exploration – Grateful Grumbles

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

The first time I went there I was nine. It was paradise.

We arrived on a barge brimming with building supplies. On the perfect sunny day, I lay amongst the materials, basking, dreaming of adventure. As I watched the waves the sea breeze put salt in my hair, on my skin and my lips. The hum of the motor and the sound of the barge cutting through the water lulled me to sleep. I awoke to excited cheers from my siblings as we neared our destination. Soon, metal scraped rock and we waded to the shore of the bay. We stood together and took stock of our surroundings. Beyond the barnacle covered rock and the driftwood lay unexplored wonder, inviting us to take notice.

The arbutus warmly welcomed us ashore, with twisted knotty branches and peeling auburn bark. A meadow on one side swayed in the breeze, tall trees on the other mysteriously shaded the ground beneath them. A sea pebble path beckoned. We had arrived.

My great uncle bought an island. Lucky for us, an island requires many work trips and my dad, a builder and contractor, got the call. And we, my parents, my three younger siblings and I, were allowed to explore it, all twenty-four, thrilling acres.

We carried our belongings to the other side of the island and settled into what would one day be deemed “the green cabin” unimaginatively so, as the name simply matched the paint. After choosing a bed, we were free to explore, as long as we kept our life jackets on, mom’s rules. We didn’t mind, my brother and I, the bright orange vest was a small price to pay for a great deal of freedom.

We hiked the perimeter. We explored derelict cabins. We followed every path and created our own. We hungrily devoured every inch of that island, taking in everything she would share with us.

Twice a day the shores would transform themselves, leaving even more to be discovered. Furious crashing waves overtook the shore on one side, on the other side the waves were gentle, steady, almost deceptively so, sneaking up on us digging clams. She left behind her a sandy swimming oasis. She completely recreated her shoreline, a timeless ever changing beauty. She formed endless tide pools as she made her retreat, a tiny glimpse of the life she contained within herself.

We studied them, enjoying the aliveness. We’d stir the water to see what was hiding. Crabs skittered while other unknown creatures made their presence known before quickly disappearing. We’d let the gentle arms of the anemones wrap around our fingers, pulling us in like the island itself was drawing us in.

It was magical.

After a full afternoon exploring we all settled in, exhausted. Big black ants interrupted our sleep as they rained down from the ceiling, really big, winged, black ants, that chewed through boards with little effort. We snuggled in a little tighter, lying awake imagining all of the other insects the daylight had hidden from us.

We would return to the island at least once a year. Family reunions were relocated there and my brother and I made sure to tag along on as many extra trips as possible. Over time island stories have blended into one large story in my mind, spanning many years.

Our great uncle taught us to fish. He led us to a shed full of old rods and passed us a tackle kit complete with rusty hooks and a knife. It was our job now to feed the crab traps. Left to our own devices we untaught ourselves and created our own sport, which would not be fair to call fishing. We needed bait. We plunged our hands into the water, scraped the side of the dock and raised up fistfuls of mussels. We began saving money for fancy lures, they paled in comparison to mussels scraped from their shells by our thumbnails and loosely attached to a hook by filthy fingers. If we were lucky a biting sea worm fell out from the clump. We only learned about the biting part when my youngest sister, so curious, held one too long. We caught tiny fish with just a hook on a line, no rod meant more of us were contributing to the excitement. We used the small fish to catch bigger fish and the bigger fish fed the crab traps. In the process the sea devoured many lures, many hooks and at least one fishing rod.

Many rock cod fell victim to our hopeful lines, each one smugly marched back to the adults. We felt like champions. We gloated, a highly regarded skill in our family and we were honing it well. Our success despite lack of expertise and equipment only added to the size of our fish tales, but more importantly to our already swelling egos.

Our great uncle taught us to trap crab and later to cook and eat them. We baited the trap and optimistically lowered it into the water. It was the best watched trap in the Pacific Ocean, as we eagerly hoisted it onto the dock several times a day. We learned which crabs we should release and which crabs we should risk our fingers to bring back for lunch. Large fearsome pincers, meant many were spared only to be recaught the following day.

While on one of our daily perimeter walks, my brother and I stumbled upon a pair of kayakers peacefully eating their lunch on the shore. Baffled that anyone either missed, or chose not to adhere to, the very large private island signs, we shouted out from behind a large rock, “this is a private island!” As if we owned the place, at the very least we felt we had a duty to protect it. Probably out of concern for the young, very dishevelled kids in bright orange life vests they shouted back, “where are your parents?” We scuttled away. Later we learned that while the island itself was private, the beaches at low tide, were not.

Showers were hard to come by, not that we wanted to slow down long enough to be bothered with one. Our cabin didn’t have regular plumbing or electricity. Showers were heated over a propane stove, poured into a bag and hoisted into a shower stall in a make shift bathroom on the deck. It was a fine balance between adding enough water of a decent showering temperature, being able to hoist it high enough and having the water last long enough to get the soap off, all while avoiding the large number of even larger spiders that seemed to be drawn to the warmth of the water.

We spent our days exploring, fishing, or visiting the different cabins filled with different grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins. Our favourite cabin was always Eagles Nest, where an auntie or grandma always greeted us with a warm hug. It seemed to be the hub of all the island action and if you looked just past the bay, you would see two adult eagles raising their young. Eagle’s Nest always hosted happy hour, nightly suppers and crib tournaments, organized by us kids. Two dollars to play, a small price to pay to learn from the older generation, who we believed to be the greatest crib players who had ever played the game. Lead with what was cut, never split a run and be a gracious winner with just the right amount of smugness. The laughter each night carried on far past our bed time, and echoed across the bay as we settled into our beds. We were lucky to be a part of this.

With at least two to a bed my cousin and I often chatted, ate Rolos and listened to mixed tapes until we were too tired to hold our eyes open any longer.

There were jobs to do each day, but we were happily occupied by the tedious tasks. We pulled endless amounts of thistles from an unused corner of the island, noticeably far from where the adults were working. During high tide we would drag driftwood out of the bay only to see it returned with the following high tide. We received payment in large fistfuls of jujubes, not that we needed to be paid. The work was fun and the company even better. During low tide we scoured the beach for the marbles we had shot earlier, gathering the next days ammunition and possible bragging rights if we hit our target. We toiled alongside our cousins, happily joking and constantly teasing each other.

We regularly tried to con a ride on the gator, a small lime green tractor with a box on the back. Meant to transport aging family members and luggage, seeing how many of the younger members could fit in the box became a source of entertainment for us. At age twelve, around the same time as we were allowed to remove our orange life vests, we were upgraded from back seat to drivers seat. We very courteously offered to drive everybody and everything wherever they wanted to go, priding ourselves on how fast we could handle the corners.

The ocean, a mysterious beauty, scared me, in a thrilling terrified sort of way. Sure of a very slow torturous death, I tightly held my cousin’s hand each time we decided to make the jump into the bay. Hysterical screaming ensued each time I imagined my foot brushing a shark or some other fearsome creature. Admittedly, this happened often and the swim was often short.

We laughed all day long, lovingly poking fun at one another. Good jokes voiced loudly were even more loudly appreciated and often repeated, until they became immortalized as a part our of island speech.

Each time we prepared to leave, we would do a final perimeter tour. We’d stand on the farthest point, close to where we had seen the orcas play earlier, and study the vastness of the water, the mainland barely visible on the horizon. The rest of the world was unaware of the island’s magic and yet here we were observing it, a part of it and it a part of us.

Each stay was never long enough, I missed it before I had even left, the people and the island itself. Even now, years since my last visit, every time I smell the ocean, I’m transported back there, sweet reminiscing. The island meant something different to each of us, but to me, she was freedom. She was exploration. She was family.

She was everything.