 1 Executive Officer’s pube was worth 3 of the Engineering Officer’s pubes, and so on. Simple things amused us, but best of all was the cockroach races in the main cafeteria. Sailors would catch the roaches in matchboxes and bring them to the cafeteria to race on the tables. Many tots of rum were won and lost during the occasional Saturday night races.

Bruce Manson was about 30 years old, a good Leading Telegraphist, and a quiet, well-liked man. Bruce was living with a woman in Halifax by the name of Mary, and, when we were at sea, he missed her terribly. On our second trip to Bermuda, we tied up at Ireland’s Island, in the old RN dockyard. One afternoon the off-watches from our mess got a bunch of sandwiches and several boxes of beer and walked up to the narrow strait (20 feet across) that separated the island from the next (and main) island of the archipelago.

We had a great time, singing (Whit Wiper brought his guitar) calypso, drinking beer, swimming, and eating sandwiches. Bruce Manson had been extremely homesick all week and the beer soon made him quite maudlin. We laughed at him when he started talking about swimming to Halifax. I believe the distance between Halifax and Bermuda is over a thousand miles.

Time passed, and suddenly Ed Gale called out, "Bruce, get back here!"
Bruce was about 500 yards out to sea, swimming strongly in a slow but determined Australian crawl, his head showing only occasionally above the waves.

Whit ran back to ship and got the Bosun’s Duty party to launch the motor launch, take it up the strait and off after Bruce. He was soon hauled aboard and taken back to ship, protesting all the way.

Bruce spent the night sobering up in Ship’s Cells, and when released in the morning, was suitably chagrined.

Funny thing was, when Ed and I were cleaning the bridge that afternoon, we checked the Navigator’s charts and discovered that Bruce had been swimming bang on the heading for Halifax Harbour approaches.....

We Are Canadian

Over the past year or so I have been receiving, from a variety of sources, forwarded emails that are decidedly against this brilliant multi-ethnic, multi-cultural society that is my Canada. These emails advocate slogans like, “If you don’t like our country the way it is, go back to (fill in just about any country in the world). And, “Dress like we do, or go back to where you came from.” And, “Learn to speak English.” And, “This is a Christian country, and we celebrate Christmas, not Kwanzaa, not Hanukkah, not Ramadan, not Holi.” And so on, ad nauseum.

I personally am proud to be Canadian, and one of Canada’s qualities that makes me proudest is our wonderful mosaic of cultures. It is a pleasure to hear a variety of the world’s great languages being spoken on our streets. I love walking through the varied streets of Little Italy, Chinatown, and the other ethnic neighbourhoods that jewel our cities. The diversity of dress, religion, language, food, customs, and music, makes us a richer nation.

We are Canada! Our history is made up on various immigrant groups arriving on our shores, and, while keeping their own cultures and languages, adapt and change into the Canadians we are today. I love the sound of the names of Canadians: Radjit Singh, Bill Wong, Marcos Alameda, Seamus OFionnain, William Farnsworth, Kathleen Two Feather, Jean Levesque, Mamoud abu Daoud, and on and on.

We are living advertisement for our global community. We are diverse. We are one. We are proud. We are Canadian.

The Winter of Our Discontent

Shakespeare's Richard III begins with the lines "Now is the winter of our discontent.." John Steinbeck, as I am sure you know, took this line as title for his book, The Winter of Our Discontent. Richard was railing against a fate that permitted him to be born deformed physically, and, at least to his mind, mentally. Steinbeck carried the theme forward into modern times to write "a great American tragedy."

It is said that persons of artistic temperament are responsive to changes, be they changes of season, moon phase, location, or fluctuations in the ebb and flow of the cosmos. I do not know if this is true, although certainly the lives of various poets, writers, and artists would indicate some confirmation of the saying's veracity. As an amateur poet, possessed of a melancholy Irish genetic heritage, I am sensitive to changes, particularly of season, and, occasionally, can make use of the emotional highs and lows that change brings me by incorporating the feelings in whatever sweepings the Muse sees fit to leave.

The only problem that I have with retirement is that I am completely content, and with that contentment comes a creative black hole. For the past two weeks, perhaps generated depressing political events, I have been in a very reflective mood. Let me hasten to say that it is a time of growth and questing, a time that will, perhaps, lead to inspiration and further understanding: this is not depression and despair. This mood is my Muse in her most provocative guise, and I am sure that I will benefit from her visit.

Sometimes, in the face of popular belief and consensus, my intelligence seems to me more like belligerence, and my experience as something that has value only to me because of the shading my interpretation of that experience places upon it. A major part of my poetic quest is the struggle to encapsulate the essence of that interpretation into a simple credo in which an essential truth shines forth as an absolute, readily understandable by all who see it. That goal is still some way off, and I still have "miles to go before I sleep..."

The quest continues...

Christmas in the Global Village

As a non-Christian, even I am appalled at the rampant consumerism that rules the Season that is meant as a celebration of Peace and Love. Images of shopping till you drop, and of blatant gluttony during the holiday food-fest speak poorly of the type of society that we are in our global village. What sort of neighbours are we who permit such suffering and privation among others in our village?

I know that some of you feel that my rantings and poetry against social injustice and inequality tend to over simplify the problem, and I recognise that may well be true, but what if military budgets could be put towards feeding the hungry, training the untrained, educating the children, providing safe water for all? What if a small tithe of corporate profits went towards ameliorating the tragedy of global suffering? What if the appalled electorate of democratic countries around the world insisted that our politicians stop being so short-sighted and self-serving, and voted for altruism, and the beginning of a global plan to accomplish a utopia that is actually within reach?

Many of us tend to feel guilty that we are not doing enough individually to help others. Perhaps, but I feel we should all feel guilty about collectively not causing our politicians to do the right thing, and take the first steps towards what we all feel in our hearts to be the obvious and human thing to do.

In a season that, for some, celebrates the birth of a Saviour, and for others, celebrates the concept and the ideal of Peace on earth: in this season in which car bombs, rocket attacks, retaliation, hatred, poisoning, shooting, anger, and greed grab the headlines of ravenous media pandering to a voyeuristic audience: in this season when death and destruction have become a global reality show, I am reminded of the words of a song by a man whom I did not admire personally, but whose music I have much enjoyed...

Imagine --- John Lennon

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the peopleSharing all the world...

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one


Peace.

Jim's Guide to Enlightenment: The Sutras

Jim's Guide to Enlightenment

Jim’s Guide to Enlightenment

Note: This Guide is a work in progress, and should be checked regularly for reality updates. The Guru may, at times, speak in riddles: this does not mean that the truth is more distant, merely that the illusion has changed.  The Seeking of the Truth is a Quest, and that quest is Dharma.

Sutra 1: Good works or contemplation should not be indulged for their own sakes: the Universe reveals what is required in your Now.
Sutra 2: Reflection is not solely that which we see in the mirror of Now, but is also the contemplation of why that image is.
Sutra 3: See your reality for what it is, not for what you think it is: this is the first step to making your reality what you wish it to be.
Sutra 4: Do not expect your Path to be smooth.  It will have rocks, slippery portions, and parts that are washed away completely.  Persevere.
Sutra 5: Public self-criticism does not brighten one’s Spark of Brahman: it merely feeds one’s narcissism. 
Sutra 6: If your Path seems to be sprinkled with shards of glass, you should examine each shard to ensure it is not a diamond.
Sutra 7: Authority is granted by the people, and is meant to be constantly questioned by those people.Sutra 8: Faith is not an alternative to thought: the one excludes the other.
Sutra 9: To proclaim Righteousness is to be Unworthy.
Sutra 10: Karma is not a consumer item to be bought and sold.
Sutra 11: To understand our purpose in the context of the Whole, we must focus on our Atman...our connection with Brahman.
Sutra 12: A focus on Now strengthens the Fulcrum upon which rests the Universal Balance.
Sutra 13: The Children of the Guru are the true reflection of his Teachings.
Sutra 14: The greater the complexity of a problem, the more obvious the correct solution becomes.
Sutra 15: One’s Dharma may be obscured by believing in Its exclusivity.
Sutra 16: The true Guru will guide, not preach.
Sutra 17: Do not waste your life seeking to understand the Divine: Brahman lives within you.
Sutra 18: Listen to the vibration of the Universe through the Chakra of your heart and you will resonate with Truth.
Sutra 19: To truly hear and resonate with the Universal Vibration, one must be fully in the Now.
Sutra 20: Sympathy and Compassion should never be about oneself.
Sutra 21: Words of Truth are always illuminated by that inner Light (Shanti) your Spark will recognise.
Sutra 22: Anger directed at you is not necessarily about you: always consider the Source.
Sutra 23: In seeking direction, it is often necessary to stop seeking and Be with the moment: your spark of Brahman will provide.
Sutra 24: Unnecessary baggage obscures the Path: unclutter your mind.
Sutra 25: Remember that a pile of ordure is simply that: Seek not to give it meaning.
Sutra 26: Disdain lessens your Karmic profile: sympathy enhances it.
Sutra 27: Value judgements should be made from within the context of that Value’s singular reality.
Sutra 28: There are times when inaction is the only correct course of action, and understanding the reason for that inaction is more important than any possible outcome.
Sutra 29: To begin to understand the Universal Vibration, one must first still the echoes of Chaos within.
Sutra 30: Language reflects the Truth of one’s Reality: listen carefully when others speak.
Sutra 31: Negative thought multiplies: Positive thought must be nurtured, as it is fragile and ethereal.
Sutra 32: Part of Wisdom is knowing when acceptance is more important than understanding.
Sutra 33: Do not follow those who would interpret the divine for you: your spark of Brahman will lead you to the Path.
Sutra 34: In meditation Inner Clarity can adjust the Illusion of one’s Present Reality.
Sutra 35: Seek not to assign blame: accept it and blossom.
Sutra 36: When spiritual guides speak like fanatics, they are.
Sutra 37: Discard humility that is unwarranted, as it may cloud your perception.
Sutra 38: The Circle of Natraj is not about destruction, but signifies rebirth and renewal.
Sutra 39: The Universal Vibration resonates with the body Chakras: feel the Vibration.
Sutra 40: Stop talking long enough to hear your inner voice.
Sutra 41: In a Universe of Order struggling to balance Chaos, logic must at times be suspended to enable a vision of the Truth.
Sutra 42: Prayer and hope seek to influence tomorrow: experience instead the joy of the Now in which all things are possible.
Sutra 43: Fear destroys logical thought: it is extraneous to your personal Now and cannot dwell there.
Sutra 44: Love is a microcosm of the Universal Balance, and one must be vigilant against the intrusion of Chaos.
Sutra 45: Always be mindful that Truth is approachable by many different paths (Dharma), and is our ultimate destination.
Sutra 46: Aum.  To clearly see Dharma one must understand that Brahman is Truth as it is the Path, as it is.
Sutra 47: Fable is often easier to accept than Truth: examine content through the lens of Dharma.
Sutra 48: Do not permit a difficult problem to affect your feelings adversely.  Either nothing can be done about it, or a solution or alternative can be found.  That solution will not be found through lamenting, but through thought.  Let it go by accepting it, or solve it through clear thought.
Sutra 49: Right thought is food for the Atman, which cannot overindulge.
Sutra 50: Take care not to assume that your Dharma is catholic: Dharma varies with individual realities.
Sutra 51: Mindfulness permits contemplation of various levels of the Now.  Explore.
Sutra 52: Multiple realities are a fact. A different reality exists for each of us. I am not the same in your reality as I am in mine.
Sutra 53: Aum.  Clear your mind to enable right thought: Chaos seeks confusion.
Sutra 54: Recognise Illusion, but embrace Truth.
Sutra 55: Multitasking diminishes each component: it is a reactive function, not contemplative.
Sutra 56: Understanding is not an epiphany: it is a form of mental focus that is receptive to the Universal harmonic.
Sutra 57: Reality is not always what it seems: look at Reality obliquely to avoid being overwhelmed.
Sutra 58: Positive thought attracts positive results: tap into the Flow.
Sutra 59: Never seek to impose your Reality upon others: Reality to you may be Illusion to them.
Sutra 60: Your opinions are, to others, the street map of a different reality.
Sutra 61: What is said is often different from what is heard: communicate your thoughts clearly, and seek clarification of the words of others.
Sutra 62: It is not always necessary to follow: often quiet contemplation will provide the Way.
Sutra 63: Seek to find the Wonder in all tasks: Brahman in all things.
Sutra 64: A stumble is simply a fortuitous reminder to focus on the Path, not the horizon.
Sutra 65: Treasure each breath as a means of being in the Moment.
Sutra 66: Total immersion in the Now results in macro adjustments to the normal Time/Space parameters.
Sutra 67: Life is like photography: we must use the negative to develop. 
Sutra 68: If Peace is the default setting for the Human Condition, the time has come to press Reset.
Sutra 69: One must first understand oneself to truly understand others.
Sutra 70: One’s Dharma  must not consist of a series of waves of the Sea of Life: it must be a constant reflection on the tranquil surface of Reality.
Sutra 71: You should never discard your dreams until they become a part of your reality.
Sutra 72: A whisper often seizes the attention more effectively than does a thunderclap.
Sutra 73: The simpler a thing seems, the more complex it really is.
Sutra 74: The Path is our Home, and Now is the beacon that leads us there.
Sutra 75: Seek to make your Life the perfect Koan: Let it answer the Question it asks.
Sutra 76: Martyrdom is not a desired State: Understanding is.
Sutra 77: Life is but one position on the Dharmic wheel: that position is Now.  Experience it fully: be aware.
Sutra 78: Understand that, at times, Dharma requires serendipity, but that such travel must, by definition, be in This Moment.
Sutra 79: Truth requires no embellishment: be concise in Word and Thought.
Sutra 80: Hatred lessens the Light of your spirit: Love amplifies that Light.
Sutra 81: Tolerance clarifies the same Dharma that anger obscures.
Sutra 82: Truth may be as easily recognised by its absence as by its Presence.
Sutra 83: Do not think with your heart: your mind could atrophy.  Thus, do not love with your mind, as your heart knows itself best.
Sutra 84: Dharma is a journey: choose your travelling companions carefully.
Sutra 85: Those who seek to assign Name and Visage to Brahman do not understand the Universal Balance.
Sutra 86: The Rough is as valid as the Polished: Truth is recognised by Content, not Packaging.
Sutra 87: The language of religion is fractious by nature: Reformation to one is Heresy to another, and Infidel to one is Believer to another.
Sutra 88: The Dance of Natraj is real: listen to the music.
Sutra 89: One cannot conceive the inconceivable through faith, or the suspension of intellect:  one can only follow the Path, which is the Quest for Truth and Knowledge.

Sutra 90:  The “Mountain” Sutras

Sutra 90i:  Aum.  A man climbed a mountain to see where he was: he was nowhere.
Sutra 90ii:  Aum.  A man lived his life beside a mountain: the mountain was a part of his life.
Sutra 90iii:  Aum.  A man believed a Mountain was God.  He was right.
Sutra 90iv:  Aum.  A man believed that God lived on a Mountain.  He was both right and wrong.
Sutra 90v:  Aum.  A man did not believe in God: he was right.  Another man believed in God: he was not wrong.
Sutra 90vi:  Aum.  Mountains are mountains: you may interpret your Dharma to view them as obstacles, or as an Illusion reflecting your Reality.
Sutra 90vii:  Aum.  To a man standing on his head, the Mountain is a granite hole in the Sky.
Sutra 90viii:  Aum.  For a man with his head in the clouds, the Mountain is invisible.
Sutra 90ix:  Aum.  For a mountain it is sufficient to be a mountain: for a Man it is never sufficient to see the mountain for what it is.

Sutra 91: The “Grounding Chakra” echoes the Universal Harmonic to achieve Balance.
Sutra 92: What is this talk of Past and Future?  They are simply aspects of the Now with different temporal loci.
Sutra 93: Do not speak to me of Reality: it is a personal concept that varies with the Observer.
Sutra 94: Do not simply observe the changes: live the changes.
Sutra 95:  Law should not be used as a moral bludgeon, but as a Tool to facilitate understanding.
Sutra 96: The Politics of Fear is not a method of social Control, but a Mirror of Intent.
Sutra 97: A moralistic and punitive society seeks Control, not Truth, thus obscuring the Path.
Sutra 98: The more garish a signpost is the less likely it points to the Path.
Sutra 99: Lesson outcomes may be far different than the Intent of the Teacher.

Sutra 100: The “Lotus” Sutras

(Note: These pay homage to the ancient Buddhist White Lotus Sutra of the Devine Dharma)

Sutra 100i:  Past and Future enfold the Now as the Lotus petals enfold its stamens.
Sutra 100ii: The Lotus is a parable that illustrates the Harmony of the Aesthetic with the Functional.
Sutra 100iii: The Lotus symbolises the Universal Third Eye: contemplation opens the Gateway.
Sutra 100iv:  Meditate upon the Lotus: its form symbolises the Flame of Brahman, as well as the flames in Natraj’s Circle of Destruction.
Sutra 100v: While the life of the Lotus is transitory, the concept is Eternal.
Sutra 100vi: By virtue of the existence of the Lotus, that existence is validated: that is our lesson.
Sutra 100vii: The Lotus represents a Cosmic Nexus through which we may glimpse the Truth.
Sutra 100viii: The perfection of the Lotus illuminates meditation as the Spark of Brahman illuminates the Atman.
Sutra 100ix:  Those who see only God in the Lotus are short-sighted.
Sutra 100x:  The Lotus conceptualises the Now.

Sutra 101: Seek not an external Answer: it lies Within.
Sutra 102: Dwell not on Yesterday’s mistakes, focus instead on what you can accomplish Now.
Sutra 103: Sometimes the only beauty to be found in transitions is the fact of their transitory nature.

Go well, and in peace, 

on a Path that is ever clear.

The Rat and Mouse Chronicles: Chapter Five In Which Friendly Helps a Witch

Chapter Five: Friendly Helps a Witch

Lightning flashed over the hills surrounding the town of Orflea while Sergeant Gallagher sipped coffee at his desk. His thoughts were concerned with how peculiar the weather had been ever since that evening in early summer when he and Sergeant Smith had to run the strange man in the long black cloak out of town. He smiled to himself as his thoughts strayed to his friends Rat and Mouse, and how happy they were with the new home Beaver had found for them. He was a little puzzled by their strange pale new friend. Friendly, they called her, and she certainly seemed that way.

The ringing of the phone snapped the good sergeant back to the present. The voice on the other end, Farmer Buckstone, was very agitated.

“You’ve got to come quickly,” he yelled, “before the entire forest is blasted to smithereens!”

Gallagher finally got the man calmed down enough to tell his story. In the forest behind his farmhouse, Farmer Buckstone, had earlier seen bright flashes, accompanied by loud crashes. When he went to investigate, he discovered that his neighbour, Hazel Grimly, who lived in a beautiful little rustic cottage in the wood, was in a vicious battle with a strange man in black.

“They are just standing there, throwing fireballs and bolts of lightning at each other,” explained the excited farmer. “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my born days! You’ve got to do something quickly. They’re scaring my cows.”

Sergeant Gallagher reassured the farmer that he and Sergeant Smith would get onto it immediately. Putting down the phone, he dialled his partner and quickly outlined the situation. Both of the sergeants knew from previous experience that when anything weird happened, Rat and Mouse were almost always able to resolve the problem.

Mouse answered the phone on the first ring, and explained that Friendly had just been saying that she felt something strange was going to happen. He promised that the trio would meet the policemen at the Buckstone farm as soon as possible.

On their way to the farm, Rat, Mouse, and Friendly Ghost could see the strange blue lights flashing in the distance. As they pulled into the farmyard and got out of the car, they could hear loud crashes in the near distance. The police had just arrived, and soon the five of them were hurrying through the dark forest towards Hazel Grimly’s cottage.

The sight that met their eyes was reminded Mouse a little of the sequence in Disney’s “Fantasia” called “A Night on Bald Mountain.” A tall man with flowing black robes stood at the edge of the clearing hurling great blue fireballs at the beautiful tall woman who stood near the cottage door. Hazel would hold up her hand, as if to catch the fireballs, and they would burst into brilliant blue fireworks before reaching her. She, in turn, would wave her hand, point at the man in black, and release a brilliant white lightning bolt, which the man blocked with a wave of a wand he held in his hand.

She smiled tensely as she saw the approaching group, and asked them--very politely, considering the circumstances--if they would please stand back out of the way. As she was saying this, the man in black let loose the most vivid fireball yet. Although Hazel tried to block it, the bolt sizzled by her and demolished her beautiful little cottage in an explosion of blue light and thunder.

A piece of wood from the explosion hit Hazel on the shoulder and knocked her to the ground. She lay dazed, while the man in black gathered his cloak around him and started chanting in a strange language. With every word, the night got blacker, and above the man’s head a ball of fierce blue energy grew larger and larger.

Rat and Mouse, forgetting their fear and very concerned for the fallen woman, rushed to her side. Friendly, however, was growling deep in her throat, looking toward the man in black. It seemed to the startled policemen that she was growing larger and paler before their eyes. Suddenly she leapt into the air, changing into a screaming skeleton head as she flew towards the man at the edge of the wood.

The man looked up at the screaming apparition that was rapidly approaching him, and stumbled backwards. As the man fell to the ground, Hazel pulled herself to her feet with the assistance of Rat and Mouse, and pointed her finger in the man’s direction. A bolt of white fire flashed briefly as it hit the man, causing an explosion of glowing white smoke.

When the smoke had cleared, Friendly, now back in her normal form, was unable to find any trace of the man. He had completely disappeared!

Shortly after, when all of them except Farmer Buckstone (who had excused himself saying that he didn’t want to hear about any of these weird goings-on!) were seated in the farmer’s kitchen drinking hot tea, Hazel recounted her strange story.

“As you may have guessed, I am a witch,” she said. “Not a bad witch, but a white witch, who does only good magic. I have been working on a special project for the Queen Witch, who lives far to the north. The Queen has suspected for quite some time now that the forces of evil are gathering for a great assault on the forces of good. I have been using my special powers to try to discover anything that I can about the leader of the dark forces.”

“This evening,” she continued, “just as I thought I was approaching the truth, my crystal ball was shattered by a bolt of blue fire that came through the open window. When I got to the door I saw the man in black at the edge of the forest. I recognized him from long ago. His name is Lazarul, and when he was a good white wizard he was called Lazarul the White. That was long ago however, and it now appears that he has been corrupted by a force much stronger than he.”

“But Hazel,” interrupted Mouse, “isn’t he gone now? Didn’t you vaporize him?”

“I’m afraid not, Mouse,” replied the good witch. “It would take a power much stronger than mine to remove such scum from this level of existence. If it was not for the bravery and quick thinking of Friendly Ghost here, I am afraid that I might have fared much worse in the contest. I suspect that Lazarul has returned to his master.”

“Just now,” she continued, “I am more concerned with resting for a few days to regain my strength. I must then report to the Queen Witch with news of this event, and then continue in my attempts to foresee the evil that is gathering.”

“Officer,” she said, turning to Sergeant Smith, “could you recommend a good hotel in Orflea where one very tired witch could rest for a few days?”

Before Sergeant Smith could answer, Rat, after a quick look at both Rat and Friendly Ghost in which much was said, but not aloud, stood to his feet, bowed graciously and said, “fair lady, my friends and I would be most pleased if you would stay with us at Waterfall Cave for as long as you may wish.”

Hazel, visibly moved by this offer, bend down and kissed Rat on his forehead.

“It has been many long years,” Hazel stated, “since I have received such a welcome offer, and never one so graciously put. I accept with very great pleasure.”

“Well then,” replied Rat, with a nod to his friends, “shall we go home? I believe that the exciting events of this evening can only be put into the proper perspective by the drinking of at least two cups of cappuccino and, perhaps, a small slice of Mouse’s most excellent cake.”

This then, was how the good Witch Hazel (as she came to be called) took up residence at Waterfall Cave.