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Description
The first entry comes from who told me he hated to present anything like this. But I can't see why..this is terriffic!

“ Global warming, my fat, hairy butt”, I grumbled. “If the global does much more warming, we're all gonna freeze to death.”
Dave grunted his agreement as we heaved the last of the overnight snowfall off the helicopter landing pad. It was a required duty to keep the pad serviceable even when the likelihood of a helicopter visiting was remote. Glancing around, I knew by the persistent snow showers all around the Lightstation that “remote” was an understatement today. Anything that was flying in this weather shouldn't be.
“Looks like we'll be doing this again before lunchtime,” Dave remarked as we made our way back down to the houses and warmth and hot chocolate.
“Uh huh,” I said.
All at once, the radio in my pocket came to life. Dave stopped in his tracks and turned to face me as I dug the handheld VHF “walkie talkie” out from under my green checkered logger jacket. The warble of Coast Guard Radio's emergency notification alarm ended, and was replaced by the calm voice of the Marine Communication and Traffic Services operator. “Mayday relay, mayday relay, mayday relay. At one zero two five Pacific standard time, this station received a report of the Alaska State Ferry “Columbia” taking on water at the northwestern tip of Graham Island, and in need of assistance. Anyone in the area and able to assist, please contact the MV “Columbia” or this Canadian Coast Guard station. This is Prince Rupert Coast Guard Radio, over.”
“Well, how do you like that,” I said. “Grab the cruiser suits and meet me at the tractor shed.”
Dave shot me a confused look but headed for the ready room. Moments later, he arrived at the tractor shed as I heaved several lengths of steel pip and our biggest plastic tarp into the back of the six wheeled John Deere Gator. The SAR Pak containing a fire pump and a few lengths of hose followed. Not bothering to push the vehicle outside to prevent smoking up the workshop, I fired up the diesel engine and we shot out the door into the snow. The road to the boat launch was a mile, and I had my foot on the floor.
“We're going out to the Columbia, which is sinking?” Dave asked over the howl of the cold Gator engine.
“Uh huh,” I said, nodding.
“The Columbia's a cruise liner, right” Dave asked.
“Uh huh,” I said.
“Well, pardon me for being the voice of reason here,” Dave said, in as reasonable a tone as he could over the racket. “But we have a 14' boat, and this is like trying to save the Titanic.”
“Uh huh,” I agreed. “But the Columbia has something the Titanic didn't have.”
“Oh yeah?” Dave said. “What's that?”
I allowed an indulgent grin to spread across my face. This was what Lighthouse Keepers live for, and always have. Days into weeks of routine and weather reports; keeping the lawns trimmed and the buildings painted; mopping the ever-present condensation from the lamproom floor. Then suddenly, with no warning, lives depend on the only two other people within a hundred miles of the unforgiving North Pacific.
“Us,” I replied
I left Dave to load the gear into the 14' Hoursten Glascraft and rig the lifting lines for launch, while I went inside the winch control shack to start the old Lister. We're the only station left with these antique winch engines which are not fitted with electric start. At -7°C, diesel engines have little enthusiasm for operation, and my first two attempts to get life out of the ancient machine ended in futility. The third try elicited a backfire which slammed me into the plywood wall, my arms numb from the vicious kick. Adrenaline pumping fire through my veins, I tried again, throwing my considerable weight into the crank handle as the compression lever dropped into place. With a reluctant cough, and a belch of black soot, the first cylinder fired, and seconds later, the old machine roared to life.
Cold pipes filled with cold hydraulic fluid groaned in protest as I lowered the hook to the boat. With efficient movements, Dave slipped the ropes through the thin metal catch, then hopped out onto the concrete platform, slipping on the ice and nearly falling. Regaining his balance, he scurried down the steps to the water, clinging to the steel chain that served as a handrail to avoid slipping on the accumulated frozen seaspray. As I lowered the boat into the water, Dave leapt aboard and started the engine, slipping free of the lifting rig once he was confident the engine was happy. Inside a minute, I joined him, and with a nudge of the throttle, we roared out of the small cut that sheltered us from the open sea, the power of 45 screaming mechanical horses pushing us back in our seats as the hull skipped onto plane. As many as a couple of thousand people could be on that cruise liner, and if any of them ended up in the water in this weather, we'd be pulling lifeless bodies from the sea. I wanted to drive at a million miles per hour.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Dave shouted over the howl of the outboard as the enormous form of the great ship loomed above us. We had hit snow within minutes of leaving the launch, and visibility was less than a quarter mile. By the time we saw the Columbia, we were uncomfortably close. The giant ship made us feel like insignificant gnats.
“If I were kidding,” I replied, “I would have said something like, 'What do you do if you're faced with an elephant with three balls?'”
Dave arched a questioning eyebrow at me.
“Walk him and pitch to the rhino,” I said.
I nudged the boat up against the rock and Dave leaped out, dragging the bow line up to secure it, and I began tossing the gear overboard. I stopped at the SAR Pak, realising that we had absolutely no way of scaling the wounded behemoth's flanks to get aboard. Besides, the Columbia's own pumps could handle the water if we could stop it from pouring in. Luckily, the hole appeared to be small....perhaps 6' across. Weighted and supported by the pipes, the tarp formed an efficient temporary patch that was swiftly thrust into place by the inrushing water. The pressure of the sea outside the hull pressed the flexible sheet into place, and the pipes provided both the weight to sink it down to cover the entire hole plus the rigidity to prevent it being simply sucked inside.
Before I could completely rejoice in our spectacular triumph, Dave pointed out another problem.
“The tide's falling,” he said, gesturing to the wet rock which was only just beginning to ice over in the freezing air.
“Uh huh,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“The hull is perched on this rock that made the hole in it in the first place,” he explained patiently.
“Uh huh, “ I said.
Dave made a tipping gesture with his hand, as though trying to convey a simple concept to a small child, and it abruptly struck me. Just in the time we had been there, the great ship's list had become more pronounced. With one side of the stern held firmly in place by the rock, the rest of the cruise liner was dropping away with the lowering tidal level. Within the hour, the steep tidal flux would overbalance the great ship and roll it over into the frigid sea. Already, the tilt of the deck would have made the deployment of lifeboats from the up-tilt side of the ship impossible.
“This is bad,” I said, nervously playing with the little pewter beads strung on my goatee.
“It's certainly not habit forming,” Dave said.
“Is there anything I can do to help you, gentlemen?”
The voice was calm and distinctly feminine, and brought both of us whirling around on the spot, me nearly falling on the rapidly forming ice.
I stared stupidly for several seconds before glancing at Dave for confirmation that I wasn't hallucinating. His own bewildered glance was verification enough and I looked back at the woman.
Now, I've been around for well over 40 years, and spent around 30 of them on little remote places along the wild west coast of Canada. As one might expect, I've seen some curious things. I've seen grown men go stark raving mad from the isolation and fall into paranoid delusions. I've seen wild deer struggling to get into my house to seek shelter from torrential rains. I've seen a 42' killer whale, alive and apparently healthy, napping on the very shore, and allowing himself to be measured by human beings like a businessman getting a suit fitting. I've even played chess with a demon woman claiming to have been considered old when Christ walked the Earth as a mortal man. But I'll confess, this was something new.
She stood before us, one hand jauntily on her hip, watching us with a mildly amused expression. Startlingly attractive, with long dark brown hair and the figure of a swimsuit model, she was clad in a revealing white body suit with matching opera style gloves and thigh high boots with modest heels. The upper half of her face was hidden by a dainty mask. I noted indulgently that despite apparently inadequate clothing, she seemed completely unaffected by the bitter winter air. She caught my glance and her full lips turned upwards in a small pixie smile.
Tilting her head coyly and brushing an imaginary strand of hair from her face with one gloved hand, she extended the other towards me. “Where I'm from, I'm known as White Owl,” she offered, an endearing trace of shyness in her voice.
I accepted the delicate hand, turned it palm down, and raised it to my lips, gently kissing the back of her glove. “I'm Stanley,” I said. “But folks around these parts usually call me Stanley.”
Without so much as a blink, she nodded and shook Dave's hand.
“So,” our mysterious visitor from thin air said, nodding towards the massive steel hull. “The ship is safe, then?”
“Not exactly,” Dave replied, and explained the new peril, for which we were both at a loss as to a solution.
“I see,” White Owl nodded slowly, her expression serious. “So it needs to be pushed off.”
“Lifted off, ideally,” I responded. “But until the tide turns back, a D9 Cat couldn't move this thing.”
The woman didn't seem to be listening. She placed her hand on the ship's hull and stepped into the water. Nearly knee deep in the freezing ocean, she turned her back, pressing her butt against the slippery steel, and shifted her footing on the sea weeds beneath her boots. Satisfied, she flexed her knees and her face betrayed strain.
I grinned. “Be careful, Miss, that thing could.....”
With a low pitched groan of flexing metal, the great hull shifted, slipped several inches, then dropped away off the edge of the rock, it's immense bulk heaving into the sea, raising a wave that slammed our boat against the shore, nearly washing us all off the rock in the process.
Dave and I stood in shock, trying to comprehend what we had just seen.
“How's that work?” the elegant little woman in white asked, stepping out of the water and shaking off her boots.
I opened my mouth to speak but words escaped me, so I closed it again.
“It's been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen. If you're ever in Queen City, U.S.A., look me up.”
“You're a long way from home,” I managed to say, assuming my stupefied expression looked as dumb as I sounded.
“I'm actually a passenger on the ship,” White Owl answered. Offering us a conspiratorial wink, she said, “Our little secret?” and shot into the sky with blinding speed, leaving the two of us to stare after her in wonderment.
***********************************************************************
The gear stowed away and the Gator parked, Dave and I crunched through fresh fallen snow to our respective houses, nestled near the treeline near the base of the majestic concrete Lighthouse.
“What did she call herself again?” I mused. “The Falcon....?
“Owl,” Dave corrected me. “White Owl.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“Let me guess,” Dave remarked. “You're leaving her out of the official incident report?”
“Uh huh,” I said.

Description
The first entry comes from who told me he hated to present anything like this. But I can't see why..this is terriffic!

“ Global warming, my fat, hairy butt”, I grumbled. “If the global does much more warming, we're all gonna freeze to death.”
Dave grunted his agreement as we heaved the last of the overnight snowfall off the helicopter landing pad. It was a required duty to keep the pad serviceable even when the likelihood of a helicopter visiting was remote. Glancing around, I knew by the persistent snow showers all around the Lightstation that “remote” was an understatement today. Anything that was flying in this weather shouldn't be.
“Looks like we'll be doing this again before lunchtime,” Dave remarked as we made our way back down to the houses and warmth and hot chocolate.
“Uh huh,” I said.
All at once, the radio in my pocket came to life. Dave stopped in his tracks and turned to face me as I dug the handheld VHF “walkie talkie” out from under my green checkered logger jacket. The warble of Coast Guard Radio's emergency notification alarm ended, and was replaced by the calm voice of the Marine Communication and Traffic Services operator. “Mayday relay, mayday relay, mayday relay. At one zero two five Pacific standard time, this station received a report of the Alaska State Ferry “Columbia” taking on water at the northwestern tip of Graham Island, and in need of assistance. Anyone in the area and able to assist, please contact the MV “Columbia” or this Canadian Coast Guard station. This is Prince Rupert Coast Guard Radio, over.”
“Well, how do you like that,” I said. “Grab the cruiser suits and meet me at the tractor shed.”
Dave shot me a confused look but headed for the ready room. Moments later, he arrived at the tractor shed as I heaved several lengths of steel pip and our biggest plastic tarp into the back of the six wheeled John Deere Gator. The SAR Pak containing a fire pump and a few lengths of hose followed. Not bothering to push the vehicle outside to prevent smoking up the workshop, I fired up the diesel engine and we shot out the door into the snow. The road to the boat launch was a mile, and I had my foot on the floor.
“We're going out to the Columbia, which is sinking?” Dave asked over the howl of the cold Gator engine.
“Uh huh,” I said, nodding.
“The Columbia's a cruise liner, right” Dave asked.
“Uh huh,” I said.
“Well, pardon me for being the voice of reason here,” Dave said, in as reasonable a tone as he could over the racket. “But we have a 14' boat, and this is like trying to save the Titanic.”
“Uh huh,” I agreed. “But the Columbia has something the Titanic didn't have.”
“Oh yeah?” Dave said. “What's that?”
I allowed an indulgent grin to spread across my face. This was what Lighthouse Keepers live for, and always have. Days into weeks of routine and weather reports; keeping the lawns trimmed and the buildings painted; mopping the ever-present condensation from the lamproom floor. Then suddenly, with no warning, lives depend on the only two other people within a hundred miles of the unforgiving North Pacific.
“Us,” I replied
I left Dave to load the gear into the 14' Hoursten Glascraft and rig the lifting lines for launch, while I went inside the winch control shack to start the old Lister. We're the only station left with these antique winch engines which are not fitted with electric start. At -7°C, diesel engines have little enthusiasm for operation, and my first two attempts to get life out of the ancient machine ended in futility. The third try elicited a backfire which slammed me into the plywood wall, my arms numb from the vicious kick. Adrenaline pumping fire through my veins, I tried again, throwing my considerable weight into the crank handle as the compression lever dropped into place. With a reluctant cough, and a belch of black soot, the first cylinder fired, and seconds later, the old machine roared to life.
Cold pipes filled with cold hydraulic fluid groaned in protest as I lowered the hook to the boat. With efficient movements, Dave slipped the ropes through the thin metal catch, then hopped out onto the concrete platform, slipping on the ice and nearly falling. Regaining his balance, he scurried down the steps to the water, clinging to the steel chain that served as a handrail to avoid slipping on the accumulated frozen seaspray. As I lowered the boat into the water, Dave leapt aboard and started the engine, slipping free of the lifting rig once he was confident the engine was happy. Inside a minute, I joined him, and with a nudge of the throttle, we roared out of the small cut that sheltered us from the open sea, the power of 45 screaming mechanical horses pushing us back in our seats as the hull skipped onto plane. As many as a couple of thousand people could be on that cruise liner, and if any of them ended up in the water in this weather, we'd be pulling lifeless bodies from the sea. I wanted to drive at a million miles per hour.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Dave shouted over the howl of the outboard as the enormous form of the great ship loomed above us. We had hit snow within minutes of leaving the launch, and visibility was less than a quarter mile. By the time we saw the Columbia, we were uncomfortably close. The giant ship made us feel like insignificant gnats.
“If I were kidding,” I replied, “I would have said something like, 'What do you do if you're faced with an elephant with three balls?'”
Dave arched a questioning eyebrow at me.
“Walk him and pitch to the rhino,” I said.
I nudged the boat up against the rock and Dave leaped out, dragging the bow line up to secure it, and I began tossing the gear overboard. I stopped at the SAR Pak, realising that we had absolutely no way of scaling the wounded behemoth's flanks to get aboard. Besides, the Columbia's own pumps could handle the water if we could stop it from pouring in. Luckily, the hole appeared to be small....perhaps 6' across. Weighted and supported by the pipes, the tarp formed an efficient temporary patch that was swiftly thrust into place by the inrushing water. The pressure of the sea outside the hull pressed the flexible sheet into place, and the pipes provided both the weight to sink it down to cover the entire hole plus the rigidity to prevent it being simply sucked inside.
Before I could completely rejoice in our spectacular triumph, Dave pointed out another problem.
“The tide's falling,” he said, gesturing to the wet rock which was only just beginning to ice over in the freezing air.
“Uh huh,” I said, raising an eyebrow.
“The hull is perched on this rock that made the hole in it in the first place,” he explained patiently.
“Uh huh, “ I said.
Dave made a tipping gesture with his hand, as though trying to convey a simple concept to a small child, and it abruptly struck me. Just in the time we had been there, the great ship's list had become more pronounced. With one side of the stern held firmly in place by the rock, the rest of the cruise liner was dropping away with the lowering tidal level. Within the hour, the steep tidal flux would overbalance the great ship and roll it over into the frigid sea. Already, the tilt of the deck would have made the deployment of lifeboats from the up-tilt side of the ship impossible.
“This is bad,” I said, nervously playing with the little pewter beads strung on my goatee.
“It's certainly not habit forming,” Dave said.
“Is there anything I can do to help you, gentlemen?”
The voice was calm and distinctly feminine, and brought both of us whirling around on the spot, me nearly falling on the rapidly forming ice.
I stared stupidly for several seconds before glancing at Dave for confirmation that I wasn't hallucinating. His own bewildered glance was verification enough and I looked back at the woman.
Now, I've been around for well over 40 years, and spent around 30 of them on little remote places along the wild west coast of Canada. As one might expect, I've seen some curious things. I've seen grown men go stark raving mad from the isolation and fall into paranoid delusions. I've seen wild deer struggling to get into my house to seek shelter from torrential rains. I've seen a 42' killer whale, alive and apparently healthy, napping on the very shore, and allowing himself to be measured by human beings like a businessman getting a suit fitting. I've even played chess with a demon woman claiming to have been considered old when Christ walked the Earth as a mortal man. But I'll confess, this was something new.
She stood before us, one hand jauntily on her hip, watching us with a mildly amused expression. Startlingly attractive, with long dark brown hair and the figure of a swimsuit model, she was clad in a revealing white body suit with matching opera style gloves and thigh high boots with modest heels. The upper half of her face was hidden by a dainty mask. I noted indulgently that despite apparently inadequate clothing, she seemed completely unaffected by the bitter winter air. She caught my glance and her full lips turned upwards in a small pixie smile.
Tilting her head coyly and brushing an imaginary strand of hair from her face with one gloved hand, she extended the other towards me. “Where I'm from, I'm known as White Owl,” she offered, an endearing trace of shyness in her voice.
I accepted the delicate hand, turned it palm down, and raised it to my lips, gently kissing the back of her glove. “I'm Stanley,” I said. “But folks around these parts usually call me Stanley.”
Without so much as a blink, she nodded and shook Dave's hand.
“So,” our mysterious visitor from thin air said, nodding towards the massive steel hull. “The ship is safe, then?”
“Not exactly,” Dave replied, and explained the new peril, for which we were both at a loss as to a solution.
“I see,” White Owl nodded slowly, her expression serious. “So it needs to be pushed off.”
“Lifted off, ideally,” I responded. “But until the tide turns back, a D9 Cat couldn't move this thing.”
The woman didn't seem to be listening. She placed her hand on the ship's hull and stepped into the water. Nearly knee deep in the freezing ocean, she turned her back, pressing her butt against the slippery steel, and shifted her footing on the sea weeds beneath her boots. Satisfied, she flexed her knees and her face betrayed strain.
I grinned. “Be careful, Miss, that thing could.....”
With a low pitched groan of flexing metal, the great hull shifted, slipped several inches, then dropped away off the edge of the rock, it's immense bulk heaving into the sea, raising a wave that slammed our boat against the shore, nearly washing us all off the rock in the process.
Dave and I stood in shock, trying to comprehend what we had just seen.
“How's that work?” the elegant little woman in white asked, stepping out of the water and shaking off her boots.
I opened my mouth to speak but words escaped me, so I closed it again.
“It's been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen. If you're ever in Queen City, U.S.A., look me up.”
“You're a long way from home,” I managed to say, assuming my stupefied expression looked as dumb as I sounded.
“I'm actually a passenger on the ship,” White Owl answered. Offering us a conspiratorial wink, she said, “Our little secret?” and shot into the sky with blinding speed, leaving the two of us to stare after her in wonderment.
***********************************************************************
The gear stowed away and the Gator parked, Dave and I crunched through fresh fallen snow to our respective houses, nestled near the treeline near the base of the majestic concrete Lighthouse.
“What did she call herself again?” I mused. “The Falcon....?
“Owl,” Dave corrected me. “White Owl.”
“Oh yeah,” I said.
“Let me guess,” Dave remarked. “You're leaving her out of the official incident report?”
“Uh huh,” I said.