my home on Hornby
At the fork in the road, I veered left. The slash pile at the base of the hill slapped the reality back into me that’d disappeared somewhere in the water between Buckley Bay and Denman Island. I knew what was ahead.
Hornby and Denman Islands
I hadn’t planned on ever going back to that island. Yet there I was, driving across Denman to catch the Hornby Island ferry.
It was late May, thirty days since my Dad died, six months since my cat and constant companion Flo passed and a season since I left the island and my dreams behind. My friend had called and asked for my help. Her husband was palliative, and it was time to pack up and leave their island home.
My facade of happiness and contentment weighed heavy on me. My mind wandered a handful of years back to the first time I drove up that hill past the slash pile and into the darkness. It was February, and it was snowing. I’d rented a cabin on the waterfront for a few weeks - Jane’s house.
I don’t know why I chose Hornby to come to grips with the end of my sixteen-year marriage. I don’t think I’d even heard of it until a few weeks prior, and I never thought I’d end up living there.
Gravelly Bay, Denman Island
Quick! Like a Band-Aid – my Mom’s voice coached from the past.
I pushed the gas pedal of my old Volvo to the floor, kicking it into turbo. I shot past the slash pile and up the mossy incline into the imminent darkness.
At the summit, the road was fogged by tears I refused to cry and whimpers I didn’t want to hear. I shoved each one down - traded for hiccups, gasps, and choking breaths. I threw my car into neutral and flew down the hill to Gravely Bay. My memory leaned into the sharp curves, cattle guards and obligatory dread of hitting a wayward family of deer.
Just past the sheep farm, the road narrowed to the coldest, darkest part of the journey. I shifted back into gear, and my memory flipped to the first time I’d reached this dank spot on the island. I huffed at my previous joy and naivety.
I’d reached Gravely Bay – and the Hornby ferry.
On the ferry, as I had multiple times before, I sat in my car and meditated on the depths of grey in the low-hanging clouds and the break of the iridescent crest on only the blackest of waves. Twice a month, I’d take that six-hour trip and never for pleasure - laundry, groceries, vet, and the occasional personal moment of anguish when I’d end up in the Comox Hospital Emergency department.
Sometimes, out of sheer mental exhaustion, I couldn’t do it. I’d let my laundry pile up for months, buy my food at the gas station, and hoped my cat Flo and I would pull ourselves out of whatever angst had befallen us.
En route, the memories of the BC Ferries crew surfaced. The ones who ordered me to put on a mask while I sat alone in my car on the outdoor deck of a half-century-old ferry. And the condescending crew member on the Baynes Sound Connector, who belittled me at the height of the Heat Dome while my cat Flo lay on my lap, taking her life’s last breaths. She approached my car, looked at my lap, smirked and shrugged, ‘That’s not my problem. Turn off your car!’ I ignored both her and the anger I’d quieted within me for many months. Two hours later, I returned alone, Flo’s lifeless body left at a vet in Cumberland.
Shingle Spit, Hornby Island
The usual line of vehicles waited to leave the island when the ferry bounced against the Hornby dock. Beat-up pickups with barefoot drivers taking goats and hay to God only knows where, rusted-out Subarus, Mercedes SUVs, and Finn the Plumber’s orange work van. The line of cars that once meant nothing to me now resembled a funeral parade.
My Dad at my cabin with the picnic table he made me. He was so proud - of me - and the picnic table.
The familiar rhythm of tires rolling off the ferry - rubber to metal, to wood, to asphalt coaxed me out of my anger. I round the shaded curve at the first telephone pole, and I’m reminded of island folklore played out in hand-painted signs.
Don’t Burn Down the Island!!!!
Be Kind!
Cloud Water Delivery
Scott and Bailey’s Wedding
I drove past the abandoned housing development and the boarded-up thatch-roof pub - the pub my parents and I visited the first time they came to the island, just two years prior. My Dad was happy and loving, which was rare, while I was detached and self-absorbed. The memory of my selfishness on one of the last days I’d spent with him made me nauseous.
North side of Hornby Island
The island’s first line of mailboxes welcomed me to pull over and puke. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up a robin sang as I leaned out of my car door. A dam of saliva burst in my mouth; I instinctively plugged my nose and rhythmically heaved up nothing. Drenched in sweat, I wiped the back of my trembling hand across my forehead and pushed my pupils to release the pressure from the tears I refused to cry.
With a quivering grip on my steering wheel, I took a left at Carmichael, landmarked by the massive cherry tree now in full bloom. A moment of beauty forgotten in the blink of an eye. This was the road to my house.
But I wouldn’t drive by.
Hornby Island
I'm flooded with memories. I'd wander the pathless forest amongst the Western redcedars and Douglas firs for hours. I’d walk around The Loop, exposed and smacked by the wind, the heavy scent of rot, the deep cry of ravens and my circle of confused thoughts - the what ifs, what now, and whys. The angry and frustrated, What the actual fuck? And the desperate, Please, someone, help me.
my everyday path off Jan's Trail
My heart bottomed out when I remembered the daily feeling of unending loneliness, the pleading for it all to end and the absolute stillness of death.
Brigantine Crescent. That's where I lived.
Avoiding a pothole the size of a small child, I turned right on Canon Road. My friend’s place was just a few more holes away. I loved riding my bike on the island’s worn-out, pothole-infested roads. In the evening, I’d weave figure eights past the farms and tourist cabins hidden deep in the trees. From sunset into the depths of night, I’d meditatively ride to the sound of gravel popping beneath my tires. Riding at night, I felt free, invisible and safe. My Dad sent me a light for my bike, but I never opened the package.
Lured by the sound of crashing waves, I’d often end my night rides at Grassy Point. I felt nothing but peace sitting on the moon-scape rock - tiny crabs and centipedes scurrying around me doing their business, unbothered by my presence. Alone on the beach, I questioned my lack of fear in such a remote place and found my answer. No one was watching; no one was lurking. I could drop my guard and lose myself undeterred in the shadows cast by the mountain range across the Salish Sea. I could transport myself to constellations beyond their peaks and ride the black ombre cast by the twinkling stars.
I felt solace when I sat alone those evenings. Comforted by the realization that I wasn’t alone, there were others like me gazing at the same sky while floating on their thoughts - and finding comfort in the darkness.
my bike and some mud on a much-loved trail
The loneliness and hurt that once accompanied me on my rides eventually lifted.
I chose to open my heart to my own experience instead of languishing in painful thoughts of nostalgia.
My car dodged a lap-sized pothole while I shot a glance at the red metal dog sculpture to my left. My friend’s place was on my right. I relaxed and was happy to see her.
‘What are you doing here? We’re super busy.’
‘Hello, Friend! I’m here to help you.’
‘Where are you going to stay?’
'I’m staying at the lodge.’
‘Ok, have a great time.’
Confused, ‘Can I leave the boxes you asked for?’
‘I don’t have room. Enough people are helping. You'll get in the way.'
I told myself to keep it together when I didn’t know if I’d puke, cry or lose my cool. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get off the island. The proverbial drawbridge was up. There was no escape. The last ferry for the day had left. I smiled, waved, and inadvertently reversed too fast into a pothole, spinning up gravel and mud.
Frustrated, I went to the lodge, where I'd booked a cabin for three nights. The lodge was familiar to me. I’d stayed there for a few days while the deal on my first home went through. I’d bought my dream home on that remote island – a place of solace that now only held painful memories.
I slopped through a path of mud to the one-room cabin. The door was open; it smelled of rotten eggs, sulphur water and mildew. Two black cats I’d met years prior lay on the bed and welcomed me to join them. I placed my hands on the cats; their purrs comforted me, and our three hearts beat as one. I left the following morning.
Mt Geoffrey, Hornby Island
I bypassed the potholes and flew straight down Central. The island’s last line of mailboxes welcomed me to pullover. Cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up, a robin demanded, and I put my old Volvo in park.
The break wasn’t gentle. My grief roared. It swelled, and it crashed. Tiny pieces of me trailed after it, seeking comfort under its weight. Only to be pushed back and thrown down again.
Until
we ebbed
and flowed.
A raven screamed. Go.
I boarded the Hornby ferry for the last time, sat in my car and meditated on the break of the iridescent crest of only the blackest of waves.
leaving Hornby Island
