Re: still Burgundy...etc, etc
Peter Lenihan wrote:
...By now, I am no longer
cursing under my breath nor am I doing so in English as I long ago
discovered it to be far more cathartic to let fly with entire
sentences,nay,paragraphs worth of rich religous cussing in my second
tongue,French.Oh how I wailed and hollered at that bastardized son
of a chalice,whose tabernacle was occupied with a dirty
whore...
Oh dear, Peter, this revelation brings new insight to my memories of our
last visit with you in the spring. After we said good bye to you and
Windermere and drove away feeling all warm and mellow after enjoying your
baguettes and port we approached the gateway of the marina property. A large
excavator was at work in the middle of the roadway and a worker on foot was
standing nearby. After a trip to Paris a year and a half ago and spending
time in Montreal I've noticed a similar nonchalance with regard to public
safety in construction zones. While walking near the Louver one afternoon I
came across a worker in a wool cap and smoking a cigarette standing on a
busy sidewalk holding a rope while pedestrians streamed around him. No
yellow ribboned-off zone, no barricades, no hard hate and steel toe boots.
The rope he held ran through a large pulley and was attached to a huge piece
of sheet metal hanging some three stories above the sidewalk where people
walked without concern. Another worker in a makeshift boson's chair was
hanging between this potential guillotine and the 12th century building
front three floors up. After the initial shock to my obsessive North
American safety sensibilities I had to admire this philosophical spirit that
places the responsibility for survival right back on the public, who should
be able to use their own intelligence and perception to judge hazards around
them and act accordingly. At any rate the guy standing by the excavator with
his hands in his pockets (and a cigarette in his mouth) while the huge
machine repeatedly scooped up huge heaps of earth and swung them violently
across the road where it was dumped reminded of the guy on the sidewalk in
Paris. Still feeling warm and mellow I gauged the ample clearance under the
excavator boom and the fact that the guy standing on the road seemed
oblivious to our presence. As the massive arm swung again across the road I
drove under, waving at the guy standing on the road as his cigarette dropped
from his mouth. As we drove through the gateway and swung out onto the road
to Ontario I heard the guy on foot yelling what I took to be of string of
blessings to see us on our way. What he was saying bore a remarkable
resemblance to your comments to your laced mainsail. I realize now that I
may not have accurately interpreted the spirit of his passion. Ah well, my
mellowness was not compromised.
Please know I take your warnings to heart and I concede that that alluring
pretty head tossed in laughter can quickly take on all the charms of turrets
syndrome. Quite honestly I don't really understand just what Bolger intends
one to do with the sails when not set. What he says is that "The sails are
furled by being rolled up around the leeches, Dovekie-style..." whatever
THAT means. With June Bug and Gypsy Lois and I typically fold the sail
midway, bringing leech to luff, then fold once more before wrapping the
whole thing around the mast as tightly as we can then wrapping a couple of
bungee cords around it. We usually manage this with little trouble even in
nasty gusting conditions. I suspect this may not be so easy with 271 sq. ft.
of sail distributed over two MUCH taller masts. Still I will take counsel
from our esteemed leader (with some guarded caution against persuasions for
the "new and improved"). All I really want are the two full sized sheets
that should be all that's needed to build this boat and Bolger's blessing
(and advice). That's less sheets than June Bug requires, for crying out
loud, so technically he shouldn't charge me as much as JB, at least no more
than. Right!!? This waiting is getting to me. I think I'll go build a model
or two to keep from going crazy.
jeb, pacing the quarterdeck, overlooking the brooding shores of Fundy
...By now, I am no longer
cursing under my breath nor am I doing so in English as I long ago
discovered it to be far more cathartic to let fly with entire
sentences,nay,paragraphs worth of rich religous cussing in my second
tongue,French.Oh how I wailed and hollered at that bastardized son
of a chalice,whose tabernacle was occupied with a dirty
whore...
Oh dear, Peter, this revelation brings new insight to my memories of our
last visit with you in the spring. After we said good bye to you and
Windermere and drove away feeling all warm and mellow after enjoying your
baguettes and port we approached the gateway of the marina property. A large
excavator was at work in the middle of the roadway and a worker on foot was
standing nearby. After a trip to Paris a year and a half ago and spending
time in Montreal I've noticed a similar nonchalance with regard to public
safety in construction zones. While walking near the Louver one afternoon I
came across a worker in a wool cap and smoking a cigarette standing on a
busy sidewalk holding a rope while pedestrians streamed around him. No
yellow ribboned-off zone, no barricades, no hard hate and steel toe boots.
The rope he held ran through a large pulley and was attached to a huge piece
of sheet metal hanging some three stories above the sidewalk where people
walked without concern. Another worker in a makeshift boson's chair was
hanging between this potential guillotine and the 12th century building
front three floors up. After the initial shock to my obsessive North
American safety sensibilities I had to admire this philosophical spirit that
places the responsibility for survival right back on the public, who should
be able to use their own intelligence and perception to judge hazards around
them and act accordingly. At any rate the guy standing by the excavator with
his hands in his pockets (and a cigarette in his mouth) while the huge
machine repeatedly scooped up huge heaps of earth and swung them violently
across the road where it was dumped reminded of the guy on the sidewalk in
Paris. Still feeling warm and mellow I gauged the ample clearance under the
excavator boom and the fact that the guy standing on the road seemed
oblivious to our presence. As the massive arm swung again across the road I
drove under, waving at the guy standing on the road as his cigarette dropped
from his mouth. As we drove through the gateway and swung out onto the road
to Ontario I heard the guy on foot yelling what I took to be of string of
blessings to see us on our way. What he was saying bore a remarkable
resemblance to your comments to your laced mainsail. I realize now that I
may not have accurately interpreted the spirit of his passion. Ah well, my
mellowness was not compromised.
Please know I take your warnings to heart and I concede that that alluring
pretty head tossed in laughter can quickly take on all the charms of turrets
syndrome. Quite honestly I don't really understand just what Bolger intends
one to do with the sails when not set. What he says is that "The sails are
furled by being rolled up around the leeches, Dovekie-style..." whatever
THAT means. With June Bug and Gypsy Lois and I typically fold the sail
midway, bringing leech to luff, then fold once more before wrapping the
whole thing around the mast as tightly as we can then wrapping a couple of
bungee cords around it. We usually manage this with little trouble even in
nasty gusting conditions. I suspect this may not be so easy with 271 sq. ft.
of sail distributed over two MUCH taller masts. Still I will take counsel
from our esteemed leader (with some guarded caution against persuasions for
the "new and improved"). All I really want are the two full sized sheets
that should be all that's needed to build this boat and Bolger's blessing
(and advice). That's less sheets than June Bug requires, for crying out
loud, so technically he shouldn't charge me as much as JB, at least no more
than. Right!!? This waiting is getting to me. I think I'll go build a model
or two to keep from going crazy.
jeb, pacing the quarterdeck, overlooking the brooding shores of Fundy