The life of a freelance writer rarely plays the way it reads. Far from glitz and glamour, the standard routine is cheap canned beer, dirty couch-surfs, and slow days spent trailing a photographer and crew. When underground scenes or anonymous characters are repeatedly favored for marketable material, the spartan lifestyle gets even grittier. An affinity for high-caliber publications ensures that the soulful scene is one of shoestring budgets and self-funded trips. But at rare times–when luck and karma perfectly align–a member of the guild gets a free pass into another world.
The Absinthe is a luxury mega-yacht. This became obvious as we toured around the smoked-oak floors of the vessel like kids let loose in their first hotel. The leather-couch lounge, stocked top-shelf bar, and 12-top dining room with player grand piano were our first three stops on the guided tour. Ten private cabins, each with its own satellite-fed flat-screen television and down-duveted bed, kept Berger and me in amazement of our good fortune. But it was the extras–like a private massage room, 400-bottle wine cellar, and hot tub on the aft deck–that really opened our eyes.
Smirks of disbelief turned to awe when told this adult toy chest, which also included powder skis, sea kayaks, jet skis, mountain bikes, wakeboards, and a 40-foot fishing boat, was now at our disposal. But the hook was undoubtedly the heli.
As expected, another fly-fishing mission was being launched as we removed our boots back on the Absinthe. This time I climbed into the shotgun seat of the A-Star and we lifted off equipped with fly rods, waders, and two Canadian guides keen to stalk some native trout. Unlike Galbraith—who will kick himself ad infinitum at this missed opportunity– I am a novice angler. But before the rotors went quiet, a bottomless glass of Dom, misty in-flight recons through high-mountain passes, and Jedi flying to find fish had me addicted to red-carpet angling.
To celebrate the escalating absurdity, we gorged on roast caribou tenderloin upon return. After dinner, whiskey was served over glacial ice which had been freshly chipped from a boulder-sized chunk collected during the morning’s last run. A slide show of Berger’s best photos ran on the big screen. Life has a nicer sheen when permanently trailed by an accomplished professional photographer. Of course, the evening ended late with a documentary video of Kiwi heli deer wrestling (which defies description), glimpses of flying fish off the stern (almost on cue), and enough free drinks to make this fantasy setting seem a little more believable.
Sadly, the heli would soon leave as we cruised south through the idyllic islands of the Strait of Georgia. In the comfort of the ship’s bar we’d attempt a download of the four-day binge. We compared our next destinations and I finally opted for a free massage (after no small amount of peer pressure). For the final crescendo, we lingered over a brilliant, five-course meal, took in another Berger slide show and, to further convince us that it was only a dream, sipped absinthe, which had beenmethodically prepared by ship steward Simon for maximum hallucinatory effect. Buzzing well past midnight, I stood solo atop the vacant heli deck as we slid into Vancouver beneath the Lion’s Gate Bridge. The ship waited to swap pilots, and as downtown lights danced in the periphery I tried to imagine which rabbit hole I would tumble down next. It was strangely easy to feel both denial at being home and disbelief at ever being party to such a potlatch.
Readjustment after this voyage would prove tougher than anticipated. An early chair, complimentary lift ticket, or free meal at a brewpub pales in comparison when the pinnacle of extravagance becomes the measuring stick. Yet, as our bottomless glass of Dom ran dry in a limo on its way to Whistler, it started to seep in that tasting only the cream may have spoiled us all for good.
