Shawnigan Lake School - Yearbook (Shawnigan Lake, British Columbia Canada)

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NIGHTSHIFT — KITIM AT Towering, purple snow-capped mountains loom out of the black, murky night over the smelter nestled at their feet. Roaring furnaces and flashing flames cascade showers of starry sparks into the darkness. Twinkling multicolored lights blink fitfully, like fireflies about the smelter. Heavily laden, the conveyor belt zips along, while a humming electric yard engine hauls glowing carloads of slag to smoky, red-hued slag heaps. Drifting aimlessly about, the dense smoke from towering stacks and whirring ventilators blankets the valley night and day. It filters through the webs of fences into high tension towers, drifting around switch yards to drape languidly over buildings. Constantly it oozes in through cracks in doors and windows. Just as the glowing, rotund moon glides out of a jagged hole in the clouds, the shrill whistle announces a shift change. Tired, black-faced men stream out of the smelter, passing the incoming night shift in the silent murk. As the ding, ding of the punch-clock echoes away into the night, workers pick up their tools and the night shift begins toiling over the roaring monsters. Inside, light is dim and smoke-streaked, with flashes from furnaces which throw off heat to over one hundred degrees. Goggled workers, wearing hard safety hats, move about like many ants around the miniature holocausts. Furnaces belch flames as men called crust-breakers prod at the molten masses with long-handled iron pokers. Crust-breakers are strung out along the iron catwalks which stretch along the sides of the building, like clinging vines above the pots. Along comes the overhead crane; the operator is in his glass cage, suspended below the crane itself. This machine travels the length of the line carrying pots to different departments. The crane rumbles down the line, its warning horn combining with the sound of a danger bell, because a pot is about to be moved. Shirtless, sweat-soaked giants advance on the pot; they are the stud pullers. With gigantic wrenches these men unbolt the tops of the pots. The last bolt is wrenched loose, accompanied by a flash and a roar, followed by molten aluminium and searing gas forced out of the vessel by the tremendous pressure inside. Workers scramble aside as the lid is raised, venting the full fury of the monster like a volcano into the surrounding area. After the molten mass recedes, the crane operator drops the hook; it snakes swiftly down and attaches to the pot. Grime-covered and shirtless, like most smelter workers, the -burly foreman signals to the crane operator. When the pot is raised, the crane rolls smoothly down its rails, swinging the pot along a centre aisle, preceded by the foreman who clears the way. Once there, the pot is lowered into a frame and clamped in by a sweating, cursing pourer, who wields a large steel wrench. Quickly tapped, the molten aluminium spews out, like a spring torrent in the mountains, into moulds which form it into ingots. Still searing hot, ingots are broken out of the moulds to be stacked on loading platforms that are a buzz of activity. Under strings of glowing lights, men load ingots into boxcars, for all parts of the continent. Further along the tracks a gigantic dock crane festooned with lights, loads ingots into the yawning hold of a sea-going freighter bound for Europe. Stevedores move quickly to and fro on the dock, placing ingots on the crane sling. Chains rattle, wheels screech, and gears clash as the crane swings load after load into the cavernous hold. Once more the shrill whistle echoes away into the night; tired workers lay down their tools. Again accompanied by the ding, dong of the puncher-clock, men stream out of the plant greeting the incoming day shift. Night is over, clouds part to admit the warm rays of the golden sun as the tired night-shift workers trudge down the dusty road and into the morning light. R. McNAB. it -fr A MIRACLE It was a dreary afternoon and people were hurrying in both directions along the sidewalks. Among them were an elderly gentleman and his wife who were obviously in a hurry to cross Georgia at its interesection with Granville. Glancing quickly at Bilk ' s clock, the man exclaimed, Heavens, it ' s almost five and the Bay closes then. The light was just changing and the last of those crossing were a few yards from the curb. The elderly man decided to make a run for it, but before he reached the other side an oncoming car knocked him down and ran over his left leg. John ! cried his wife aghast. Before, however, she could reach her husband ' s side, a policeman had taken charge of the situation and, having made a brief examination of the injured man, was demanding of the onlookers walking sticks and handkerchiefs to make a splint for the victim ' s leg. Sympathetic bystanders willingly gave what was asked for. Page Twenty-Nine

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He dressed and made himself something to eat, trying not to worry too much about the night ahead. Nothing could possibly go amiss. Glory was the latest type of submarine, equipped with many fantastic devices one hardly knew existed. After washing the dishes Dave hurried to his car and drove to work, little knowing he was heading for disaster. Approaching the yard he never failed to marvel at the bright white lights which gave the scene the look of a movie set. Dave parked the car and regarded the busy dock. Workers, moving to and fro and going up and down the gang plank of the sleek ship, resembled a community of ants crawling over a piece of candy dropped by some wayward child. Dave walked towards the jetty, showed his identification to the guard, and strolled along the pier to the submarine. He felt the tingle of fear in his spine as he walked up the gangplank. Would everything be all right ? Arriving on the bridge he noticed Captain Elliott, the short, stocky commander of Glory, watching the men making last minute adjustments to the periscope housing. Butterflies? asked Elliott as turning around he saw the worried look on Dave ' s face. Not really, replied Dave. I guess nothing could happen, but I ' ll be glad when this night ' s over. He looked at his watch — midnight, and the last worker climbed down the gangplank. Cast off ! shouted Captain Elliott. As H.M.C.S. Glory slid quietly away from the dock, Dave up on the bridge felt the chill air of an August night swishing past his bare head and sending an involuntary shiver through him. The soft lapping of the waves against the hull served to calm him. The city looked peaceful and safe to Dave as the sleek black submarine made its way out and lights blinked from the dark distant shore. As they passed through the harbour gates the sea became choppy and because the ship had increased speed it made a low swishing sound. When only five miles out the Captain gave the order to dive. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The hatch clanged shut and the friendly, twinkling stars were extinguished. Inside the bright control room, the rows of gauges gleamed and Dave at first was blinded. The submerging motion of the ship gave him the sensation of being on an express elevator in a skyscraper. All was quiet except for the hum of the generator. Dave checked the instruments over the shoulder of the operator, Leading Seaman Kirk. Everything was in perfect order. Twenty-five fathoms, sir, reported the quartermaster. Level off ! commanded Elliott. Then to Dave, All going as it should be, Mr. Johnson ? Yes, sir. Everything ' s fine so far, confirmed Dave. Good ! Take her down to one hundred fathoms and we ' ll call it a night, ordered the Captain. Thirty fathoms . . . , reported the rating watching the depth indicator. Thirty-five . . . forty . . . forty-five . . . The ship began to tremble. Surface ! Surface ! called Captain Elliott. H.M.C.S. Glory did not respond. As the angle of the dive steepened the ship gathered speed. It refuses to come up, sir ! cried the quartermaster. Keep trying, shouted Elliott. Three hundred fathoms, sir ! warned the rating. Well, lads, I ' m afraid this is it, said Elliott. He was outwardly calm. They stared incredulously at the depth needle which seemed to be racing around the dial. It now showed four hundred and twenty-five fathoms. The tension in the small control room was as tight as a violin string. Because there was no sound one sensed it all the more. Madly Dave thought back. He must find out what had happened before it was too late. The events of the past seven months flashed through his mind. It was s trange, he thought, trying to find out what had gone wrong. Suddenly at five hundred fathoms the sides were crushed like an eggshell, and the sea came rushing in, engulfing Dave and tossing him about like a twig in a rushing stream. Bells started clanging and the water suddenly disappeared and he found himself in bed. It had only been a dream, a strangely horrifying nightmare. Dave looked at the alarm clock which had now stopped ringing. It was 7:30 p.m. — time to go to the dock to take H.M.C.S. Glory down for the first time ! —JOHN NEAL. ti Page Twenty-Eight

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While all this was happening a clergyman who had seen the tragedy moved close to the side of the wife of the injured man. Trying to comfort her the parson was surprised to hear the woman give a sigh of relief and to see the look of cheerfulness on her face. What ' s happened ? began the clergyman. Nothing, nothing, smiled the elderly woman. Only I just realized the car ran over his left leg which is ... But before she could finish a loud outburst of cries made the parson raise his head. Goodness, a miracle indeed ! he exclaimed, for before his very eyes the man .he had seen knocked down a moment before was up and walking. Oh no, broke in the woman, it ' s no miracle but only that his left leg is wooden. —A. READ. i? it ft A SUMMER DAY IN PARIS On a hot day I prefer as a rule to soak myself in a cold bath, to sleep as much as possible, and to rouse myself only when the pop and the ice-cream are exhausted. There is, however, one day that I remember as an exception to this rule. Certainly the day was hot, the air humid, and the atmosphere sticky and close. Yet the extent to which the heat bothered me was negligible. This would have been extraordinary but for one reason. On that day I arrived in Paris for the first time in my life. After a long train ride we glided slowly into the Paris Nord, and with the help of some high-school French managed to reach our hotel. My first thought, of course, was to see the Eiffel Tower and following a heated debate with two hot and exhausted parents I was granted my wish. Along the Seine we sped as the driver pointed out innumerable well-known buildings. A small square on the bank I remember was named Place de Canada, and I thought of the distance that separated it from home. We got out at the foot of the Tower and there I left my parents before I ascended to the top. . From the summit I beheld one of the most beautiful and thrilling views I have ever seen. On all sides the city seemed to stretch away to the horizon, a jigsaw puzzle whose pieces are composed of grey buildings. Far below me the Seine, looking attractively cool and extremely blue, cut through the city. As I followed its wavering path 1 counted the bridges across it and was surprised to find almost twenty-four; I noted the ungainly barges and the pleasure craft moving smoothly along, sometimes hidden by a bridge or a building but always reappearing as small toys on the river. As my eyes wandered down the water I found L ' lle de la Cite, an island which is covered with buildings and from which at one end rise the towers of Notre Dame, situated in front of a park. I began to pick out with the help of a small map other famous sights. On the south bank I at once recognized Napoleon ' s Tomb, for its round dome stood out above the buildings clustered around. Below me stretched the cool green lawns of Le Champ de Paris. Far to my right, scarcely visible through the haze, lay the town of Versailles. On the north bank my glance fell on La Place de l ' Etoile and in its centre L ' Arc de Triomphe. The huge monument could be seen, majestic and yet simple, so distinctly that it would have been impossible to miss. Immediately I found l ' Avenue des Champs Elysees. dist inguishable from other streets because of the trees which line it all the way to the Place de la Concorde. Here was the entrance to le Jardin des Tuileries, a park that extends for many blocks and is the perfect place to find shade and peace on a hot day. One famous building I could not help but notice was the Sacre-Coeur, which was outlined distinctly against the clear blue sky. My eyes, instead of lighting upon details, moved then across the whole panorama that stretched around me. At once I was struck by the number of parks, the quantity of tree-lined avenues, and the multitude of green squares which intermingled with the solid grey mass of the city. These spots of green, whether huge like le Bois de Boulogne or minute like the city squares, were to be found wherever one looked and I therein discovered one of the charms of Paris. Everywhere are parks with their cool fountains, beautiful possessions not many other large cities can equal in number or in enchantment. The afternoon had slipped by too quickly and the time to go had come too soon. Regretfully I walked towards the elevator and descended. Only as T drove back to the hotel did I feel again the heat of the day. Yet the discomfort of the hot weather had made little impression on me that afternoon because I had been lost in the enchantment of Paris. —J. LUNDELL. Page Thirty