Mayne Island visit and memories

I always find it interesting how each Southern Gulf Island in B.C. has a very different vibe. Mayne Island has one of the most chill vibes. You can feel your shoulders lower within an hour of being there. It's so relaxing once you're there, it's hard not to want to nap.

I visited my friends Donna and Eric who have lived on the island for more than 25 years and it was so nice to get out of James Bay in Victoria, take in their mini Saturday market where Donna sells her jewellery and photo cards and visit the busiest place in town, their Thrift Store. We then drove out to Bennett Bay and took a stroll out to the point looking down onto the beach. We hung out in their backyard, which for me, as a non land owner, is a total luxury. Later on, we went down to Reef Bay and went swimming in the ocean before dinner where other locals had gathered for a dip on the small beach. Being the citified one, I had on water shoes Donna had given me during a previous visit to keep any little crabs from potentially gnawing on my toes. I thought back to my visit in 2023 when Donna and I were enjoying an ocean swim and then spotted two seals heading straight for us and we freaked out and scrambled out of the water as fast as we could in a moment of terror. Silly girls!

The three of us took a walk to Georgina Point early Sunday morning and sat on the new benches and  took in the ever spectacular views across to Galiano where a ferry was already working. They relayed stories of some of the people they knew, including themselves, who managed to live rent-free in caretaker positions, a reality that is almost impossible to come by now. With the onslaught of new property owners, many of them very part-time, the island they used to know, has shifted.

We went back home and puttered. Donna cut my hair in a chair in their backyard which is a luxury in itself, to have a friend fussing over your hair, snipping here and there. I didn't care how it turned out, I just loved the intimacy of the experience.  Donna made lunch and we relocated to their side deck. I took a look at an incredible photo album of all the wooden boats Eric has made in the past and got a peek into his workshop, don't call it a Man Cave. His "library" is full of books, and some incredibly detailed sketches he did in his earlier years, photos of boats, record albums and a t.v. which Donna forbids from "her house." He built the whole house with his own hands (with her help) but she's in charge! Early Sunday afternoon we went for a walk in the forest near the Mayne Island Brewery which I didn't even know existed and it was nice to see a newish spot to me, full of locals and tourists alike at the tables positioned throughout the yard.

I have so many memories of Mayne. My mom first took my brother and I there when we were maybe nine or 10 years old. A friend of hers, had a cabin on the island for a time. In my late twenties, I went there with Will before spending the majority of our time at Ruckle Park on Salt Spring. I also took more than a few cycling day trips in my thirties with a friend I knew then, Glenys. Our real excuse for all that exercise was to end up on the deck of the now closed Springwater Lodge for a beer, a burger and fries, and the view. I so wish someone with tons of money would buy that place and fix it up because I think it has to be one of the best views in all the Gulf Islands, right at the start of Active Pass and it's part of so many Mayne Island memories for so many people, good and bad, I'm guessing.

I think about the time I rented some tiny shack above Horton Bay and had to cycle there not realizing how far it was from the ferry, and the challenge of the gravel road that climbed up to reach it. My friend Colleen came to visit and I know she must have been swearing out loud with every push on the pedals, given that she wasn't in the regular habit of riding a bike. I made at least one trip on my own on my old fluorescent pink and lime green mountain bike, and I took a break at Georgina Point. I was lying down and suddenly  heard another person yell the distinct, "Whales" and as I sat up, I spotted at least four whales, moving fast with one of them stopping to spyhop. It was spectacular because of how close they were.

There was the time pre-Covid, maybe 2018, I walked 22,000 steps because I wanted to get out of Victoria, and so once I got to the island, I walked to the little village then took a break and had some food. I then kept walking down to Geogina Point where the lighthouse is. After a rest, I walked down to Bennett Bay and back in one day before walking back to the ferry to come back to the city. That is a Forrest Gump amount of walking for one day for me. I did love the feeling of freedom that comes from movement, walking along the side of the road there, admiring Arbutus trees and ravens and inhaling the dry grasses and the sounds of the birds and the peace. It's an experience I think everyone should have: Walking only with your thoughts as company on a Gulf Island in the forest, along the beach, on the side of a road where you'll notice things you never would in a car.

Come to a think of it, here's a book recommendation: The Old Ways; A Journey on Foot by Robert Macfarlane, 2012.

A quick catch up at Sacred Mountain Lavender

I did a quick trip to Salt Spring this past week to drop off more of my books to Adina at Salt Spring Books and to take advantage of the time to see a friend for a short visit so that we could go to Sacred Mountain Lavender or more specifically she could drive me before depositing me back to the ferry.

There's quite major road construction coming out of Ganges to the south. I believe they are widening the road and putting in a bike lane to make it safer for cyclists which could mean a delay if you're a tourist who isn't aware of such things and thinking of visiting. On that day our wait was minimal.

I've always had a love of Sacred Mountain Lavender because of good memories when I first attended the lavender festival they used to put on many years ago. Unfortunately, because of popularity, and the impact of having too many people wandering around near their home, they have closed the lower field which was my favourite so I was a little disappointed about that. But the real purpose of my visit was to  pick up some more of their high quality products, especially the lavender spritzer and the oil, and I just like to be there, to linger in the fields. 

Lavender forces you to inhale, slow down, and dream. You want to linger and take in the colour purple at the height of the season.

It gave us a chance to catch up, savour some tasty lavender tea and sit for a while in the peace on a weekday afternoon.

If you're curious about all the products they sell, and can't get to the island, you can order off their website: https://sacredmountainlavender.com/lavender-shop/

That way you can keep one of summer's favourite and historic herbal scents around you, or on you, throughout the year.

Childhood memories through Alan Woodland's words

Yesterday, I was doing the ever-routine task of laundry which for me as a renter means having to take the elevator down to the first floor and go into the communal laundry room. It's my least favourite task. I'm not sure if thats because it reminds me I have never owned my own washer and dryer and that definitely feels like a fail or if it's because the gathering, the sorting, the steps leading up to being ready to do laundry always feel a bit daunting for some inexplicable reason. Then afterwards, it feels the same as well, not a big deal and should have been done sooner afterall. 

As in a lot of older apartment buildings, there is a common room somewhere near the laundry room and the one in my building is large and dark, full of books that other tenants have left, an assortment of furniture, an old piano, which I hadn't even realized was there. On one of the bookshelfs someone has left two books standing up as if a librarian has curated these two books they most want to spotlight.

My eyes were immediately drawn to one of them, a poetry book, because of the author's name: Alan Woodland, In the Space Between. His signature was written on the first page. The bill, tucked inside, made it clear it was purchased from Black Bond Books in Maple Ridge at Valley Fair Mall. It looks like the book may have been a gift bought Dec. 11, 2021. The book was published in 2021.

It's a slim book with a white cover. There's a picture of a beach in black and white, and a person, gender undistinguishable, running at the shoreline. Alan Woodland's photo is, as customary, on the back cover.

The reason this book stood out, and the author's name, is because my eldest sister, Heather, who died from breast cancer in 1991 at 43 years of age had worked with him at the New Westminster Public Library where he had been its chief librarian for many years. 

In the late sixties, and into the early 70s, I would hear his name mentioned at our kitchen table and always with reverance. I conjured up what he might be like.  A man of letters. Sophisticated. Gentle. Funny. This is the image I created of him based on some of the stories I heard of him, without having ever met him. On at least one occasion my sister would bring a co-worker or two home from the library for lunch and as a young child, 13 years younger than her, her work there, and the pile of books on her bedside table, her light on in her bedroom into the wee hours of a night, seemed ever present.

Is finding the book a sign from my sister? It made me happy to think that way. Why not? Of all the books people leave, why was that one on top of the bookshelf awaiting the right reader, a poetry book so many people would have no interest in at all? I like to think it was not a coincidence. Someone had to bring that book on a ferry to get it here to Victoria. How long has it lived on the island? Was it purchased at the epic annual Times Colonist book sale?  Was the person who put the book in our common room still living in the building? Did they read the book before putting it down there? I don't have any answers, and probably never will but it's my treasure now.

Alan Woodland would be about 95 years old now. I do believe he is still alive. I'm sure it would please him to know someone who has never met him, has a very warm feeling about him as a result of a sister who once worked for him in her hopeful, youthful days long before cancer took hold. 

I think seeing his face on the back cover may be the first time I have ever been able to put a face to the memories I have of this man's connection to my sister all those years ago.

It would be wrong not to share some of his words from one of his poems here. I've chosen a short one that seems appropriate in this context:

Between the Lines

We poets

write out of the long history

of ancestors and family

our hands in their earth

our words warmed by their fires

voices of ancient pipes

echo in our vowels

We poets

watch antd wait

sensing

the turning of their seasons

sunrise

moonwane

their stars in our breath

their tides in our hearts

We poets

listen for footsteps

snatches of old songs

search for fleeting shadows

dancing between the lines

- Alan Woodland

As an update, I heard from Alan Woodland's grandson, Chris, who told me that Alan passed away on June 27, 2025. He said his grandfather would have been so touched to read this blog post.

Ruckle Farm Day Fun

I finally made it back to Ruckle Farm Days yesterday.

I think it has been about 15 years since I last went and that just freaks me out to see that number highlighting how much time has passed.

It was a stellar day on the top deck of the ferry from Swartz Bay on the 11 a.m. The wind was non existent which meant my hat could stay on with no effort as I soaked in a warm spring making it feel that summer vacation had arrived.

Every time I take the ferry to visit Salt Spring, which is not that often anymore, it takes me right back to that late September day when I first moved there in 2008 with Neil and Richard as my movers and the excitement of a fresh beginning floating as distinctly as the cumulus clouds. 

I'm sure there are other places in the world where this kind of local event happens but I'm also just as sure these types of local events steeped in the history of a place and innocence and community are harder to come by, at least the closer one's proximity to bigger cities.

I didn't see any laptops. There were no video games to keep kids entertained. Just goats, sheeps, lambs, Highland cattle and their calves. Plus the farm's two hard working sheep dogs. The farm managers, Mike and Marjorie Lane. The Lions Club volunteers sweating over the hot coals to cook hot dogs and hamburgers and lamb burgers. Blacksmiths tending to the fire and sharing their craft with those who were keen to try. Tables with ginger and chocolate chip cookies. And even the recreation of some Salt Spring history using dolls and implements tended lovingly by a woman who was passionate about the history of American Girl dolls.

I love these type of events where community members have time to chat, the picnic tables fill up and little groups of kids dot the grass in their own aimated conversations.

After more than 30 years of visiting Ruckle Farm and Park, yesterday was the first time I actually got to step inside the old farmhouse. I guess the artifact that most caught my attention was the crest on the wall with the Ruckle name under it. I'd never seen that before.

There's something so comforting about just enjoying a fresh field, fresh air and the comfortable company of an old friend.

And by the number of cars in the grass field doubling as the parking area, I'm not alone in finding the appeal of this type of event.

Mark your calendars for next year if you missed it.

Salt Spring Christmas time revisited

Salt Spring makes a great Christmas visit, especially if you have friends that live there. 

I won't be going there this year but I do have the memories of Christmases past to fondly think back on.  My first Christmas season there in 2008 was especially thrilling with all the markets and concerts, the overflowing camaraderie, and the natural beauty on the island in winter.

As a young child, I was blessed to have had very happy Christmases with family and extended family in the form of grandparents, aunts and uncles and a few cousins around to inhale the abundance of good food and Christmas goodies. 

The magic of that time, especially Christmas morning shared with my twin brother and three older sisters, is filled with pretty happy memories. I realize now what a blessing that was because as we all know, unfortunately, happiness at Christmas is an experience too many children and families can't relate to at all.  

That first Christmas on the island was the the first time I saw the whirlwind who is Pauline in action, and so I thought it might be fun to repost the link to my original experience of that. 

I hope you enjoy. You'll have to copy the URL below and paste it into your browser. Sorry. Old school!

https://spiritofsaltspring.blogspot.com/2008/12/paulines-christmas-kitchen.html

Drop-in tourism and privilege

Mrs. Ramirez on her family's organic vegetable farm along the Xochimilco canal. The land gets passed from generation to generation and is strictly regulated. She is shown here with a photo of her beloved dog Max who had passed. She would put his photo on the altar created for Dia de los Muertos celebrations that were upcoming when we were there.

I recently returned from Mexico City, Puebla and Oaxaca. I've wanted to go to Oaxaca for a long time. In fact, it was so long ago that I wanted to go there that as the years have piled on, I'd stopped wanting to go there if that makes any sense. 

Then while exploring possibilities for a short vacation off the Intrepid Travel website, it just sort of came up as a possibility that fit the time, the schedule, and the cost of what I was willing to spend for an eight-day vacation. I had not been to Mexico in 27 years when in 1997 I went through the Yucatan Peninsula to Cancun, Playa del Carmen, Merida, (Chichen Itza), Tulum, Palenque and San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas.

Maybe it's age. Maybe it's travel experience, but this time, more than last, I felt more relaxed once I'd arrived, the culture was vibrant, the people were friendly and I would consider returning for a longer time period, at least to Oaxaca, and more specifically to the Indigenous villages that surround it which they call Pueblos Mancomunados, six small mountain communities open to visitors. Google Translate helped.

It never ceases to amaze me, possibly because I don't travel all that frequently to overseas destinations, that it's possible to be sitting in my sedate little apartment one day and the very next be in Mexico City in Frida Kahlo's house and gardens or riding a camel in the Sahara Desert, or cycling around on a small island across from Phnom Penh, or riding down a world-famous and protected canal (Xochimilco) in a strange little boat powered by a young guy with a pole as his only propeller and decorated for what was the upcoming Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) festivities, in a foreign environment impossible to have imagined just 24 hours before.

The privilege of "dropping in" as an international tourist is astounding. Each time I set foot on a plane, I do think about the environment. Intrepid Travel uses local guides and tries to give back to the places where they do their tours, including through their Foundation, and they have a B-Corp rating related to social and environmental responsibility.

I consider my footprint to be pretty small. I don't own a car. I belong to a car cooperative, Modo. I walk seven minutes to work when I'm not working from home. 

But, life is short and there are more international destinations I hope to get to and obviously, I'm not alone. From January to November 2023, Canadian residents returned from 43.4 million trips abroad representing 83.9% of the pre-pandemic level from 2019. (Stats Can)

R.I.P. Don Mellor

I heard that Don Mellor, a long-time Salt Spring resident, died in September at the age of 81.

This reminded me that I met Don in the parking lot of Moby's pub when I first arrived on Salt Spring in October 2008.

I didn't know him well but I interacted with him enough to feel sad when I heard of his passing. He was very fit and I always imagined him living into his 90s.

Rest in Peace, Don.  

Here's the blogpost I wrote when I first met him. Karin Jones and I went sailing with him on the L'Orenda one day in the spring of 2009.

Salt Spring Island's American sister: Vashon Island

I first went to Vashon Island, which is a 22-minute ferry ride out of downtown Seattle from Pier 50, in 2018. The water taxi only runs on weekdays and it may just be an experiment at this point, but otherwise, you can take the Fauntleroy Ferry off the island and arrive in West Seattle in less than 10 minutes and then catch the Rapid C line back into downtown Seattle and vice versa.

Because I like to travel on the cheap, which is never cheap anymore, I stayed at the American Hostel Hotel in the International District, in a single room which, even though it's a hostel still costs almost $100 US a night. I like this hostel because it's super organized, close to transportation, and clean with strict rules about not allowing guests who aren't checked in.

The first time I went to Vashon Island I stayed with Sally at her super cute yellow house near Dockton on Maury Island which connects to Vashon by road. At that time, she had her beloved beagle, Elinor, and had just adopted a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy named Daisy who was super cute.  Sally was very hospitable so it was nice to see her again for coffee at one of the island's coffee shops called Minglement or the Vashon Island Coffee Roasterie, during this visit.

This time I stayed in a more than 100 year old Inn called Marjesira that was apparently built before there were roads on the island. At one time it was a country store. It's now owned by a woman who has lived on island for more than 38 years. On my way over, I met a woman who has lived here for 50 years. I feel like there are some long time islanders and then some new ones who are exploring their dreams, renovating old houses that will scare them by emptying their piggy banks to the very last penny.

Here's the thing about islands like Vashon and Salt Spring. I'll give you just one example of old world goodness.

I had been to the bookstore and bought two books. A Mary Oliver book on poetry and a book called Wanderers: A History of Women Walking.  While waiting for the 118 bus on a bench, a very friendly guy sat down and because he was so chatty, when I got up to get on the bus, I was distracted and left my books on the bench. It wasn't until I got back to Marjesira that I realized I'd left my books somewhere. I decided to put a note on the Vashon Island Facebook page and within minutes of posting that,  a woman sent me a message saying she had picked them up. We arranged for her to drop them back off at the bookstore where I'd purchased them, so I could get them back proving that Facebook can be useful and that of course there are still honest people in the world.

Because I didn't have a car, I didn't get to see the 20 foot Thomas Dambo troll near the Pt. Robinson Lighthouse.

I went to the Dragon's Head Cidery and although I'm not really a cider person, I did get a tasting and had a delicious appetizer for lunch of hummus, watercress, baked pumpkin seeds, braised red onion and pita chips. Loved the taste of those combinations. I also stopped by Pop Pop, and spoke with the very friendly owner/bartender who was super knowledgeable about craft beers and even has a refrigerator full of beers just labelled "weird beer." They sell wine there as well and non alcoholic drinks. And real food like their teriyaki chicken.

If you're in Seattle, it's a quick trip to Vashon and back for a daytrip to the island if you are so inclined. You can even rent an e-bike there. 

And if you're a Vashon Islander, you need to visit Salt Spring, your Canadian sister island. 

The real people in my book: At One with an Island: Salt Spring Revisited

Pauline McDonald

Marjorie and Mike Lane, Ruckle Heritage Farm

Abey and Matt Scaglione and sons, Ruckle Heritage Farm

the late Gwen Ruckle

Will Gerlach

Lotte Kristensen (Denmark)

the late Mac Rymal

Dr. Leila Kulpas

Karin (Marita) Jones

The Kuisma family (Finland)

Wendy and Derrick Milton

Gail Sjuberg

Tom and Linda James

Gwen Litchfield

Lisa Wolfe

Karen McDiarmid

Sharon Bailey and Robert McTavish

Tom Walker

Suzanne Archer

 the late Tom Martin

Jack Woodward (KC)

Len Brown

Paul Stewart

Rob Scheres

Bruce Wood

the late Bruce Creswick

Thorsten Baumeister (New Zealand)

Rob Pingle

Keith Picot

Mona Fertig

Harry Burton

Rachel Vadeboncoeur

Gillean Proctor

Lisa Lloyd

Amy Melious

Michela Sorrentino

Jan Smith

Wesley Clark

Eric McLay

Dave French and Kelly Waters

the late Marjorie Martin

the late Margaret Haines

Jaqueline Landeen and Pacino

Palu Rainbow Song

Murray a.k.a. as The Man with the Can

the late Thomas Ayers, Grade 5 teacher

Sheila Price, Grade 7 teacher

Lorne Tippett

Phyllis Haruko (Oikawa) Vavra

the late Tomoko (Toni) Oikawa

Lorna Cammaert

Richard Shanks

Neil and Beth England

Mrs. Larkin, New Westminster piano teacher from my childhood

the late Jean and James Campbell of Saturna Island

the late James Cameron Mavor 

the late Irene Johanna (Bedwell) Mavor

my late sister, Heather (Mavor) Carruthers

plus, a few name changes for real people

and me of course!

P.S. While focused on the writing, I hadn't realize how many people in the book have now departed this earthly realm. They are still very much alive in my memories.

Available only on Amazon 

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1778354262

 

Memoir akin to therapy

Writing a memoir is a bit like therapy, except you have to decipher the meanings of experiences and thoughts and feelings all by yourself.

Just like in life when you wake up one day and think, MMM? I'm not so sure this is working and you take the leap to try therapy, it can be the same for memoir writing. You write stuff down, and then it's best to let it sit a day or two and you go back to it and then think, no, that's not what I meant to say. That sounds strange. There's more there. Try again. In the end, there may not be enough time in your lifetime to get it onto the page how you ultimately and ideally wished for. But it's the process that matters.

I'm not claiming I managed to finally get at the core of it in my soon to be released memoir about my time on Salt Spring, At One with an Island: Salt Spring Revisited, but towards the end, I was feeling as if I was getting a sense of that peeling the layers of an onion experience to a much greater degree than when I started.

Instead of just retelling an experience from Point A to Point B, there was a lot more questioning about the journey. Like why is Salt Spring so important to me? Why is Ruckle Park so significant to me? What about consistency of place now matters to me and why? 

I know that some say to write an interesting memoir, you have to touch upon the universal within your particular story. That may be one of the biggest challenges. Why should anyone care about your story at all? Well, they won't. Unless you can find a way to attach to something they might also be experiencing or have experienced, to unearth some nugget of universal truth; to provide some insight.

For the longest time, I used to hang on every word that successful writers shared about their writing process. In the past few years I've stopped doing that. 

It makes sense to just accept that you are truly on your own unique journey, no matter how many hangers-on you may or may not have along for the ride. Their journey is not yours. Other writers will undoubtedly have some nuggets of wisdom to share, but in the end, it's that unique understanding of your own inner world and your own personal history, finding courage, and exploiting the version that is yours and yours alone that you must get at to tell your own story.

And then, let the consequences fall where they may.

At One with an Island - Salt Spring Revisited

I never intended to write a memoir, At One with an Island, Salt Spring Revisited, about  my time on Salt Spring Island. I mean what hasn't already been said? 

Salt Spring is one of the southern Gulf Islands in British Columbia, 35 minutes by a BC Ferry from Victoria, B.C. 

Too many years ago between not intending to write the  book and finally finishing it, (which took me forever),  I took a course at SFU's Writer's Studio program, and then another one, and I needed to write SOMETHING back then.

The first thing that came to mind then, because I'd just returned from living on the island, was to try and capture some of my island experiences. 

Then, to frame why the island has meant so much to me, I felt I had to backtrack. I had to explain some of the life stuff that had really impacted me to put me in the mindset of mid-life escape, not that it ever takes much to get me into that "escape" mindset.  

I first set foot on the island and Ruckle Provincial Park  and Ruckle Farm more than 30 years ago and my many "revisitings" have been some of the happiest times of my life. So I set out writing about some of my experiences, and some of the people I encountered while living there.

It gives me a lot of pleasure to re-read these experiences and revisit that time. I wrote it mainly for myself, to have a tangible legacy of that time in my life.

It's scary to put a book out there about a real place and real people, even if some of their names have been changed.

I thought about it for a long time, too long for sure. Gave up, went back to it and finally finished it a few months ago.

If all goes well, it will be available through Amazon.ca books one week from this posting, beginning Sept. 17, 2024 at 5pm Pacific Daylight Time.

Feel free to buy it. Because you're curious, because you're a mid-life female looking to shake things up in your own life and want to read about someone else's experience, or because you might even be in it!

https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1778354262

Life and Death and the Leviathan II

Image by Jim Munnelly 

There but for the grace of God go any one of us.

Maybe that’s what you thought as well upon hearing the news of the capsized whale watching boat, the Leviathan II, off Tofino, B.C., and the death of six tourists.

I looked up Leviathan. It's a word from the Old Testament meaning sea creature or sea monster.

There were 21 survivors thanks in huge part to those who have called the coast home for centuries. In this case,  the Ahousaht, their livelihoods and histories on the ocean intertwined. As we now know, two Ahousaht fishermen were first on scene, primed perhaps from a history of trauma and subsequent crisis assimilation; fight or flight, always at the ready.

One of the fishermen, turned, saw a flare, knew right away, and headed towards the Leviathan II. The response similar to the way their brothers (and sisters?) took to the waters of Hartley Bay after the MV Queen of the North accident in 2006. And probably during so many other lesser marine crises that never warrant publicity, lingering only in the minds of the few involved.

Every time you and I have gone on vacation, we have been those individuals. Whether close to home or on a far flung adventure, we trusted that everything wasn’t just going to be okay, it was going to be fantastic. Our expectations were the very best of what we packed.

It was me every time I stepped onto the whale watching zodiac on Salt Spring on more than a few occasions with the former owner, Ian Gidney, at the helm. I totally trusted that we were in good hands. After all, he'd done it for such a long time, handling that zodiac like a jeep on water, even on that day it felt like we were re-enacting  a new version of that movie, Thelma and Louise, but on water.

He just kept going and going, south and farther south still. Like a man with OCD, he was going to find us whales, no matter how long it took. And he did. Freighters passing not too far away in a shipping lane.

Add to that, all those other times in a kayak, even though I've never been properly trained, can't do an Eskimo Roll, and have no real idea how I’d react to being tipped over.

The very first time, a sunset cruise out of Ganges Harbour, circa 1996.  A summer evening, a little cloudy, a little windy, but nothing to get too worked up about, until that is, the grey turned charcoal, the cloud cover bowed like a geisha, the wind pitched like a cyclone, and every stroke became agony.

"Stick together," yelled the guide, the quiver in his voice its own soundwave, trying, unsuccessfully to hide his anxiety, screaming into the wind, his yells translating into a kite of a whisper, "Turn around, stick together!" 

Our individual wills focused on the brown spec of a wharf we'd launched off less than an hour before. When we finally made it back, exhaling our long-held breaths, too tired to haul ourselves onto that rough old dock, and just relief, that's all.

Or on another kayak trip. Discovery Islands group. Last day of the trip. A large wave caught my kayak from behind and carried me a long ways from the group. It looked as if I was intentionally surfing, another guide’s voice yelling my name, thinking I might be going all rogue on him on purpose. As if! 

Or further afield, giving my safety some thought, but not much, hoping for the best, donning invincible tourist mode and stepping onto a patch-worked riverboat in Cambodia with barely a lawnmower engine  to steer us down that shallow river from Lampang into the Tonle Sap. 

Or that beautiful day out of Sihanoukville, heading for the small island Koh Ta Kiev, with stops for snorkeling into the sea blue waters in a place that was all the better because of its foreignness, any potential danger someone else's concern. "Don't worry. You worry too much."

And finally, my own experience on a whale watching expedition out of Tofino so long ago. Thousands upon thousands before us over the years with the same excitement at what we all might get to see. That same feeling there for those six tourists looking forward to a great day and real live orcas not too far away.

A trip similar to one that so many domestic and international tourists alike have taken out of that picturesque West Coast village. The scramble, pulling, and shimmying into the survival suits before finding a place in a zodiac, hip to hip.  

We sat huddled together as the little rubber vessel bucked its way, headstrong, out across that black, frigid ocean. The slab of barnacled backs of the Grays that we'd come to spot, not quite real but too close and scary to me; living submarines. 

And the cold, mostly the cold, that's what I still recall. Wanting to verbalize what every goose bump on my body was screaming which was, "I've had enough now. Can we turn around now?"

Each and every one of us on every journey we take, with hope the best thing we pack.  Hope that there but for the grace of God comes true for us just one more time, rising inside to save us, because we choose to participate, not just observe, at least not all of the time.

True for boat people, and true, shockingly, for those six individuals who lost their lives in such an unlikely way in such a safe (relatively speaking) part of the world on October 25, 2015, in a place of hauntingly wild beauty.

So not fair indeed.

Out of respect for the people who lost their lives, I list their names:

• 
  
• Katie Taylor, 29, of Whistler, B.C.
• Jack Slater, 76, of Toronto.
• Nigel Francis Hooker, 63, of Southampton, U.K.
• David Wyndham Thomas, 50, of Swindon, U.K.
• Stephen David Thomas, 18, also of Swindon, son of David Thomas.
• and Ravisham Pillay, 27, from Australia (still missing).

Stowel Lake

Stowel Lake 

Down a seam in a dusty track

cars lining the road above,

you wade in,

separate the lily pads with

your praying clasp,

emerald ripples  

bloat,

encase naked white skin 

over there,

thick atop a wooden dock, 

decorated by

dragonflys and voices weaving the

gloaming.

Ron Holcroft's Walker's Hook Stage

Ronald S. Holcroft   

November 15, 1916 – August 4, 2015

When I lived on Salt Spring and in the North End after my third move in same number of years to the property of Marjorie Martin, I lived in the sturdy cottage that her father had built with her grandfather more than 50 years earlier.  Most days I’d take a stroll down what I consider to be one of the most beautiful roads on the island: Walker’s Hook Road.

My walk would extend from Hedger Road from where my little cabin was located, down Walker’s Hook to the Fernwood Road Café.

My jaunt always included a trip down to the end of the Fernwood dock to check for otters, inhale the sea air, see if anyone was crabbing, chat with visitors who I might happen upon (and often did) and look to the south to see if I might spot a ferry crossing in the distance towards Swartz Bay. It often included a meander along the beach to take photos of shells and whatever intrigued me.

It was such a breath of fresh air, literally, given that the road parallels narrow Trincomali Channel that separates Salt Spring from Galiano and named after a great sailing ship, the HCS Trincomali, built, if you can believe it, shortly after the Napoleanic wars, and now a restored ship in Hartlepool England if Wikipedia has it right.

One day as I was walking back, I saw a man coming towards me in the distance, looking as if he’d just stepped off a stage in Stratford, or perhaps to use an even more Canadian example, as if he was one of the characters in Stephen Leacock’s famous town of Mariposa.

He was elderly and he was dapper. He walked slowly but purposefully and his cane tapped the road and steadied him. He had on the kind of ascot cap that my own father used to wear on his daily walks, the kind many males from “the old country” don. He was wearing a tie and jacket. He seemed unusually put together for island life. But what really stood out was his mustache and his eyebrows both adorning his face (and hiding it) by impressive  lengthy wisps of white hair. His blue eyes were watery with age. He was the perfect subject for a watercolour painting. His feet sported black brogues, the kind my own grandfather, who lived to be 99, wore every day of his life.

I said hello, chatted about nothing for a bit, and then before he could get away, so taken by his appearance I was, I asked him if he’d mind if I took his photo. “You have such a great face,” I said. How could he resist?  Our interaction must have been no more than five minutes but he stuck with me as those who seem a bit extraordinary do.

A year later or thereabouts, I moved off Salt Spring. I put his photo in my online portfolio. I didn’t think much of it but I would look at that face from time to time and smile, and remember our short meeting.

A few years ago, his daughter, Anne Weerstra, contacted me for the photo. I forget how she came upon it or why specifically she wanted it. And then on August 4, 2015, I got an e-mail from her again, late that evening.

Hello Gayle,

A while ago I contacted you to ask for a copy of the photo of my father, Ron Holcroft “94 years strong”, and very much appreciated the positive response. I’m sorry to tell you now that my dad died this morning, almost 3 months shy of his 99th birthday. Your photo shows him as so many would remember him. I wondered if you would let us use it in the obituary…

Of course my answer was yes.

I’m looking forward to reading that obituary. I want to know a little more about the long life Ron Holcroft lived

Sweet surprises on my fair Isle

Wow! It has been a long time since I've updated the old Spirit of Salt Spring blog. But if it's any consolation, it has only been a week or two since I last visited the fairest isle of them all.

I showed up at Ruckle Provincial Park at the end of August at about 3 p.m. on a Friday afternoon. I'd brought my new tent. In fact, it was still in the box. I'd snagged a three-person Coleman at Army & Navy for a mere $69.99 the week before. That's how long it had been since I'd been camping. I didn't even own a tent. I had my sleeping bag, my cooler stocked with Stagg chili and other fine delicacies including some dark coconut porter from Maui. I had my little rock climbing stove perfect for cooking on, and I was beyond happy to be outside and to be there.

As I pulled into the parking area in the campsite, in spite of cars being splayed every which way along the dirt ring road, I managed to park the car right near the wheelbarrows, close to the trail. I threw my stuff into the closest yellow wheelbarrow, all the while recognizing the urgency of laying claim to a spot. It was busier than I'd ever seen it. I needed to stake a claim on my territory. Hurry up! I could feel the urgency.

I was pushing my wheelbarrow full of stuff as if I'd found the Motherload of ultimate Chanterelles and as I passed a ranger, she pointed me in the direction of one of only three spots left. What? Only three spots left and I got one? Fantastic! I'm walking up to my spot and this young guy, camped at the next site, appearing to be alone, comes up to me and offers to lend me a hand.

"No. Nope. I'm fine. Thanks but I'm good." 

There's that pesky, indomitable, I can do it, I am woman, I am an island unto myself hear me roar idiocy raising its clueless head. As the words leave my lips, and I'm staring into his very pleasant young face, I'm thinking, he's male, that's what they do, they like to feel useful, to feel needed, remember?  Do you recall nothing from the manual?

I look over at him. Oh, I think, maybe I've hurt his feelings. Oh well. So, I'm a slow learner.
I start whipping things out of two big blue Ikea bags that I've carried all my stuff in, and he shows up again.
"I can help you with the tent," he says like a Golden Retriever waiting for me to toss a ball.
This time I've got the correct response at the ready.
"Sure, why not. That would be great. I just bought the thing. I've never put it up. It's not even out of the box. I hope to god it's not missing a pole or something. Go to it."

We work together. I learn his name is Marwan. He takes out his big huge knife that doubles as a couple of other things and rips the box open in a split second. Together we get it up in no time because even a three year old could put this thing up, and my new home is ready for sweet dreams later that evening.

Now, can I just say that this is so Salt Spring and me. Whenever I'm there, things just seem to work out. I almost take it for granted now. It's as if I'm thinking to myself, of course some cute young thing will be there at the other end to help me put up my tent. Why wouldn't he? Now, let's be clear, this type of thing is so far from my city reality, it makes me feel like I'm not just a ferry ride away, I'm on another planet. Young guys do not come up to me in the city offering anything. Not drugs, not sex, not even directions.

I find out all sorts of things about my helpful neighbor. He's only 19. He doesn't like being stuck out at Ruckle with nothing going on. 

"That's the whole point," I say, cheerfully, as if I'm his mother. I find out he's from Libya. I mean are you kidding me? A Libyan is camping on Salt Spring right next to me. And, then he tells me he's been in Canada for about a year. First he says Vancouver and then that switches to Victoria. I note that and let it slide, although I do feel, after that, that I'm beginning to do some sort of racial profiling on him and even though I feel a bit guilty about that, I realize that in these times, it's inevitable. Especially when the story changes.

Our conversation is easy. With the tent up, its time to eat. "I have some vegetarian chili," I say. 

He turns his nose up at that.
"No meat?" he says with such disappointment.
"I have some rice," he says. "Out of a package. I've been eating it for a month."
I learn he's been travelling around. The Rockies and other parts of Vancouver Island.
"Come over when you're ready, if you want. We can have dinner together," I say.

He goes off to pray or send encrypted text messages to the enemy.
I continue to prepare my fresh air domicile as if I've just returned from Pottery Barn.

We seem to have lots to talk about at dinner. I'm delighted to have company.

We are joined later that night by a guy who picked my new friend up as he was walking towards Ruckle with a huge pack. The good Samaritan has a Ph.D. in American literature and he's getting away from the city prior to returning to a classroom and the responsibilities of college teaching. We sit around at dusk, Marwan and I, and Simon, the guy who has written a book on prison writing based on his research and experiences in some maximum security prison in New York state. Conversation meandered as darkness blanketed the campsite. What a motley little crew we made. And what a fantastic beginning to my little trip.

The next morning, I dropped my new Libyan friend at the Fulford ferry and backtracked to meet Gail, at KiZMit, the coolest coffee place on island that you really must go to if you have never been, and especially if you're in the south end. This photo below doesn't really do it justice. Get coffee and goodies there if you can, even though it's only open 11 a.m.  to 4 p.m. (in the summer) I suppose.

After that, I keep moving. I drive into town and attend a workshop on writing and getting grant money. Later that night, I hang outside the Treehouse Cafe to take in a bit of Tom Hooper and his family. He's playing with his wife, Suzanne Little, and their two sons. How cool must that be to have your whole family on stage?

The next day I conduct three interviews. I meet up with a jewelry artist at her fabulous ocean-side studio for a future Aqua feature. I meet up with photographer John Cameron and then a realtor for separate, upcoming magazine features. Its always so enlightening to get a glimpse into other people's livelihoods.

After that, I wrap it up by accompanying Gail and Chloe to a wonderful community concert in what's called the South End Groove yard. We're in the backyard of a man named David who has turned his garage into a performance space so he can curate and invite the kind of musicians he loves to hear. He then shares that talent with whoever wants to come for a reasonable price ($20).  All the ticket sales go to the musicians. We listened to the Bluegrass pickings from a talented duo named Cahalen Morrison and Eli West from Seattle.

It was a great visit and just in time to make sure I could get my island fix prior to a busy fall.

You won't want to miss the fabulous Pride Parade, The Fall Fair and Sip and Savour weekend. Don't forget, as well, the Heritage Apple Festival.

September is one of the busiest months on the island and in my books it's one of the very best times to plan a visit.

The reflections at this time of year are as colourful as some of the island's characters.

Salt Spring and Christmas Memory Lane

I admit it. It's been ages since I've blogged about Salt Spring. It's pretty hard to do when I don't actually live there anymore. The photo above shows the steps to Moongate cottage, the first place I lived on island. I loved that little place, especially the hot tub on the deck but  I nearly froze my you know what off the first year. I couldn't chop wood like a girl fast enough to keep warm. That was December, 2008 and January, February 2009 when the snow just kept coming and coming.

Does it count that I'm going to see It's Snowing on Salt Spring at the Art's Club theatre tomorrow with a real live Salt Springer who, by the way, has never actually seen this play before?  I won't rat her out, but her name is the same as mine, spelled a bit differently, and I guess after 25 years of living on Salt Spring, the last thing you need to see is a play about the place you know better than the person who wrote it. 

In the spirit of the season, I thought I'd re-post a few links to my favourite winter Salt Spring moments that I wrote about when I still lived on island.

I have to admit it, I really, really miss the rock at this time of year. So much community spirit. Santa's fly in. The way the little village is decorated. The lights on sail boat masts. New Year's Eve at Fulford Hall. Inhaling the aroma of Pauline's baking. The conversations that took place in the line-up of the Salt Spring post office which grew longer every day closer to Christmas and where people would start offering up enticements like roast beef dinners just to try and get to the front of the line faster.  The craft fairs at Beaver Point and Mahon Hall. Stop. Stop already! 

So, just to torture myself, I thought I'd take a little trip down memory lane. Here's a few of my favourite posts from year's past:

Is Santa a volunteer firefighter?

Pauline's Christmas Kitchen

Dangerous Cookies

Merry Beginner Band Christmas

Gwen's amazing snowflake

It takes a village to care for the most fragile

Christmas window competition

What about Crowd-funding to Change Homelessness?

What’s the right thing to do when you are acquainted with someone who finds himself living in a tent at almost sixty years of age? Do you invite him to come to live with you knowing that’s not what you want and it wouldn't work for him either? Do you help him try to solve his housing problem? Do you give him money? Do you know that giving him money, when he is without employment, isn’t going to fix what led him down the treacherous path.

He moved to Salt Spring in 2005 or 2006. He worked at a variety of places before he remained with an employer and worked consistently for about three years. He didn’t make much money. He lived on a boat. He became very depressed. Mentally and emotionally, he couldn’t return to that job. In a very long story, mostly related to depression and his way of being, he lost the boat he lived on. He then managed to find a rental for $400 per month. He was receiving EI and that ended. He was evicted. He was given a two-person tent and has now set that up on a wooded property offered through the empathy of a young couple in the community. His TV set is now situated beside the campfire.

There's a new site called ShareSpring that describes itself as community crowd funding for Business, Organizations and Personal Causes. The giving is dedicated to the Salt Spring community and projects and people that live there. As it says on the website, ShareSpring is a project of Virtuous Circle Social Venture Corporation, a company incorporated in British Columbia, and owned by Michael Contardi, a Salt Spring resident. Ky Fox provides video and video editing support.

Most recently, the community stepped up through ShareSpring when Kilaya Singh, a three-year old girl, was killed during a tragic car accident on the Fulford-Ganges Road. Sharespring sprang into action and the community, near and far, raised funds for her family and for the driver of the van involved in the crash. It would have been easy to say, well, one or both people were driving at inappropriate speeds for the road conditions, and then, to do nothing. Instead, there was an outpouring of compassion and dollars.

There’s a new restaurant called The Gathering Place. Helping it with start-up was a project. The abattoir which is so vital to those who are raising animals, making it so that the butchering and all that entails of selling meat locally is more economical and feasible is a ShareSpring project. 
The description on the site about what it supports also mentions “personal causes”.

This friend’s current state could be a personal cause. He has lived on Salt Spring for more than seven years. It’s easy to think, well, that’s his problem. He got himself into that situation, he’ll have to figure out how to get himself out. I mean, it’s not like he’s twenty-something.

But, at what point is that distancing just not good enough. It’s too easy. Especially given that something could be done if people came together to help. He could be offered a helping hand to get back on his feet. There’s a place for everyone and the “right place” where he can contribute and continue to live on Salt Spring can surely be found.  

It’s so easy to take the self-righteous road. But when there’s a crisis, regardless of how it came to be, what’s the virtue in judgement? What does that solve for this man? Do you think that this idea is a good one or way off base? I’d be curious to know. What would you suggest?  

Purple: The Colour of Intuitive Interactions

What I'm about to tell you is the type of interaction that happens all the time on Salt Spring. Or, perhaps I should just speak for myself. Although, from anecdotes, I know this type of serendipitous interaction occurs regularly.

My day began with a drive to the South End. I passed Drummond Park, and took the right hand fork up Musgrave on  my way to Sacred Mountain Lavender because I wanted to get a glimpse of the sumptuous purple in bloom, blooming, about to bloom. English. Spanish. French buds tinted the green landscape mauve. My visit was not going to coincide with the annual Sacred Mountain Lavender Festival which will take place this Sunday, July 14th. I was one week early.

After my wander around the lavender fields, I went into the small store on the property. Lavender coffee, tea, pepper, lavender wands, spritzers, white cotton night gowns embroidered with lavender, massage oil, salves, bunches of the purple buds. A quick trip to lavender heaven.

I spoke with a woman working there. Her name was Diana. She asked me where I was from which launched me into the story of my former residency on island.  She asked me why I'd left. “Didn't think I could handle another winter. Couldn't make enough money. Wanted to be closer to my 92 year old father."  I told her he'd died a month after I returned to the city in November 2011.

She asked me what I did. I said I was a writer, about to start a new writing job but when it came to writing, what was really consuming me, was the completion of the first draft of a non-fiction manuscript I'd been working on. I told her that I was having trouble pulling my thoughts together to create an ending that would deposit readers to a more insightful place about Salt Spring, about themselves, about mid-life journeys and jumping off points. I'm not sure why I felt I could tell her this. 

“I think you need to incorporate your father into that ending.”

I was silent. My father? Why was she saying that?

“I feel somehow that your father has something to do with helping you find that ending,” she said. 

I barely mentioned my father. Why was she saying this? 

I said that I didn't see how that could be and I didn't really want to write about my father but I would think about it.

I told her that Ruckle Provincial Park was my touchstone, the place I had camped at when I first came to the island in the late 1980's, a place that had not changed in the 20 or so years since I’d been coming to visit. I told her I was writing about Ruckle trying to explain how a physical place can become as important as the relationship we have with another person. It takes on the persona of an individual and our relationship with them.

She told me her touchstone was Mount Douglas in Victoria and all the Garry Oak there.  "I go back there and I’m nine again," she said. We decided that everyone probably has a geographical place that is, for them, that kind of place and if they don't, they should.

After having left, I notice that when I return to the island, I always feel a little fragile. It’s hard to explain.  As a visitor, I don't belong. I feel wistful and regrets arise about not having made it work better - financially - so that I could have stayed, knowing that it's a place that holds such a significant place in my life, yet knowing that I have a lot of company in both regards and knowing, as well, that I wasn't meant to stay any longer or I would have.

She told me that her sister was a writer and on their father’s 80^th birthday, they had given him a list of everything about him that mattered to them as his children. He loved it, she said. He loved being written about.

She seemed so convinced that my father has something to do with the ending of the manuscript and as she said this and we talked a bit more, we both began to have a wavering in our voices as we spoke and our eyes became glassy and she admitted that just thinking about it was making her cry and I told her to stop because she was about to make me cry. We shared a moment of being disarmed by each other’s openness and we hastened to hold back, to stop what might come, but there was a raw feeling there; a chord struck. Emotion as intuitive messenger.

Now, having lived on the island, I know to pay attention when these types of interactions occur. I know they are not a coincidence. I know this because it was a similar type of recognition that helped me move here in the first place.  These types of interactions are a gift, a message from the other side or from the future that’s being formulated for us.

So, I will consider Diana's suggestion seriously, not because I'm convinced that it is the right one. It may not be. But, I will consider it because when we spoke, emotion rose quickly, connected us, brought our humanity to the forefront and that’s the kind of emotion that makes a story worth  telling; the kind of story we can all learn something from.

And besides, purple is the colour of the crown chakra. It's the colour of peace, and wisdom, of the quest for fulfillment and personal identification with the infinite and that's good enough for me.