It has been a long time since I've been in Canada. I think the last time was decades ago when the Head Honcho of the operation I was flying a King Air for had a sister who lived in Canada. Yes, corporate big wigs use their “corporate” airplanes to do things like visit family, go on vacations, and send kids to far away cities to go on shopping sprees. Of course they don't pay taxes on “corporate” planes like you and I do on our personal transportation, cars, boats, bicycles and such. But don't tell them I told you so. They think they have “earned” it.
During my flying days, clearing customs was, occasionally, a bit of a pain. It has always been a breeze going from the US into other countries. But getting back into the US? I have had every nook and cranny of the airplane I was flying inspected, with every bit of luggage opened and searched. I have sat, with passengers in the airplane, for more than an hour waiting for the Customs people (who knew we were coming and what time we were landing) to show up. Fortunately, one of the things I learned a long time ago was that, no matter how aggressive or threatening the Customs agent might be, responding with a smile, a “yes sir”, and a willingness to cooperate no matter what is the only way to go. Only once did I walk right up to that line. While clearing customs in a corporate jet after “business” in the Bahamas, the Miami, FL Customs Official handed me paperwork written in Spanish. I looked at him, managed a smile, but said, “Sir, I just landed in America in a US Registered airplane. I carry a US issued pilot's license. Do I look or sound like someone who is fluent in Spanish?” He gave me a hard look but went and got paperwork written in the only language I know. (Most of my adult life I have worked with and been around people who are bi-lingual. I have daughters and grand kids who are bi-lingual. Deb is Bi-lingual. I am always a bit embarrassed that I can only speak one language. I did study both German and Spanish in High School. Flunked out of both in less than a semester. In later years, I tried learning Spanish again. It made my brain hurt. English will have to do.)
Anyway, when we got in the slip at the check-in point in Kingston, Canada I stayed on the boat while Deb went to call the Customs folks. Two reasons for that. The first is, when it comes to personal interactions with people in authority (and people in general) Deb is far better at it than I am. Moreover, I don't have a clue as to what kind of stores we have on the boat. Deb works magic in the galley and I eat better than most of the people on the planet. But if they started asking me about vegetables, fruit, meat, and what country it came from, I would certainly come across as a possible mindless “mule” helming a boat full of smack with a band of potential terrorists on board. If asked how much alcohol we had on board, about the best answer I would come up is “enough.”
The morning after clearing Customs, I managed to back out of the slip without bumping into anything, and we headed West. (I'm pretty sure it was the tightest slip in the most crowded marina I have ever tangled with in First Light.) The original plan was a pretty short day to an anchorage about half way to Trenton. But I wanted to go a little further given that the weather was near perfect and the vista was spectacular. Deb agreed and we changed plans and went further. The next anchorage we went further to didn't look that inviting. So we changed plans again and went a little further. The next spot on the charts turned out to be a really nice anchorage just a couple of hours from our stop at the head of our next series of locks.
This morning we woke to a perfect day in a perfect venue. This is why we came this way.
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