I was born in January of 1967, in St. Paul, Minnesota, during what history has come to know as the Winter of Love. My father had just completed eight years of exemplary service for Her Majesty the Queen’s Royal Canadian Air Force, married a nice British woman name Maureen Connolly, and landed a job flying airplanes in the U.S. When I was just two months old they moved the family out to the west coast and we settled in Seattle, Washington. Mom bought me a flannel diaper and I plunged head-long into the bourgeoning grunge scene while enjoying such Seattle specialties as Gerber’s Goeyduck Compote and Ivar’s Baby Tonic.
My self-awareness was born at the age of five when a kindergarten playmate informed me my underwear was inside out. A searing shame shot up my spine and I fried in humiliation. Up until that moment I had not realized there was a right or wrong way to do anything. My quest for public redemption began then and there.
During my junior high years I spent each summer on a boat with my dad a few of our friends exploring the thousands of islands that clutter the coast of British Columbia. There was an eight foot skiff with a nine horsepower outboard of which Charlie, Jimmy and I claimed sole proprietorship. In it we investigated every shallow bay, lagoon, islet and inlet from Washington to Alaska. We caught Dungeness crab, blew up dog fish and capsized whenever possible. On that little boat I had my first cigar and beer. I loved those summers.
In high school I became an American archetype. Played football (sort of, I was kicker and receiver), joined the soccer team, swim team and did all my homework. I was even chosen to speak at graduation. Ironically, I wrote the speech while doing community service, an honor I achieved after decorating a police car with toilet paper. Mom says those years were the greatest years of my life, and in a way they were, but for reasons I can never tell her.
I spent my twentieth birthday with the Cofan, a small tribe of Native Amazonians residing on the Agua Rico River near the boarder of Ecuador and Peru. They tried to teach me to hunt wild boar, fish for piranha, and live off the bounty of the jungle. I returned home twenty pounds lighter and sporting an excruciating inguinal hernia. I spent a lot of time thinking back to the summers in Canada. I loved those summers.
Upon graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in Brit. Lit., I traded in my flannel for a pair of dazzling white polyester pants and joined the cosmetic world of high seas tourism. On board a Princess cruise ship I visited 40 countries on five continents. The highlight has to have been a private dinner hosted by Mr. Sartov, in the grand ballroom of Catherine the Great’s summer palace in Pushkin. It was there I had my first vodka, followed shortly there after by numbers two through twelve. Later on in the evening I swear Catherine herself made an appearance and we got funky on the parquet.
It was through tourism that I met my wife. We were introduced on May 14th, the anniversary of the beginning of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. We were married one year later and our voyage has compare to theirs on many levels. We both love the outdoors and guided hikes through the mountains of Washington and Oregon for years. Eventually, like all great adventures, our marriage came to an end. I have now regrets. She changed me for the better.
Then there was the time I swam with sea lions in the Sea of Cortez. That was cool, though not nearly as exciting as being run down by the bear while fishing a river in Alaska. It was an instance when a dead salmon offers more protection than a gun. As I was madly throwing my days catch at the ornery brown monster until my friends arrived with the skiff, I remember thinking about Canada. I loved those summers.
Bio
I was born in January of 1967, in St. Paul, Minnesota, during what history has come to know as the Winter of Love. My father had just completed eight years of exemplary service for Her Majesty the Queen’s Royal Canadian Air Force, married a nice British woman name Maureen Connolly, and landed a job flying airplanes in the U.S. When I was just two months old they moved the family out to the west coast and we settled in Seattle, Washington. Mom bought me a flannel diaper and I plunged head-long into the bourgeoning grunge scene while enjoying such Seattle specialties as Gerber’s Goeyduck Compote and Ivar’s Baby Tonic.
My self-awareness was born at the age of five when a kindergarten playmate informed me my underwear was inside out. A searing shame shot up my spine and I fried in humiliation. Up until that moment I had not realized there was a right or wrong way to do anything. My quest for public redemption began then and there.
During my junior high years I spent each summer on a boat with my dad a few of our friends exploring the thousands of islands that clutter the coast of British Columbia. There was an eight foot skiff with a nine horsepower outboard of which Charlie, Jimmy and I claimed sole proprietorship. In it we investigated every shallow bay, lagoon, islet and inlet from Washington to Alaska. We caught Dungeness crab, blew up dog fish and capsized whenever possible. On that little boat I had my first cigar and beer. I loved those summers.
In high school I became an American archetype. Played football (sort of, I was kicker and receiver), joined the soccer team, swim team and did all my homework. I was even chosen to speak at graduation. Ironically, I wrote the speech while doing community service, an honor I achieved after decorating a police car with toilet paper. Mom says those years were the greatest years of my life, and in a way they were, but for reasons I can never tell her.
I spent my twentieth birthday with the Cofan, a small tribe of Native Amazonians residing on the Agua Rico River near the boarder of Ecuador and Peru. They tried to teach me to hunt wild boar, fish for piranha, and live off the bounty of the jungle. I returned home twenty pounds lighter and sporting an excruciating inguinal hernia. I spent a lot of time thinking back to the summers in Canada. I loved those summers.
Upon graduating from the University of Washington with a degree in Brit. Lit., I traded in my flannel for a pair of dazzling white polyester pants and joined the cosmetic world of high seas tourism. On board a Princess cruise ship I visited 40 countries on five continents. The highlight has to have been a private dinner hosted by Mr. Sartov, in the grand ballroom of Catherine the Great’s summer palace in Pushkin. It was there I had my first vodka, followed shortly there after by numbers two through twelve. Later on in the evening I swear Catherine herself made an appearance and we got funky on the parquet.
It was through tourism that I met my wife. We were introduced on May 14th, the anniversary of the beginning of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. We were married one year later and our voyage has compare to theirs on many levels. We both love the outdoors and guided hikes through the mountains of Washington and Oregon for years. Eventually, like all great adventures, our marriage came to an end. I have now regrets. She changed me for the better.
Then there was the time I swam with sea lions in the Sea of Cortez. That was cool, though not nearly as exciting as being run down by the bear while fishing a river in Alaska. It was an instance when a dead salmon offers more protection than a gun. As I was madly throwing my days catch at the ornery brown monster until my friends arrived with the skiff, I remember thinking about Canada. I loved those summers.