It’s odd to recognize a stranger from a story in the paper, but I was sure I did. Thanks to a set of convoluted circumstances, he was giving me a lift to work. Somewhere along the 55km trip, I knew I had to find the courage to ask.

He was ruggedly handsome, an outdoorsy family man who couldn’t have been older than 45. He was just telling me how disappointed he was to discover that it would be cheaper in the long run to bring in electricity from the power company, rather than continue to develop his own system off the grid. “You live the same way, you know what I mean. There’s a certain pride to living off the grid!”

I nodded in agreement. The time had come to confirm my suspicions. “So, were you one of the big winners?” I asked. As I remembered, 25 had shared in the recent lottery jackpot. That would have made each one just over $900, 000 richer overnight.

His smile was easy in reply. “Yep. That’s where the money’s coming from.”

As we continued down the highway, we talked of travels and dreams. He shared a story about a friend, a young helicopter pilot and technician with a touch of envy. “He doesn’t even apply for jobs, really… just sends his resume and starts packing. Everyone wants him all over the arctic. What a life!”

What a life, indeed! I’ve wanted to get my pilot’s license as far back as I can remember. As my companion described his friend’s world, I imagined myself in his shoes, tasted the freedom. If only…

“Is that what you want to do, too?” I asked.

That’s when he painted me a picture of his own dream. He wanted to be a wilderness guide at some fly-in lodge in Yukon or Alaska. He’d obviously given it a great deal of thought, had it all figured out. His wife is a chef who shares his vision, so they’d both have work. I listened with interest as he described every detail. They could pack up the kids, take them to a new life…

“So what’s stopping you?”

“Oh, I’m too old now. That’s something you do when you’re young,” he shrugged, “But it’s nice to dream.”

I was amazed. This apparently active, robust man within a decade of my age had a dream and a family that shared it. Now he also had the fabled million dollars, but he was too old to follow through.

As I arrived at work and thanked him for the ride, my mind was scrambling to answer a new question:

If the wall between you and your dreams suddenly vanished, would you race forward, or would you find a new excuse?

It was starting to look like a bad day.

I’d arrived unannounced on a friend’s doorstep on Saturday morning to ask a favour. The original plan had been to stop in at the office to send the e-mail I’d killed the laptop battery composing, then leave my knapsack full of electronics at the office while the bike and I went camping for the weekend. Standing outside the locked building 55 km from home and running late, I realized I’d forgotten the keys. The e-mail would have to wait, but I needed a safe place to leave my pack. I looked at my friend with pleading eyes. “Would you mind?”

She came through like a hero, not only promising to babysit my toys, but offering the use of her computer to send out the message so clearly occupying my mind.

Sitting at her computer, trying to remember e-mail addresses and string together the message anew, I was initially annoyed by the distracting presence of her seven-year-old son, firmly in the grips of the “why?” stage. Still, as he peppered me with questions my irritation depleated… there’s something deeply flattering about the adoration of a child. I tried to answer his queries honestly, giving them the attention they deserved.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asked, looking over my shoulder with wide-eyed curiosity.

“Writing an apology,” I replied.

“Why?” came his inevitable response.

I stopped typing to consider my explanation. “Ever do something that seemed like an OK idea at the time, only to have it blow up in your face later?”

He giggled and nodded knowingly, blond hair falling in his eyes.

“Well, that’s what I did,” I returned my attention to the screen, “So now I need to apologize.”

Ever inquisitive, he wasn’t quite satisfied. “What’ll happen if you don’t?” he asked.

Again, I stopped to think. “I guess I’d lose friends.”

His brow furrowed as he gave my predicament serious thought. “But you have other friends, don’t you?”

I smiled at his naïvety. “Yes, but some friends are irreplaceable.”

The little guy didn’t miss a beat this time, offering up a slice of childhood wisdom to ease the complexities of a grown-up world:

“Wouldn’t those friends know you just made a mistake?”

As his words settled upon me, I found I had no argument. I fired off my apology with a lighter heart and ran off to enjoy a weekend of camping.

Having spent the better part of the morning and the previous night seeking peace in forgiveness, who would have imagined that peace would arrive instead wrapped in the questions of a seven-year-old?

While I await inspiration for another post, perhaps this will serve to entertain…

See more photos: Kai’s Best on TrekEarth

By luck of timing, I currently have a couple of friends raising puppies for the first time. As a former dogsledder capping out at over fifty dogs in my yard at one time (yeah, another story), this means I’m getting a lot of training and behaviour questions lately.

Training any animal is a simple combination of positive reinforcement and repetition. Surprisingly, the more challenging part of the equation is repetition, since the animal kingdom is designed to spot patterns -any patterns- and learn from them. Unfortunately, some of our most persisting patterns are the ones we’ve stopped noticing. The first step in training is to take a look at ourselves and begin to notice the things we do without thinking, for those are the clearest messages we’re sending to out pets, the training we’re doing by accident.

Years ago, while on vacation in Calgary, Alberta, we took a lovely road-trip into the mountains. On the way we stopped at an incredible waterfall right by the road. Fresh mountain air and hiking make a person hungry, so the restaurant across the highway was well placed, and appropriately busy. Lunch was great, served on the patio where we could still see and hear that waterfall. After dessert we were eager to continue our journey and headed back to the parking lot.

As we approached the car, we spotted a dozen or more plump rabbits on a grassy knoll. Ever seeking the perfect shot, I grabbed my camera and moved in closer, capturing several shots before my partner grew impatient and moved back toward the car. As she did so, several rabbits stopped posing for me and chased after her down the hill. This is highly peculiar behaviour for rabbits. Wild ones run from people and tame ones seem to ignore them. Seeing them run like a herd in pursuit was fascinating. Stranger still was when she opened the car door and they all gathered underneath it.

I looked around for obvious predators and, seeing none, ducked down to take a look. There they sat, half-a-dozen rabbits, just hanging out under my car. Neither beckoning nor chasing seemed to affect them, so I decided that starting the engine would likely do the trick. No such luck. Instead, the sound of the starter brought another four or five of their friends running down the hill so that most of the rabbits were now immovably parked beneath the car.

We were both laughing in amazement and wonder as my partner dropped to the ground and watched the rabbits and I moved the car slowly backward, creeping out of the parking spot. Still, no one budged. Rabbits are cute and fuzzy creatures I really have no desire to squish… even if they are clearly insane, so we kept looking for a solution. Finally my partner offered to run inside to get some scraps from the restaurant to coax the flock out. That’s when it hit me.

Training is a simple combination of positive reinforcement and repetition. It must have started by accident, but now tourist after tourist had repeated this pattern and the rabbits had learned, changing their behaviour accordingly. Flocking under departing cars brought food, probably even good food. It was unconscious training at its best. Stubbornly refusing to contribute to their delinquency, we found a long stick instead of food and inched the car out while poking the critters out of the way. Obviously the people using this method are and ever shall be the minority, so I realize we made no impact on the overall training process. Still, as a trainer, I just couldn’t be part of it. It took longer, but eventually we drove out, accelerating away from the rabbits, likely perplexed that they’d missed their treat.

Unconscious training happens all the time, and is usually the answer to our most perplexing behaviour questions. Every time I find myself wondering “what would make a dog do this?”, I take a step back and remember the rabbits under my car.

I have this awesome Australian Drover coat… you know, the full length trench coats made of oiled canvas? I bought it years ago, in lieu of rain gear for my motorcycle. I figured for a little more money I could have a coat I would wear in my life off the bike, instead of the standard ugly, utilitarian gear every other rider wore. Back then I had a mean black cruiser style bike and that coat completed the “iron horse” look. Would you believe I regularly had people crank down their windows in the rain just to compliment that coat? It was my ultimate in cool, a bona fide fashion statement!

Attached to the coat was a label that I still keep in the pocket. It reads:

This coat will keep you dry in a hurricane for four hours,
Should you choose to stand in a hurricane for four hours.

The moment I saw that label, the coat had a name. I call it my Idiot Coat. I mean really, who else would stand in a hurricane for four hours?

There’s a deeper meaning to the story of that coat, though. If I look back at my life I realize I have all too often been that idiot, leaning hard into the wind with fierce determination in my eye, long after buildings have tumbled and everyone else has fled. At the time I’m sure I thought I was demonstrating my willpower and courage but in the end it turns out I was just being the stubborn idiot that coat was made for.

I admire the people we call flighty, the ones who smell the winds of change early and move on. Seemingly by instinct, they know when the party, the job, the relationship is over. They bid the folks that matter a fond farewell and drift away with grace and style on a gentle breeze. Far at the other end of the spectrum is me, hours later, crawling out from the rubble of an event gone wrong, bruised, angry and raw from the massive destruction. Good thing I have my trusty Idiot Coat!

After all these years, however, the Idiot Coat is worn and frayed from hard use and, frankly, so am I. My mission now is to watch the breeze and learn to walk away when the time is right. Granted, I may never be the leader of the pack, that eloquent forbearer of things to come, but with a little practise I hope I will be among those who walk away, damp and shaken perhaps, but still on two feet.

I’m also pricing out another Idiot Coat, just in case.

Just to state more of the obvious, it does also rain in the Caribbean. When it does, the storm is strong and harsh, often disappearing as suddenly as it arrives. It was during one such downpour, just over a year ago, that I experienced one of my most surreal moments since joining ships.

In St. Maarten, as is the case in so many cruise ship ports, discovering a world the tourists miss is as simple as turning right where most turn left. On this day I moved away from the crowds, favouring the road less travelled by. I wandered aimlessly through the residential streets, winding up in an area that appeared to have the population density of an urban centre combined with the odd farm animal in someone’s yard. The buildings were in various states of disarray and the wary glances of their inhabitants reminded me that the rest of the tourists had gone the other way.

I found a great view of cliffs and ocean from atop a pile of rubble I assume had once been a house. I spent the next hour intermittently reading in the Caribbean sun and photographing the waves as they crashed on the rocks. I was looking through the lens, impressed with the height the waves were gaining, when I realized that the sky had suddenly gone quite dark. I shot only a couple more frames before packing away the camera, but it was too late. The dark clouds were rolling in rapidly and I could already see the rain across the bay.

The only shelter in sight was a tree… a rather stunted and bare one at that. I made my way toward it in a gentle hurry, hoping to beat the storm but still meaning to look confident to the eyes I could feel watching me. I really don’t mind being drenched by tropical rain, in fact I usually enjoy it, but the camera is somewhat less of a water-baby.

By the time the clouds broke, I had made it to my tree. As the rain increased in both force and volume, my shelter seemed to provide very little shelter at all. Ever concerned for the camera, I dropped to a crouch with the bag between my feet and wondered what my observers thought of me now.

If you’re thinking that waiting out a torrential downpour by crouching under a bald tree is an odd way to spend an afternoon in St Maarten, we think alike. I remember considering the absurdity of the moment and wondering, as I often do, how I would write about it someday. Still, I thought, the scene held nothing truly uncommon. Then I saw the chicken.

Running toward me and my tree was a loose chicken, occasionally flapping its wings as though momentarily forgetting it couldn’t fly. I turned to look around, trying to figure out where it might be headed. With no apparent change in course I realized we were destined to share the tree. It settled in comfortably beside me, the two of us gazing out from under our damp shelter.

Then came the dog. Hungry and damp, he marched under our tree with neither introduction nor apology, shoving the chicken a little closer to me as he took his seat. I glanced over, strangely obliged to be sure he was as well covered as any of us. He cocked his head at me for a moment before staring blankly back out at the rain with the chicken.

And finally came the goat. He trotted toward us, skipping over the rivers that had formed on the road, then took up his position on my other side.

The four of us huddled under that small tree for perhaps twenty minutes before the rain died down. I was struck by the peace, the silent understanding that we were in the same predicament with a single solution that would work only as long as we all got along. The spell was broken by the end of the storm when, as if on cue, the animals stood to go their separate ways. The dog even nipped at the chicken for a few paces as if to remind it that the rules of the food chain were back in place now.

I pulled out of my uncomfortable crouch, but I stayed under the tree a few moments longer considering my odd shelter-mates. I wished then that I had risked the camera to take a picture. I mean, come on… who in their right mind would believe my story without seeing photos?

Rainy days are the norm in coastal Alaska, especially in Ketchikan. With an average of 13′ of rain per year, they are the rainfall capitol of the United States. No matter how self-evident the fact that this is beyond any crewmember’s control, the misery brought on by a rain-filled vacation shows clearly in the ratings and comment cards used to judge us at the end of a cruise.

I remember early in my ship career experiencing my first such cruise, where every day was drenched in heavy rain from the moment the ship departed Vancouver until the moment we returned. The weight of the weather hung dismally from the guests’ shoulders as they complained about food, entertainment, prices and activities. Some even did complain about the weather, not with the expectation of change of course, but at the end of their long list as if to point out that even God was being difficult. I was always tempted to smile brightly and say, “I’ll do what I can!” Instead I learned the unwritten rule most of us catch onto eventually: Don’t ask “How’s your cruise so far?” in the rain.

Amidst this kind of gloom, smiling faces shine like the sun. The guests who have a good time regardless not only of the weather, but of the wet blanket effect of those around them are genuinely special people. They are a reminder to us all that happiness is a conscious choice to be made everyday. Usually we find it in individuals, family groups or friends who work off each other’s energy, but there was a particular tour group that intrigued me because they seemed to be strangers with nothing in common but that unshakable joy.

When a woman from that group interrupted a stranger’s run-on complaint with a joke, a smile and an over-the shoulder wink to the crewmember she’d rescued, my curiosity was peaked. The next time I saw her I commented on her positive attitude and asked what made the difference. She said her tour company had brought all the travelers together for a pre-cruise talk covering the basics for first time cruisers. In closing the Tour Leader had told them:

“… but most importantly, remember you’re not buying the weather. You’re buying a room on a luxury cruiseliner, unlimited food, and a trip to Alaska. You will see mountains, trees and ocean. There will be live shows, a casino and a spa for your enjoyment. In short, it may rain every day, but there will be plenty for you to enjoy anyway. If you really don’t want rain, then perhaps you could consider the dry season in the Caribbean.”

It was a good speech just stating the obvious and yet it worked. No one cancelled and everyone enjoyed. I wonder now whether more of us would choose to be happy through the hard times if we’d listened more carefully to the tour guide coming in. I’m almost positive we were warned that there might be rain.

As an Estonian-Canadian, nationalism hasn’t come easily to me. Growing up, my parents made a concerted effort to be sure I understood what it meant to be Estonian, and rightly so. I’m a big believer that a person’s heritage can play a huge part in their character and pride. The trouble was that amidst Estonian summer camp, night school and folk dancing, the Canadian part of the equation was somehow overshadowed. I came to see myself as Estonian by heritage, Canadian by accident. It wasn’t until years later, when I drove across Canada in a 16-year-old one-ton truck with four sled dogs for company (a whole other story in itself) that I gave any real thought to what it meant to me to be Canadian.

Now, working on cruise ships with over 60 nationalities between passengers and crew, Canadian pride has taken on new meaning. Yesterday we had a joint crew celebration of Canada Day (July 1st) and US Independence Day (July 4th). Parties are popular here, a welcome release for people who for the most part work full-time hours without a day off for months on end. With only 24 Canadians and about half as many Americans onboard, the rest of the party show up for the drinks and festivities. Still, the amount of Canadian face paint, flags, stickers and shirts amazed me. The sheer flood of red & white put the crowd celebrating at Canadian Place in Vancouver to shame.

Canadian music dominated the night, with the dance floor clearing of all but Canadians at the songs apparently unknown to the outside world. As a new song began, the DJ stopped the music as soon as he recognized the tune, but it was too late. All the Canadians on the dance floor were belting out our national anthem at the top of their lungs, continuing even after the music stopped in the most passionate rendition I have ever heard. While I enjoyed the moment, it didn’t quite hit me until the following morning.

I awoke to find a Canadian flag hanging over my bed, a temporary tattoo of a maple-leaf still emblazoned on my cheek, and wondering why I had to be in international waters so far from home to feel this great pride in my home country. I love our peaceful intentions and our healthcare system that, while far from perfect, tries to make sure everyone is cared for. I love that gay marriage is legal, as are freedom of speech and religion (or from religion, as one sees fit). Most of all, I love whatever it is we’ve done as a people that has such an international crowd choosing to wear maple leafs when it would have been equally festive to wear stars and stripes.

It was a great night, a wonderful celebration and reminder not just to Canadians but hopefully to all of us to be grateful for the things that make our individual countries so unique. The question that strikes me now is: What will it take to get all the Canadians at home to throw back their heads on Canada Day and belt out their national anthem with the same passion, loyalty and pride as we felt that night at sea?

Sing That Anthem!
Photo: Melissa Unger

Late one evening at sea several weeks ago, an onboard photographer called me over to a window near her post. As I peered with her at a dazzling sunset of purple and orange, I told her I needed a camera. She stopped me from grabbing hers, only a few feet away, by saying that some moments are just for enjoying, not for capturing. I stood transfixed, considering her words. I wanted to disagree, but couldn’t establish my argument.

As a photographer, I have a compulsion to perfectly capture every moment; or perhaps as a perfectionist I’m compelled to photographically capture it. Either way, I tend to kick myself when I’m caught awestruck without a camera. With her offhand remark in a truly great moment, this girl shook my world.

Later that night, after a few drinks and some sleep, I forgot all about it.

Fast-forward to last Juneau (we ship people think in ports, not days). I spent the day hanging out with another friend, also a photographer. She is a charming free spirit, best described as an Auzzie Hippie. I had just helped her purchase a new laptop in an industrial neighbourhood on the outskirts of town. True to her hippie roots, she had visualized the laptop and features she wanted and found it sitting on the shelf at the price she could afford. Not a bad start to a perfect day.

The perfection lingered through lunch, when we brought fresh bagels, brie and smoked salmon to a log in the woods for an impromptu picnic. A small stream trickled by, providing enough of nature’s wala to drown out the nearby traffic. Even the smell of the wet earth was intoxicatingly fresh in this lush little piece of wilderness, so far from the steel walls and recycled air of a cruise ship. With the exception of some unfamiliar rhubarb-like plant lining the stream-bed in abundance, I might have been back home. When I spotted a tiny but brilliant flower over the Hippie’s shoulder, a single splash of purple in this deep green world, conversation moved back to the perfection of this day. I regretted aloud that neither of us had brought a camera, but the Hippie simply smiled, “Maybe it’s just for now.”

Some moments are for enjoying, not for capturing.

This time the truth hit me doubly hard, and I won’t forget it. A brilliant photographer might capture the perfection of the flower, but the rest of the scene: the smells, the sounds, the company and the mood would be lost. Holding the photo in my hand, I could recount every visible detail and believe that I was holding the moment. With no photo, even as the details fade, I am more likely to remember the day as a whole. But more importantly, even if I don’t, I know that while I was in it I spent every moment enjoying rather than capturing.

Perhaps this is a lesson in life, and not just photography. How many of us spend more time thinking, dreaming and remembering than actually living? Here’s to the wisdom of a pair of photographers and the freedom they handed me that day.

One of the peculiarities of ships is the ever-increasing breadth of our circle of friends. As a Torontonian, the odds of my having friends living in every continent would have been incredibly low were it not for ships. It’s a great opportunity, an amazing and personal way to increase our understanding of various worlds with differing cultures, politics and geography.

Eventually, many of us find ourselves gravitating toward certain nationalities. Something about these people resonates within us, and they gain our interest and trust more easily than others. I seem to be surrounded, for instance, by other Canadians, Australians and Kiwis.

Most predominantly, though, my friends are South African and I really don’t know why. My knowledge of South Africa is still quite limited. Canadian newscasts have attached names like Apartheid and Mandela to the name. I loved The Power Of One (and its sequel, Tandia), a novel set in SA that also became a Hollywood Movie. Africa in general has always captivated me the same way I imagine it does all North Americans: as the ultimate exotically wild travel destination of movies and storybooks.

Now that I’m getting to know some South Africans personally, I’d like to think I’m a little more enlightened than the average North American. Let me share.

I think South Africans are the undiscovered curiosities of our world (meant in the kindest sense, of course). Thanks to movies like Crocodile Dundee, every Canadian knows an Auzzie accent, a good deal of Auzzie slang and popular Auzzie stereotypes. South Africans as a people are no less intriguing but, because they’re a touch more subtle, word has yet to get around. I’m here to change that.

(Obligatory disclaimer: the following are generalizations that, by definition, do not even attempt to reflect all)

Their accent is distinct from the British, changeable depending on English or Afrikaans influence. After a lot of initial “eh?”s (every Canadian knows that “eh?” is more polite than “huh?”), I eventually grew accustomed to the sound and actually came to like it. Their slang, though, is a whole new ball game.

A South African will call, “I’ll see you just now!” at the end of an evening, not realizing that a Canadian friend will stand there, patiently awaiting their return. In South Africa, “just now” (with emphasis on the “just”) means sometime in the indefinite future, akin to “see you later!” They also say “now-now” which means either the same thing, a little more, or a little less time… even those who say it can’t seem to agree.

“Howzit” is a standard greeting, more of an exclamation than a question. Replying in kind is acceptable, but if you insist on treating the word as you would “how are you?”, then “lekker” (pronounced lekk-ah with their accent) is a great reply, like a cooler version of “good”. I’m told the surfer types will say “Howzit my china!” instead of “hey, dude!”, but it sounds so silly to me that I wonder whether everyone’s just putting me on.

Auzzies are famous for their drink as well, and the South Africans are no different. Check facebook.com and you’ll find a group aptly named “I’m South African, therefore I can outdrink you”. As a people, they’re a fun-loving bunch, always up for a good time. They also seem outdoorsy and down to earth, a great combination.

Then there are the misconceptions. Somehow, even amidst the news of politics and Apartheid, there are people out there who are surprised to see a white South African. Let me clarify here and now that they do exist, in multitudes even. When someone tells you they are South African, it is poor form to point out that they are white and then ask if they are sure. Frankly I think that’s a stupid thing to say to anyone from anywhere, but I’m amazed at how many South African friends tell the same story of their experiences in North America. South Africa is a highly multi-cultural nation. Recognize that.

Along those lines I was told of a South African born man of Lebanese heritage who moved to the United States to attend college. He grew up with mostly black friends back home, and so fell in with a similar crowd in his new home. He was thrilled to discover an African American club on campus, and immediately signed up. At his first meeting, when his skin tone became apparent, his membership was revoked. No one seemed to grasp his argument, that he was actually the very definition of African American. He left the meeting disheartened, wondering aloud “if they meant black why didn’t they just say black?” No one could answer his question.

Here are some of the other misconceptions my South African friends wanted me to clarify. South Africa is not a third world country. Capetown is a city, not a small town. Do not expect to see lions, giraffes and elephants as you exit the plane. South Africa produces some of the best wine in the world, largely because their wine culture was established by the french.

Finally, the all time favourite North American question I watched a South African friend struggle to respectfully address:

South Africa! Really! Now, where exactly is that?