Although my new contractual relationship with this landscape is indeed a luxury, its pleasures were hard won and had little to do with ease or money. Arrivals and departures from our island are always uncomfortable, often difficult or even dangerous, each passage negotiated with anxiety and relief. Early on, with young children, boxes and bags of groceries and the stuff of daily life, building supplies and bits of scrounged furniture, we would cross the unpredictable expanse of Howe Sound in an open boat, dodging the hotel-sized B.C. ferries and their wakes, arriving safely in our small bay only to have to pass everything from boat to dingy and row the last precarious100 yards to the beach. Huge tides, ferry wash and the notorious Squamish winds out of the north were contenders for our safe arrival. I never got used to it.
Horizons shift, islands loom and fade, debris makes an obstacle course out of any trajectory.
I have learned that it feels better to stand and take the shock of the plunging boat through my feet. I am learning to lean into it more, to allow for groundlessness. This island life I have been drawn to is punctuated with exits and arrivals, none of which is ever the same, ever comfortable, ever without the possibility of disaster. Maybe seriously grim weather or a phone call will put off the final commitment. But then I have to go, everyone s waiting, and I need to get to the other shore because that is where something awaits me, the ineffable something, to which I make my way.