Hornby Island
If you're against hitchhiking, maybe you don't actually want to read these entries?
Friday, August 10. It's afternoon (I no longer have a phone that I can use, so I've stopped paying attention to the time) and I have been dropped just outside of Qualicum Beach by PJR. I've eaten several handfuls of warm ripe blackberries.
The first fellow to drive me about 20 km down the road tells me that he doesn't usually pick up women, because his wife doesn't want him to. She's warned him that women could claim he raped them, so if his wife picks me up later in the same vehicle I am not to tell her. Also, the way you can tell if oysters are safe to eat is to rub the inner shell on your inner lip and wait half an hour. If it tingles, it's probably okay. If it goes numb, definitely not safe.
A few minutes later another fellow drives me another 10 km. These short rides are hilarious- they are just long enough for me to receive the wisdom each driver has to offer. This fellow tells me that the best way to hitch to Denman from here is not to hitchhike, but to ask people I see if they are going to Denman. I thank him and put my thumb out outside of a hardware store. This one is the coolest, or at least he thinks so.
"Who do you think is a better singer, Katy Perry or K$sha?"
"I don't really... know. Sorry."
"I picked up a couple of albums by each of them, and I've been listening. Christina Aguilera is better than either of them, though."
"Oh, definitely. She is the best."
If you are giving me a flat tone in this dialogue, it's as if you were there. He is the most helpful of these short rides, because he hands me over to his brother who is about to take his fishing boat to Hornby. This way I will skip the ferry fee from Buckley Bay, and ultimately skip Denman altogether, despite my sign with its double-chinned happy face. The brothers and I go into Bowser Bay's dock restaurant and, while we wait for our food, excuse themselves to have private conversations.
I assume it's about drugs or women. They think I'm 16.
When they come back, we have semi awkward chatting and I reveal that I am in fact 26.
Roy is lanky, tan, and has shoulder-length blonde hair. He regales me with tales of 60-lb salmon he'd caught on the west coast, wails about the small fry he's catching here (between mainland Vancouver Island and gulf islands). I read from his book about whales and he smokes at least 3 large marijuana cigarettes during the 90-minute journey. He tells me that he's 43, which he only tells chicks he's not going to hit on. I'm relieved. I steer his boat and hope he doesn't catch anything. He does and there's blood and he throws the injured fish into a cooler. I don't ask why he does not immediately kill it.
When we land at Ford's Cove I hop 3 boats to the dock and run as fast as my 50-lb pack will allow to the bathroom. When I come out, I engage the bearded human who'd directed me to the bathroom in conversation. His name is Scott and he is about to become one of my best friends. I ask him where I should camp. The campground, "if I want to be totally legit," is $30/night. I can stake a spot in the woods along Little Trib, but some people have bad attitudes and houses among the trees. If I want to be totally respectful, and if his girlfriend thinks it's a good idea, I can sleep on the farm they live on.
Sold. We get into his van and drive to Little Trib: a clothing-optional beach that's not overrun with tourists/families. We find Bailey and they share the mangosteen I'd given Scott while I enter the ocean for the second time this year and that day. I ask Bailey to show me how she's tied her sarong, and cover my body with the deep blue sarong I'd borrowed from Dan Moroz at ArtsWells. The three of us agree that Elaine will ultimately decide whether or not she is comfortable with me staying for a few days.
Up the hill, a whirlwind tour featuring the recycling depot and free store, the market site, the (internet) access center. Scott and Bailey tell me which streets we turn onto and which directions I'll be taking in days to come, but today has been full of stimulus and it's lost on me. Elaine is in her garden working. Scott and Bailey ask if their friend can stay for a few nights, and she says "of course! It's nice to know faces, though." I tell her it has taken me 26 years to get here and I'm sorry I hadn't come sooner. She radiates love and acceptance, tells S&B that she likes the way I talk. If I had wanted to stay longer I would have had to commit to six (6) hours a week in the garden as rent.
My new friends show me the kitchen shack and the outhouses. On the other side of the fence bordering Elaine's garden, house, and several residents' camper vans and houses is Scott's van and Bailey's car. They illustrate their plans to build a small house using the frame of a large trailer and I erect my tent on the far side of the fence, 15 feet from Scott's van. Please note the dichotomy between the fenced living and work areas of Elaine's farm versus the stretch of grass we reside on. There's a ditch between my tent and a vast forest. Bailey warns me that when she slept under the stars she was awakened by cattle about to casually trample her. Peeing happens outside, often in the ditch, but every time I need a toilet I will open a gate and enter the farm proper.
In short, inside the fence are some 8-10 people who live on the farm. Outside the fence are free range dairy cows and Scott & Bailey's camp, and now me.
This being the weekend of meteor showers, everyone on the farm is going to Grassy Point for a bonfire tonight. Scott and I manufacture sandwiches of smoked tofu from the general store at Ford's Cove and we pile into vehicles. The beach isn't far; Hornby's a small island but bikes and vehicles give us more time for meteor showers. The fire's going when the three of us arrive and I meet Emma, Nikki, Cole and Sebastian. We're all in our 20s. I learn by listening what issues come with living in paradise. Everyone has at least two jobs, keeping their heads above water, and we are all finding ourselves. Bioluminescence is only exciting enough for my friends to throw rocks into the water, but I take off my tights and wade, watching my legs light up. At the fire I'm awkward and insecure, too tired to be outgoing. We lay on our backs in a row and watch those arcs of light in the sky.
Back at the farm, Bailey loans me a thick piece of carpet and a real sleeping bag. I embrace her and we sleep.
Friday, August 10. It's afternoon (I no longer have a phone that I can use, so I've stopped paying attention to the time) and I have been dropped just outside of Qualicum Beach by PJR. I've eaten several handfuls of warm ripe blackberries.
The first fellow to drive me about 20 km down the road tells me that he doesn't usually pick up women, because his wife doesn't want him to. She's warned him that women could claim he raped them, so if his wife picks me up later in the same vehicle I am not to tell her. Also, the way you can tell if oysters are safe to eat is to rub the inner shell on your inner lip and wait half an hour. If it tingles, it's probably okay. If it goes numb, definitely not safe.
A few minutes later another fellow drives me another 10 km. These short rides are hilarious- they are just long enough for me to receive the wisdom each driver has to offer. This fellow tells me that the best way to hitch to Denman from here is not to hitchhike, but to ask people I see if they are going to Denman. I thank him and put my thumb out outside of a hardware store. This one is the coolest, or at least he thinks so.
"Who do you think is a better singer, Katy Perry or K$sha?"
"I don't really... know. Sorry."
"I picked up a couple of albums by each of them, and I've been listening. Christina Aguilera is better than either of them, though."
"Oh, definitely. She is the best."
If you are giving me a flat tone in this dialogue, it's as if you were there. He is the most helpful of these short rides, because he hands me over to his brother who is about to take his fishing boat to Hornby. This way I will skip the ferry fee from Buckley Bay, and ultimately skip Denman altogether, despite my sign with its double-chinned happy face. The brothers and I go into Bowser Bay's dock restaurant and, while we wait for our food, excuse themselves to have private conversations.
I assume it's about drugs or women. They think I'm 16.
When they come back, we have semi awkward chatting and I reveal that I am in fact 26.
Roy is lanky, tan, and has shoulder-length blonde hair. He regales me with tales of 60-lb salmon he'd caught on the west coast, wails about the small fry he's catching here (between mainland Vancouver Island and gulf islands). I read from his book about whales and he smokes at least 3 large marijuana cigarettes during the 90-minute journey. He tells me that he's 43, which he only tells chicks he's not going to hit on. I'm relieved. I steer his boat and hope he doesn't catch anything. He does and there's blood and he throws the injured fish into a cooler. I don't ask why he does not immediately kill it.
When we land at Ford's Cove I hop 3 boats to the dock and run as fast as my 50-lb pack will allow to the bathroom. When I come out, I engage the bearded human who'd directed me to the bathroom in conversation. His name is Scott and he is about to become one of my best friends. I ask him where I should camp. The campground, "if I want to be totally legit," is $30/night. I can stake a spot in the woods along Little Trib, but some people have bad attitudes and houses among the trees. If I want to be totally respectful, and if his girlfriend thinks it's a good idea, I can sleep on the farm they live on.
Sold. We get into his van and drive to Little Trib: a clothing-optional beach that's not overrun with tourists/families. We find Bailey and they share the mangosteen I'd given Scott while I enter the ocean for the second time this year and that day. I ask Bailey to show me how she's tied her sarong, and cover my body with the deep blue sarong I'd borrowed from Dan Moroz at ArtsWells. The three of us agree that Elaine will ultimately decide whether or not she is comfortable with me staying for a few days.
Up the hill, a whirlwind tour featuring the recycling depot and free store, the market site, the (internet) access center. Scott and Bailey tell me which streets we turn onto and which directions I'll be taking in days to come, but today has been full of stimulus and it's lost on me. Elaine is in her garden working. Scott and Bailey ask if their friend can stay for a few nights, and she says "of course! It's nice to know faces, though." I tell her it has taken me 26 years to get here and I'm sorry I hadn't come sooner. She radiates love and acceptance, tells S&B that she likes the way I talk. If I had wanted to stay longer I would have had to commit to six (6) hours a week in the garden as rent.
My new friends show me the kitchen shack and the outhouses. On the other side of the fence bordering Elaine's garden, house, and several residents' camper vans and houses is Scott's van and Bailey's car. They illustrate their plans to build a small house using the frame of a large trailer and I erect my tent on the far side of the fence, 15 feet from Scott's van. Please note the dichotomy between the fenced living and work areas of Elaine's farm versus the stretch of grass we reside on. There's a ditch between my tent and a vast forest. Bailey warns me that when she slept under the stars she was awakened by cattle about to casually trample her. Peeing happens outside, often in the ditch, but every time I need a toilet I will open a gate and enter the farm proper.
In short, inside the fence are some 8-10 people who live on the farm. Outside the fence are free range dairy cows and Scott & Bailey's camp, and now me.
This being the weekend of meteor showers, everyone on the farm is going to Grassy Point for a bonfire tonight. Scott and I manufacture sandwiches of smoked tofu from the general store at Ford's Cove and we pile into vehicles. The beach isn't far; Hornby's a small island but bikes and vehicles give us more time for meteor showers. The fire's going when the three of us arrive and I meet Emma, Nikki, Cole and Sebastian. We're all in our 20s. I learn by listening what issues come with living in paradise. Everyone has at least two jobs, keeping their heads above water, and we are all finding ourselves. Bioluminescence is only exciting enough for my friends to throw rocks into the water, but I take off my tights and wade, watching my legs light up. At the fire I'm awkward and insecure, too tired to be outgoing. We lay on our backs in a row and watch those arcs of light in the sky.
Back at the farm, Bailey loans me a thick piece of carpet and a real sleeping bag. I embrace her and we sleep.