The Well
By Ray Fast
The view from the bottom of a well? Uncomfortable. A dull grey tube ending in a circle of azure sky. Dry at the moment, but the mind could picture it filled with water which would steal warmth from anyone trying to exit this tomb either floating or scaling the featureless walls. Shiver.
Jack, my father in law purchased a vacation property on Denman Island in 1972. A getaway to be enjoyed by my in laws and for use by the extended family. The current inhabitants, blackberry bushes and a few stunted trees and a menagerie of birds checking the state of ripeness of the fruit. It featured a bald spot in the middle of the half acre lot and it had a shallow well cleverly camouflaged with logs and boards at the level of the surrounding ground. It will fill in the winter months, we were informed, and then run dry in the summer. Just the season when camping and visiting was the best time for all those intent on spending some time here. A close inspection of the well that late spring revealed it not completely secured from entry by small animals. An accumulation of mice and snakes had taken swimming lessons after they had ventured under the makeshift cover. Not, the best situation for water with responsibility for human hygiene and consumption. The best solution? A deeper well. Securely lined. Tight fitting cover, locked against the inevitable tampering by future grandchildren. All agreed.
Jack secured the services of a back hoe operator (one of the Isbister clan) familiar with the digging of wells on the island and provider of well rings which would form the sides of the well.
“W” day finally arrived. Jack and Alf (another son in law conscripted for the occasion) were on hand with myself and Isbister to begin the project. All the ladies were kept back at a safe distance from the action, the heavy equipment and the language that may emit from the participants should something start to “go south”. The on site soil had a generous portion of sand. We had been previously advised work would, by necessity, proceed quickly to avoid the walls of the excavation from falling in before
the rings were placed one on top of each other in the crater. With the location carefully chosen, near the old well but not too near the old well, the back hoe waddled into place and sat down on stabilizing feet. A mountain of soil rose within reach of the mechanical arm. Immediately it was evident that the parched soil was giving way and the possibly of a cave in would reverse the efforts before the desired depth was attained. The hasty decision was made to place the rings in the hole at the depth we had achieved. Four of the interlocking rings were moved into place. An orphaned ring left staring at is sibling adjacent to Mount Sandy. Would it not have been nice to get that extra few feet down to get a better water supply, not to mention completing the ring family reunion? The solution, reached by crew consensus, was to put one person down the well with a bucket to manually scoop soil around the base of the bottom ring and all the rings would then settle down further without collapsing the sides which were already covering two and a half rings. A ladder was lowered into the vertical concrete pipe.
Having picked the short straw, I descended with a bucket tied to a rope. With the ladder withdrawn, I scooped the soil around the bottom of the lowest ring and it obediently settle a few inches with the assistance of gravity and the weight of the other rings positioned on each others shoulders like a circus act. The happy orphan on the top. The crew topside pulled the bucket and dumped the contents before lowering it back down for an encore performance. When Jack decided that the topmost ring was deep enough and yet still high enough above the surround ground to prevent entry of surface run off storm water, he called a halt to the process.
There I was looking up from the bottom of the well, waiting for a ladder, while the crew above joked that it may be better to leave me, except that it would result in tainted water.
