Ok-ay... Now that I've cooled off a bit. Sorry everyone. *holds head in shame* Oy...

You know what? I'm not going to talk about this. Right now, at any rate. Everything that I wanted to say has been said privately, so I'm not going to simply repe at myself.

FUCK.

That felt good...

Alright.

---
By far the strongest winds I've ever encountered in the straight were the ones I encountered tonight. I had to hold onto the railings in order to move towards the bow.

And it was there, at the bow of the Queen of Coquitlam, that a most curious event took place.

As I stood at the bow, with the wind stinging my face with raindrops, a man approached me. At first I couldn't see what he looked like, (for it was very dark) but as he neared I could make out the details of his face.

To use the more politically correct "aboriginal" to describe him would... well... it just wouldn't do. It wouldn't fit. Not in this instance. He was an Indian. And so I shall refer to him as such.

He had black hair, of average length, and the barest hint of a goatee.
His face was heavily pockmarked and scarred. (Please understand, I do not use those two words for frivolous embellishment. Both adjectives are needed in this circumstance.) His cheeks sunk deep into his face, and his skin appeared to be coarse and uneven. You will no doubt think this strange, but I couldn't help but think that it was as if someone had taken a fistful of pomegranate seeds and placed them under the skin of his face.

It is frustrating, th e fact that though I have a vivid recollection of the Indian’s likeness, I can't describe him usefully.

He approached without a word, then, reaching into his front coat pocket, pulled out a deck of cards and held them out towards me. I was confused, but after a few moments he took my hand, and firmly pressed a card into it. He motioned for me to look at it, and so I did. The ace of spades greeted me. He then motioned for me to place the card back on top of the deck, and I did so. Taking my hand onc e more, he motioned for me to cut the deck. I did so. His fingers plucked a card from the top of the deck. It was the ace of spades.

I have little doubt that all who are reading this saw that coming. I must confess that in normal circumstances, I wou ld've seen it coming too. And yet, standing in near-total darkness, the wind singing as it passed through the holes in the fencing, with a mute Indian showing me card tricks... There was magic there. At least, I felt it. I digress...

I have no idea h ow long we both stood there. Perhaps it was only five minutes, perhaps it was fifteen. I do know that we both stood silently, I, delighted at the marvels being presented before me, and he, quietly shuffling the cards and defying logic over and over aga in.

After a little while he put the cards back in his pocket, grinned, and shuffled away. I called to thank him, but if he heard me, he paid my cry no heed.

Were I to read what I have just written, I would think to myself two things:
1) This guy is pretentious, and can't write.
2) He made this up.

I would and will not dispute the first point, as it is unquestionably true. The second accusation, I refute. I'm not making this up, nor am I embellishing the tale in any way. This actually happened to me.