The Attack of the B.C. Lioness

When you're just a kid in geography class, you're always led to believe that Canada is a massive expanse of land with a few sparkling cities strung across the provinces. More or less evenly spaced, you picture them like little diamonds glowing in the darkness of whatever's in between, probably nothing. Halifax. Fredericton. Montreal. Ottawa. Toronto. Winnipeg. Regina. Calgary. Vancouver. To each little province, its own cluster of bright lights and bustling activity.

And then we arrived in Kelowna. Why is there a city this big here? Why are we late for soundcheck and sitting in an angry, big-city traffic jam in what we thought was a hippie town devoted to eating organic and being non-judgmental? Friends who had moved out West for a love of snowboarding and marijuana told us it was "really chill" out here. Totally laid-back. Yet here we are in a town of frantic vacationers and beach condos, where everyone seems to pursue relaxation with the same hectic energy as they would a Boxing Day Blowout sale.

Saved from soundcheck by our friend Rashka, we zoom out to the beach in her little convertible, flitting through the sunshine and green trees. On the sand by Okanagan Lake, everybody and their rubber dingy is taking in the sun. Josh and I race into the shallow, pee-warm water and move out beyond the buoys like the bad boys we are.

Now, it's often said that bands on tour get laid every night. "I got a different girl in every town..." as the old song goes. And without going into too much detail and being ungentlemanly in these pages, something funny happened to us on Kelowna Beach. Well, to Josh.

As we return to our beach towels, I notice William and Rashka are sitting with someone new. Seated crossed-legged on the sand, wearing a blue bikini top and blue shorts made out of that "Kwik-Dry" material, is a blonde woman in her late-thirties. Or maybe a labour-intensive 40. Oakley sunglasses over her eyes and a Sammy Hagar storm of curly hair, I hear her say this to William as I approach:

"...actually, the reason I came over here is because I'm really attracted to you." "Geez," I think to myself, "this oughta be interesting."

True to form, I instantly recognized the moment as a golden opportunity to mooch a beer from this mystery woman. She cheerfully obliged. Then, Christine started talking about life around Kelowna. I sipped my free Corona (no lime, though) and listened.

"I mean, people from out here-I'm actually from Alberta-people are phony here," she says. Y'know... I'll bet you couldn't guess what I do for a living."

Ever the charmer, Will picks a good one: "Umm, I'd say you were in sea and air rescue. Saving avalanche victims with a helicopter and rope ladder. That kind of thing."

"No. I'm a high-school guidance counsellor."

A pause.

"So, where are you guys from? Are you a band?"

I gulp. "Is it really that obvious?"
We tell Christine about the show, offer to put her on the guest list, and talk about our tour exploits in a facile, nonchalant manner that makes us seem much more famous than we actually are. She compliments Rashka on how her ass looks in her bikini, and speaks of her own life with surprising candour.

"You see...the reason why I moved here is because, for years, I was someone's trophy wife-"

I look to Rashka to check her expression. She has a wide-eyed, frozen stare fixed to a smile. Josh looks to me in disbelief.

At this moment, my eyes once again were drawn to an unnerving feature of Christine's figure. Her left breast had this rippled vein that seemed to tremor beneath her tan. It squiggled, like the Fraser River does on a map. As if her upper left breast was Prince George and this Fraser Vein coursed past Kamloops, through Burnaby where it met the Queen Charlotte Strait of her cleavage.
The effect was such that her breasts reminded me of the biceps of one of my childhood heroes: The Ultimate Warrior, from the WWF.

But I digress. When I emerged from this reverie, Christine was urging us to go back into the water.

"Come on! Let's just take a short swim!"

William, dressed in his beach attire of thick corduroys, hiking boots and a gabardine cowboy shirt, wasn't about to take a dip anytime soon.

"Josh! C'mon," she said. "You look like a fun guy."

Never one to disappoint a lady, Josh agreed to go into the water. Christine grabbed his hand and they ran frolicking into the waves like two lovers on an Aruba travel brochure.

They went out. A long way out. Shading our eyes against the sun, it appeared that she was trying to get up on Josh's shoulders. More suggestive frolicking ensued.

Sensing the afternoon had peaked, I go to the change rooms, hoping for Josh's safety but resigned to it being out of my hands.

Stepping out of the change hut in my dry clothes, towel in hand, I see Christine grasp William by the back of the neck and pull him in for a ferocious kiss that looks like it involves a fair amount of biting. Later, he would speak of our encounter as "The B.C. Lioness vs. The Montreal Rough Riders."

Back in Rashka's car, I turn to Josh: "So? What happened?"

"As soon as we got out there, she got pretty fucking grabby, man. Real fuckin' grabby."

-- Read the rest of Andy's tour diaries:

Part 4: "Get 'er done! Notes Towards an Understanding of Calgary"

Part 3: "I Love Winnipeg and there's nothing you can do about it!"

Part 2: "Sudbury and Thereafter"

Part 1: "Meeting Leonard Cohen"