I have been asked about the penguin content on my site. As you have probably noticed, the site’s subtitle is currently “theatre, penguins, words”. My About page explains the “theatre” and the “words” but has no mention of “penguins”. This was deliberate.
The truth is that it touches on a very frightening and turbulent time in my life, and I hadn’t anticipated exploring my feelings on the subject so soon. I’ll try to summarize.
When I was a small boy, shortly after my family and I moved to Vancouver, there was a tragic accident. As you may know, Stanley Park at that time had a small zoo with a few animals on display — monkeys, reptiles, seals, otters, polar bears, and… and penguins.
Yes. Penguins.
One fateful day, while my parents and my brothers were peering into the otter pool, I wandered off and soon found myself fascinated by the dozen or so penguins — waddling, diving, and swimming — it was as if they were flying underwater. I leaned farther over the rail to get a better view.
The rail must have been slippery from the recent rain, because I fell headfirst into the icy pool. At first I panicked, but then I remembered my survival training from Wolf Cubs: when lost in a hostile environment, stay where you are and wait for help.
So I did.
My parents, must have looked everywhere, but never imagined that I was waiting for them in the penguin pool. The penguins were very kind. They brought me herring and entertained me with their antics.
Minutes became hours. Hours stretched to days. Days stretched to weeks, which skipped over the stretching-to-months stage and suddenly became years.
Eventually, of course, someone noticed the unusually large penguin, and I was freed. To this day, I think fondly on my friendship with my adoptive family of penguins.
I hope that answers most questions. There is more of course, but I may save those stories for another time.