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.
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.