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

You're Trying to Kill Me

 

Grassy Point, Hornby Island

She told me about her nightmares. 

Almost every night, she dreamt she was locked in jail. 

Someone was trying to kill her, and she couldn’t get out. 

It’s quite apparent what that dream is indicative of. 

For 40 years, she’s lived on that island. 

A very scared and nervous human. 

Extremely thin. 

Perhaps in her early 70s.

Was a professional ski racer. 

She got a white puppy during the pandemic. 

Her garden is massive, and she’s known for her green thumb. 

She has a Master’s in counselling psychology. 

And went through a particularly nasty divorce twelve years ago. 

He still lives on the island. 

Taunts her. 

Her new partner (who gave me bad vibes) recently moved in with her. 

Apparently, that’s what the men do on the island. 

Unmotivated shleps go there with a purpose – to find lonely women, woo them, move in with them – and freeload while they 

proceed to drink their faces off. 

I was warned many times by the women on the island to 

stay far away from all the men. 

They’ll use you all winter and take off in the Spring. 

Keep your blinds closed - you’re blonde. 

If you date any of these losers, we can’t be friends anymore.

I’m quite sure I heard a story or two about all of them. 

Gossip? 

Perhaps, but at least I was prepared if they approached me. 

In the summer of 2021, she and I were out for a hike up Heliwell, and she asked, You’re vaccinated, right? 

No. 

I shit you not, she ran away from me. 

Crazed, shouting over her shoulder,

You're trying to kill me! 

She started crying. 

Don’t tell so and so (her partner.) He can’t know I was with you! He can’t know! 

She then asked me to tie my jacket

around my face

for the remainder of the hike. 

I didn’t. 

I told her to walk ahead if she was uncomfortable. 

When we were about to get in her car, she said, 

I don’t think you should get in the car. 

Alright. 

Well, it might be okay if you tie the jacket around your face, keep your head out the open window, and don't talk. 

We drove home. 

Me being the asshole with my head sticking out the open window and her wearing three masks. 

I chose not to engage with her again. 

Her comments were ignorant and unstable.

The day I left, she came to say an awkward goodbye. 

But no apology. 

I gave her some puzzles and said farewell. 

It was sad because I thought she was level-headed – and a friend

Milky Way Orgasms

 

Darren asked me, 

Were you ever scared? 

It was the first time anyone asked me that question, and I had to think about it. 

I certainly had to be scared a few times – but I couldn't remember any. 

I did, however, remember the moment I realized that fear is an illusion.

 

It was about 3 in the morning. I woke up and decided I wanted to sit outside. 

I'd sat on my deck at night but never further than my wifi would allow. 

Because I like using the Sky Guide app 

That night, I woke with an urge to sit on the cold, 

late September ground in the back 40.

The Milky Way usually 

hung above my yard like a mobile, 

its purply blue halo dripping trails of twinkling silver, 

but tonight, it was absent.

I gazed up beyond the layers of stars to infinite black dust.

I peered into the night into the depths of the forest's exhilarating darkness.

From the corners of my eyes, I noticed shadows of various depths of black brush by me.

I focused, and they were all around me - 

moving like pedestrians on a noon-hour sidewalk.

Rhythms of various degrees of warmth moved the cold air, 

and I fought the urge to get up and run. 

I thought about orgasms, 

the exhilaration of waiting and the pure ecstasy of release. 

I fingered my memory for a quote from Poe but only came up with Shakespeare. 

There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 

I pushed myself to stay – to wait and see what would happen. 

I sat in the night as the shadows moved over and around me. 

I didn't exist. 

I envisioned my heavily treed property in the daylight. 

I rationalized - these aren't bears or rapists or cougars because 

there are no predators on the island. 

I hypothesized the viability of shadows thrown on a moonless night. 

I concluded that what I was experiencing was the unknown. 

How could I fear it if I didn't know what it was? 

Fear, therefore, was irrational, an illusion.

To quote Roosevelt, There's nothing to fear but fear itself. 

Instead of running, I waited, embraced the unknown and released the fear. 

I was overcome with emotion and an ecstasy of the purest form. 

I thought I had seen the full depth of darkness until I saw shadows dancing within it. 

My friend came to stay with me for some October 31st shenanigans. 

We sat around the fire in the backyard until the last ember burned 

and the treetops melted into the night sky. 

On our way back to the cabin, the shadows emerged. 

I didn't say anything. 

Dude, what the fuck is that? Seriously, what the fuck! 

I still smile thinking about that night. 

That's the unknown. Just welcome it in and ride it out.

My bunkie at night

Serrano 911

the rig

Dave was the first person I met on the island. 

My confidant and protection. 

If anyone even looks at you wrong, tell me. 

Drills wells, but his rig constantly breaks down. 

Uses a dousing rod to find water. 

Apparently, there’s an anger management problem, but I never noticed.  

Norwegian and Metis. 

Dave and me and Roy, standin’ around shootin' the shit. 

The three of us would talk about the imaginary Viking crusades we went on. 

Dave was quite adamant they were real. 

Sperm donor

Personally escorts the unwanted from the island. 

No one wanted them here. It was time for them to go. 

Told me a thousand and five hilarious stories, such as: 

This one time, I picked serrano peppers in my neighbour’s garden. 

Then I picked my nose and got a bad nosebleed. I had to go to the hospital. 

Now, I have a deviated septum because I picked my nose. 

We spoke in the language of crude. 

Occasionally, trying to out-crude each other. 

He has a few daughters. 

All of them have it together and are beautiful, accomplished humans. 

When I’d tell him about a guy I was interested in 9/10 times, he’d say, 

So, he has no skills. 

There was some sort of dude animosity between him 

and a particular gentleman friend. 

It was fascinating to witness. 

He’s a large man, maybe 6’4” and 300 lbs. 

Loves animals. And has a new kitten. 

His girlfriend is compassionate, kind and friendly. 

She swims back and forth to Denman to raise money for island charities. 

Sometimes, I’d go help him out on gigs he had. 

Passing wrenches and scrap wood around. 

But usually, it was just to give my opinion. 

Does this look like shit? Good enough. 

His girlfriend would bring lunch.

 

He wears a dirty head scarf, and his long blond hair‘s always in a ponytail. 

His sweatshirts are filthy and always too short. 

He drilled the well on my property and tried to convince me to drink the water. 

You won’t get beaver fever. Just try it. It tastes like rotten eggs with bubbles. 

Psychic. 

It sucks most of the time. Doesn’t it, Stace? 

He used to work up North in the oil patch. 

Drinks a lot. 

I have it under control. 

Favours Jamaican rum. 

He was born on the island. 

His Dad, Pops, recently passed away. 

His mom still lives in the house where he was born. 

He had four brothers, but two died. 

A good friend to me. 

He’d drop by every so often just to make sure I was ok. 

You went silent, Stace. 

He made a moving crate for my 40-year-old Ficus 

He helps people in the community, but most are standoffish 

They’d ask me, Can you talk to Dave about…? 

An absolute slob but a good guy with a heart of gold. 

We sat on the hood of his pickup and drank a goodbye toast, 

a two-six of Jamaican rum.

Power Outages, a Wig and Some Snow

 

Hidden Beach, Hornby Island

I was bored that first February on the island. 

I made my first dating profile. 

Then the power went out for two days and I forgot about the profile.

That first February, when it snowed nine inches, 

the pump for my cistern broke and 

I had no water for a week. 

No way on or off the island. 

It was a long weekend, and the ferries broke down. 

OUT OF ORDER. 

That time I slipped down the entire flight of stairs from the loft. 

That time I bought a long brown wig and thought about changing my identity.

The first time I saw a river otter in my yard, I thought it was a pheasant. 

That time Joan ran from me after she accused me of trying to kill her. 

That time at the depot when Jason asked me if I smoked weed, gave me an empty Costco cashew container and 

directed me to the two contractor bags full of fresh bud in 

the back seat of his beat-up pickup. 

I gave the weed to friends on the Coast. 

Those times at night, crying myself to sleep in a king-size bed that wasn’t mine. 

Mornings with Flo. 

Her meowing when the coffee was ready. Asking me to come downstairs. 

“Mommy, coffee’s ready!” 

She gave me a reason to get out of bed. 

The cat with the toupee and Hitler moustache that would spy on me from the absent neighbour’s yard. 

The blind old man in his mobility scooter with his fat, smiling, yellow lab 

That yellow dog always made me smile. 

He reminded me of my childhood dog Gus. 

That time I asked my neighbour to come sit with me for a while. 

That first time, the power went out for fifteen hours. 

I was not prepared—no water, food or means of cooking. 

That first time I sat by the campfire in my backyard, eating popcorn and drinking hot chocolate- it started to snow. 

The time backing out of my driveway, hitting a tree and knocking the driver’s side mirror off my car - 

six months of a bread bag duct taped around the dangling remnants of mirror and wires. 

And the other time the power went out, I had to melt snow in a bucket by the fire, 

but the fire melted the bucket. 

That day you can tell winter is finally over.

So Long, Marianne

My bunkie on Hornby

I could hold your hands in the dark and show you how it felt. 

I listened to The Songs of Leonard Cohen 171,936 times in 796 days. 

I knew my cat would die while So Long, Marianne played. 

And she did – on day 796. 

1032 days later, I played it again, for the first time. 

I got as far as Come over to the window, my little darling. 

Transcendent. 

Nobody knows. Nobody knew. Nobody’ll know. 

My cat and I watched each other die. 

Now, so long, Marianne. It’s time that we began to laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

Flo and Leonard Cohen

Expectations vs Reality

 

Tribune Bay, Oct. 2019, Hornby Island

Expect to tell the time by the speed of the internet. 

Eat a lot of leftover frozen chilli. 

Exceed the number of days not washing your hair. 

Search out other humans to make sure you're not the last person on Earth.

Mumble. 

Swear a lot.

Piss in a bucket beside your bed. 

Complain, suck it up, do it again. 

Ask yourself questions like, 

“I believe in ghosts. Why don’t I believe in aliens?” 

Be friendly even though you’re in the worst mood of your entire life. 

Expect not to see or speak to anyone for days and then

try to remember how to have a conversation. 

Identify irrational fear. 

Motivate yourself by asking, 

“What are you going to do, just lay there and die?” 

Deal with incompetence. 

Allow insults to roll off your back.

The Satanic Majesty's Request

My one-room cabin on Hornby

He looked down at me every morning with a side-eye smirk.

Satan, with his bug-eyed hellhound always by his side. 

I reached out to him, my hand touched the pine ceiling, 

and he faded into the dark knots of the wood slats above me. 

I tried to sit up. 

My head smacked the low ceiling, and I collapsed down. 

Rolling onto my side, 

a mattress spring dug into my hip. 

A garbage bag tacked over an open window 

blew softly in and out. 

A sliver of light sliced through the forced darkness, 

throwing a spotlight on a spiral of floating dust. 

I watched the dust swirl 

while my breath aligned with the movement of the garbage bag. 

Inhale in the dark, exhale in the light - 

in for four, out for four.

My eyes dropped to a red plastic bucket under the window, 

a scream from downstairs shattered the air, 

and I shot out of bed.

The morning scream came daily and belonged to 

my deaf twenty-one-year-old cat Flo. 

It was my reminder to get out of bed and move on from 

my fixation with smirking demons 

casting judgment from above. 

Careful not to fling its contents, 

I grabbed the bucket and crouched along 

the wall to the stairs. 

The loft stairs were a hazard. 

They floated, didn’t have a railing and were too steep. 

Tilley and the stairs from hell 2019

Flo had watched me and her sister Tilley (now deceased)

fall from the loft and decided a downstairs bedroom was more her speed. 

On one of my first nights in my place, 

I took a late-night slip-and-slide tumble down the stairs. 

I crashed on a wicker chair, 

tipped it over onto a side table, 

knocked that over, 

and broke a ceramic lamp against the wood-burning stove. 

From that night on, 

the red plastic piss bucket 

took up permanent residency 

under the garbage bag window 

beside the mattress on the floor. 

Stair by stair, I sat my way down. 

I remembered the morning prior when 

I'd leaned too heavily on the bucket, 

spilling the contents. 

I watched 

my night's piss 

flow down 

the steps 

and 

seep into 

the grains of 

the unfinished pine stairs. 

It made me think of fish ladders at the Capilano River Hatchery. 

In three hundred and fifteen days, I'd tell my realtor that the piss stain

was Lemon Balm and Chamomile tea, 

a gift given upon Flo's death from a philosophy prof 

turned red seal electrician.

my bedroom - with evil pine knots in the ceiling

Electric Chocolate Lilies

my studio on Hornby

He was a philosophy prof at Berkeley during

the Vietnam War 

but left once the protests started. 

When I asked him why, his answer was, 

 “For the same reason you did.” 

He came to wire my studio for a kiln - 

the Berkeley professor turned red seal electrician. 

While he worked, we spoke. 

Breakfast until dinner -

he’d sit in his car at lunch. 

Academic freedom. 

The commodification 

of 

counterculture. 

fir and fungus

During these talks, I’d think of my university buddy 

Barry and his mocking tease, 

“You want to touch his brain,” 

I couldn’t say it wasn’t true. 

A precise man of slight stature with long grey hair,

down the middle of his back- 

and always in a ponytail. 

50 years moving between Denman and Hornby. 

Married twice. 

A bit of a loser for a son. 

zinnias

He’s kind, compassionate and emotionally intelligent. 

An “amateur expert” botanist. 

He spends days on end collecting native plants

from North Island mountains 

and from the side of Hwy 19A. 

His property is filled with his fifty-year collection - 

an herbal tea garden, his prize. 

I gave him bushels of my peppermint. 

It’s invasive. He didn’t grow it. 

He asked my Venus and laughed knowingly when I said 

Scorpio. 

A friend, who also wanted to touch his brain, 

told me he used to lead naturalist hikes around the island. 

On his last day of wiring, he asked me if I’d ever seen

chocolate lilies. 

I said, No

the castle house

He recited what I thought was a Wordsworth sonnet. 

When I heard the castle house, I realized he was giving me

directions from heart. 

When my cat died, he brought me a tin of Lemon Balm and Chamomile tea 

from his garden.

Norsk

My car, my yard, some snow. Hornby Island Winter 2021

Articulately rough around the edges and well dressed. 

A best pal and kindred spirit. 

He lived on the waterfront across from me - on four properties side-by-side. 

We’d sit on my deck and drink putrid bile beer, 

"But hey, at least it’s cold." 

A talker 

and a tall Norwegian 

who said inappropriate things. 

From Crescent Beach. 

He loved genealogy and knew more about my ancestral family than me. 

I’d often see him when I was out for long walks, and we’d continue on together. 

He’d point, "There’s a Norwegian!" 

We’d draft blueprints for utopia and tactics for coups, 

But it’d be unsustainable. 

Me and Dave and Roy standin’ around, shootin’ the shit,

We fought Viking battles together,

spiced rum

nodding in unison.

His brain held a lot of information. 

Kirby, his water dog, was always by his side. 

A retired public servant, horticulturist and genius who knew everyone. 

Married with two adult daughters and two granddaughters. 

He took his elderly father to Norway for one last visit. 

A lovely human and a dear friend who helped me keep it together. 

A fellow city escapee staying on the island during the pandemic. 

We compared island gossip, 

the outsiders, with insider knowledge. 

When he died, his daughter called me.

Expresso

Hornby Island Community Radio

He's socially awkward and handsome, and his front teeth are broken. 

Super smart, with a penchant for salmon burgers – 

But only the Costco ones.

A card-carrying Green, 

Because I can't vote anarchy. 

We awkwardly problem-solved together. 

As per my buddy Dave, 

Don't you two start trying to fix shit. You'll fuck it up even more. 

In the summer, he wore high black socks with sandals and questionable shorts. 

By appearance, he wore the same t-shirt for 365 days. 

I like this design. I bought all of them. 

He lived in the forest down the road from me. 

A trailer in the middle of a meadow. 

I'm just a guy living in a meadow in the forest. 

56 

Originally from Ontario. 

Years ago, he and his girlfriend ended up on Hornby after they finished a tree-planting gig. She left after a few months.

He has a show on community radio every Wednesday - 

The Phlip Side with Phil. 

He's corny, likes to read and has no patience for pop culture or movies. 

Particularly Game of Thrones.

We bonded over expresso in red neon cursive. 

It just works faster.

He taught me about every tree on my property—the cedars, the firs, the arbutus —what they like and don't like and whether they'll survive the next ten years. 

He humoured me while I waited to make sure I didn't go into anaphylactic shock the first time I ate huckleberries from my yard. 

He delivered the water that kept me alive. 

I gave him my jade plants when I left Hornby because I knew he'd look after them. 

In a parallel universe, they're thriving.

When my cat died, he came over and told me stories about his dog, who'd moved to the island with him thirty years prior. 

Cigarettes and Strawberry Incense

Wearing a summer dress and carrying a bottle of prosecco, I knocked on her front door around 5.

A few hours before I moved into my cabin, her friend helped me clean crap out that the previous owners had left behind. We had a few good laughs, and she invited me to join a bunch of them for a BBQ and a few games of ping-pong over at her friend’s place. Not knowing a single soul on Hornby, I summoned some courage and decided it was time to loosen up my armour. 

The front door opened. There she stood. Her ice-blue eyes were emotionless, save for the aura of hatred that pierced me. I introduced myself and tried handing her the bottle of prosecco—which she ignored. I waited for a hello, an introduction, a thank you, or for her to invite me in. Nothing. 

I stood there feeling like a deer mouse, an asshole, a loser. 

She stood defiant. 

Should I stay, or should I go? 

A shadow approached from behind her: a handsome man in his early 50s with black hair and the same ice-blue eyes. He smiled graciously and invited me in. I followed him down a dark hallway, and she followed me. Her stare burned the back of my heels and between my shoulder blades. 

The house was a haphazard array of dusty knickknacks, faded photos, and dried-up plants. Every pot, pan, dish, and utensil was caked with week-old food and strategically stacked on the kitchen counter like a game of Tetris. Strawberry incense and cigarette smoke hung heavy off the air. Within three steps, I knew that, absolutely, this was a witch's house. 

The man summoned me to a worn-out cushioned bench alongside a massive old oak table littered with half-empty red wine glasses, overturned bottles and bags of weed the size of throw cushions. I tried again to give her the bottle of prosecco, but she turned her back on me. Her friend who I shared the laughs with a few hours before, was nowhere to be seen. Smoke and dust obscured a figure sitting in a high back chair at the head of the table. Still holding the bottle of prosecco, I slid along the bench until I was beside the figure. A woman in her 60s with waist-length blond hair smiled, held out her hand and introduced herself. 

The man I gathered was the son. He accepted the bottle from me, passed it to his mother, whose eyes still hadn’t left me, and asked her to open it. He slid along the bench and sat beside me. I was sandwiched between two strangers in a strange home on a strange island in the middle of nowhere. 

I attempted small talk as the matriarch opened the bottle of prosecco. She poured some into her glass, still holding remnants of red wine, and took a sip, 

“Who drinks this shit?” 

She poured the entire bottle of prosecco over the sink full of dirty dishes. 

I’d had enough of her. 

I stepped out of my armour. 

The sun broke through the dank house, and I saw her clearly. 

Her ice-blue eyes held the faintest flecks of what once was. 

A powerful woman beat down by booze and abuse. 

She steadied herself against the counter, dropped her eyes and let me look at her. 

I felt the strength of the woman beside me and the gentle power of her son. 

Outside the windows, the earth buzzed. Inside, all had stopped. 

She raised her eyes to mine, pulled herself over to the table, sat down across from me and lit a cigarette. 

When my cat died, she brought over a bouquet of white hydrangeas from her garden she brought back to life.

X-Acto Knives and Pink Pomeranians

Ford Cove, Hornby Island

That day at the depot, slicing mattresses with an X-Acto knife, 

he told me he felt guilty for being alive.

Shirtless, leathery and over-tanned,

shiny found objects hung from cords around his neck,

brushed his nipples and grazed his ribs.

His pants, skintight and zebra print,

I’m charming, a recovering junkie and an alcoholic. I’m 56, and I shouldn’t be alive.

A chipped Christmas ball dangled from his earlobe.

Thirty years ago, he had a dream he was a character on Hornby, so he quit his diving gig and left North Van.

I’m a talker. I just hung around long enough until someone eventually gave me a job.

His Pomeranian is pink, 

I think she might be a little disabled.

He grows weed and free dives.

The cops just leave me alone.

He asked me who I was with and told me I looked like I’d seen some shit.

When my cat died, he brought me a black garbage bag full of weed.

Old Fashioned Granola Recipe

here's how to make classic granola - image Stacy Reynaud

It's $20 for 500 grams of granola on Hornby. Why? 

I made my own. Nothing fancy, just old-fashioned granola. 

It's vegan if that makes any difference.

Granola lasts about two weeks in an airtight container. 

Buy a vacuum sealer, and you can keep it for six to eight months! I just bought this one, and I love it.

INGREDIENTS

• 4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
• 6 tablespoons each of pecans, pumpkin seeds, almonds*
• 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon cardamom
• 1/3 cup coconut oil (melted)
• 1/4 cup agave syrup
• 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

STEPS

1. Preheat oven to 300 F.
2. Grease a large baking pan (I use vegan butter).
3. Mix the oats, pecans, brown sugar, salt, cinnamon and cardamom in a large bowl.
4. Combine the oil, agave, and granulated sugar in a small saucepan.
5. Bring to a simmer; immediately remove from the heat and stir in vanilla.
6. Pour over the oat mixture.
7. Stir well until thoroughly combined.
8. Spread in the prepared baking pan.
9. Bake until golden brown - between 25-30 minutes - stirring every 8-10 minutes.
10. Transfer the pan to a rack and let cool completely*

* I soak my pecans and almonds in water for a few hours and then bake at 250 F for 50 minutes. If you do this, too, remember that the nuts are already cooked and burn when you put them in the oven again for 30 minutes. I learned the hard way! 

* Because we're using coconut oil, the granola sticks together quite well (coconut oil solidifies when cool). I let my granola cool for about an hour, then use a spatula to lift it out of the pan and break it up.