Excerpts….
(From
the Foreword)
Living
aboard is just a dream for most people, but for those intrepid
individuals willing to swap space and amenities for the romance of
the sea, it can be a dream fulfilled. The Life
and Times of the Floathouse Zastrozzi offers
a fond but realistic look at our life at Fisherman’s Wharf in
Victoria’s harbour. Throughout the 1990s, my husband Alan and I
lived aboard Zastrozzi
all year round. Surviving and thriving at the Wharf required a
certain kind of maverick resilience.
While
the book paints a vivid picture of our life on the dock, it also
chronicles the changing times we lived through. For years Victoria's
harbours were ignored by the City and mismanaged by Transport Canada.
Liveaboards were tolerated but not welcome. Nevertheless the
liveaboard community played its part along with those who were
concerned about the harbour, in the struggle for self government.
We
were also trying to save our neighbourhood. In the 1990s, James Bay
was still an area of mixed use, with industry and small businesses
and residents co-habiting in comfort. We didn’t want to see the
harbour walled in by high rise luxury condos. We battled
gentrification and sadly, we lost.
.
(In
the Beginning)
The
man at the piano moving company just had to ask. “What do you mean,
come at high tide?” Where are we putting this old piano?”
The
old Econoline van full of my belongings had finally arrived from
Toronto and I’d gone over to Steveston to bring it back to
Fisherman’s Wharf in downtown Victoria. My master packers had done
a wonderful job and everything was intact. But getting my 1917
Gerhard upright piano out of the van and down to the floathouse was
going to require professional help. I had visions of my precious
piano taking off under its own steam, rolling down the ramp and
leaping into the chuck. The piano movers were more than amused when I
explained that they simply had to come when the ramp at the loading
dock would be just about level with the main float.
The
piano movers arrived a few days later, and with considerable care
loaded the piano onto a sturdy dolly. It took two of them to push it
and pull it down the ramp, along the main float and onto our
floathouse Zastrozzi,
which promptly listed ten degrees to port. When we shifted some of
the furniture to the other side of the room, we were floating level
again.
With
the piano installed, and the rest of my belongings unpacked, I knew
I’d arrived for good. Starting with a full three bedroom house in
Toronto, I’d reduced my holdings to one box of books, three boxes
of silver and six pieces of furniture.
…………….
Alan’s
first winter aboard Zastrozzi
was one of the coldest since 1865. One very frosty February morning,
he and the girls woke up to find their power was off. When he went
out to check the fuse box on the dock, Alan found that his power cord
had been pulled out. Furthermore the fuse box was locked up tight,
and he couldn’t plug back in.
He
soon found he wasn’t alone in the cold and the dark. The Coast
Guard had pulled the electrical cords on 98 of the 350 vessels and
floathomes at Fisherman’s Wharf and the Wharf Street docks. The
local press was paying attention: “The Coast Guard says those
using the Wharf and Erie street wharves were informed of the
requirement (for proper electrical cords) and notices were posted
stating the compliance deadline. Terry Berscheid, Coast Guard area
manager for Vancouver Island harbours and ports, said he had no
choice but to enforce an order of a Public Works inspector that the
cords be removed. Berscheid said that the previous week a spot
inspection by Public Works Canada found several substandard cords and
the inspector said they should be unplugged immediately.”
i
The
neighbours were furious as well as freezing.
…………………
In
1990,
life
aboard Zastrozzi
was fairly basic. We
paid a fixed rate for electricity, and given our location at the
corner of Finger One and the main float, we had plenty of power.
Most people managed with just 20 or 30 amps and could only plug in
one appliance at a time. We cheerfully heated with four electric
heaters, and only occasionally used the wood stove and propane range
for extra heat. I was well into my first winter before I realized
the front of the wood stove was actually glass. It was so encrusted
with black guck that you couldn’t see the flames.
However,
when it dropped below four degrees Celsius, we needed that woodstove.
Mostly we bought pressed sawdust logs because real fire wood didn’t
grow on trees, nor did we have room to store very much of it. We
burnt off-cuts from Alan’s construction job and from our
neighbours’ renovations. In fact, scavenging for fire wood became
an expedition, and we were resourceful. We’d cruise James Bay
looking for construction sites and beg, borrow, or steal off-cuts.
And about once a year we’d head over to Beacon Hill Park, scout
around for windfalls of a usable size and fill the trunk of the car.
But
it wasn’t all tea and oranges. One of the things that drew us
together was our collective sense of injustice and lack of fair play.
There were many reports of harassment and ill treatment and a lot of
anger and tension was directed at our masters, the Federal Department
of Transport personified by the Harbour Master’s Office. We had a
lot of questions and we couldn’t get answers. Why couldn’t we
have phones? Why couldn’t we get mail delivered? Why couldn’t
we have recycling boxes alongside the dumpster? Little by little we
began to work together to find the answers.
…………….
(The French Connection) Jean-Luc arrived one fall from Montreal and
moved aboard an old boat rafted to Jacques. Like Jacques, he was a
hard working labourer, paid his moorage and liked his brew. But he
was the cause of another near disaster. An insomniac fisherman who
was up early for a dawn departure saved the day when he smelled smoke
and didn’t disregard it. We were ever grateful that he took the
time to investigate. What he found was a blazing mattress, floating
fire side up wedged into the tight space between Zastrozzi
and Murray and Judy’s new home, the Muranda
J.
The
stellar James Bay Fire Department was there in minutes and hosed the
mattress down. We escaped untouched, but Muranda
J’s inflatable
tender melted, sending the outboard motor to the bottom. Apparently
Jean Luc had fallen asleep, but wakened suddenly to find his mattress
on fire. He did the obvious thing and threw it overboard. He swore
up and down that he never smoked in bed and he certainly was
sincerely apologetic. We did suspect he’d had a beer or three,
which might have been a contributing factor. Despite his profound
distress at the damage he’d caused, he was never completely welcome
in the neighbourhood after that incident and soon returned whence
he’d come.
i
Carla Wilson, Times Colonist, (February 15, 1989).
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