It is a Saturday February morning, 8:30 AM, and the
crisp cobalt blue sky announces another perfect day for iceboating.
So, reader, I can see that quizzical look on your
face: iceboating? Yes. Iceboating is the sport, some say the disease, of
sailing at indecent speeds on ice in a wooden fuselage 12 feet long equipped
with three steel blades called runners, and propelled by the wind alone.My friends and I have spent the day before whizzing around on Lake St. Louis, near Pointe Claire, Quebec on ice of mirror-like quality, and I’m hungry for more.
But this morning, I must first check the ice, not so
much for thickness but for cracks, as they can develop overnight and catch an
unsuspecting sailor’s front runner
blade, with ensuing disastrous
consequences.
As I get out of my car near the lake on Cartier avenue,
I zip up my black parka and don my brown fur hat, grab my crowbar and start out onto the foot- thick ice. A
dusting of snow covers the surface and sparkles into a myriad of diamonds in
the morning sun.
I’m about 500 yards out and I find a crack, which
has refrozen. I begin digging into the crack to see how thick it is with my
crowbar when I hear the mournful toll of the bells of St. Joseph’s Church, off
to my right.I turn to see pallbearers transferring a coffin from
a hearse to a dolly, about to wheel it into the church.
I resume my digging, and shortly thereafter, satisfied
the crack is safe, I head back to my car. I stop at one of the local bakeries
for hot croissants and head home. After a hearty breakfast, I get my gear
together and head back out back towards the launch site, where my friends and I
have left our iceboats overnight.
I drive down Lakeshore Road, and moments later I’m
about to turn onto Cartier avenue again towards the ice when a police woman
signals me to stop. I notice there’s a strip of yellow police tape blocking off
Cartier. I lower my window and ask: “What’s the problem?”
“You can’t pass,” says the petite officer.
“Why, what happened?”
“There’s been an accident. Please continue.” She
waves me on.
“But I have my iceboat down there. I…”
“No one is allowed to pass.”
“Listen, just let me get my iceboat and I’ll be on
my way. It will take me just a few minutes to load it onto my van.”
She seems doubtful at first, but since I look
insistent, she grabs her VHF and calls her superior. After a brief exchange, she
says: “okay. But make it quick.”She goes to the sidewalk, unfastens the yellow tape
and waves me through.
I start driving , arrive at the end of Cartier near
the lake, and my jaw drops. Alongside the pier near the ice, there are two fire
trucks, one ambulance and three police cars, red and blue lights flashing. A
policeman is giving orders to two firefighters, who are busy removing a ladder
from their fire truck. Two medics have taken a dolly from the rear of the
ambulance and are lifting its sides into place. I look towards the ice and see
two firefighters next to a fiberglass toboggan at the edge of the ice. A diver
in a wetsuit is standing by, and his oxygen tanks are about to get loaded onto
the toboggan by another firefighter. A
policeman is standing by overlooking the whole operation.
I get out of my van and walk up to the policeman: “what’s
this about? What’s happening?”
“You’ll have to ask the captain.” He turns and
points to a tall man wearing a cap and giving orders to two other officers who
have started unrolling a roll of yellow tape. I walk up to the captain, who looks at me unsympathetically and says: “Oui?”
“I’ve come to pick up my iceboat” I say, pointing to my craft on the ice. What’s all this about?”
He leans over conspiratorially and says solemnly: “ C’est un suicide.”
“What?”
“Yes, a suicide,” he says, pointing out towards the
frozen lake.“But that ice is over a foot thick. And how do you know it’s a suicide?”
“Well, you see, there was a funeral this morning, and the pallbearers saw this guy out there on the ice, digging, digging… and…”
Omygod I think, as I start to put the pieces of the puzzle together.
“..and when they came back out after the mass, he wasn’t there, so they called us.”
Oboy.
“Tell me Capt., did they describe him?” I venture to ask.
“ Yes. He was
wearing a black parka, black pants and…” he stares at me intently,… “and a
brown fur hat.” The captain’s brow creases into a frown as he
exclaims: “ Oh ! ben tabarnak !!
(For those of you whose French is a little rusty, I
assure you these are not words of endearment.)
“I was just checking the ice…” I say, almost
apologetically.Moments later, he’s barking orders at the firefighters and other policemen, and they all retreat towards their respective vehicles, pack up their gear and leave. I try to look sympathetic and not burst out laughing as the captain gets into his car, slams the door and drives off.
It turned out to be a perfect day for…. iceboating.
For those of you interested in finding out more
about iceboating, try googling:
Montreal Iceboating Association, Facebook page
New England Ice Yacht Racing Association
International DN Ice Yacht Racing Association
What an interesting adventure. Here, you might have had to pay for the use of all the emergency equipment.
ReplyDeleteA neat twist! And I've never heard of ice boating before so I have learnt something new.
ReplyDeleteGreat anecdote. And so funny. Love it. But ice boating would definitely be too cold for my taste. I enjoy the Arizona sun. :-)
ReplyDeletegreat story. Our rivers don't freeze hard enough for ice boating.
ReplyDelete