We faced history head-on and took our kids to see Dachau
PERSONAL ESSAY
As we stood at the wrought-iron gate to the Dachau Concentration Camp and Memorial Site, my wife and I exchanged nods. Our two daughters, nine and 10 years old, peered into the sunlit grounds. We took the girls’ hands and walked through the shadowed arch together.
Earlier that morning at our dive hotel in Munich, the girls watched an episode of German-dubbed Peppa Pig, excited to feel a semblance of home after four months backpacking with their crazy parents. They’d been to giant Buddha statues in the jungles of Sri Lanka, toured the crowded Vatican museum and been coerced into hikes through the Julian Alps of Slovenia. Now they’d been told that, on this particular day, they’d be visiting an important war site. A solemn one.
Visiting Dachau was my real reason for putting Munich on the itinerary. It was the first and longest-running concentration camp, used as a training centre for SS guards. From its opening in 1933 to its liberation in 1945, over 200,000 people were incarcerated there, many of them dying within its walls. Dachau was the template for the thousands of other camps opened during the Second World War. My urge to visit – to stand witness – was strong.
But what about our kids? Should we expose them to this experience? My wife and I knew the memorial site recommended children under 12 take a pass, warning that “the display material could disturb them.” We had many whispered post-bedtime discussions while the girls slept beside us. Ultimately, we decided to go and make a decision at the entrance.
Click Here to Continue Reading ...
SPRINTER MAN
SHORT FICTION
Let me tell you this up front: I only went to Sprinter Man because I was desperate.
You might’ve done the same thing.
Don’t judge me.
Exostosis. That’s the fancy name for surfer’s ear, I looked it up.
If you have ear problems, which you probably do, you know a thing or two about surfer’s ear. “Bone growth from persistent cold air and water,” that’s it in a nutshell.
You dunk your head in slush every other day, expose it to ripping winds, and soon enough your ear canal becomes a battle ground, the elements versus you, and your body’s like…
Click Here to Continue Reading ...
The Art of Getting Lost
PROFILE
“Surfers tend to age gracefully in case you didn’t know.”
I first met Lesley Choyce at a Lawrencetown, Nova Scotia Halloween party in 2006. He was dressed as Geordi La Forge, the Star Trek character whose eyes are covered by what looks like a gold vacuum filter. The conversation was fittingly spacy, pinballing from the size of the universe to the metaphorical implications of black holes.
I was in thrall; Choyce’s verbal energy felt like a comet streaking through the night. Who was this mad-masked philosopher? What planet was he from?
I didn’t know it then, but I was in the presence of a man who had already published a constellation of books.
Click Here to Continue Reading ...
Ghost road
TRAVEL ARTICLE
The Louisbourg-Gabarus Road was not a road at all. From my vantage point, as I crouched low to see the footpath disappear in a mess of alder shoots, it looked like a narrowing run to nowhere. My backcountry road map lied. The faint grey line I’d been obsessing over was, at best, an echo of history.
I was there for two reasons: to discover a new surf spot and attempt a third siege of the Fortress of Louisbourg, the largest ever historical reconstruction in North America. After three damp weeks and 600 km of solo bicycle travel from my home near Halifax to northeastern Cape Breton Island, I was ready to leave my rusted bike-plus-trailer behind and make a final push on foot. The Fortress was my goal — my last stand — and I’d counted on a passable route to get there.
I stood at the road’s rough trailhead in a swirl of mist and doubt and blackflies. First, I tarped my bike-plus-trailer and propped it in a nest of prehistorically huge ferns. Next, I rolled my wet towel into a croissant and draped it around my shoulders to cushion the razor-sharp straps of my dry bag. Then I tightened my bike helmet, hoisted the sausage-shaped bag and shrugged it into place. My hands were free to cradle my most precious piece of cargo: Old Yeller, the yellow twin-finned surfboard I’d lugged for 20 days. If I was about to be swallowed by raw forest, I’d need a comrade.
Click Here to Continue Reading ...
ONE HUNDRED WAVES IN SOLITUDE
PERSONAL ESSAY
The Surfer’s Journal 27.1, Feb/Mar 2018
Of any surfer, I envy Jeff Clark the most. Not because he discovered and pioneered one of the world’s burliest waves. Not because he, a goofy footer, taught himself to ride regular. Not because he was canonized by Hollywood. I envy Jeff Clark because, from 1975 to the early 90s, he surfed in complete solitude.
In the 2017 book Solitude: A Singular Life in a Crowded World, author Michael Harris confronts his burgeoning addiction to “platform technology” and draws a distinction between loneliness and solitude. He sees a paradox: as social media behemoths like Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat and their ilk demand more sharing and tighter connection between users, we get addicted to the dopamine release of a well “liked” post. Loneliness floods in when we aren’t connected. Solitude, on the other hand, is a precious resource, our comfort in being ourselves. Harris argues that solitude is a fragile forest we must protect from a world more hell-bent than ever on cutting it down.
Click Here to Continue Reading ...
Why dads-to-be should take birth preparation classes
OPINION PIECE
Preparing for birth, the manly way.
When I found out my wife signed us up for birth preparation classes, I was less than enthused. I was enjoying my blissful ignorance around all things birth and I couldn’t see why she needed me to be there. I wasn’t the one birthing the baby, right? I could learn on the fly.