Light bulbs! Brian called on Friday and needed some bulbs for the lights we installed, and since I’m the man, I have the bulbs. “I’ll drop them by this weekend,” I told him, which I have to admit, doesn’t mean this upcoming weekend. So, right there, you see I’m at least two or three days behind.
Pipes! Then this morning, the phone is ringing again. It does that quite a bit these days. Ringing. Yes, quite a bit of it. This time it’s Luella, reminding me about her pipes. “You’re hard to get a hold of,” she says to me. Luella is wondering about her pipes that need a bit of work. Warranty work, I’m afraid to say. Yes, even the smiling Fernando makes a mistake from time to time that requires correcting, and Luella was wanting to make sure that I hadn’t forgotten. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” I tell her, and then we reach an agreement for me to show up in the Spring, which really is good news for someone like me who has fallen so far behind on everything. Buying time has become harder and harder for me these days, the cost of time being what it is and all. I can hardly afford my own.
If I get poor enough, I think, I wonder if I’ll lose weight. Or will I end up with one of those big starch bellies like you used to see on the children Sally Struthers would round up to sell sympathy?
I haven’t answered this one, but the phone display keeps showing me that British Columbia is calling, which I can only assume has something to do with the avian flu showing up the other day in a Canadian duck, leading to the U.S. ban on Canadian poultry, which can only mean that geese will soon be heading to the top of the U.S. suspected terrorist list as they continue their migration south for the winter.
I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how problems can begin and end just by something crossing over an imaginary border, but then, I’m dense that way. Or maybe it’s called idealism. I’m not sure. Either way, I can’t help but find a little bit of humor in the fact that tensions between the U.S. and Canada will no doubt grow, which isn’t funny at all until you think that it all sort of began over a duck.
Of course, this won’t be the first time that the two countries will have been at odds with one another over something as deadly serious as avian flu. Back in the 1920’s, if you’ll recall your school lessons, there was a little evil thing going around that was a lot like avian flu, only it wasn’t passed around by ducks or chickens but by some sneaky guys known as bootleggers. Now, don’t shut me down without giving me a chance to explain myself, because swear to God there’s a connection here somewhere, although at the moment I can’t possibly think what it might be. I think it had something to do with profiteering, but I may be mistaken, because now it seems to me that it has something to do with imaginary boundaries.
Anyway, back in 1929, March 20, 1929 to be exact, a ship of Canadian registry called I’m Alone was anchored off the coast of New Orleans, and had in its possession, or so I’ve read, nearly 3,000 cases of liquor on board, which in today’s world, might be like a Chinese freighter sitting just east of Boston with a cargo hold full of chickens. You see the two-fold problem here, don’t you? On one hand, you have this devilish thing running loose, which really has a bunch of people’s shorts in a bunch, while on the other hand you’re worried about how you’re possibly going to control who profits off of that freighter full of chickens, or put another way, how you’re possibly going to control who’s going to profit off of the spread of the avian flu. So you see, it’s a touchy thing to have something unwanted sitting just outside of the range of your own ship’s cannon.
The waters around America at that time were patrolled by a growing fleet of cutter ships, then under the command of the Coast Guard, but originally created and placed into service in the late 1780’s by then Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton to enforce the nation’s bold new tariff laws, which were vital if the young government was to survive financially. Trade revenue, for America, was suddenly more vital then ever before.
It was one of these vessels, the cutter Wolcott, that now appeared on the scene, which immediately resulted in I’m Alone to begin moving seaward, away from New Orleans. The Wolcott approached, asking the Canadian ship to heave to so that she could be boarded and examined, and when the I’m Alone refused, several shots were fired across her bow from the Wolcott’s single three-pounder. The Wolcott’s gun jammed, however, forcing her to call for assistance. The cutters Dexter and Dallas responded, the Wolcott continued to pursue the I’m Alone, and later that evening, the I’m Alone hove to, allowing an unarmed officer from Wolcott to board her. The Canadian skipper, Captain John Thomas Randell, refused however to permit a search of his ship, the officer was returned to the Wolcott, and the chase continued.
This, I suppose, we could compare to some Canadian honkers touching down just outside St. Louis for a short rest and a bite of grass, but taking off before anyone has a chance to test them for avian flu. Imagine, if you can, a band of frustrated CDC scientists, shaking their fists at the birds and jumping into their vans, vowing to hunt them down.
By the following day, the cutters Dexter and Dallas had arrived to join in on the pursuit, and it was the cutter Dexter that ordered the Canadian vessel to “Heave to or I shall fire at you.” Captain Randell refused, claiming that he was at that time on the high seas, 14 or 15 miles from land and well beyond the legal limit of 12 miles, to which the Coast Guard cutters responded by issuing a continuing volley of gunfire, interrupted by repeated demands to “heave to,” which was continually refused by the Canadian skipper, until finally the I’m Alone, having grown tired of the entire business, sunk. It was March 22, 1929.
The entire controversy surrounding the incident dragged on for many years, with considerable legal and diplomatic bickering between the two countries, but was eventually settled by arbitration. The Canadian ship, it turned out, while certainly a British ship of Canadian registry, had been in fact owned, controlled, and at the critical times in question, managed by citizens of --care to take a guess-- the United States. Further, it was found that Captain Randell and his crew had been acting in good faith, and that none had been a party to the illegal conspiracy to smuggle liquor into the United States. The U.S., it turned out, had once again been fighting itself, rather than Canadians, as had been originally thought.
The United States was ordered to compensate Captain Randell and his crew the sum of $25,000, which was divided as follows:
- Captain John Thomas Randell: $7,906.00
- John Williams, deceased: $1,250.00
- Jens Jansen: $1,098.00
- James Barrett: $1,032.00
- William Wordsworth, deceased: $907.00
- Eddie Young: $999.50
- Chesley Hobbs: $1,323.50
- Edward Fouchard: $965.00
- and for Amanda Mainguy, as compensation in respect of the death of Leon Mainguy, the only crew member of I’m Alone to die as a result of the fight, for the benefit of herself and the children of Leon Mainguy (Henriette Mainguy, Jeanne Mainguy, and John Mainguy): $10,185.00
And that, my friends, somehow explains why I need to get in my work van this very minute and drive over to Brian’s house and deliver some light bulbs before this whole thing turns into an international incident somehow.
And somehow it explains how I feel about my telephone ringing off the hook. Like I’m Captain Randell somehow, or maybe even Leon Mainguy, and every time the phone rings it’s like another shot plunging into my side, because let’s face it, my creditors stopped dropping shots across my bow about three months ago and now the chase is on.
I’m not sure it explains anything about how a duck in Canada came down with avian flu, and that’s fine, because I don’t think that’s really the point.
And finally, after all this, I’m just left with one question that I hope someone can answer for me. What the hell was William Wordsworth doing on a Canadian rum-runner ship in 1929? Wasn’t he born in something like 1770, which would have made him nearly 160 years old? With a crew like that, it’s no wonder the I’m Alone couldn’t get away.
