*the Ned Hanlan Incident*

“A whale ship was my Yale College and my Harvard.”

Herman Melville

Out ahead of the steam driven tugboat, dark leads of water begin to open in the foot thick ice. Jarring and shaking the large steel tug to its very soul. Slowly, long jagged bony fingers of ice, begin separating off, creating possible pathways to patches of open water. Huge marine blue Volkswagen sized slabs, with nowhere to go, are driven under the snow covered sheets of ice. The open water contrasted heavily with the snow of the ice locked harbor.

Below in the bowels of the smokey beast, freezing temperatures chased passengers and crew below into warm waiting rooms. The living breathing steam tug slows, releasing pressure on the ice. Its massive propeller reversing, forcing open wide gulfs of water, as it turns from its frozen berth. The thick vibrating iron screw moves the boat in reverse, leaving the ice crushed into slush water. I can feel its power though the hull on my feet. With the "Ned Hanlan's" powerful bow under my ten-year-old ribs, I leaned out over the riveted gunnel to watch the next charge. The massive tectonic plates of ice, jostled one another, then dove like blue whales under the breaching hull.

Knowing her manners and methods, I quickly turn to catch the billowing blasts of black steam and smoke from her monstrous smokestack. As she collected force, like a charging locomotive and drove into the thick ice once again. I have the slippery steel decks all to myself, the grownups having tucked themselves safely down in the smoky warm hold, oblivious to the beauty all around them.

Except for one tall well-dressed gentleman, standing on the stern, watching the steaming frozen Toronto skyline. Old Squaw ducks appear out of nowhere, and take advantage of the temporary open waters to fish, and gossip. I take my favorite seat on the lower steel rung of the ladder to the wheel house. And marvel in the beauty all around me.
“Pretty nice eh?” Came the soft smoky voice of the tall gentleman as he hands me a bar of chocolate.
“Yes,” I reply, caught off guard by a grown up.
“Oh, no thank you," I say. Knowing I'm not allowed to take candy from strangers.
“Aw go on, whose gonna know? Just chew it quickly." I reached out and took the delicious piece of chocolate.
“Just keep it outta sight, that’s the trick.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re an Islander eh? I used to live at Hanlans Point,” offered the gentlemen.
“Ya…I live on Algonquin Island,” I replied, proudly.
“Oh, I know people there. Do you know the Hendersons?”
“Think so. I’d better get back to my father, in the waiting room."
"Great. If you want some more candy, meet me at Tony's store later," yelled the man. I descended into the hull, to watch the massive pistons and strange working gears.

As we disembarked from the tug, I secretly swallowed the last piece of chocolate, knowing where to get more. “Where ya going?” came my father’s stern and gruff voice, as he caught me running off to Tony Hops store. “I’m meeting this nice man. He’s getting me some candy.” “What? Get the hell over here now!” As I run up, he wacks me hard on my arse, lifting me off the ground, shocking and embarrassing me.

“Which man?” he demanded. I looked around and pointed out the man walking toward the store.
“YOU GO STRAIGHT HOME…. YOU UNDERSTAND?” he yelled.
“Yes sir.”

“I'm serious...straight home!” He snapped. To the amusement of passing adults. Years later, after his death, my mother told me, in his childhood he’d been molested in High Park's public washrooms. I felt a deep pain and sadness for him and relief for myself, remembering my own near escape years before. Every time I think about or see the "Ned Hanlan" up on her dry-land perch, I wonder what happened to the well dressed man in the hands of my father's angry revenge. I doubt very much the man returned to the Island any time soon.