An Old Friend and a New Friend

We awoke to a beautiful day in the Toronto Islands. The birds were singing, the monarchs were fluttering, the turtles were sunning, and the swans were preening. I walked to the bathhouse for a shower and along the way passed the RCYC version of the Brantford Beer Bike. The Brantford Beer Bike is a local classic and could be described as a 1980's 10-speed with the curvy handles turned backwards and pointed up such that it easily carries 12 pack and you over to your buddy's place on Murray Street to drink on the front steps. The yacht club version is different, and holds only a single glass of wine, but is perfect for getting you to your rich friends' yacht faster, and you can be sure they'll have plenty of fine wine so no need to bring more than a starter glass.

RCYC operates two small and classic passenger boats to transport members and guests to and from the islands and we took the first of the day to Cherry Street, which is in the rapidly developing Portlands area of Toronto, just east of downtown. Once there we did what we do best - started walking. The area is a mix of ancient port operations - hulking and rusted machinery, lift bridges, ships, loading channels, steel cranes and towers, and piles of aggregate, but interspersed around these were modern additions such as huge outdoor concert venue, two new colourful bridges, and a newly constructed and massive green space named Biidaasige Park, which doesn't just guarantee progress towards Canada's reconciliation efforts with First Nations, but also ensures that nobody will ever be able to remember the name nor be able to pronouce it properly. I'm sure somebody will come up with clever and easy-to-remember nickname.

The park is the result of a massive $1.4 billion redevelopment effort to improve flood water management by rerouting the Don River back to its original path after a hundred years of diverting it to better allow companies to use it as a toilet for their toxic waste. But a secondary goal was to make the Portlands a beautiful place to play and live. And they are well on the way to doing this.

It is a lovely spot. Amidst the four kilometres of natural walking trails are paddling waters, an incredible playground with giant snowy owl, public art installations, and several viewpoints. The playground was full of kids and parents. And one parent acting like a kid. Me.

From here we walked a short distance to the Distillery District, putting us into Toronto proper, and we enjoyed some hot drinks as we lounged in the warm sunshine. Magnus, who moved back to Toronto earlier this week to complete his last year of college, wandered over from his residence to hang with us for a while. He is so happy to be back in Toronto and excited to get started on his final year. It's hard for me to believe he has already been at it for three years and will soon be a fully educated young Canadian looking to make his unique mark on the business world. Hopefully, the mark is not writing "DD" on Tim Horton's cup lids during the midnight shift trying to raise enough money from that and his other part time gigs to cover rent.

After a bit of shopping and exploring, we went to St. Lawrence Market for a spot of lunch (Portuguese bifinas for Magnus and Ana, a falafel meal for me), then met up with our old friend Carmen and her partner Antonio. Carmen and Ana go way back, like to the days of rocking mini-skirts and fluffy hair at the late night raves in the pursuit of big city Toronto studmuffins. Carmen also joined us in The Hague to work on a big oil company project Ana and I were on in the early 2000's and we spent a lot of time together. She is such a great friend, but despite living so close to each other, we rarely catch up.

Carmen was shocked to see the manly state and towering stature of our little boy Magnus. He stayed for a few minutes to chat then was off, leaving us to get to know Antonio. Well, Antonio is one cool dude. He's a dapper looking Italiano with a great sense of humour, a musical rhythm to his voice and stride, and a carefully manicured Van Dyck beard. Plus he wears a bitchin' hat.

We visited for several hours, first at St. Lawrence, then got wise and found a perfect patio at Duke's on Front Street and enjoyed a plate of nachos and several pints as the unbroken conversation meandered and weaved through soccer, music, family, and I can't remember what else. Then, Happy Hour arrived and I was ecstatic to see five dollar pints of PBR on the menu. I don't think Antonio knew about Pabst Blue Ribbon, but after seeing me devour a pint of the cheapest and funnest shitty lager on the planet, he had to get one of his own. We were on a roll, feeling loose and tight, and left Duke's looking for the next place to saddle up and pound some more beers when Carmen announced she had to deliver some soup to her mom. Look, I understand how important parental soup runs are, but drinking on patios in Toronto is important too. I was going to suggest that Ana and Carmen do the soup run while Antonio and I carried on the good fight, but before I could stop the train there was a flurry of huggies and kissies then they disappeared into the crowd. Fortunately, they committed to coming to Paris for a weekend sometime in the coming months, so we can pick up where we left off then.

It was 6pm and we needed a plan. Remembering that Cineplex was offering five dollar movies and five dollar popcorn this weekend (surely because of the dismal selection of movies currently playing, including the god-awful, painfully bad, stinker of a film called The Odyssey), we walked to Dundas Square and settled in to watch The End of Oak Street. And for what it was, it was pretty good. And I'm glad the dinosaur ate Ewan McGregor, he deserved it after the atrocious American accent he was trying to put on. He should just stick to Scottish flicks.

The temperature was still lovely and the city night was electric so we decided to take the long walk back to Cherry Street, thinking maybe we'd hit a pub along the way, but realized we were cutting it close to catch the last ferry back to the yacht club, so we strolled our way south, which turned into a speed walk, which morphed into a jog, then transformed into a sprint when we saw the ferry pulling up to the bridge and realized we were barely going to make it. It didn't help that there was a huge concert (an EDM/rapper guy we'd never heard of, and Drake made a surprise appearance) that night at the Portlands outdoor stage and there were hundreds of people clogging up the sidewalks.

We made the ferry, had another private ride back to the club, and walked back to SeaLight through a quiet, dark, and undisturbed island landscape, still finding it incredible that a place like this exists 1.79 kilometres away from the largest city in Canada.

The Royal Canadian Yacht Club

As the final long weekend of the summer approached, we were desperate to do something, but the yacht clubs we regularly stay at in Toronto were all full and had no transient slips available. I had put our name on the waiting list for a spot at the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, located in the Toronto islands, but held out little hope, as this weekend also featured a big air show and the final days of the Canadian National Exhibition. Shockingly, we received an email saying they had a slip for us and we were welcome to visit.

The Royal Canadian Yacht Club (abbreviated RCYC), founded in 1852, is the oldest yacht club on the Great Lakes and the second oldest in Canada after the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron. Somehow during all our years on Lake Ontario we have never visited this spectacular club, and were very exited to experience it.

We left Newport shortly after 5 am and after more than 5 hours of motoring against the wind and slight waves, we arrived. The club is located on two connected islands and has a spectacular clubhouse, two blocks of tennis and pickleball courts, a large pool, lawn bowling, a chandlery, bike and kayak rentals, as well as a secondary location in Toronto which is similarly provisioned. After getting settled into our slip we walked the grounds then went to the registration office and met a few of their lovely staff. We spent a long time talking with them, hearing about the history of their club, their challenges, and sharing ours at Newport. We decided we need to set up a club cruise next year so the rest of our gang can experience RCYC.

During the sail across Lake ONTARIO, I had noticed a large number of monarch butterflies passing over us. During our walk at RCYC we looked into the sky at one point and saw hundreds of them fluttering overhead. I don't know if it's the start of their annual migration to Mexico, or if there's just lots of milkweed blooming now, but I will say that seeing one monarch is a treat; seeing a cloud of them is unforgettable. We sat for a while in some Adirondack chairs on the perfectly manicured grass, facing towards the Toronto skyline, and enjoyed the view which included dozens more monarchs flapping around.

We decided on an afternoon island walk and spent a couple of hours exploring the various islands of the chain - Snake, Ward's, Algonquin, Centre, Olympic. We were not alone; the last long weekend of the summer and perfect weather attracted hundreds or probably thousands of people to the islands so the paths were full of people walking or riding rented bikes, tandems, and four wheeled carts while the channels and lagoons were filled with paddlers on rented paddle boards, kayaks, and canoes. Parts of it are commercialized with food and drink venues, and there is a small amusement park meant mainly for kids, but there are also some surprisingly quiet parts of the islands and a resident population of about 600 people who live there year round. Despite the busyness, we enjoyed it and marvelled at this exquisite resource hiding in the shadow of the largest city in Canada.

After a chill-out session back in SeaLight's cockpit, and possibly a short nap, Ana put together a nice dinner then we jumped in the dinghy and went for a cruise, first out into the inner harbour where we had a bumpy ride thanks to the thousands of boat wakes stirred up by a day's worth of boat traffic and had to be careful to dodge the many logs and stick floating in the water, ejected into the bay from the Don River after a terrible wind and hailstorm passed through southern Ontario a few days before. We then cruised into a channel near Ward's Island and found the waters absolutely full of debris and weeds that make even dinghy passage difficult. We motored through slowly and eventually made it back to our slip.

With our remaining energy we took a walk to the north island of RCYC to see what was happening at the clubhouse (which turned 100 years old in 2022). The airplanes which had been buzzing overhead all afternoon finally stopped and the skies were quiet as the participants of the club regatta partied hard in the clubhouse and on the expansive front lawn to grooves of the live DJ. We do not join in, but instead take a walk to the end of the jetty dock to snatch some photos of the magnificent Toronto skyline, then snoop around the second floor of the clubhouse, which features masterly portraits of historic commodores winding down the grand staircase, spiffity ballrooms for weddings (which we were told happen every weekend of the summer), and ancient carpet, ripe with the smell of Churchill cigars, spilled brandy, and tales of war, peace, and everything in between.

2026 Sailing Trip - Moving to Hamilton

We have decided we are going to move to downtown Hamilton. Some day.

We had a lovely night’s sleep and woke up to full sunshine. From there it was coffee, blueberry pancakes, and sitting in the cockpit watching the junior sailor camp kids running around the yacht club lawn, the birds perched on the dock cleats staring at us, twitching their heads and ruffling their feathers, sailboats of all sizes, makes, and configurations leaving the marina on a light but consistent breeze, the glittering sun sparkles jazzing up the water surface, and the RHYC, Canadian, and British flags fluttering from the solemn and serious flag pole.

We walked the waterfront, passing the Harbour West Marina, the Leander Boat Club, the Macassa Bay Yacht Club, all the way to Bayfront Park then up a forested path that led to a residential neighbourhood and eventually James Street. We stopped for coffee and a tosta mista at Ola Bakery & Pastry (our favourite Portuguese café), then the Portuguese store where I picked up two varieties of herbal tea, packets of spices, and blood sausage to supplement tomorrow’s breakfast. From here we continued to the Hamilton Farmers’ Market, passing incredible murals and public art pieces along the way, then into the Jackson Square mall where we lingered in the Nations Fresh Foods grocery store, gobsmacked at the massive variety and low cost of vegetables (including fresh durian, whose smell welcome-wallops you at the entrance), the huge selection of fresh fish and shellfish (yes, they have fresh conch), the walls of spices, the weird meats (tongues, intestines, stomachs, feet, heads, plus all the other boring stuff) and such a massive selection of Asian products you cannot get anywhere else. We picked up some wine for dinner then sashayed back to the Farmers’ Market where we sat down for two pupusas, loaded with curtido and salsa – delicious.

We returned to the boat with a bit of time to relax before our friends Dave and Kira and their friend Jenny arrived for a cockpit picnic. After a couple of drinks and a fine meal we drove to the Staircase Studio Theater for a Hamilton Fringe festival performance by another of Dave and Kira’s friends named Tor Lukasic-Foss. The performance, called The Yodelling Ranger was a mix of music and storytelling and was excellent.

After the show we stopped to visit a small art gallery then our friends dropped us off on James Street where we found an outdoor patio at a Mexican restaurant and had a nightcap as we watched people of all shapes and sizes passing by on a beautiful Friday evening.

This is why we love downtown Hamilton. Art, music, theatre, restaurants, bars, cafes, parks, public transit, and a lovely waterfront. What more could you ask for?

2026 Sailing Trip - The Bending of Time

I’ve never had a dream that was black and white.

I’ve never lived a day without a night.

What comes next in this life of mine.

How far will I go?

Time is a funny thing. Albert Einstein was the man who proposed that time is flexible. It curves. It flows differently and the speed of time depends on the relative motion of those experiencing it. Time passes slower for people moving faster than you (or in a higher gravity situation than you…but that’s a different topic). If, for example, your friend boards a spaceship and travels at 99.99% of the speed of light for 10 years, that person will have aged 10 years at the end of the trip. But upon returning to Earth, that person will discover that over 700 years has passed and everybody they ever knew have been long forgotten to history. They will be a bona-fide time traveller from the past. This is not just Einstein’s theory; this has been experientially proven, and in fact, clocks in satellites orbiting space at high speeds need to be adjusted for these time differences due to relativity. It’s all rather strange and difficult to comprehend.

However, as we all know, time also passes differently depending on what one is doing. Or at least our perception of time changes. Some days drag while others seem to never end. Ana and I have always found that time spent on vacation passes much slower than time at work. It seems seeing new things, trying new things, injecting a large degree of randomness and surprise in our days, not moving according to a plan – all these tend to slow the passage of time. And at this stage of our lives slowing the passage of time is what it’s all about.

Our afternoon and evening yesterday in Hamilton were lovely. We walked up James Street, picked up a few groceries, then were met by our buddies Greg and Sharon, who joined us for jointly-constructed dinner back at the boat then a long walk along the waterfront.

It was a picture perfect evening. And time moved slow.

2026 Sailing Trip - Onwards to Hamilton

Our time in Toronto is complete and we are motoring across Lake Ontario towards Hamilton. Another two days of heavy winds has further stirred the waters and the surface water temperature is now down to 10.5 degrees; unbelievable considering it was 25 degrees less than two weeks ago.

We may have eaten the best pizza in our lives yesterday. North of Brooklyn Pizzeria, near Queen and Bathurst, served us a 14 inch Truffle Shuffle and it was heavenly. Perfect thin crust, bursting with the fresh flavours of mushroom, truffle, and herbs, snaked with caramelized onions, topped with a blend of cheeses, and bottomed with delicious oils. It was magnificent.

What wasn’t so magnificent was the movie The Odyssey, which we saw during the full day rainstorm on Tuesday. It was simply awful. The worst of Hollywood, drawn out over a three-hour slog. When I saw the first trailers a month or so ago, I was suspicious. Too many stars. Too long. And Matt Damon? Could an excellent secret agent also be Odysseus?

I took several Classics courses in university for my electives, which were a lovely break from the more serious business of finance, accounting, and statistics. I loved them and wish I could have taken more, especially from my favourite prof, Dr. Peter Burnell, who wore the same pair of brown corduroys to every class, and was fond of kicking dropped chalk pieces across the room, sometimes directing them straight out the open window like a champion footballer. Throughout his classes, I was introduced to the epic Greek and Latin poems The Iliad, The Aeneid, The Odyssey and remember the engaging tales of heroism, struggles with the human condition, the interference from the gods in Earthly affairs, treachery, loyalty, suffering, violence, and unbreakable bonds of family and friendship. Ample material for a Hollywood production, one would think.

What we got instead with The Odyssey was a poorly presented story, brutal dialogue horribly delivered, and a never-ending parade of Hollywood A-listers as superfluous side characters who looked like they had just dropped by the set because they had nothing else going on that day, and somebody tossed them a toga and asked them to read out a few lines. Here were some of my favourite parts. When Spiderman tosses Jason Bourne a blade and says, “Hey Dad, here’s a sword!” When Zendaya suddenly appears, fresh off the scene of Dune 2 still wearing her costume from that movie, and starts chatting with Jason Bourne as if on a coffee date. I was surprised she didn’t call him “Bruh”. Oh and I really loved the useless scenes of Jason Bourne and Furiosa on the beach, her with fresh Botox treatments and So-Cal accent, really nailing that ancient Greek sea nymph look and feel. And it’s great how they casted Shayne from the Walking Dead as the exact same sort-of-bad-guy they do in every other movie the dude is in. The only thing I thought was missing was some Morgan Freeman or Sam Eliot voiceover narration to help the audience understand what the hell was going on in the story. They also could have had The Rock do a song and dance number. That would have been cool.

National Yacht Club were, as usual, perfect hosts. We spent a lot of time there with our Newport gang, over meals and drinks and snacks and morning cheesecakes, chatting and having fun. Sadly, the crazy winds prevented us from taking the dinghies for a circumnavigation of the Toronto islands. And those same winds scattered the sounds of last night’s Tesla/Extreme/Motley Crue concert at the RBC Amphitheatre so we could barely hear any of it. Those are my only sad, little complaints.

The Royal Hamilton Yacht Club finally came through for us and offered a slip for the next two nights so we look forward to drinking scotch and smoking stogies with the yachties at the mahogany bar. But for the next few hours, we will motor relentlessly with the wind directly in our face, pointed to the Burlington Lift Bridge.

2026 Sailing Trip - The Days in Toronto

The days we spend in Toronto on boat vacation are always a highlight and tend to run into each other. Was it Saturday we had that incredible butter chicken roti or was it Sunday? I know we haven’t gone to bed before 1:30 am any of the nights here, but was it Monday or Sunday when we sat around the fire playing guitar and singing? And that day we walked 18 kilometres just wandering around, was that just yesterday or a couple of days ago?

Last night was our fourth here at National Yacht Club and it has been so much fun. Magnus and Stella were with us all weekend and we shared some great meals in and out, cockpit happy hours, watched the final World Cup game in a crowd of hundreds at St. Lawrence Market (the winner predicted by Swimbappe, the prophetic goldfish), explored life and destiny during late night chats, and they even invited some of their friends to spend time at the boat. Other Newport buddies arrived over the weekend – Daryl, Lydia, Zach, Greg, and Sharon, and then our friends Dave and Kira, filling out the dream team. It’s been a busy, crazy, fun, few days in the big city.

Ana and I sometimes think we’d like to have a place in Toronto. We’ve thought of buying a condo that Magnus could rent from us, subject to us having exclusive use of the hide-a-bed when in town. The Toronto condo market is in a trough currently so there are some reasonable deals to be had, but still, they are very expensive and would not be cash flow positive. Additionally, Toronto has clamped down on Air B&B’s so you cannot legally rent a place you don’t live in permanently.

Compare that to being in Toronto on a boat. We have reciprocal deals with all the yacht clubs, which means we can either stay for free or cheap. There are also a few free anchorages nearby. Or even if we have to pay full price at a marina, it is still less than a hundred bucks per night, which is a fraction of what you would pay for a hotel. So, considering the greatest time to be in Toronto is during the summer, it seems wise to spend our time here on our boat instead of paying for a year-round condo.

Magnus and I had a great discussion on cities when he was here.

“What city do you like better, Toronto or Montreal?” I asked him.

“I love them both. They are amazing in different ways. But I would say that when I’ve been in Montreal, there’s always been a feeling that it’s a club you can visit but never be a real member of. It’s not like that in Toronto. Once you’re here, you’re in the club.”

I don’t feel like we’ve spent enough time in Montreal to really understand the city, but I would say his assessment of Toronto is spot on. It is a cultural jambalaya, a festival of colours, a place where you see one of everything and not too much of any one thing. There’s no majorities. There’s no minorities. Everybody is a participant. And people are nice. I don’t think anywhere else in Canada is like this. I don’t know if anywhere else in the world is like this.

Would I want to live in Toronto permanently? Probably not. We love our home in Paris. But the close proximity (by car, train, bus, or boat) to such an incredible, world class city is something I would not want to give up.

2026 Sailing Trip - Let's Tally Up the Boat Damages

It is a clear and beautiful morning - no smoke, no smell of burning cedar. I drop our paddleboard in the water and step on carefully then start to paddle. I first do a circuit around the marina then paddle to the next marina over, called the Toronto Hydroplane and Sailing club. The shallow and weedy areas close to the shoreline look like a perfect breeding ground for fish, but I don’t see even a minnow – just lots of ducks, swans, and geese.

Ana and I have a leisurely breakfast then push off the dock around 11am. We stop at the gas dock for a diesel fill, pump out, and bags of ice for the cooler. While we are there, one of the junior sailors in the dozen or so floating mini-bathtubs, faces a sailing emergency, loses control, and bonks his Styrofoam boat into the side of SeaLight. I look down at the six-year-old captain and the poor little guy is despondent, but I assure him he is the smallest of the boats that have run into us and has done no damage, expect perhaps to his ego and nautical reputation.

It is always a thrill sailing into Toronto and is again today. There is much less boat traffic in the inner harbour than usual, likely due to the health warnings that have been given, recommending people stay indoors. We sail through the bay with Toronto’s downtown to our right and the Toronto islands, then the Billy Bishop airport to our left. We round the corner and ease into our slip at National Yacht Club.

Today is the first of our reciprocal cruising weekend between our yacht club and National. The way this works is a bunch of Newport boats go to National and a bunch of National boats go to Newport, all for free. The tricky part is actually getting there, as boats simply cannot be trusted. Here’s the tally so far.

Grateful Two – lost an engine, hobbled in on one.

Hokule'a – couldn’t get engine to start, abandoned/postponed the trip.

Maria Magdalena – engine belts broke and ripped apart a bunch of their electrical wiring, had to get towed in and were cut off by a dumb-assed sailboater which caused them to crash into a steel bulkhead and decorate the side of the boat with scratches.

Summer Sled – being the nice guy that he is, Alex towed aforementioned boat and rammed his boat into the steel bulkhead, punching a hole through the hull.

The only good part about all this is we heard one of the National yachties crashed their boat into one of our docks. It takes months to repair all the damage from these weekends but damn is it fun.

Ana and I take a walk up to the Lobaws grocery store and provision for the weekend then hang out with our boat buddies until Magnus and Stella arrive around 7 pm. We have a welcome drink in SeaLight’s cockpit, get some food into them, then spend the evening chatting, laughing, and enjoying the noise and lights of the big city.

2026 Sailing Trip - Toronto's Beaches and Aussie Rules Footy

It is past dawn and time to leave. SeaLight slides out of her slip at 5:30 am, does a ninety-degree reverse turn, then motors towards the exit. It is still smoky, the visibility is poor, and the winds will be in our face, but the water has flattened and we hope to make the 55 mile run today to Ashbridges Bay Yacht Club. There will not likely be any sailing today.

The passage time goes quickly. We have to pay more attention on this run as we pass through a very popular fishing area and, sure enough, have to twice dodge small fishing boats on collision courses with us, not paying attention and not yielding our right of way. I graciously alter course and pass behind them but do try to get close enough to snag their lines in my keel.

There is just enough chili left over from two previous meals to craft magnificent chili dogs for lunch. For some inexplicable reason, Ana can’t understand the chili and wiener combination and requests a hot dog without the chili, so I serve her a plain dog and eat the rest of the chili on the side.

We motor into the still smoky Ashbridges Bay and squeeze into slip 101 on White Dock. After securing the boat, we take a walk, very happy to be back in Toronto and less than 10 miles away from National Yacht club – our destination tomorrow and for the weekend with a gaggle of our boating buddies from Newport.

For me, the Beaches neighbourhood in Toronto is always a surprise. It’s a surprise because one would not expect a clean, mile long beach near the downtown of a huge city on a freshwater lake. Ocean city, sure. But a lake city? And because of the insanely diverse ethnicities of the beachgoers, if you were dropped onto the beach from an airplane, blindfolded, you would simply not have a clue where you were. Dubai maybe? Brazil? Sydney? Greece? Oh wait, there’s the CN Tower – must be Toronto.

We walk along the beach boardwalk then turn north and head to busy Queen Street and find a Firkin pub where we have drinks and a plate of nachos. On the television is a sport that initially looks like rugby, then I realize it must be Aussie rules footy after seeing it was being played in front of a crowd of tens of thousands in Geelong stadium. The only reason I would know this is because my Aussie buddy Johnny used to try to teach me how to bounce the oblong ball on the ground while running, which is impossible for non-Australians. It is a game played on a football sized pitch and you seem to be allowed to do pretty much anything with the ball – throw it, kick it along the ground, handball it to a teammate, punt it, or run with it until another player takes your head off. I had to text Johnny to ask him why there would be an Aussie rules footy game playing in an English pub in Toronto. He had the answer. The Poms are refusing to watch soccer anymore after their semi-final loss at the World Cup.

Back at the boat, we take care of a few chores in preparation for the weekend. I wash the exterior and clean out the weeds from the AC water intake, Ana vacuums and cleans the inside, we inventory the food and booze situation, do a load of laundry at the clubhouse, and start looking for indoor things to do with the kids on Saturday, which is expected to be rainy.

After a late dinner of chops, sweet potatoes, and salads, we watch a bit of tv then call it a day.

2026 Sailing Trip - A Bag of Coins, A Smoky Haze, and an Ice Cream in Cobourg

This morning, all becomes clear…and not clear.

What becomes clear is the irritated eyes and sauna-like cedar smell yesterday was because of forest fire smoke blown in by the north winds. What becomes unclear is the air – today there is a thick smoky fog cutting visibility but casting a beautiful orange haze over the landscape. We push off the dock at 7 am and motorsail for two hours to the entrance of the Murray Canal – a 5 mile waterway that cuts through the west end of Prince Edward County and provides access to Presqu’ile Bay and Lake Ontario. We have transited this canal two or three times in the past, and while it is a beautiful and quiet little jaunt, there is a catch;  there are two swing bridges, first the Carrying Place bridge, then the Brighton Road bridge, and at the second one you are required to pay a toll of either $4.90, $5.35, or $6.25, depending which government website you Googled yourself into. How do you pay the toll, you ask? Not by e-transfer. Not by tap. And not by cheque. You pay the toll by dropping cash into a long-handled basket, held precariously over the water by a smiling summer student (previous dog catching experience an asset, but not strictly required). The first challenge is finding the money (try digging into the crevices of all wallets, purses, shopping bags, drawers, baskets, chart tables, cushions, and envelopes on board). The second is actually getting it into the basket as you pass by at four knots (this requires the precision of a teenage gamer or a champion cornholer).

In preparation for the exchange, I collect all coins on the boat and, miraculously, assemble a total of nearly seven bucks in a combination of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies cut across three currencies – Canadian, American, and Bahamian. I also found a Cuban peso and a battered Portuguese Escudo which I included as tokens of good will. There is not a single coin left on the boat and I am happy to be handing them over.

The first swing bridge lets us and another sailboat pass through. We continue on and are soon met by a large trimaran, taking up most of the width of the channel so we ease to the right and skim by the rocks on the shoreline, just keeping in the deep water. Shorly after that the sailboat ahead of us begins steering haphazardly and his speed is erratic. He waves at me to pass and as we do he tells us he is having engine issues and needs to turn back. As we approach the second swing bridge I get a call from the bridge operator on VHF channel 14.

“Sailing vessel approaching, what happened to your buddy? Over.”

“You mean that other sailboat? He’s not my buddy, but seems like a nice guy so I suppose we could develop a friendship in the future if I ever see him again. Over.”

“Right. And what did you do with your potential future buddy? Over.”

“Ah yes, he turned around and went back the other way when he realized he had to pay a $6.25 toll and had no cash money. Over.”

“The toll is actually $5.97, which is a 2.23 percent inflationary increase from last year. But you guys are both in luck. Well, maybe just you now, but anyway ever heard of the Canada Strong program? Over.”

“Yes sir, that’s where Mark Carney created a $25 billion dollar fund out of imaginary money created by his old buds at the Bank of Canada. Over.”

“You’ve been keeping on top of the news. Anyway, the fund is paying everybody’s tolls this year. Mark Carney’s henchwomen showed up here in May with a whole Brinks truck full of scrap pennies, nickels, and dimes and dumped them in a big pile over by the septic tank. Every time a boat passes through we grab $5.97 of currency shrapnel, roll it up, and send it back to Mark via a daily high priority courier bag that gets flown back to Ottawa by helicopter. So this is your lucky day my friend. Over.”

“Well that all sounds great, but what am I supposed to do with this plastic baggie of coins that took me 90 minutes to find and count? Over.”

“Program ends in October. Bring it back then and I’ll be happy to take that money bag. Have a pleasant journey. Swing bridge out.”

“SeaLight out.”

We clear through the channel and emerge in Presqu’ile Bay, my least favourite part of Lake Ontario. I don’t like it because it is shallow, tricky to navigate, the charts are wrong in a couple of key spots, it’s weedy, and the goddamn wind is always blowing like stink. Also, I don’t like the name. Too French. And that misplaced apostrophe really gets on my nerves.

Soon (but not soon enough) we are back on Lake Ontario and discover that yesterday’s heavy winds have flipped the lake, and the surface water which was a balmy 25 degrees just two days ago has plummeted to 13 degrees. Ana is crushed to learn this, but happy she at least got a couple of lake baths in. The combination of the cold water and breeze has us wearing sweaters and long pants to keep warm – a drastic climatic u-turn from yesterday’s sizzler.

We arrive in Cobourg at around 2:15 pm, making it a 7-hour sailing day. We slide easily into our slip, check in and pay for dockage at the main office, then walk the short distance to the main street. Cobourg is one of the best stops on Lake Ontario. The marina is excellent and well-maintained and they even allow anchoring in the protected harbour for the cheap assed sailboaters. Within two blocks of the marina is a marine store and an LCBO, the only two things you ever truly need on a boat trip, food being an optional third. King Street is busy and thriving, and this must be where everybody in Ontario comes for a haircut as we count no fewer than five barbershops, all of which specialize in fades, but god help you if you can’t grow a thick, luscious, hipster beard because you will never come out looking like the coiffed dudes in the pictures plastered over the windows. There are also at least half a dozen cafes and small restaurants, plus a classic joke shop called Lolly Gags, which I didn’t need to visit because I already have a electronic fart machine, sneezing power, dog vomit, snapping chewing gum, a rubber chicken, whoopee cushion, joy buzzer, exploding cigarettes, and the lapel flower that shoots water in the smeller’s face. I’m all set.

We find a pub, order a Harp lager for me and a Blue Moon for Ana, then watch the terribly boring first half of the England/Argentina World Cup game which ends up nil nil. We don’t particularly care who wins this one so we leave and walk around until we find an ice cream place then enjoy a cone as we watch the homeless folk socializing in the pretty park across the street, which is far more enjoyable than the soccer game.

We continue our walk along King Street. The smoky air has created a beautiful sepia reality filter, which makes the magnificent downtown Victoria Hall look even more magnificent. The visual effect has turned back time about 80 years and I feel like I should be wearing a top hat, trousers, and granddad skivvies.

Back at the boat we squander time while Ana awaits her 7 pm Newport Board meeting. When the meeting begins, I move out to the cockpit with a glass of wine and a book and remain there for a long, long time. There are many other transient boaters here, providing ample socialization opportunities, but I keep the canvas down and antisocial eyes on my book, relishing the solitude.

Ana emerges like a beautiful monarch from a boring cocoon and calls me back into the cabin where we eat chicken rice soup, watch Deep Water (airplane crash/shark movie – not bad), then retire.

2026 Sailing Trip - A Breezy Passage to Bay of Quinte Yacht Club

At 7:30am we pull anchor and head north on Picton Bay headed to either Belleville, Trenton, or an anchorage if neither of those places have available slips. The wind is from the south-west today and very strong, which gives us the opportunity to deploy the headsail for a couple of hours and feel like a sailing vessel again.

The vessel route through Prince Edward County is a little strange as you need to go north about 10 miles before getting back on a south-westerly track. There are also two bridges to pass under, and no matter how ample the clearance is, it always feels as if the bridge is going to knock our mast off. But they don’t.

We stop for a swim and morning bath at a protected anchorage then continue a few more hours to the town of Belleville and carefully pull into the guest dock of the Bay of Quinte Yacht Club, made difficult by the 27 knot wind blowing broadside. Fortunately there is another transient boater on the dock and he catches our lines. Once docked, we can feel the full strength of the sun as it is a steamy 36 degrees today.

We have never been here before and find a classic Canadian yacht club – dozens of small training sailing boats on buggies, a large grassy area full of geese and squirrels, a clubhouse with a classic bar, pool table, comfy chairs, showers, washrooms, and a laundry. The docks are a little ratty and the boats are nearly all sail and quite small.

Ana finds the number for a taxi company (no Uber here) and after a lengthy wait he arrives and takes us to a commercial plaza to pick up some pharmacy stuff, as well as a couple things from Dollarama. We visited Belleville once before by boat and didn’t find much of interest, neither do we this time. It takes nearly an hour and three taxi companies to finally find a ride back to the marina (is it any wonder Uber puts all these small town taxi companies out of business when they arrive?). The marina is sweltering but fortunately we’ve had the AC running so the interior of the boat is cool. We return just as the France/Spain World Cup game is starting so we go prone for 90 minutes plus stoppage time to enjoy that spectacle.

I make myself a G&T and open the companionway doors to the cockpit. It feels and smells exactly like a sauna, but I’m not sure where that strong cedar smell is coming from. Another strange thing – my eyes have been really irritated all day, even tearing up, and I’m not sure what’s causing it.

In any case, I sit in that sauna, enjoy my drink, rub my eyes, and just look around for a while, enjoying the heat and free time therapy.

Dinner. Show. Bed.

2026 Sailing Trip - Onwards to Picton

I am up at 5am rinsing the furry blanket of bugs off the boat and filling up the water tanks. Our time with the Holmes is sadly at an end, but as usual we leave here happy and exhausted. Good friends are hard to find.

At 6am Andrew waves us off from the dock and we are back on the lake, sailing west under a sunny sky and calm conditions. We pass Kingston and give a wave and a pelvic thrust to all those hard working folks driving into work.

After a few hours the wind kicks up – a strong westerly directly in our face, making sailing again unfeasible unless we want to spend 20 hours getting to Picton zig-zagging all over the channel. We do not, so we motor the entire 6.5 hours to Picton harbour and find a lovely anchorage on the west side of the bay, about a mile and a half from the town. Other than the massive concrete plant and freighter docked in front of it, a couple hundred metres from us, it is natural and pristine.

We anchor SeaLight in 20 feet of water then drop the dinghy and cruise into Picton. Upon arriving, we are shocked to discover they have a built a new municipal marina. It looks to have at least 75 slips and plenty of depth, plus everything is shiny and fresh. We speak with the dockmaster and he lets us tie up our dinghy for free for three hours.

Our primary mission when exploring a town on boat vacation is to find thrift stores. Perhaps more honestly, it is Ana’s mission, but I tag along and read old National Geographic magazines while she’s rooting through the rubbish. But this presented a problem in the first thrift store we found. And the problem was this: every piece of ratty furniture, from grandma’s fold up basement chairs, to the threadbare gold leaf chesterfields, to the wing back fabric chairs, still off-gassing decades of cigar smoke, each of these has a paper sign taped to it reading, PLEASE DO NOT SIT ON THE FURNITURE. FEEL FREE TO TRY ON THE UNDERWEAR OR TEST THE USED DEODORANT STICKS AND TOOTHBRUSHES, BUT DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE EVEN THINK OF SITTING ON THE FURNITURE. SIT ON THE FLOOR IF YOU LIKE…BUT NOT NEAR THE FURNITURE.

I am initially scared off and go to find a National Geographic. The one I grab has a feature article on Rasputin, Russia’s greatest love machine, that fills in a few gaps left from my previous research on this topic which was limited to the lyrics of the Boney M song. Halfway through the article I get really tired of standing, so I walk slowly towards the furniture section, whistling softly, then ease into a stiff wooden chair, well away from the fancy couches, and somewhat hidden from the staff. I hide there until Ana comes to collect me.

We wander Picton’s main street for a while, pop into a few shops, including the Giant Tiger where we score two amazing salads for 99 cents each, both expiring today, as well as some ingredients for a guacamole. Next, we find a fancy coffee shop, connected to a fancy bookstore. The coffee shop is cute and even has a quiet sitting area dedicated to Gord Downie and his reconciliation efforts. But sadly, the brewed coffee is served from a large self-serve dispenser that has not been refreshed for many hours, and it’s terrible. I opt for a bottled lemonade and the total bill is ten bucks. It confirms Ana’s theory that the reason why Tim Horton’s does so well is their coffee is drinkable and cheap despite the strip mall ambience, while fancy shops do offer a lovely space, but the coffee is always overpriced and rarely good…at least the brewed stuff.

The intense heat of the day is wearing us down so we walk back to the marina and dinghy to SeaLight, who has been waiting patiently for us and still floats alone in the anchorage. We relax in the cockpit for a while, then once the heat has subsided we take the dinghy to explore the shoreline. I shut down the motor and row for a while to get some exercise and see if we can sneak up on some wildlife. Sure enough, we come across a mama duck with eight little ducklings, all lined up perfectly on a log, watching us paddle by.

We finish the day with a large bowl of guacamole, tortilla chips, Mexican salad, a glass of wine then, for entertainment, a show on the laptop.