When I was a kid I'm pretty sure I saw a Canadian military helmet with ARP written on it in a neighbour's boathouse on the beach. I was only 7 or 8 so I may have it wrong. Did the PCMR have any ARP helmets?
I also found something else interesting while snooping in a wall-mounted box of nuts and bolts and other hardware.
Sitting there on the bottom was a big rounded cylindrical object that I couldn’t identify. I removed some pieces of metal that wee on top of it and saw that it had some kind of fins on the end.
It was cold, and heavy. It was all I could do to pick it up and carry it over to Bill, who was busy shaping a plank to go into the boat he was repairing.
"Hey Bill, look what I found,” I announced proudly.
Bill, who was a skinny, pale, white haired man in his 60s, went even paler.
“Where’d you get that?’ he asked, firmly, dropping whatever he was doing and walking deliberately towards me until he was close enough to touch me.
“Over there,” I said indicating the cubby holes.
"Give me that,” he said, reaching out gingerly and taking it from me.
Without saying another word, he walked straight to the door of the boatshed, out the door, through his garden, past the house and onto the road. I tagged along as we walked right by my house until we came to the fishermen’s wharf. We walked out to the end of the airplane float, the longest finger at the wharf where the seaplanes came in, and he threw the old World War II mortar bomb out as far as he could.
It made a big splash and disappeared.
I also found something else interesting while snooping in a wall-mounted box of nuts and bolts and other hardware.
Sitting there on the bottom was a big rounded cylindrical object that I couldn’t identify. I removed some pieces of metal that wee on top of it and saw that it had some kind of fins on the end.
It was cold, and heavy. It was all I could do to pick it up and carry it over to Bill, who was busy shaping a plank to go into the boat he was repairing.
"Hey Bill, look what I found,” I announced proudly.
Bill, who was a skinny, pale, white haired man in his 60s, went even paler.
“Where’d you get that?’ he asked, firmly, dropping whatever he was doing and walking deliberately towards me until he was close enough to touch me.
“Over there,” I said indicating the cubby holes.
"Give me that,” he said, reaching out gingerly and taking it from me.
Without saying another word, he walked straight to the door of the boatshed, out the door, through his garden, past the house and onto the road. I tagged along as we walked right by my house until we came to the fishermen’s wharf. We walked out to the end of the airplane float, the longest finger at the wharf where the seaplanes came in, and he threw the old World War II mortar bomb out as far as he could.
It made a big splash and disappeared.
