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knights_say_nihCh 2-
Siwash Rock
I must have a dozen photos before my fathers voice called me out of where I was happy remaining. Loud, domineering, and cutting through my peace. He swore, and sat up to reach for sunscreen, and I turned and made my flip flopping way up the beach in to his reach, and was promptly pulled into an enthusiastic hug.
My father is the proverbial large. He stands a foot taller than me, needs to loose weight, needs to stop drinking so much beer, smoking quite so much ‘medicinal’ marijuana. Not the healthiest of people, not the best, but my father and I love him unconditionally for it. He’s also not the quietest of people. Also, absolutely unashamed and unrepentantly Making the World a Better Place. This involves honking at the ‘Homers!’ during traffic, stopping the bicyclers on the one-way path with his two hundred plus pound football-player-gone-to-seed – body.
After several near death collisions, we made our day down to Siwash Rock. There was a plaque at the base with a story about someone who had jumped off it during low tide, and snapped his neck. Booze said the doctor, pot said the nurse, pizza said the lady with the Alligator Purse! Regardless of cause of temporary stupidity, he died. I wondered why anyone would want to jump off the rock, even in high tide.
We sat, me in comfortable silence, my dad edgily because he never could not talk. He’s of the mentality that there’s no way anybody can see what he sees, that everyone should know what he sees. He’s also sexist. He told me about how, when he was young, a few of his friends and him had climbed up in high tide and dived off. I didn’t answer.
The story behind Siwash Rock runs as such. So there’s this guy. His name is Skalsh, and he’s Squamish, Native American. One day he heard Q'uas the Transformer was going to grant him a wish. This, Skalsh thought, was pretty damned cool. So off Skalsh goes, for a nice purifying swim in the English Bay, which probably then didn’t have cooked crab, soda cans, and the steam ships in there with him. In fact, the only non-aquatic-life type thing Skalsh can see is this big old honkin’ canoe. Going up to said canoe seems like a pretty good idea to Skalsh, so away he goes.
The people in the canoe, however, are a little thrown to see this random guy in the water. They ask him what he’s doing in there, and he tells them all about it. Their immediate reply is to ask why on earth he wants to talk to Q’uas. Skalsh is, in case you hadn’t guessed, the hero of this story. So he’s only going there to help his village. Unselfish, self sacrificing, and so on and so forth. Q’uas, through some vague process, finds out of him. And thus becomes rather impressed. This is how people Should Be. And to keep him here as a shining example, he is turned into a 15.2 metre rock. Whether Skalsh had any say in that fate, the legend doesn’t tell us. He stands there today, labeled by scientists as a natural byproduct of magma and corroding sandstone, and by teenagers as an awesome place to come when you’re stoned, dude.
My father and I stared at it for a few more silent minutes, then turned around and walked back in the other direction.
On the way back we passed someone else beautiful. Supremely divine in his sheer ugliness; a man fishing off the edge of the paved bicycle, dressed only in a speedy, fifty pounds overweight and slathered head to toe in sunscreen. Proudly displaying rebook sandles and casting his lure out into the ocean, he ignored the laughter of the teenage spandex covered bikers whirring by and panting. He ignored me too, when I snapped a photo. He gave me the finger when I snapped a second one, and made a comment about pink panties. At that point, I figured it was a good idea to untuck my skirt.
My dad walked us up to the car, up on top of the hill, and bought me a mint ice cream on the way. I told him I was dieting, but he always overspends when he’s manic. I asked him to drive us home. The traffic was bad, but then, when isn’t it in Vancouver?
We sit in comfortable-for-me, uncomfortable-for-him silence for seven minutes. Then he turns on some of his jazz music and smiles to himself at the perceived victory over awkward. We sit with the jazz, me looking avidly out the window at the city I wished I lived in.
Siwash Rock
I must have a dozen photos before my fathers voice called me out of where I was happy remaining. Loud, domineering, and cutting through my peace. He swore, and sat up to reach for sunscreen, and I turned and made my flip flopping way up the beach in to his reach, and was promptly pulled into an enthusiastic hug.
My father is the proverbial large. He stands a foot taller than me, needs to loose weight, needs to stop drinking so much beer, smoking quite so much ‘medicinal’ marijuana. Not the healthiest of people, not the best, but my father and I love him unconditionally for it. He’s also not the quietest of people. Also, absolutely unashamed and unrepentantly Making the World a Better Place. This involves honking at the ‘Homers!’ during traffic, stopping the bicyclers on the one-way path with his two hundred plus pound football-player-gone-to-seed – body.
After several near death collisions, we made our day down to Siwash Rock. There was a plaque at the base with a story about someone who had jumped off it during low tide, and snapped his neck. Booze said the doctor, pot said the nurse, pizza said the lady with the Alligator Purse! Regardless of cause of temporary stupidity, he died. I wondered why anyone would want to jump off the rock, even in high tide.
We sat, me in comfortable silence, my dad edgily because he never could not talk. He’s of the mentality that there’s no way anybody can see what he sees, that everyone should know what he sees. He’s also sexist. He told me about how, when he was young, a few of his friends and him had climbed up in high tide and dived off. I didn’t answer.
The story behind Siwash Rock runs as such. So there’s this guy. His name is Skalsh, and he’s Squamish, Native American. One day he heard Q'uas the Transformer was going to grant him a wish. This, Skalsh thought, was pretty damned cool. So off Skalsh goes, for a nice purifying swim in the English Bay, which probably then didn’t have cooked crab, soda cans, and the steam ships in there with him. In fact, the only non-aquatic-life type thing Skalsh can see is this big old honkin’ canoe. Going up to said canoe seems like a pretty good idea to Skalsh, so away he goes.
The people in the canoe, however, are a little thrown to see this random guy in the water. They ask him what he’s doing in there, and he tells them all about it. Their immediate reply is to ask why on earth he wants to talk to Q’uas. Skalsh is, in case you hadn’t guessed, the hero of this story. So he’s only going there to help his village. Unselfish, self sacrificing, and so on and so forth. Q’uas, through some vague process, finds out of him. And thus becomes rather impressed. This is how people Should Be. And to keep him here as a shining example, he is turned into a 15.2 metre rock. Whether Skalsh had any say in that fate, the legend doesn’t tell us. He stands there today, labeled by scientists as a natural byproduct of magma and corroding sandstone, and by teenagers as an awesome place to come when you’re stoned, dude.
My father and I stared at it for a few more silent minutes, then turned around and walked back in the other direction.
On the way back we passed someone else beautiful. Supremely divine in his sheer ugliness; a man fishing off the edge of the paved bicycle, dressed only in a speedy, fifty pounds overweight and slathered head to toe in sunscreen. Proudly displaying rebook sandles and casting his lure out into the ocean, he ignored the laughter of the teenage spandex covered bikers whirring by and panting. He ignored me too, when I snapped a photo. He gave me the finger when I snapped a second one, and made a comment about pink panties. At that point, I figured it was a good idea to untuck my skirt.
My dad walked us up to the car, up on top of the hill, and bought me a mint ice cream on the way. I told him I was dieting, but he always overspends when he’s manic. I asked him to drive us home. The traffic was bad, but then, when isn’t it in Vancouver?
We sit in comfortable-for-me, uncomfortable-for-him silence for seven minutes. Then he turns on some of his jazz music and smiles to himself at the perceived victory over awkward. We sit with the jazz, me looking avidly out the window at the city I wished I lived in.
