Suddenly a bright light from heaven flashed around me and I fell to the ground...Acts:22.6
It is with great regret that I am now alone in the Long Range. At night one can see the twinkling lights of the endangered and impoverished communities stretching all the way to Belle Isle: New Ferolle, Plum Point, Reefs Harbour, Bird Cove and all the others.
Winter is creeping in and with it comes the early morning mist over the Leg Lake Valley and down castor River to the ocean. From the peaks one can see clear across the straits to Labrador. All one needs to do these days is follow the long endless line of Nalcor transmission towers leading to Muskrat Falls in the northwest and all the way to Confederation Building in our fair city to the southeast. \The leached bones on wildlife litter the valleys in between.
Before I get too maudlin I must describe what has transpired in the last three weeks, since we heard via CBC podcast, the vile threats against our physical well-being and psychological health by Judge Andrew (Roy Bean) Parsons, Minister of Laws, who took to the airwaves to warn all peaceful citizens of our smiling land to be on the lookout, all the while casting nasty aspersions on my family origins as well as the likely nationality of my two female bodyguards.
My loyal companions were somewhat depressed after the podcast and took longer than usual to climb the Nalcor tower to search for any signs of Mantracker Walsh and Wimpy Warr. They returned as dejected as ever. I tried cheering them up with some YouTube Leonard Cohen on my newly acquired MacBook Pro. "Who really gets to profit and who really gets to pay?" He crooned. "Who really rides the slave ship straight into Charleston Bay?"
Their depression deepened.
Perhaps, I thought, they needed a change of scenery. Perhaps they yearned for the bright lights and bustling bistros of Bartlett's Harbour.
Perhaps we all needed a creative project to take our minds off our predicament.
I needed a vision. That night I partook [L]iberally of my newly minted beverage--wild rosemary tea with several splashes of raspberry screech. It induced a serious onslaught of demons--giant big macs with frothing pitbull fangs, frenzied flying pharmacists in fearsome white frocks, angry laid-off librarians with loose locks of hair, and directing the whole lot, Al ( The Pirate) Hawkins, Minister of Ferries, playing on his musical instrument--like a scene out of Harry potter and the Goblet of Fire.
And then another thought. Perhaps I should send Dear leader Duh-wite some of this stuff so he can have better visions.
By morning my own vision was better focused. We would go down to the edge of Leg Lake and build a solar-powered, unmanned mini-ferry, capable of transporting two small cars (or one pickup) at a time. Shortly we had collected enough materials--roofing tar, discarded metal, tin cans, some good quality lumber and styrofoam sheets borrowed in the dead of night from friendly cabin owners nearby, and a set of propellers from an abandoned Yamaha outboard motor in mint condition attached to a derelict dinghy.
In four days flat, our prototype was ready and I congratulated myself on my ingenuity and vision. Now, all we need do, was sail the craft down Castor River to the straits, then around the northeast coast and into St. John's harbour with flags flying. The masses would meet us joyously at the waterfront. Anthony Germain would interview us for the morning show.
Old gripes would be forgiven. Our Dear Leader Duh-wite, and the Lieutenant Governor would present us with the order of Canada.
They could now sell the expensive Romanian ferries plus the Grace Sparkes and The Hazel McIsaac for a cool 500 million--or they could transform them into a fleet of love boats--Mary Antoinette boudoirs, mirrors on the ceilings--cruises under the tropical night skies of Conception Bay--the whole nine yards.
It was a win-win either way. I could patent my design and sell my boats to Al (The Pirate) Hawkins for a tidy ten grand each. They would be ideal for all the island runs in the province if purchased in large numbers. One can easily imagine the savings to our benevolent government and to our Dear Leader. I have estimated they would need only two (One for backup), in continuous operation night and day, on the Long Island-Pelleys Island run.
So, late on the fourth day,our prototype was ready. We covered it with boughs to disguise it from prying eyes and retired to our alpine fortifications for the night.
The problem with visions is that you can never predict the future.
As I said at the beginning, all this happened three weeks ago. After completing the prototype unmanned, solar-powered ferry we enjoyed a fitful night's sleep in anticipation of sea trials next day. If everything went according to plan we would break out and head for the open ocean and St. John's, one day later.
When I roused myself with much belching and throat clearing next morning there was a noticable sound of silence from the two adjacent bough-wiffens of my bodyguards. My first thought was that they had been abducted by the Mantracker in the murky darkness.
I soon discarded this theory as there were no pony tracks around the campsite. After much searching, I came to the conclusion that they had flown the fort and I immediately went to the shoreline to search. The prototype ferry was nowhere to be seen. My two bodyguards had deserted! Bolted! Fled! Decamped!. They had absconded with my ferry.
Ten days later I was sitting in my lonely bough-wiffen listening to Here and Now with Debbie and Jonathan. They ran a story about a strange craft that had washed up on the shores of County May in Ireland. I knew immediately what had happened. My two bodyguards had gone home to Libya via the Emerald Isle.
All the while they had been pining for the desert sands of their homeland.