(’°D LIKE to start the new ‘year with a nostalgia flashback,
having no bearing on any‘hing significant whatsoever, to the
year 1959, when three momentous historical events hap- '
pened: the Cubans had a revolution, the Cadillac tailfin got

as high as it ‘ever got, and I had my, first glimpse of |

Vancouver.

‘LE know, 1 know. I'm mixing my
personal life up with history, but,
pee, don’t we all? And why not? :

It was the year I learned a very
important lesson about portry and
wine, and, mare importantly, about
how some things j just. can’ tbe put
| into words, t

:. Especiatty the West Coast. |

You probably never suspected . '
that a hard-boiled character like me
“could ever have been an aspiring
poet,

Actually, you could say I made it °
as a poet, in the sense that { eventu-
ally had some stuff published.

“But it was only in my own news-
paper column, and that doesn’ trate
with the poet crowd. . ;

+ Back then, I certainly looked like

a ‘poet: Y carried a notebook at all “

. times, sported a very stringy little
beard, smoked a pipe, wore a beret,

“a black turtleneck sweater und san-
dals, and had a copy of Dharma:
Bums in my knapsack. |...’

/ Stepping off the bus ii in,
Vancouver, and wandering ‘joyously
about at random, I was thrilled out .
of my mind to discover; down'by “"
“the Hydro building,.a jazz coffee

«shop called Goofs Place, where. :
real beatniks shouted their poetry:

into microphones through the ciga-’.

--Fette'smoke and all the intense dis-_.
cussions going on about being

-Itwas, wonderful! All this, plus. ;
mountains and (isan forests and:

‘or every’ ‘corer of the: world: ‘
: For’ a Prairie boy, | this was like

ning to feel; as well, like atrue
Dharma Bum. ee

‘with'guys like Alan Watts raving.
bout the tink, betwi a the Tao and

tives and found a WO. I bought an?

old Second World War froginan’s -: ,

- suit, and started exploring the coast.
don't: think I missed a.week- |
‘end, rain or shine, that summer,

‘when I'didn’t get out snorkeling, _

:imostly by myself,
My notebooks filled up with lav-"
sh descriptions of the ocean, the
" mountains, the forests, ete

think this” was before the phrase 7

lown away’ ” had been invented,
“but I'was definitely blown away. [
remember being.so excited by scene
after scene, of transcendent pyc
“grandeur beyond anything I had, .
really ever imagined: that it was
almost unbearable. : t Pe

‘i'd lie ins my sleeping bag at ;
“night at campsites 1’d made along
Howe Sound or on-beaches in the.
Gulf Islands, unabie to sleep, .
writhing under the Stars from the

heer’ ecstasy of being alive i in such

STRICTLY PERSONAL

to be done, but the purpose of all
this experience (ai least, this is what
i imagined back then). was'to put it

‘into words, and the purest words

were obviously poetry, *
One night, camped at ‘McKay
Point on Newcastle Island, by”

“Nanaimo, watching the Black Ball

ferries, abiaze in lights, throbbing
back and forth in the inky darkness,
haunted by music drifting across the

water, I finished off a couple of bot: °
: tles of wine, and could not resist

squeaking and stumbling into my
rubber dry suit, and plunging into a
mild chop that seemed like a pretty
enormous swell by the titrie 1 got

half'a mile or so out, foolish,

romantic, idiotic youth that | was.
Thad a poetic vision out there in
the cold liquid blackness, with the
sizzling phosphorescence. 1 swam
desperately back to shore to capture
it in words. It took forever. Madly, | -

clung to the vision, evert as my arms’

and legs went numb, By the time L-
élawed-my way over the rocks back
to the embers of the campfire,
fought my way out of my rubber
skin, crawled trembling into a slcep-
ing bag, and dug out my notebook,
the vision was wobbling in and out
of focus in my head.

By vision, I mean my perfect
poetic expression of just how amaz-
ing and fantastic and electrifying
that scene was.

I passed out shuddering, my

-head spinning, but triumphant

because ! -vas absolutely certain |
had captured the essence of what.
the sea and the stars and the dark :
outlines of distant mountains and
the mighty ferries all meant. ~~
In the morning, I snapped the
notebook open, and read:
It is the lips
Love the salt
': is momma tongue
_ Who despise.

I gave up on poetry that summer, }

It was OK. lt wasn’t a sad, ago-

-nized, despairing moment. It was a

kind of liberation, At least 1 knew
what I wasn’t destined to be.

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