the island

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.