The Christmas Survival Suit
a tale

When I picked him up off the southeast tip of Bowen Island, the old man was half-drowned. Even though he was mostly submerged, I could tell that he was big, and I knew it would be tough to get him out of the frigid December water of the Strait of Georgia. I started up the engine, unpacked the lifesling, threw the yoke overboard, and motored around in tight circles until I was near enough for him to maneuver himself into it.

He was a big one all right, probably three hundred pounds or more, and winching his weight up to the Haiku and getting him aboard was no picnic. He landed on deck, and lay dripping water like a beached whale. I wondered how quickly I could get him to a hospital.

My worst fears about his physical state evaporated when I knelt down to try mouth to mouth respiration, he laughed up at me and said, “You don’t have to kiss me, sir. A simple ‘welcome aboard’ would do.”

But the old man sure was a mess. His beard looked as if it were made of seaweed, and the odd-looking, red, survival suit he wore was covered with slime that probably came from an oil slick. Around the sleeves and collar there was some kind of matted material that might have been white but it was covered with so much gunk I couldn’t tell. My first guess, by the look of the old gent’s tangled beard, and wild white eyebrows, was that he was what we used to call a bum, before they came up with all the fancy euphemisms. I offered to get him a blanket and something else to change into.

“I’m fine as I am,” he said. “I had this outfit specially made, and it’s still dry inside. Maybe something warm to drink, though. If you had some coffee?”
Unlike the odd-looking, survival suit, his blue eyes hadn’t lost any of their color from exposure to the cold Pacific water. They sparkled when he added, “ Would you have a little Christmas spirit you could put into it?”

“I don’t know about Christmas spirit,” I said, echoing my dark mood, “but there’s some brandy down below.”

“That would be wonderful,” he replied, with a chuckle.

I went below, filled a mug from the coffee thermos, and added a good dollop from the nearly-empty bottle of good Greek brandy. By the time I got back on deck, he was sitting up, and seemed a lot stronger. He reached for the coffee mug with a grateful nod, took a sip, rubbed his nose, sighed, and said, “If I’m not mistaken, the brandy is Metaxa, isn’t it? The Seven Star stuff?”

“You’re right,” I told him, amazed that he’d recognized it, then realized he’d probably just looked down through the companionway and seen me pouring from the bottle.

“I have some of this every year when I’m in Greece,” he added with a chuckle.

“Every year?” I decided to humor him, and play along with whatever story he concocted.

“Yes, I travel quite a lot in the winter.”

“So, how’d you …”

“Wind up here, floating around like a dead salmon?”
“Yes.”

“I was worrying about something … whether I could get to see all my friends this year … and I suppose I wasn’t paying attention. We hit a rough patch, and I fell out of my vessel, and there I was.” He stopped and looked carefully at me. “Speaking of which, you’ve saved my life. And I’m remiss in not having yet thanked you. I’ll be eternally grateful.”

A little embarrassed by his grand thank you, I quickly changed the topic. “Do you live in Vancouver?’ I asked.

“No, I’m from up north.” He smiled, as if thinking of home.

“Yellowknife?” It was as far in that direction as I’d ever been.

“A bit further,” he said. “I’m just here for some early Christmas visits.” He looked closely at me. “Something bothering you?” he asked. “You look worried, and earlier you alluded to not having much in the way of Christmas spirit this year.”

Though I had reason for feeling glum, I wasn’t about to discuss my problems with a stranger. “Just concerned whether you’re okay.”

He hoisted the cup up as if toasting me. “Not to worry, I’m starting to feel like myself again. I’m a pretty strong old creature. You wouldn’t believe my age if I told you.”

Although I was curious, it seemed impolite to ask anything that personal, so instead I offered him more coffee.

“Thanks, anyway,” he replied, “But we should probably be getting underway. Weren’t you headed somewhere before you fished me out?” There was something in his look that made me feel that the old bum knew more about me than he should have, and I began to wonder whether there was any truth to the old saw that some kind of psychic bond is formed between the rescuer and the rescued. I hoped not. The last thing I needed was a Hastings Street bum reading my thoughts.

I decided not to ask him about the “vessel” he’d fallen from, and whether he’d been onboard alone. My guess was he’d stowed away on a barge, and had somehow fallen overboard. But there was no time to ponder it, because I had to get busy with my own boat. The weather was beginning to close in and what had started out to be a rare sunny day in December was now turning grey with ominous dark clouds piling up on the horizon.

I put my new shipmate at the helm and ducked below to fill a mug of coffee for myself, lacing it with the last of the Metaxa. While I was there, I grabbed the camera, pointed it up through the companionway, and snapped a quick picture of the old man to add to my gallery of everyone who’s been at the wheel of the Haiku. Although several of the others had proven themselves to be lazy buggers, he’d be the first genuine bum.

When I got back up to the cockpit, I could see that the old bum was having a good time. He’d stuck his big, smiling face right into the storm, and was taking it full on, enjoying every moment. His attitude was in sharp contrast to the funk I’d been in since learning that my wife was stranded in a snowstorm at a friend’s farm in Nova Scotia, and might not make it home in time for Christmas.

“She’ll be okay,” the old man said, as if reading my thoughts. It was spooky until he added, “The Haiku’s built to take this kind of stuff, isn’t she?” I was making far too much of this psychic bond nonsense.

“We’ll be fine,” I called over the combined noise of the engine and the storm. “I’ll have us in the slip in half an hour.”

While I might be skeptical about psychic bonds and similar magic, I’m superstitious enough to know that I should have kept my mouth shut. Sure enough, the old Atomic Four began to sputter and suddenly the only sound was that of the storm. There was no choice but to get some sails up.
I’d already hauled in and coiled the jib sheets, and now had to set them up through the blocks again. Just as I started, we were slammed on the beam with a wave that nearly threw me overboard. I managed to grab a lifeline but let loose of the jib sheets in the process, and they flew overboard.

Luckily, I had an extra set. They didn’t have clips but I could use bowlines, which work just as well. I hadn’t tied one in a while, so I took a minute to practice, while the old man looked on with interest. As I refamiliarized my fingers with the knot, I explained to him how a bowline is constructed, demonstrating the rabbit coming out of the hole, behind the tree and back into the hole, in the manner most sailors have learned. He tried one and caught on immediately. I dragged the storm jib up to the bow and set the sails and this time the old man kept us on a fairly steady course.

Back in the cockpit, as I adjusted the sails, the old bum began a chuckle that turned into a deep, rolling laugh that caught me in its grip and lifted me up to his level of enjoyment. The wind and spray had washed some of the gunk out of his beard, and I could now see that it was full and white, and his big cheeks and full lips were locked in a smile. He might have been a lubber, but he was the first to realize that we were SAILING! For the first time in two days, I quit worrying and just enjoyed myself. The Haiku roared along under reefed main and storm jib and what had started out as a day of near-disaster became one of great sailing.

When we pulled into the slip in Horseshoe Bay, it was awkward saying goodbye to him.

“Will you be okay?” I asked. “Do you need a ride anywhere, or did you fall overboard with no money? I’ll be glad to …”

“No need,” he laughed. “I’m well set up, but you could do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Is there any more of that coffee left?”

“There is, but I’m afraid there’s no more brandy.”

“The coffee would be just fine.”

As I went below to fill a mug, I heard some Christmas bells from a nearby boat, and the old man chuckling. When I got back on deck, to my disappointment, he was gone. The Haiku’s slip is one of the more distant ones, and it takes several minutes to walk to shore, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. I realized that we had never exchanged names, but maybe he’d wanted it that way. At least there was a photo to remember him by in the camera.

I packed up a few things, and headed back to an empty house. In the middle of the night, I heard some noise downstairs, and hoped it would be my wife, but when I went to look, there was no one around. I stood in the living room for a minute, listening to Christmas bells that must have been coming from some unseen carolers, one of whom called out, “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas”, in a voice as deep as that of the bum I’d pulled out of the Strait.

I turned off the lights of the Christmas tree, without even bothering to look at it. With no word yet from my wife, it was a lonely Christmas Eve, and I was anxious just to get back to bed and sleep through the rest of it.

Early the next morning, I heard the front door open, and my wife rushed in, talking about a plow that somehow showed up at the farm to clear the driveway, and a road that was clear all the way to the airport.

“It was the strangest thing,” she said, hugging me. “Nobody else was plowed out, and we were the only car on the road. Made the airport just in time to catch the first flight out.”

We sat in the living room drinking coffee, while I thought about my own adventures. I was hesitant to say anything because I knew it would all sound strange in the telling. When I turned on the camera to check the picture I’d shot of the old gent at the helm, it turned out to be blank. I began to wonder whether any of it had really happened.

I’d just decided not to say anything, when my wife pointed to a strange object that was hanging from the tree.

“What’s that?” she asked. “Is it a present for me?”

“No. Yours are on the other side of the tree. Maybe it’s something Santa Claus left?” I teased.

“No,” she insisted. “Really, did you put that there?”

“I have no idea what it is,” I said, “Let’s take a look.” We moved closer to the tree until I could finally see what it was.

Somehow I wasn’t completely surprised. Tied by a bowline to a strong limb was a bottle of Metaxa Brandy. The Seven Star stuff.

I began to tell my wife the story.