There’s a lot of great blogs out there, and what many of these bloggers do is post beautiful, half-dressed ladies, often posing in hockey sweaters and not much else. So I’ve decided to do this. You’ll notice that some of them aren’t even wearing clothes.
Are you ready? Ladies and gentlemen. Presenting …….Gaston and his beautiful models!
Just north of Powell River lies Savary Island, called the Hawaii of the North for its beautiful beaches and tropical climate. All you do is drive north to the end of the road, 25 minutes away, hop in a little $11 water taxi, and presto, you’re there. It has a dirt road, a few cars, several dozen houses, but these houses have no electricity so generators, solar/wind systems, or propane are needed to enjoy those hockey games in the evening. Bluesman Colin James and family have a place here, and the word is Kevin Costner does too, but that may or may not be true.
All I know is, the beaches are outstanding.
So after Gaston’s recent ferry ride fiasco, he told me one night he’d like to get away for awhile, away from everything, and I suggested Savary. It’s not far, it’s relaxing, and I figured it was just what the doctor ordered for the little beastia.
I drove him up to Lund and waved goodbye on the water taxi. He needs this rest and relaxation, I figured. Things haven’t been going well for him on the tour lately.
The next day, Delores, a Savary Island local, showed up at my door a litle hot under the collar, and handed over a sickly Gaston to me. It seems he refused to take off his Habs sweater in sweltering temperatures and suffered a massive dose of sunstroke. Delores also informed me that Gaston crashed a womens’ beach volleyball game, propositioned the players, peed on a campfire during a group sing-a-long, threw sand in a couple of 90 pound weaklings’ eyes, stole a bottle of moonshine, drank most of it, and then lit it and set a big tent on fire.
And in his drunken stupor, he proposed to Delores and tried to seduce her by singing old Mel Torme standards with no pants on.
Now he’s got a hangover.
Why do I put up with Gaston? Because he loves the Habs. Because he comes from a screwed up family tree. And because I need him for the tour.
I took a photo of him when Delores showed up at the house. Here it is. Someday I hope he grows up.
The ferries are the only way to leave Powell River (except for small and expensive planes), and so I thought that for this part of the tour, I’d have Gaston take a ride to show you the ins and outs of ferry culture here on the west coast.
I wasn’t able to go along, so I left strict instructions to Gaston to (a) get some good pictures of ferry life, and (b) don’t embarrass me in any way, shape or form. Gaston told me to stop fretting and not be so silly, so I sent him on his way. It’s time I began to trust him, I told myself.
The pictures were quite good, I thought.
Here’s Gaston up top as traffic gets loaded on.
I thought that was good, and I was proud of the little bugger.
Gaston snuck into the galley for this photo of the ladies working hard. It’s been a long time since I felt this good about Gaston.
And then it happened. Gaston started complaining that his meal should have been free seeing that he was an official photographer. He threw his lemon meringue pie around the cafeteria, noisily slurped his clam chowder without using a spoon, tried to pinch women as they walked by, and loudly, so all could hear, blamed me for the grizzly decapitation of LaBois.
The ferry finally docked, and Gaston, with orders from the bridge, was unceremoniously given the boot.
When I drove out and picked him up, all he said to me in the car was that he couldn’t help it, the girls gave him a woody.
I knew I shouldn’t have left it up to him. Never again.
So it’s come to this, and frankly, I’m not surprised. Gaston has always said there’d be a day of reckoning. He’s so full of it.
Gaston is blaming me for the untimely and grizzly decapitation of LaBois. He says it was me, and only me, who cut off his uncle’s head with a chainsaw.
Hey Gaston! Ever think about stand-up comedy?
I was nowhere near LaBois at the unfortunate time. I was, uh, at the mall, yeah the mall, that’s it.
If you go back a few pages to where there’s a photo of Gaston making a spectacle of himself by flinging himself upon his dead uncle, who, by the way, used to talk behind Gaston’s back, you will see that the deed was committed by someone with a chainsaw, and I don’t even own a chainsaw. My neighbour does, but I don’t.
Hah!
Anyway, Gaston says I should be put in prison and the key should be thrown away, but I pay no attention to him, or his picture, because I was at the mall. And I don’t own a chainsaw. And there’s no fingerprints on LeBois.
So the tour is cut short today because of Gaston’s accusation.
And it’s too bad. There’s lots of Powell River to be seen.
Please disregard Gaston’s photo as he thinks he’s funny and my being accused of chainsaw decapitation is no laughing matter. Disregard the photo.
You can find the full tour simply by clicking “Tour of Powell River’ over in ‘categories’. Trust me, Gaston’s sort of normal in most of them.
