Bad behavior in public. part 2

For the earlier part of this story, click here...

Steveston is an historic area in Richmond at the mouth of the Fraser River. It’s famous for being a boomtown of salmon fishing and canning during the Victorian era. You should visit the museum if you want to understand how hard life was back then, and how First Nations and Asian people were exploited by the fishing industry. It’s amazing to glimpse the horrible lives people lived so that well-heeled whitey in the Commonwealth could enjoy lovely hand-packed tins of Canadian salmon. Hail Britannia.

Geographically, Steveston occupies a spit of riverfront land that ends with a park. The shuttlebuses were emptying people into a large, central parking area, and hundreds of us were excitedly making our way to where the best vantage points might be. Although it was still over an hour until the ships were to arrive, the place was packed. I held my boy’s hand tightly and followed the surging mass of humanity towards the paved path to the view spots at the waterfront park. It felt a bit like we were being sucked into a whirlpool or something. Folks were bottlenecking at the entrance to the walkway and foot-traffic became slower and more pressed.

As we were swept along the murmuring realist in my head pointed out a few things. No one was coming out. I mean no one. The tide of humanity (of which I was part) was occupying every square inch of available space. I conjured up a mental image of the map I’d seen and realized that this path led to a park that had only one entrance and was surrounded on all sides by the river. Logic dictated that there was a profoundly finite amount of space to occupy down at there. The outcome seemed clear. At some point, as more and more drones pushed in from behind, those already trapped in the park would be forced to impersonate the lemmings they so completely resembled. The other choice was to be packed together like sardines in a tin, which would nicely recreate the historic industry of a century ago that took place on that very spot.

I looked down the paved path, restricted on either side by a four-foot tall chain-link fence. The inexorable throng pulsed and pushed, a la peristalsis, towards an unknown, yet inescapable destination. In one of the few correct, spontaneous choices I made that day, I clutched my son under the armpit and threw all my weight arbitrarily to the left, dislodging us from the stream of hapless fools who likely were on their way to a watery tourist-packed hellhole. We were safe for the moment.

You should know that I hate crowds. I also hate the heat. I also hate being surrounded by rubes. Most importantly, I hate not being in control of a situation that I made for myself. I took the time to savour the hatred that permeated my being at that distinct moment. It was like a sweet fire, distilled in my centre, which flew forth from my eyes like flashing bolts from Hell. Where I had been forced into the crush, cheek by jowl with countless anonymous twits, I felt the tides of humanity part to give me space, so powerful were the emanations of hatred I was exuding. Then I remembered that I was clutching someone’s little 5-year-old hand, perhaps a bit too firmly. “Oh, son…” I smiled kindly if maniacally, “I don’t think we want to go down there. Maybe we should go get some fish and chips?”

I dragged the poor little bugger through the crowds and into the shopping areas, which were slightly less insane. A miracle occurred (no angels sang this time) and we managed to get a patio table for two at a place that faced the river. We might have even seen the river if not for the five thousand assholes milling about between us and the water, looking for the boats. Nonetheless, I counted us lucky. I figured we’d at least see the crowsnests and pennants pass by above the heads of all those people. I had a seat, a cup of coffee, and the company of my beautiful, patient and sweet young son. We dined on overpriced, mediocre fish and chips while waiting for the archaic pageantry to begin.

It didn’t. An hour later the boats were 30-minutes late and nowhere in sight. Our plates had been cleared, my coffee stopped being re-filled, and the bill was archly placed before me. There was a long line-up to get into the restaurant. The little space that had been left between the river and us had been packed to capacity while we ate. The sun beat down upon us mercilessly. My boy asked me, “Daddy… aren’t the big boats ever going to come?”

Deep in the recesses of my consciousness the murmuring realist wiped the chip oil off his lips and told me some true things. “Tim,” he offered, “ those ships are not coming. If they do come, the only way you’ll see them is to fight your way to the front of this crowd, perch on the edge of the Fraser River and struggle for a foothold, where you will absorb the heat radiation of the sun like a solar panel. If, by some act of God, you actually get a vantage point, that will be when your boy will decide he needs to defecate, urgently. You don’t really know where you are, where your car is, or how to get to it. This has been one Hellish misadventure since you were deluded enough to think it would be a good idea to come here. Oh… and did I mention that the ships are not coming? Hate to say I told you so.”

That’s when I told myself, “Fuck it.”

I paid the bill, grabbed my boy, and began shouldering through the throngs like a linebacker. On the way back I noticed with evil satisfaction that the entrance to the pathway to the waterfront park was finally topped up. It was packed with an unmoving mass of wriggling humanity. Perhaps not surprisingly, I noticed that the dumbest ten per cent of the gene pool was still trying to force their way down there. I imagined that I heard screams and splashes in the distance. After a long series of semi-impolite shoves and jostles, we found ourselves back at the gravel parking lot where we’d been dumped into this insidious trap about 90-minutes earlier. This was where, if we were lucky, we could catch a shuttle back to the relative pleasantness of that distant parking field, our car, and a chance at freedom.

We were not lucky. The Steveson Tall Ships Festival was not yet willing to release us from it’s cruel, sun blasted and salty embrace. Not by a long shot.

Okay, really this time… In the next post, I am provoked to rudeness beyond redemption. Stay tuned for part 3...