Tag Archives: Vancouver

Welcome back, Steadfast Reader, to the continuing saga of my strange and awesome trip to Alaska. Be warned: I’m a fiction writer, and it’s my job to lie. I made this voyage with my wife, Jean, and long-time friends Brenda and Mike Knyght.

At 6:36, the venerable MS Hellandam had steamed her way to 49°19’N, 123°15’W, where she  churned through the waves on course 088°, speed 17.9 knots. Outside, 20-knot, 55°F winds blew from the southeast, and I could just see the city of Vancouver ahead.

The ship moored at Canada Place wharf by 7:20 am, having journeyed 1,964 nautical miles since she had left that spot.

At 8:30 am, we departed the ship that had sustained and pampered us for a week. Only seven days previously, she had seemed a mystery for us to explore, with her many decks and corridors, plush carpets, colorful bulkheads, and stylish furnishings. Now she was familiar to us; we knew how to find her theater, her Main Stage, her Crow’s Nest, her Exploration Lounge, her shops, and all her wonderful dining places. We’d each had our own brief love affair with the ship, knowing it had to end, but intense nonetheless. Now we walked her pleasant passageways for the final time, said our silent farewells, and made our way across the metal gangway.

It surprised me that our processing through Customs into Canada went very quickly. We’d previously made reservations on a RapidBus shuttle to Seattle, and we walked, rolling and toting our luggage, to the bus pickup area. The RapidBus was a huge coach bus, but only eight passengers boarded, including our quartet, so everyone had plenty of room. Our bus departed on time.

Then a strange thing happened.

The bus stopped in downtown Vancouver to pick up a couple of passengers. The wind kicked up and blew a scrap of paper against the bus window where I sat. It lingered there, plastered flat by the wind, and I idly glanced at it. Creases and torn edges marred this oddly sized, tan scrap. In black ink, it depicted a sort of map that resembled the Vancouver area, its land and waterways, though not the city itself. An arrow pointed to a single spot on the map, and beside the arrow, crude lettering stated, “Slumach’s mine. Mountains of gold here. – Shotwell.”

I whipped out my cell phone to take a picture, but a gust grabbed the page and sent it soaring on the breeze. I watched with dismay as it fluttered away down the block. How I wish I’d gotten a better glimpse of that arrow! I’ve since discovered that Slumach’s mine has remained a mystery for over a century. Easy come, easy go, I guess. Someone else will surely find that map.

At 12:30, our bus stopped at the border so we could pass through U.S. Customs. While we waited in line, empires rose and fell, glaciers advanced and receded, continents drifted and collided, and new species evolved while others went extinct. Finally, the customs agents welcomed us back into our country and we boarded our bus again.

The ride to Seattle went smoothly and we reached its outskirts by 3:30. This was a bright, clear day with few clouds, endless blue skies, and temperatures just shy of 70°F. By 4:30, we’d reached Seattle-Tacoma Airport. We rode a hotel shuttle to the Crimson Canopy Inn on International Boulevard. After settling in our rooms, we walked to the nearby Ginger Palace, a small restaurant with Pan-Asian cuisine. I delighted in consuming their scrumptious Mongolian Beef.

By now, the four of us suffered from a sudden culture change, a life shift, an abrupt transition across contrasting milieus. We’d left Cruise World and re-entered Real World. Here are the characteristics of each:

I can’t spend my whole life there, regrettably, but Cruise World will be fondly missed by—

Poseidon’s Scribe