The Return to Hornby

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.

 

Jane's house

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. 

BC Ferries 

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. 

Buckley Bay

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.

My backyard beach

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 at Ford Cove

studio

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.' 

Seabreeze cat friend

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.

Seabreeze Lodge pussycat

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

Know Your Enemy

me and seaweed Hornby, 2019

If you know the enemy and know yourself, 

you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.  

~Sun Tzu

The winter wind on Hornby was as unpredictable as an abusive lover 

and as terrifying as the unending darkness of chronic depression. 

And I’d survived both. 

It was late in November when I was first pushed. 

I was at Grassy Point, lost in daydreams amongst a palette of the darkest grey. 

This was my safe place on the island, a place I went to escape 

the chaos of grief that swirled in my mind. 

Grassy Point Moon Rise

As I felt the familiar presence approach from behind, 

I allowed myself to be 

vulnerable – 

and trusting. 

I'd close my eyes and lean back, 

knowing he'd catch me 

if I fell.

I relaxed 

when 

he wrapped his arms around my waist, 

brushed my hair off my face, 

and ever so softly 

touched just below my ear, 

to lean in 

and whisper words 

I refused to understand. 

Grassy Point, Winter 2021

But this time was different. 

I felt the familiar presence coming, but it changed rapidly and 

turned forceful. 

An explosion of fury shoved me hard from behind, 

a shove that quickened my step so I wouldn’t fall. 

When I didn't stumble, he tangled himself between my stride, 

trapping me in his grasp, 

winding around my calves and 

weaving up between my legs. 

Like a hook, the wind 

grabbed at my thigh, 

pulling and 

mocking me 

as he tripped me up as 

I stepped on my own feet. 

I sped up, twisting and turning, thinking I could outmaneuver its force. 

Helliwell Winter 2020

I tried to outstrategize the wind 

like I'd tried to 

outstrategize my abuser. 

Narcissistic abuse and chronic depression turned me into a shell of myself, 

but strength and resilience had pulled me out of both. 

When the wind hit me like it did, it brought on that familiar feeling, and 

I refused to let it crack me again. 

After that first hurricane-force wind walloped me, 

I had an arborist come by and check every tree on my property. 

I suspected the soil was parched from drought and wind, 

and the arborist confirmed it. 

seven-story Douglas fir that'd been hit by lightning beside my bedroom

The stronger winds, 

heat waves, and 

colder winters 

meant a slow death for the trees. 

Their roots were left exposed, and all but two Douglas Firs 

on the south side of my property suffered from root rot – 

the trees closest to my cabin. 

I had them removed. 

cedar

The more severe weather caused more trees to come down, 

which meant more power outages. 

If lucky, the blackouts would’ve been caused by a branch stuck on the wires, and 

BC Hydro could’ve remotely blasted power surges through the lines to zap it loose. 

It worked most of the time. 

But if unlucky, a tree would fall onto the lines and take down the power poles, 

which meant no power until they were replaced. 

Now, because the wind was so intense during the storms, the ferry wouldn’t run.

There was no hydro crew to replace the downed poles, 

and the island was without power for days. 

The first time I experienced a prolonged power outage, 

I learned my lesson. 

I needed supplies, 

water, 

food, 

and 

means of cooking. 

power outage February 2021

My water came from a cistern in my backyard that ran on electricity. 

When the power was out, I couldn't flush the toilet, 

and toilet paper had to be burnt. 

My drinking water came from a 19-litre bottle

that I filled at a dispenser at the gas station using quarters

(and it was empty, and I had no quarters). 

My fridge was full of condiments, and 

my cupboards were stacked with 

tomato sauce and beans. 

If I'd had kindling split and 

combustibles to start the fire, 

I'd be fine for heat. 

But I had neither. 

All I could do that first winter on Hornby was stand there and take it. 

The Back 40

my back 40

The wind's cold on my face, but I won't go inside until I can feel the chill deep within my cheeks. 

In my yard, I wrapped myself up in the experience of the changing seasons. 

Stoke the fire, 

drink hot chocolate, 

snuggle with my cat, and 

watch the birds from the bed beside the window. 

Dark-eyed Juncos snacking on Salal berries, 

Spotted Towhees kicking up dry leaves and

Rufous Hummingbirds fighting over the last flower on the Oregon grape. 

fireside good times 2020

My yard's my sanctuary. 

The cedars and firs protect me, 

hold me, 

and help me heal. 

Because 

there are no

arms 

to fall 

into. 

me in my yard 2019

My first autumn on the island was spent clearing my land by hand – the Back 40. I planned to build some raised vegetable beds and live off the land as much as possible. 

I wasn't sure exactly how to make those beds or where I'd get the soil, but that's what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only yard tools I had were a rotting pick axe I found in the bushes and a metal lawn rake left by the previous owners. 

back 40 after a few hours pulling crap out -  Fall 2019

trying to figure out how to make a raised bed

The Back 40 – was about half an acre filled with: 

rocks 

sandy soil 

4 ft tall Bracken ferns 

Salal 

Huckleberry 

Blackberry 

Dandelion and 

Garter snakes 

before

the finished product - rocks are under the Fir tree top right

There were a lot of rocks on my property: giant slabs of conglomerate, perfectly round stones, and large boulders. 

I'd choose the spot I'd work on that day by the rock I tripped over. 

Trip 

Curse 

Kick 

Dig 

I'd spend the day digging the rocks out. 

First, I'd kick them to see what I was dealing with, 

and then I'd kick them some more because it felt good. 

The work - physically draining but emotionally satisfying. 

one of my few tools

Once I could see more of the rock, I'd try to pull it out with my stinky work glove-clad hands. If that didn't work, I'd use the head of the pick axe – whose handle broke off the first time I used it. 

Sometimes, the rocks were hidden by thick Salal bushes. In which case, once the snakes vacated, I'd start cutting the Salal back to grab hold of its roots and pull it out while briefly considering business opportunities in Salal distribution. 

stinky work gloves in Spring

My buddy Dave warned me not to pull the Salal out. 

Stace, you can't win against Salal. 

I didn't listen. No matter how many times I failed. 

Salal has a deep and wide root system. 

And most of the time, I'd end up in a tug of war and on my ass. 

Root system still intact. 

Clearing the rocks became an obsessive challenge. 

the back 40 after I pulled out the ferns, salal and threw rocks

adhd hyperfocused back 40 after I was done with it

When the day's battle with the Salal and the rocks came to an end, I'd throw the rocks under the tallest tree on my property—the Douglas fir, which stood over 100 feet tall and whose top twinkled like a star on a Christmas tree when the setting sun caught it just right. 

Sometimes, I'd pretend I was a shot putter; other times, I was back on the softball field, and even more times, I was hurling balls of fire. 

Overhand 

Underhand 

Hurl 

I threw the rocks with my eyes closed. 

Occasionally, over my shoulder for luck. 

With each rock I threw, I released a stuck memory. 

The flat clap of the rock hitting another signified success. 

I never saw where they'd land, and the thick Salal surrounding the tree hid the pile. I'd consider future inhabitants of the land pondering the meaning of all the rocks piled under the tree. 

Is something buried there? 

Yes.

The Back 40 after I cleared it and put in the beds and firepit

Split

My woodpile

I saw it the moment I stepped into the yard. 

The covered pile of wood in the backyard confirmed this place would be my first home. 

The pile was about 75 by 25 by 8. 

I don’t know how many cords it was, but it was a lot of wood. 

A sixty-forty split of Douglas fir and Western red cedar; 

the firewood came from the trees on my new property. 

The trees fell to make room for the cabin, 

and the good ones were used to build it; 

the remainder put aside to be dealt with later. 

On a perfect day in late July, a few months after I moved into my new home, 

I decided to start chopping the wood. 

Alone amongst the trees, 

I took the first swing with the old axe I’d found 

in the shed behind the cabin. 

The blade lodged - 

the wood didn’t split. 

I tried again, 

but with anger. 

Yes. 

Striking with anger 

felt good. 

And even better

when 

I screamed. 

Wood 

Swing 

Strike

Scream 

Trance-like rhythm. 

the first pile of wood I split

Every piece of wood 

a memory. 

Each strike split my heart open – 

again. 

I screamed up to the trees, 

phrases, curses, profanities, 

names. 

The memories were too real. 

I was in it all again. 

But this time, 

I 

took control. 

Some pieces of wood were 

rotten and termite-infested, 

the larvae still moving deep inside. 

Others, when hit with my axe, turned to dust. 

Some smelled so pure

they brought me down from my rage, 

and I could turn away 

- for a moment. 

Some I pulled apart with my hands.

Others were impenetrable— 

knots, 

deep tangled secrets 

that I could only split around. 

Or not at all. 

Trauma. 

The trees. 

I chopped wood for hours on that perfect day in late July. 

It felt like thirty minutes. 

When I decided I was done, 

I walked away. 

A few hours later, I returned. 

Raw but awake. 

Gently, I picked up each piece of split wood, 

each memory, 

and carried it to the back of the covered wood pile

 – the side hidden by trees. 

Private and protected. 

I wanted them kept safe from harm, 

so I could burn them - 

triumphantly. 

My resolved memories 

fueled the flames 

that kept my cat and me warm; 

they heated food that gave us sustenance. 

And then 

they turned 

to ash. 

That first pile of wood I split on that perfect day in late July was 

the first split into myself. 

A Self, close to half a century old - 

knotted branches, 

lichen and moss, 

cracks, 

and stories. 

But in the centre, beneath the drying bark, the first ring - my beginning.

My small wood stove

The woodpile

Summer Breeze

My Kitchen in Kits 2018

I feared falling into depression again. 

It'd been almost a decade since my last episode. 

I avoided everything that might trigger one. 

I stepped around it, turned my back, and disassociated. 

And then it hit. 

It was a beautiful late afternoon in July, around dinner time. 

I was washing dishes in the kitchen of my dilapidated yet perfect Kitsilano rental.

My outstretched arms were warm from the gentle breeze 

that danced through 

the pink sequined fabric 

I'd hung over the window above the sink. 

It was my favourite time of day.

That time of day, my two cats watched me disappear while 

I'd transport myself into the lyrics of Seals and Crofts' Summer Breeze. 

Love is Patient; my kitchen rock. Kitsilano 2018

The sunlight shone perfectly through 

the horizontal window beside the hundred-year-old back door, 

throwing sunbeams on my giant philodendron, 

bouncing off the copper pots that hung on a rack from the ceiling and 

landing on stacks of pottery I'd just retrieved from the kiln – all inspired by him.  

Kitsilano 2018

Seemingly, out of nowhere, my body gave in, and 

I collapsed to my knees on the floor beside the stove. 

The sunlight disappeared. 

The needle dragged heavily across the song playing in my head, 

and everything stopped. 

My reflection grabbed me through the baked-on grease of the oven door, 

I looked myself in the eyes and listened as 

the song's lyrics were thrown in my face. 

Solarium, Kitsilano 2018

He's not going to see the newspaper layin' on the sidewalk 

while a little music plays from the house next door; 

he's not going to walk on up to the doorstep 

through the screen and across the floor. 

He won't come home from a hard day's work - because he doesn't work. 

And his arms definitely won't reach out to hold me when the day's through. 

This is make-believe. 

Nannie's Guitar, Kitsilano 2018

This is reality. 

You let him in the front door late at night 

on Thursdays and Sundays, 

you share a few puffs in the solarium,

you go for a walk on a star-filled beach,

you talk about things only you two can talk about,

you both do all you can to remain detached,

you come home,

you fuck -

like only you two can fuck,

and he leaves. 

Stop living in a fantasy. 

Jared, Kitsilano 2018

And with that, I curled into a fetal position amongst 

the crumbs and random sticky stuff on the old pine floor 

and wailed. 

I know my neighbours heard me because their BBQ chatter went quiet. 

I respect that they allowed me my privacy -

they knew what I was going through. 

The kitchen floor, me, Tilley and Flo

Tilley and Flo - my two cats

Not deterred by my sobs and hiccups, 

my cats came over to the sack of me on the floor and 

stuck their noses in my wet eyes. 

They snapped me out of my mindlessness and 

I conjured up enough strength to crawl to the washroom and puke. 

Exhausted. 

My forehead pressed against the cold base of the toilet. 

My cheek cooled by the tile floor. 

My eyes focused on dust bunnies under the claw foot tub I loved so much. 

My thoughts twinkled like birthday sparklers, then exploded amongst epiphanies. 

I didn't cry during the depressive episodes of my past because 

my brain was stuck in a sludge of darkness. 

I was too numb to move. 

A broken soul covered with a shell of a human. 

A vase I made and a sandpiper skull, Kits 2018

Although I felt like a shell of myself lying there on the cold floor, 

I found solace in the realization I wasn't depressed. 

I was living a moment in time. 

An experience, 

a situation. 

A moment that one day would be over, and 

far enough in the past that I could 

see it as a distant memory. 

me in the wildfire pollution Summer 2018 Kitsilano

That beautiful late afternoon in July, when I was 

washing dishes in a warm summer breeze is a memory now. 

I can watch it like a movie in my mind, and 

I can write about it. 

Not all shit experiences are lessons. 

They're simply shit experiences. They aren't meant for anything. 

There's no need to be bitter. To get drunk, high or angry. 

But there are a lot of reasons to be strong.  

I crawled through my soul's darkest nights until I had the strength to stand.

Sometimes, I lay collapsed on my stomach 

between the thresholds of darkness and light, 

convinced it was the end. 

But then something inside me would flicker—and I'd get up again - 

and again. 

The realization I'd been living in a fantasy was the start of my healing. 

Little did I know that fully healing meant metaphorically dying.