Camelot Island

camelot island
© 2010 Darren DeRidder. Originally uploaded by soto voce

Thousand Islands, Ontario, Canada

Buffalo Jump 2

Buffalo Jump 2, originally uploaded by soto voce.

This is the second photograph I've posted of Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump in the Alberta foothills. The previous one was an obvious HDR stack of three exposures, which I shot hand-held! This is actually a single exposure, shot in RAW format and post-processed in the same software as the HDR image, rendering what it calls a "psuedo HDR" image. Because this is a single exposure, I feel the sharpness is better than on the composite photo. I'm still not completely happy with the kit lens, however. Most of my images don't meet my expectations for sharpness when viewed full screen. This includes images shot with a tripod and employing all the tricks for eliminating camera shake and getting the right focus.

Temeraire

Rideau Canal, Ottawa, Ontario, Canada

© 2010 Darren DeRidder

Keynote Notes

Jobs is giving his keynote, introducing the next generation of iPods, iTunes and Apple TV.  One of the things I like, probably everybody likes, about Apple is their continual innovation.  One takeaway from the keynote is Jobs' description of the driving factor behind Apple's innovation and success:

We listened to what customers wanted...  This is what customers were telling us...  Our customers wanted this.

Apple delivers.  Cha-ching.

Rethink Alberta

According to a recent Angus Reid poll the following TV commercial is having a big impact on potential tourism in Alberta.

LO 300 Fever

©2010 Darren DeRidder

The LO 300 is a 300 nautical mile race around Lake Ontario.  Starting in Port Credit, Ontario, the course makes its way to Toronto islands and then heads east to Main Duck Island, carving ever so slightly southward to avoid the shoreline that juts out at Point Petre.  From there the course heads south across the lake to Oswego, west to Niagara, and finally back up to Port Credit.  The sailing is continuous, day-and-night sailing with no stops along the way.  Crew have to take watches and sail during the night.  It can take three days for the fastest boats, and generally four or five days for most competitors.

This was race held a lot of firsts for me.  The first LO 300, first time sailing overnight, first time sailing any significant distance out on Lake Ontario.  As it turns out it was also the first time to experience strong gale force winds, waves so high that the boat was literally falling down the surface of the wave, and sea sickness so bad that I thought I would turn myself inside out.

The race got off to a great start with winds close to 20 knots and a fast broad reach to Toronto.  We sailed wing on wing and lost some distance to the boats flying spinnakers, but it turned out to be a wise decision.  Just after Toronto Islands a squall hit us.  The winds picked up a bit, and we furled in the headsail as much as we could. It was so tightly wound on the furler it looked like a toothpick, and we still had a fair amount of canvas out in the wind.  When the squall hit, it brought rain and large hailstones that pelted the top of our heads and made me thankful for the bimini on the C&C 32 yacht "Boann".

As the winds settled to a more manageable 20 knots we unfurled the headsail again and were making good speed when a second squall line crept up behind us.  In the last few moments we realized it was moving surprisingly quickly, picking up spray off the surface of the water and thundering down on us like a black wall.  We barely had time to furl in the headsail (again, only as far as the furling line would go, so leaving about half the sail out) before we were engulfed in a maelstrom.  The winds were just unbelievable, and Liam sat in the cockpit shouting out the readings from the windspeed indicator.

"30 knots!  34!  37!  40!"

We were in a full gale, the water was black and the tops of the waves were blown flat, turning to horizontal spray, and the boat heeled violently over.  Steve shouted to ease the main and someone released the sheet, letting the mainsail flog.  Even so with the wheel hard over Steve fought to keep the boat from rounding up.  Just when it seemed we had lost control of the vessel Liam called out the windspeed again.

"39!  37!  33.... 20 knots!"

It was over almost as quickly as it had started.  We looked around and saw many boats with blown out sails streaming from the tops of their masts, genoas hopelessly wrapped around forstays, and high-teck kevlar sails worth thousands of dollars that simply exploded under the intense pressure of the wind.  Listening to the VHF we soon learned that one boat had lost its mast.  A trimaran had capsized and we followed the rescue procedures on the radio.  We passed the overturned boat and saw it's crew members sitting on the hull as a coast guard rescue boat prepared to bring them to safety.

For the remainder of the day the waves were heavy but the wind returned to reasonable 10 - 15 knots.  We sailed on a broad reach for Point Petre.  Late at night I took the wheel and logged about 25 nautical miles in lighter air.  A bright star in front of the mast served as a point of reference for steering, and fragments of a poem drifted through my mind.   We found ourselves well out in the middle of the shipping lanes, and freighters plied the waters, massive engines rumbling in the distance.  Lights like a city afloat approached and we hurriedly adjusted course to stay clear of a massive barge heading straight for us in the dark; it slipped past our stern about a half-mile away.  At last I gave over the helm to Paul and Steve who carried on mile after mile till the first light of dawn began to faintly illuminate the eastern sky ahead.

A spinnaker run the last several miles to the Ducks was fast and enjoyable sailing, but after rounding the islands we once again found strong winds and high, turbulent waves.  We didn't finish the race but we did 200 miles.  In the end we were all too sick to contemplate weathering another storm.  There had not been enough motion sickness medicine on board to go around (my herbal remedies didn't work at all!) and I was the worst of the bunch, lurching for the rail to chum the waters seven times in as many hours.  But it was a good learning experience, and with a bit of additional preparation, I hope to compete in the LO300 again soon.

"Sea-Fever"

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).

Brakey Bay

Brakey Bay in the Afternoon, Wolfe Island, Lake Ontario

© 2010 Darren DeRidder

Driving to Gananoque on a Friday evening, we arrived somewhat tired at the Trident Yacht Club well after dinner time.  The next hour or so was spent provisioning and settling in, and I retired early to the quarterberth.

The morning dawned bright and clear and passed with a leisurely pancake breakfast aboard thanks to our skipper and his two fancy compact nonstick skillets.  Then we set to work installing a new refrigeration unit. What followed for the next 4 hours could be described as furkelling. Furkelling is a time honored tradition amongst backpackers, sailors and other quirky folk.  In the middle of the night, when you are trying to sleep in a hostel, someone inevitably gets up and starts furkelling around in their backpack trying to find stuff that they don't need but can't remember what they did with it.  They can't sleep until they remember what they did with their sunscreen, so they furkel around in the bowels of their pack until they find it.  Then they put it right back where they found it, get back into bed, and within seconds are snoring loudly while you remain awake and disgruntled by the commotion.

Furkelling often takes place in the dark, or in cramped quarters, and is usually a solitary activity that demands someone's undivided attention, and produces no tangible results except possibly to annoy other people.  After some time, we were satisfied that our furkelling with the refrigeration unit was getting nowhere, so I poked my nose outside and announced it was perfect weather for sailing.

Promptly we stopped furkelling, assembled our scattered crew, and sailed out around the east end of Howe Island, across the 40 acres, and into Brakey Bay.  The evening was warm and grand, and we enjoyed a walk ashore with the dog, but after sundown the wind began to rise and the boat began to roll.  We started watching a video, but I got cramped and uncomfortable and said I needed to sleep, which obligated everyone else to clear the cabin.  The rolling motion of the boat was starting to get to me; only lying down flat and closing my eyes brought relief.

Around three in the morning I was awakened by skipper who announced we were now a lot closer to shore than before.  Could we be dragging our anchor?  The wind had shifted around from the North and we were now fully exposed to big waves piling into the bay.  If our anchor failed, we could be driven up on the rocks.  The GPS had been set with an anchor alarm and showed that we had swung in a circle, but it seemed our anchor was still well set.  We had at least 100 feet of anchor rode out.  For the remainder of the night I didn't sleep at all, and the boat lunged and rolled as the waves continued to beat us.  The rigging clanged up in the spreaders, the wind howled through the cowlings, the rain blew in through the gangway and wave after wave after wave jolted us.  On the VHF radio I tuned into the weather channel which brought warnings of storms and high winds from Kingston to Cornwall.

Morning came grey and cold, and I was the first to bolt for the hatch and collapse over the pushpit railing to feed the fishes.  Four times I heaved over the transom, and in between I sat with the wind and rain in my face, staring at the horizon and trying to gain equilibrium, or laying down flat in the quarterberth, eyes closed and dead to the world.  I became hypothermic and couldn't stop shivering.

Finally, at around 3:30pm, the strong wind warning ended, the whitecaps came fewer and farther between, and two of the crew set off to shore in the dinghy to take the dog for a walk.  This dangerous maneuver fortunately did not result in the calamity I had predicted, so with all aboard once again we weighed anchor and motor-sailed into the teeth of the wind, heading straight back to TYC.  The skipper was apologetic.  He hadn't anticipated such an ordeal.  Never mind, I said, I'm just glad to be getting out of that hell hole.

The sun came out just as we arrived back at the dock, and the evening turned clear with a gentle breeze.  Perfect weather for sailing.