cold but it felt wonderful when I stood still and it eddied around my bare feet as the sand slipped away from under them.
We walked back to where we came out of the woods and built a fire to cook our go-to hiking lunch of hot dogs. Even looking for bits of firewood felt special as we poked around under logs and cut hot-dog sticks from the shrubbery. We sat quietly on a log and stared out to sea while we ate. We were full of the wonder of this place. It was here on this beach that we first talked about getting married.
Visitors and Visiting
We had the luxury of a few visitors at Addenbroke. Every few months, and if weather permitted, the Thomas Crosby V, an eighty-foot ship owned and run by the United Church, anchored in the bay, and the minister would row to shore and climb up to the wharf.
Sometimes his wife and a few of the crew came with him. They had a small library on board, and it was a treat to be able to pick up a few extra books and trade ones I had already read. We didn’t discuss religion, but we did enjoy having someone new to talk to. George and I both felt a spiritual connection to the beauty and grandeur of the wilderness setting of the island, and the minister appreciated and understood our feelings. They were often keen to have a bit of a party, and it seemed to us they were just happy sharing their joy with the often forgotten remote communities along the coast.
In the middle of August, George’s mom and dad came for a visit. They drove to Port Hardy on the north end of Vancouver Island and then flew in a Gulf Air float plane right to our island. The pilot circled a couple of times before landing on the water and taxiing into the bay. This gave us time to run to the wharf, lower the speedboat and then motor out to meet them. George’s dad, Ernie, climbed eagerly down the airplane steps and into the boat, then George and the pilot had a heck of a time manoeuvring George’s mom, Irene, out of the plane, down the three steps onto the pontoon and into the little bobbing boat. It was like trying to stuff a cat into a tub of water. I was anxiously waiting on the beach and willing her not to tip out the other side. I couldn’t tell for sure, but Irene had the look about her like she might have had a wee dram before climbing into the plane.
Irene and Ernie were great houseguests. They were interested in everything we did, and we were happy to tell them all about our secluded life here and how amazing it was that we were still enjoying spending all our time together. That afternoon, George took Ernie fishing and they caught a beautiful coho. We planned to celebrate with a wonderful dinner of fresh salmon and lots of fresh produce that Irene and Ernie brought with them. We invited Ray, Ruth and Lorna to join us. I had never cooked for so many people before so by the time we were finally sitting down to eat, it was quite late. No one was in a hurry though, since there was no place else to go.
We were having a lovely time when suddenly there was a knock on the door. We all looked around the table to see if anyone was missing. Our glances nervously returned to the door. It was unheard of for anyone to turn up unexpectedly, especially after darkness had fallen. George finally stood up and went to open the door. An axe murderer was wielding his weapon—no, actually it was only John, Ray and Ruth’s son. He had arrived from the north side of the island so he hadn’t driven past in front of the houses. One of us would have surely seen or heard him go by if he had. Then he had anchored his tugboat in the bay, used his own skiff to get to shore and knowing that we didn’t know he was there, he thought it would be fun to knock and give us all a fright! Well, he had succeeded! We all laughed nervously and pretended not to be surprised or scared. I wasn’t the only one thinking about the lighthouse keeper who had been murdered behind the wharf shed at Addenbroke in late 1929—a murder that is still unsolved.
George took his dad fishing early each morning and they always came back with huge grins and bright silver coho. They didn’t have to go far; just below the lighthouse was the perfect spot. The tide, the lack of early morning wind, the way the feed follows the shoreline—all provided the best fishing conditions. Ernie liked to be the one to clean the fish when they got back, which worked for me, and still works to this day! From then on, I said, “If I cook them, I don’t clean them!” One day we canned the fresh-caught salmon the same way that we did the clams, except this time we put the meat into canning jars, not cans, then into a boiling water bath. I’m still here, so I think I have proved that it works!
Ernie never liked to sit still anywhere for long and was perfectly happy to have work to do with George and Ray every afternoon. Irene and I spent hours sitting on the deck crocheting in the sunshine while listening to Ray and Ernie talking about how life was when they were young. Ernie grew up in the Courtenay area on Vancouver Island, while Ray grew up in Sointula on Malcolm Island near Port Hardy and had spent many years on the West Coast of BC. The two men were about the same age and both had an easy storytelling way of keeping us all entertained. Ray and Ernie did most of the talking while George listened and learned.
George and his dad built two watertight wooden boxes with Plexiglas bottoms and handles on two sides. We went out in the skiff and motored slowly along the shore while hanging overboard looking into the boxes. The see-through bottom didn’t need to be very far into the water, just far enough to break the surface to make the fascinating sea life so much more visible. We drifted along the shores watching eel grass and bull kelp sway in the current. Dungeness crabs skittered sideways, starfish seemed to glide along the bottom. There were sea cucumbers, little pike fish and eels, limpets and hermit crabs. So many coloured sea anemones that opened like giant flowers then disappeared into their long tube if we got too close. Long siphons stuck out of clamshells, and feathery fingers reached out of mussel shells combing the water for nutrients. We spotted bottom fish almost hidden in the sand and starfish sometimes sucking out the contents of a clamshell. There was always something new to look at.
Irene didn’t like to stay too long with family because she didn’t want to impose. We were waiting for the float plane to return to pick them up when the Thomas Crosby V arrived and anchored in the bay. Irene had already fortified her nerve with a couple of stiff drinks, bracing herself for the flight to come, when the minister came to our door. We invited him in and chatted for a few minutes while Irene tried to pretend that she was drinking plain soda water—on ice with a twist of lemon. The float plane was soon circling in front of our house and we had to hurry down to the wharf. George ran ahead so he could get the boat organized, and I was last out the door as I made a quick check in case they forgot something. I jogged down the walkway and up behind the minister and Irene walking quickly down to the wharf. The minister was kindly carrying Irene’s “drink” for her and they were passing it back and forth so she could sip a little more courage. In the end, all went well, and Ernie and Irene were safely tucked into the plane for their return home.
The day after Ernie and Irene left we borrowed the boat again. Ray had told George about the people who were living at the Egg Island Lighthouse. Egg Island was the next beacon marking the Inside Passage for ships travelling south and we could see their light on a clear night. I had no idea at the time how far the island was. We headed out in the little tin boat early in the morning because the trip would take a couple of hours. I felt very small by the time we passed the entrance to Rivers Inlet. At that point you start to get out into the open water and the swells of Queen Charlotte Sound, and the safety of land looks very far away. The swells here are different from waves, they are more like the ocean heaving up in huge round-topped speed bumps. You can have a six-foot swell and ride up and over it just fine, but when you add the chop on top, well, things can get ugly. This morning though, as luck would have it, the sound was flat calm as far as you could see in all directions. I don’t think I have ever seen it that calm since. Our little boat was a tiny pinprick on the vast reflective surface that merged with the sky. I didn’t know how scared I should have been, and would be, on future boat rides.
We zipped along past the Dugout Rocks and Cranstown Point then past False Egg Island and Table Island. Finally, we approached the west side of Egg Island where the houses were. We could see the lighthouse keepers waving to us and knew that we had to drive around the island to the back, more sheltered side where they had their wharf and crane. When Ray
