.. Place: Ambleside Pier, West Vancouver, BC
Time: Midnight, Saturday, November 21, 1998

Tugboats sneak under cover of air. This is the puppet show industry puts on after dusk to entertain the meager few who gather at the edge of the pier. Supposedly they are die-hards, supposedly they come out nightly, and then supposedly they catch something. A couple vagrants put on an impressive multimedia display on gothic gathering. Thick rusted-un-rusted ropes sag, tired clotheslines to lure dwarf crabs. Meanwhile, the 10 lb. test lines run ragged from reels. Coordinated mist and calm reflect guard lights from across the channel and turn the lines into delicate oriental string-werks. And then the fish (aforementioned supposed salmon), they ludely nibble at bates eagle-claw hooks. Watching the rods bob down, then up, you can feel the world on pace.

There are quarters on the pier. Where else to start? Who is there? Mandarins in every sense of the word… refugees from the Hunan Province. Textured skin washes over their parched bone structures: all this just to smile wide and reaffirm their stereotype. It was Tortilla Flats and it was extras in Jackie Chan movies. And they knew what they were doing.  The big confusion/hurry: smoke this cigarette or bait this hook? Or be quiet and motionless for another twenty minutes? There would have been conversation if everyone hadn’t spaced themselves out in distances perfect for muzzling conversation outside of two space. 

But what happened is that the crab traps were triangular and tug-tug went the tugs. The one fellow would wait five minutes to yank and once in a while would raise to the deck these decrepit rock crabs. Rock Crabs are Rusted Blood Red and they where barnacles for sea-warmth. Left alone, they taste like radish breath gelatin. Put in the context of sauces and fry pans and mixed with snow peas and orange juice, they become conversation pieces for the next dinner. But something tells me even rock crab becomes to routine to make an effort for. Homeless men can’t look too forward to desperation food, but it’s better than refuse trinkets. There was much queer about the whole setting, acause they were wearing fashionable surplus clothes and sheltering themselves with designer umbrellas and illuminating their space with wrought-iron antique lamps, most likely swiped off the decks of the beach houses nearby. West Vancouver is after all, one of the countries wealthiest suburbs. 

“Great” writers always wrote about fishing as if it revealed something utterly human. What is utterly human does not need to be revealed. Writing about it is so comme selling photographs. Its great to get down and what not but the absolute value of the outing will always be there. Writing about it can only make it worse (or misrepresent it). 

The only thing to reveal at Ambleside’s pier is different lights. Cigarettes, tugboats, cargo ships, lamps, skyscrapers, buoys, autos and this big fucking bridge. And for some reason, no obese people. These signs also:

• No Skateboarding
• No Rollerblading
• No Bicycles
• No Guessing
• Kathleen, I miss U!

 

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The end of the peel...  ... you can't get down in down