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The Double Eagle

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.

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Don’t Tell Mom

As kids, we were routinely locked out of the house when our mother needed some well-deserved down time — which usually consisted of her reading her water-logged Bible in the claw foot tub, in our one bathroom house. We never knew how long it would be before outside time ended, she had a habit of stirring in more hot water and Revelation had fallen into the water a long time ago. It was our job to entertain ourselves on an eight acre acreage, complete with an abandoned barn, a forest, a creek and a pond, flanking the aptly named Bear Mountain. 

Our knocks and urgent hollering fell on deaf ears, in event of emergency we were without a doubt, on our own. After we wrapped our minds around things, we embraced the predicament we found ourselves in and lost ourselves in the voracious landscape and our imaginations. We could conquer this infinite passage of time — together. It was us against the elements, for perhaps eternity — there was no way to be sure.

Funnily enough, we never saw a bear, perhaps our heads were too caught up in our games to notice any curious onlookers. Perhaps we were too loud. Or perhaps our free-spirited, free-roaming dog, my dad found in the “unwanted” section of the newspaper —free to good home— kept them at bay. Shamoo, came with only the name, a half-bag of kibble and his thick white coat, full of the mysteries and adventures his happy grin only began to allude to. He traversed the perimeter of our property (and well beyond) alerting predators of his and our presence.

While there were places and activities forbidden to us, the rules were stretched or forgotten altogether when we ventured outdoors unsupervised. Our imaginations grew as we created portals into another world, one where only we existed, outside of the rules, outside of reality. We climbed tall ladders into high hay lofts, we rode dirt bikes at break neck speed we spent whole afternoons capturing and releasing creatures. While it was expected we had common sense, common sense was best learned by making a myriad of mistakes. Left to our own devices, it was up to us to learn and appreciate our own limits.

Given a brief introduction to knife carrying safety, my brother was set free with his first Swiss Army knife— never whittle towards yourself or run with an open blade. The instructions seemed straightforward and the knife made sense for reaching the next level of outdoor enjoyment. Sharp weapon-like sticks and rudimentary carvings were already in the works. It wouldn’t be long before we were blazing trails with machetes. When my brother fell, doing something he shouldn’t have, he lodged the knife deep into his hand between his finger and thumb. “Don’t tell mom,” he said. Those words were a pact we all deeply understood. 

While we enjoyed tattling on one another at many points in life, the wilderness built within us a camaraderie like no other. The fresh air that filled our lungs, ran through our veins and fuelled our hearts, coursing through us all — we were different outdoors. It was us against everything and we most definitely would respect the pact, by not telling mom. We learned wound care that day, and a deeper respect for sharp objects. 

Due to our apocalypse-fearing Christian upbringing, we often played an enchanting little game called, “End of the World,” where we imagined we would soon be the only people left on Earth, or need to go off-grid for any variety of reasons. Whatever the situation, it was pressing that we sharpen our survival skills. Imagine our dismay, when we learned a compass comprised of a magnetized needle and a leaf in a bucket of water could not save our mortal souls. It didn’t much matter we could survive the rugged terrain, bellies full of the sourest huckleberries. We could catch fish in buckets and we discussed the nutritional value of grubs and insects, only one of us brave enough to try. We had nothing but time, the wilderness and each other and so we practiced well. 

A friend from work mentioned she had removed a book from the school library shelves, titled Schoolyard Games, a how-to type of book, circa 1980. One of the chapters boasted a fun little game where children throw pocket knives at the other participants to avoid boredom and of course, increase knife skills. Thinking fondly of my own childhood, and us throwing sharpened sticks at eachother, I suggested she re-shelve the book (to no avail — though probably for the best). 

I couldn’t help but smile to myself, as my brother presented his own children with their very first pocket knife, during a family camping trip. I even got to listen in as he explained the simple rules for the miniature blades. I watched as they carefully realized what potential lay in their palms. “Enjoy.”

Now we have the most incredible opportunity watching our own children from our windows — giving them the illusion of aloneness — as they scale tall hills, use sticks as swords, catch frogs, gather insects and test their own limits, right at the foot of the same Bear Mountain. I watch as they increase their familiarity with the wild, one tiny step at a time. I listen intently though for worrisome sounds, not quite ready to draw myself a bath and lose track of them altogether, one foot in the 90’s, one foot right here. If ever I am lucky enough to overhear the phrase, “don’t tell mom” used by my own young children, I will try my absolute best to smile. 

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I give thanks to the sun

for turning my skin 

into the deep 

warm hues 

of my aunties,

whose hands 

I admired 

as they prepared 

our food,

their wrists 

adorned 

with silver 

delicately engraved

and freckled with turquoise.

-Metis

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the old house

Devoid of any flesh or rot, as if it had always been a skeleton, never a horse — as though muscles, tendons and ligaments had never moved its spectacular form — the remains bleached white under the prairie sun, became a destination we returned to year after year, a monument of our annual summer pilgrimage. It lay unchanged, as did the rest of the property. Though it was apparent time had at some point transformed this creature, this entire place, from its original state — a bustling general store, post office and homestead — it seemed as though it had somehow happened all at once and time had forgotten to return, continuing its steady progression forward. 

It always began with too long a journey. Road trip games were punctuated by car fighting, we loudly boasted completing the alphabet, signalling both the end of the game and our winning — a lie, it was always a lie — and as if in the confines of the car volume determined truthfulness, we shouted our false victory. “A zed!” If we were lucky the shouting ended the game, although most often we did not favour concession, and shouting led to fist fights, which led to time outs. Whether we were involved in the backseat mischief or not (we were, we always were, in one way or another), we were instructed from the front seat, to sit on our hands. Angry with our new predicament we had to work harder to irritate our back seat companions further. With a dirty look, words or elbows we always succeeded, and it never failed, we would be sitting on our hands with our heads in our laps for what seemed like a significant portion of our trip.

Excitement rose as we neared the farm, it always did. As we travelled the long straight roads, we watched for familiar signs. As the road turned to gravel we knew we were close and we strained to look for something the dark and monotonous prairie fields kept hidden from our longing eyes. Some how none of it was familiar and yet all of it was. 

We parked our car on the hard packed dirt between the old house and the new one. The old weathered house looked out at the new one. Forlorn and leaning, it timidly called to us, offering endless opportunity for exploration if we should give it a chance. The new house wore fresh paint, robins egg blue, it stood square flaunting electricity as the mosquito trap buzzed and sparked as it caught its prey. The new house would be home for the next week. Bags in hand, we followed our great grandfather inside the new house, but it was the old house that held our curious hearts captive. 

It required no imagination to see my young grandmother dutifully throwing seed for the chickens that freely roamed the hardened soil in front of her childhood home. Swept up in times past, we found ourselves being drawn into the old house, past the creaky door, into the house that preserved artifacts of another lifetime under its dilapidated roof. 

Candy remained in tall glass jars on a long counter where the general store and post office once bustled. Even now I wonder about the tremendous amount of restraint required for those jars to remain full for decades with two young children living so nearby. How was it decided what goods would be moved into the cellar of the new house, and what would be forever preserved in the forgotten home?

We crept past the banjo that still hung on the wall, turning up the dark, narrow stairway, clutching the railing. Each tread, leaning slightly, squeaked under the weight they only bore once each year. 

We inspected the bedrooms, still furnished, items abandoned as though the house would have immediately collapsed should they had been removed. Maybe we should have paid more attention to my great grandfathers cautioning, “be careful” and took notice that he never followed us into the old house. We explored each inch of the old house before temporarily closing the door, promising to visit again the following year, in turn the old house too promised to continue to carefully protect its contents.

We rode a horse in a large figure eight, mowed into the long prairie grass that only rustled slightly in the prairie breeze, so tall, it seemed it had never bent under the cruel weight of snow. We rode past the silo, over and over — still full of corn, for the cattle that used to roam the fields it so proudly looked out on. It threatened to swallow us whole if we did not pay it the respect it was owed and so we kept our distance as it towered over us.

We were trusted with the motor trike and spent a great deal of time darting through the adjoining fields. We toured out to the old horse skeleton pondering the grandeur of the creature and the expanse. What was its story? We found ourselves creating a narrative for the incredible beast in its final moments, each one grander than the last as we gazed into its empty eyes. Perhaps it had died of old age, on a warm summer evening, such as this. Perhaps it had finished its day, a dutiful companion and work horse, it simply laid down its head and fallen asleep surrounded by several of its knowing friends and passed from this life into the next one. The gentle grass blew and the starlings performed their evening dance in the darkening sky. Or perhaps it had become lost and found by a pack of wolves on a blustery snowy night, it had put up a valiant fight, but at the end it succumbed to its predators and nourished their bodies for the coming days. Perhaps with freshly filled bellies, the wolves taught their young the spirit of gratitude as they leaned back and howled beneath the moon, giving thanks to the earth for providing. The young wolves echoed their sentiments.  

At night we sifted through old coins, and rummaged through war time memorabilia. We listened closely to stories from my great grandfathers time as a mechanic in the war. He waved his bent finger in the air, recounting a story for each piece we held up. 

We delved into the relics in the new house, the eight tracks in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, replaced by the large record player in the living room downstairs — a photo of our late great grandmother adorned its side. I think I remember her or at least I imagine remembering her one stormy night, though she never exists, in my mind anyway, outside of that room. 

We busied ourselves for days on the homestead, a place where both the past and the present somehow existed simultaneously. Just when it seemed we had explored every area, it was over. We found comfort upon packing for home, knowing the farm would be waiting for our next visit, we would find it exactly the same, and we did year after year after year. 

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the ivory

Photo by Ebuen Clemente Jr

the keys inherited 
from my childhood teacher
the hours pored into fruitless scales
up and down 
it was never my forte 
but it was hers
she committed herself 
the tireless effort
the pencil perched in between her fingers and thumb
the cursive reminders
speed up, slow down
excruciating practice
and now i sit down to play 
reminiscent
but my damaged fingers won’t cooperate with my memory
and i cannot for the life of me
play the merry melody she taught me

-you never know what you’ve got til it’s gone

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When Parents Lie and Other Magnificent Things

I never cleaned under my bed. Ever. It infuriated my mom (I get it now, I’m sorry, Mom). And by never cleaned, I mean not only did I never clean under there, I also used it as a place to sweep all of the other items from my room that I didn’t want to clean up, which was mostly dirty laundry. By all appearances my bedroom was clean, but the facade quickly crumbled each and every time there was even the tiniest of inspections.

I’m sure she grew tired of repeating herself, so in some next level genius mother move, she created a horrendous atrocity of an insect that I had no idea only existed in both of our imaginations. It had wings, many eyes, long legs and it hopped, quite possibly flew and very much enjoyed dirty spaces and especially dirty laundry (well played, Mom).

I can vividly picture it to this day. So vividly, that for the next few years I peered anxiously at dust bunnies and lost socks with angst, I most certainly never swept anything under there again and anything that happened to slide too far into the darkness had to be written off, for the rest of time. I spent the next few years leaping onto my bed from a safe distance so as not to disturb what may have been lurking underneath. There was no need for further inspections, the lie eliminated the problem. I’m fairly certain she forgot about the bug, not long after the dirty dilemma ceased to exist, though I would continue to be haunted by it for years to come.

She successfully converted me (although I’ve exchanged the antiquated “cleanliness is next to godliness” adage, for a slightly more favourable and much more achievable “keep it tidy or kinda close so droppersby won’t think you’re gross” sort of motto). It was not until I had become a parent myself that I actually questioned its existence. That’s right I was 32 years old, speaking to my own daughter, and repeating myself about the importance of maintaining a state of near cleanliness, when the bug hopped into my mind and I realized it was all a clever hoax. 32. What an effective ruse.

I grew up before the Internet age, a time when parental lies went unchecked. A time when most lies were unverifiable, my mom had the upper hand, and really she had all the hands, because a parents word was irrefutable. These days we parents are dangerously close to losing the “parents are always right” advantage.

Our five-year-old daughter captured a black and vibrant yellow millipede in her grandparents garden. She lovingly prepared a home for it in an empty coffee can, and allowed it to crawl all over her hands and arms. When she wanted to know what to feed it, she asked me to ask my phone. She knows. She knows exactly how the internet works: no question needs to remain unanswered. She even fact checks her dinosaur encyclopedia against the internet, hoping to catch an error. In this circumstance we learned black and vibrant yellow millipedes are poisonous, and it now resides outside, again.

But that’s not all our parents lied about, they also told us if we dug deep enough, we could get to China and then handed us a shovel. We believed them, maybe we were extra gullible or maybe the idea that we could pop out on the complete opposite side of the world was so entertaining it was worth the effort, so we dug, real blister-popping, callous-forming, rewarded-by-splinters, digging.

My sister thought my kids thoroughly vacuuming the stairs with a play vacuum that spins heart shaped sparkles around while whirring, was painstakingly sad. She was born in the 90’s though, things must have been different then. My kids think they’re helping, and they are, it’s just not with vacuuming. Sometimes we parents need a minute, where the kids are occupied and not with fighting.

I tried it. I told a lie, at least I think it was a lie, or maybe it has actually happened once to someone somewhere and the story has been retold for generations to come, as a warning for all of us. I was locked behind u-shaped table, which limited my access to the rest of the class, which occasionally frequently strayed from the task at hand. I glanced up from the laboured reading of the yellow group and locked eyes with the new boy. Surrounded by three kids who had flipped their eyelids inside out, he was TERRIFIED. Before I had time to think, I blurted out, ”they’re going to stay like that!”

“But we’ve done it before,” they countered.

“Yes. I know.” (I had taken time to explain how horrifying this was, just yesterday.) “But that’s the thing with eyelid flipping, you don’t know when it will stick, it just does sometimes.” I raised my eyebrows, summoned an ominous voice and added, “Forever.” I had to, in for an inch, in for a mile, or something like that. For his sake, I perpetuated the messed up children’s urban legend and added a Russian roulette twist. Before you judge, don’t forget how I was raised. Bonus: they never did it again and while I wasn’t incredibly proud of how I’d curbed the eyelid flipping, it was effective. So I get it and I think I’d do it again.

I grew up in a time, when “because” or “I don’t know” sufficed as answers, but my kids are used to answers because the answers are so readily available, and they know it.

I don’t think I’ve deliberately lied to my own kids yet, aside from the usual exaggerating of the truth, like if you don’t let me brush your teeth they will rot, where the immediacy is very intentionally implied. I also often blame things on time, like it’s too late/early for candy or it’s time to go. I find it concerning that when the time for real lies, the big imaginative creative ones, does present itself, the internet has the capability of instantly and effortlessly tearing my intricate web of lies to pieces.

Has the internet deprived us parents of the chance to recirculate the lies we were once told? Or are kids still buying into the urban legends of our youth?

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the place we used to live

echoes 
of children’s laughter 
reverberate off 
dilapidated walls 
of the fallen treehouse

happy shouts 
ring out 
hide and seek

dull clanging 
of sword fights 
in the field

expectant stockings
giddy mornings
over hot chicolate

the slow 
crunch 
of gravel 
under unsteady bicycle tires

the dog 
lost 
in the woods 

happy birthdays 
melt away 
like warm icing 
on patio boards

hungry vines 
reach out 
from the earth 
engulfing 
the place 
we used
to live
consuming time
feasting on memories

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the island

Photo by Dan Stark

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.