where the writers are
There's Ice On The Ocean
The Elephant is rarely cold.


Well - a 'sheen' of ice. (Well, maybe more than a sheen, as I tossed a light rock onto it and it stuck). The ice  was at the upper end of the Northwest Arm  - though not the upper upper end. Between the yacht  still anchored in the water (from an angle it looked as if it was nosed into the ice - but then it moved so I know it wasn't) and the flotilla of ducks all aimed in the same direction. It was low tide and I guess the pickings were good. Not so good for a dead duck by the side of the road, however - an unusual sight. I couldn't tell what happened to it but it's position would suggest a car. The other ducks foraged and bobbed and stuck their asses in the air and murmured with contentment among themselves. I confess I do not know if they felt the cold.

I went around The Arm and up a hill and down a hill. I passed (and patted) the piece of anchor which was blown 2.3 miles by the force of The Halifax Explosion (the Halifax Explosion is central to my thriller). I walked close to all the yachts which I yesterday saw from a distance, in their tarp and plastic cocoons. Their masts however still thrust into the sky, and the whipping winter wind strummed and hummed their wires and twirled their  wind direction indicators. They were at sea in their sound if nothing else.