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The Christmas Survival Suit
a tale
By
Alex Morton

      When I picked him up off the southeast tip of Bowen Island, the old man was half-drowned. Even though he was mostly submerged, I could tell that he was big, and I knew it would be tough to get him out of the frigid December water of the Strait of Georgia. I started up the engine, unpacked the lifesling, threw the yoke overboard, and motored around in tight circles until I was near enough for him to maneuver himself into it.
      He was a big one all right, probably three hundred pounds or more, and winching his weight up to the Haiku and getting him aboard was no picnic. He landed on deck, and lay dripping water like a beached whale. I wondered how quickly I could get him to a hospital.
      My worst fears about his physical state evaporated when I knelt down to try mouth to mouth respiration. He laughed up at me and said, “You don’t have to kiss me, sir. A simple ‘welcome aboard’ would do.”
      But the old man sure was a mess. His beard looked as if it were made of seaweed, and the odd-looking, red, survival suit he wore was covered with slime that probably came from an oil slick. Around the sleeves and collar there was some kind of matted material that might have been white but it was covered with so much gunk I couldn’t tell. My first guess, by the look of the old gent’s tangled beard, and wild white eyebrows, was

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