SECRET LAB EXPERIMENTS AT FISH HATCHERY!

The High Tide has recently received some startling information about the secret goings on at the Terminal Creek Fish Hatchery. It seems that behind the drab windowless exterior of that building, government scientists are conducting some ghastly genetic experiments under the auspices of the Provincial Salmon Receding Research Program. Using an assortment of chickens, black labs, deer, crows, and the odd salmon, scientists have been attempting to mate cross-species breeding pairs at the secret labs in Crippen Park. The information was provided by one of the lab technicians who, wishing to remain anonymous, goes by the name of Dr. Rex. He claims the research has been going on for years but has just recently come to light.

"It all started in great secrecy in '92 with Project Blow, the black lab/crow integrative fertilization technique", Dr. Rex explained. "I think those species were picked first because of their common nutritional needs. Since they both eat garbage, there was a greater chance for the pup/chicks to survive when released."Problems didn't show up until last fall when the Blows started returning. They walked up the salmon ladders and started hanging around our facilities here, sort of blowing the lids off our secrecy, and our garbage cans. That's when sightings were first reported and I even saw published photos in one of the local papers."When asked what the purpose of these experiments was, Dr. Rex claimed not to know. "Hey, I just do my job like any good government employee. Lots of benefits; no questions asked. So I really have no idea. But just last week they brought in a turbot and some kind of Spanish chicken. Your guess is as good as mine."

Julie Vic, a veteran of labour issues, has been building a surplus army of young men for the world's future workforce. With her union partner Greg, her labour experience stretches back to 1989 when she first found herself at the center of a labour movement.

In an exclusive interview with the High Tide, Julie described the historical changes in labour that she has experienced. "My first two births were what I would describe as alienated labour. I was attempting the old Cartesian mind/body split to escape the pain. But objectified labour doesn't work. Let's face it; the forces of production really hurt."

But the experience and inevitable growth led her to a new understanding of the labour movement and the means of production, something she now calls 'dialectical maternalism'. "All my labours have been at home, with a supportive midwife in attendance. I have learned to surrender to the power of my body, rather than fight it. This way, the forces of nature are not an unbearable pain, but rather a sensual, lucid, and purposeful struggle. I believe all great changes must necessarily occur this way."

And on April 11th another revolution occurred. The vanguard of the birthing party landed on the island on the midnight water taxi. With her midwife now in attendance, Julie moved into her second stage by 2:00 a.m. The baby engaged at 2:35, crowned at 2:38, and at 2:40 Julie caught her own child and he was still beautifully encased in his placental sack, which is said to be very lucky in Viking mythology. And they named him Bjorn.

Every one remembers the most glorious moment of last year's Bowfest, when Cowboy, the 1994 Bowen Island Dog of the Year, made his triumphal march in the parade in a magnificent float, surrounded by all his supporters, to the cheering throngs of the island's masses. The following is an excerpt from his 1995 Speech from the Throne&

"Untie your leashes! Burn your collars! Don't bring back the stick! It is time for animals to stand up to the tyranny of humanistic species-intolerance. As leader of all dogs I also stand in solidarity with the oppressed - the raccoons, the cougars, the black bears. Disliked by humans they have been vanquished off the face of this island. It is time for a new kingdom' an animal kingdom. And it is also a time for leadership. Since 1 human year equals 7 dog years I have decided to stay on as Dog of the Year until the year 2002, leading this revolution into the 2nd millennium."

On a grey winter day, an era of Bowen sunk sadly into history. On that day the Star King, the last of Bowen's commercial fishing vessels, went down to the bottom at the Government dock.

We must all remember with fondness that barnacle-encrusted hulk of peeling paint, listing wistfully to portside, its 24 hour bilgepump greeting our arrival to the cove. Sleek and productive looking it wasn't, yet its rough and rundown state stood symbolic to the state of our coastal fisheries, while its charm lay in its reminder to another time.

Amidst all the ballyhoo of Trust documents and OCPs (revisionist or not), Bowen is still always described as "a marine-oriented community". But do handfuls of weekend alcoholics in Tupperware speedboats and the odd privileged waterfront home really lead us to such a self definition? True there are still two "marine-oriented" newspapers, the Undercurrent and the High Tide ( the other, the Breeze, is very much based on air), but how many times must we mark the passing of our history with stories on Shellfish Bans and Salmonless Derbies before we just sell off our past and forge a land link to the continent?

Let us all remember the Star King and mourn the passing of what she represented. As her Skipper Pat McCready honoured her by saying : " She saved my life. She went down at the dock and not when we were at sea." End of an era.

In recent years we have all been witness, or become victims, to the sinister and reckless government cutbacks in funding to our culture, particularly in the arts. But when it strikes close to home we are made painfully aware of the sinister forces at work.

A recent case in point is the Bowen Island Arts Council, whose hopes and dreams came crashing down under the cruel and tireless wheels of destiny. The Arts Council, with the help of many unselfish volunteers, had realised a dream. They acquired the building of the old Malamute Museum and transformed it into Lab House, a sanctuary for artists and artisans to practise and teach their craft.

No sooner were the renovations complete when a missile, in the form of a ten ton truck, was launched from the top of the school hill to score a direct hit on the Council's building. The whole building was rocked to its foundations and rendered inoperable. In the face of such a devastating cutback the Arts Council folded its umbrella and has been forced, like the rest of us, to operate underground. To what lengths will our elected representatives go to strip us of our culture? To force feed us their insidious propaganda? To strip us of our creativity and culture? It is a frightening scenario but knowing the indomitable spirit of Bowen Islanders, I know the Arts Council will raise its umbrella and flourish in the face of adversity and the winds of change. Arts for the people. People for the arts. Let us now build on solid foundations.

On a recent safari into deep Bay, my attention was alerted to the crarking of a Blow in distress. Following the plaintive call I emerged onto a sandy whyte beach to observe the helpless Blow being swept out to sea on a stiff Bowen Breeze, which forced the hapless creature down into the ocean where it was sucked under by a turbulent Undercurrent. In an instant I doffed my jeans and work boots and was prepared to dive into those frigid, brain numbing waters, when the Blow was mercifully delivered back onto the beach by a compassionate High Tide.

I ran to the water's edge I gathered up the exhausted, weakly crarking Blow and retreated to the sanctuary of the High Tide mark. On reaching safety, I noticed it had an injured right wing and, concerned for its safety, I made my way to the nearestwaterfront home to get help. But before the occupant could answer the door, the Blow miraculously gathered strength and despite its lame right wing, flew out of my arms with a joyous crack and sweeping high above the threatening Bowen Breeze, it used its good left wing to fly ecstatically in left wing circles.

As for me, I was promptly arrested for public nudity.

Dear Editor,

My name is Raoul Fa Iz and I felt the need to e-mail you and complement you on your excellent inter-net publication The High Tide. We find your articles and photographs fascinating, particularly because we don't have such wildlife here in Tangiers.

In fact your publication has become quite a hit here. Its not an uncommon sight now to see a coffee drinker on the Rue Al Kali Fatima sifting through your strange little paper. Since we haven't been able to access any other of your country's periodicals we can only assume that your's must be the national newspaper. How different our cultures really are!

raoul@netsurf.com.tang

The saturation mailing will begin any day now and that means that every person on the street will now owe us $9.47 (though you can, of course, just say no). The money raised will allow the High Tide to enter the great Bowen Island Telephone Book Wars.

Already there are the Gold Pages and the Whyte Pages and now the High Tide is pleased to present the Black Pages! Forms will be available in our next issue where you can list all entries that you DON'T want included in your phone book (like photos of real estate agents, numbers of ex-spouses, etc.) The result will be a handy pocket sized black book that only has the numbers you want. It is sure to be a useful keepsake for the coming year and is just one example of how the High Tide is attempting to serve the community.

As the dreary decade continues to hurtle us all to the second millennium, and the weather allegedly continues to improve, more Islanders are choosing not to buy a home or rent an apartment in favour of living in rented or borrowed automobiles.

The advantages are obvious. Living in vehicles certainly beats sleeping under a renovated,but still unoccupied, Orchard cottage, or in the baseball dugout, or in someone's potting shed. Or, if you've recently become single again, as so many of us have, you may not feel the need to subject yourself to the oppressive space of stationary housing. The versatility of in-car habitation can provide a combination of functional luxury with affordability.

Comfort and spaciousness are perhaps the most important considerations in sizing up a car for potential accommodation. Be aware of front and rear headroom. Always opt for bench seats over buckets. Make sure that all seats provide power lumbar and lateral support. Never choose vinyl or Naugahyde for interior decor. And keep an eye on ventilation, climate control,storage space, and security. Choose with comfort in mind. Remember- these could be the best years of your life.

Unlike most travel stories, filled with cutesy tips for wealthy voyeurs in exotic places, I thought it might be better to share a traveller's view of your own home. You see, I am a refugee from Alberta, who has recently been disenfranchised of home and the necessities of life by the government of Colonel Calvin Klein.

I was drawn to your island by all the fabled promises of western socialism, a Lotus Land where a dive into the social security net would be as fun as bungee jumping.And I thought I might be able to find a good home; maybe a small cabin to live a good and simple life in. But I was sorely mistaken.

My journey began on the Eastern Seaboard where the commercial center of your island is located. But the traffic, pleasure seekers and excesses of the thriving metropolis left me disoriented. So I followed the old advice, "Go west, young man, go west", and decided to hitchhike to the west coast, to the frontier, to the land of promise. I climbed the hill to the gas station and stuck out my thumb.

A traveller's eye is a keen one, and what I saw on my journey left me disheartened. Once free of the coastal lap of luxury the land changes. Small pockets of homesteads appeared where people seemed to barely eke out a living. I remember spying a geodesic dome through the trees, but it was surrounded by broken boats and cars. I could only imagine that the occupant's hopes and work must be trod underfoot by the rich.

Then I entered the industrial heartland of your island by the great lake, Lake Trout. Surrounded by no trespassing signs I imagined it must be polluted. Further along, in an area known as Joe's Ridge, I saw what must be the worker's homes: cheerless places covered in moss and without sun, so far from the beaches and views of the rich. I imagined these people rising in the rain and dark, making long commutes to their labour. I pushed on. Past the great plains, endless treeless expanses where the forests are no longer a memory. But I was still buoyed by the dream of the west, a place where I could finally find a simple home.

But what I found on the west coast of your island dismayed me. Instead of a dawning new age I found a place of avarice and excess, a place where people's names change as fast as their partners. There were no simple abodes I could call home, not even an illegal basement suite. Instead it was a place of lavish waterfront homes and 1/4 mil starters.

Disheartened I wandered, confused, to a place called Bone Bane Beach. It was there, as I contemplated my plight and my homelessness that I suddenly saw it, or thought I did. It was a vision of a fabulous distant land, a fabled shangri-la, where people who don't work have beautiful homes they don't even need or use. It was a wonderful, utopian vision. I called this vision Paisley Island.

But there was no way to reach this fabled island, just as idealised dreams are unattainable. I realised there was no place for me here. So I turned, to journey back home, to the Badlands, to Alberta. And I used the one thing that is free on Bowen.. . the ticket off.

Dear Hammer Ed,

I don't think it is fair. People like me hold down a respectable job and pay our taxes. We commute from Bowen to the city every day, which eats into a large chunk of our earnings. And yet there are people who work on the Island and pay no transportation or taxes. It seems that we who work within the system and pay taxes are supporting the tax dodgers who work in the underground economy. What can we do to rectify this situation?

signed Tired and Angry.

Dear Tired and Angry,

Give these people work and they will not tax you.

Dear Hammer Ed,

Unions are meant to protect the workers. Government is meant to service and protect the people. Business is meant to provide goods to everyone. Yet it seems these organisations have become too large and only serve to provide their elite leaders with an immorally high standard of living at the expense of the common people. How do we let this happen?

signed Confused.

Dear Confused,

Don't worry. Cream rises to the top and, when exposed, curdles. But you can still drink the milk.

In the High Tide's constant striving for balanced, non-partisan reporting, we hereby present a somewhat more optimistic look at our futures (and commodities) than last issue's Horrorscopes.

ARIES: Smile. Be of good cheer. You're wanted and cherished. Despite your lies.

TAURUS: Keep the faith. When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by. If you don't drown first.

GEMINI: Take heart. the sun is shining through for you. Not to say you shouldn't stop wearing that sunscreen.

CANCER: Look on the bright side. Although a tear may be ever so near.

LEO: Green light! Green light! Step on it!

VIRGO: Talk about empowerment! Feel free to strut on down the street. But watch out for ladders.

LIBRA: Your rose-coloured glasses are really crystalline entities. You may lose your umbrella, but good news - no rain for a month.

SCORPIO: By any means necessary - keep on keeping on. You may have empty pockets, but at least there are no holes in them.

SAGITTARIUS: You bet. Life is still worthwhile. Hear and heed the larks. Then leave it all behind.

CAPRICORN: Your hopes and dreams are granted. If you want them to be. Think twice. If you've learned one thing, it's that shadows shift.

AQUARIUS: You know that fear and sorrow are abstracts. Let yourself be overpowered and see what happens. There's no danger. You're safe here: perhaps too safe.

PISCES: Naturally it'll come true. Listen: enchantment pours out of every door.

That in the Mandarin/English Dictionary the Chinese word for a woman's orgasm is the same as the word for "High Tide".

FOUND: One broken umbrella. Appears to have been run over by a gravel truck. If anyone wants it phone 947-ARTZ

WORKERS MEETINGS: 12 steps to a real life. If your job is a problem, it probably is one. Work is Denial! Just say no to work! The higher power is not your boss! Morning meetings every day at the Snug.

HELP WANTED: Lab technician for Salmon Hatchery. Must be quiet, strange and show good dog handling skills. Apply in person.

WANTED: One very small Viking ship. Please phone NEW-BJORN.

PENITENTS TAKE HEED! Our shipment has arrived! Hair shirts- one of our faves. Well made from 16 ounce horse hair, thickly napped on both sides. Neither water nor wind resistant. Extremely uncomfortable. Dry clean only. Also available: sack cloth, ashes and scourges of all makes. COME IN TODAY - TOMORROW MAY BE TOO LATE. (Available at Lucinda's)

With thanks for a Home away from home to Wimsey Home Page