We're
off to Twilight Island, near Ganges, onboard the Inuksuk. John is the
Captain and our loyal crew is Jean-Paul, five-year-old Angelique and
myself, whose job it is to man the galley, offer advice and smell for
smoke.
Jean-Paul is the only neighbour who will
come boating with us. (He doesn't read my articles.) It reassures me
to travel with Jean-Paul. He made it across the Pacific with no provisions
to speak of, a mast so rotten it could hardly stand upright, and an
engine that gave up well before he did. But he's a crack man with a
sail, he repairs engines underway, and even though he has only one hand
(well, he has two, but one is artificial), he is a consummate sailor.
Blond ponytail, baseball cap firmly on his head and a sharp gaze. He
moves nimbly about the deck. Angelique has spent her entire life on
a boat. She wears a well-worn lifejacket and sits in the cockpit asking
questions. "Why is the water that colour? Where did you get your
boat?"
Angelique
has spent her entire life on a boat. She wears a well-worn lifejacket
and sits in the cockpit asking questions.
John stands at the wheel. The engine roars. The sound brings out the
neighbours to help us with the lines. Jean-Paul waves them off with
a gesture from his plastic hand, and deftly unfastens the boat, climbing
onboard as we pull strongly away.
We are just beyond the bay. There are
swells, and the nose dips and rises. Powerboats flash past, sailboats
glide toward us wing on wing. Great rolling mountains slide past. Waves,
like little flirtations, pat the hull. The depths are restless and dark.
Seagulls relax on the water. The sky clouds over now and then.
Cape Keppel appears off our bow. I rush
below to smell the engine. Cape Keppel looms over our boat as ominously
as provincial politics. It is at Cape Keppel that disaster strikes the
Inuksuk: the engine melts, or quits, or the coupling uncouples. I shudder
and lean in the engine room to sniff. I squint; I have a little trouble
seeing the engine through all that… "Smoke! John! I see smoke!"
John cuts back the engine. Jean-Paul
impatiently pushes past me. I am quietly having a nervous breakdown.
Jean-Paul leans into the engine room. I hold the flashlight for awhile,
then go above decks to entertain Angelique, who asks more questions.
"Why are we stopped? What's Daddy doing now? Where are we going?"
"Downhill, dear," I moan. "It's
the curse of Cape Keppel."
Jean-Paul climbs up the companionway
ladder to report. "Rubber cable touching the exhaust. Got any string?"
"String?" I fumble in a drawer
and hand him a small roll. A neighbour, seeing us dead in the water,
sails toward us to offer help. Happily I wave him away. This once, we
don't need a tow.
We put up the genoa and rejoice in the steady throb of the engine. I
make a lunch of cheese sandwiches and coffee as we round the southern
tip of Salt Spring Island.
I
am grouchy about this discovery, but John pulls out a plastic bucket
and happily aims the boat toward Montague Harbour.
We reach the mooring buoy at Twilight Island. We have dinner with Clive
and Alix. We paint Angelique's nails, and the nails on Jean-Paul's artificial
hand. Clive tells us offshore tales and Jean-Paul tells of drinking
brandy with Marlon Brando in the actor's hotel in Bora Bora. We are
surprised, but Jean-Paul is nonchalant.
Cool night steals upon the island. We
row back to our boat in the dark and slip away from the mooring buoy
in the morning sunlight.
The electric head does not work. I am
the lucky crewmember who discovers that it will not pump seawater into
the bowl. I am grouchy about this discovery, but John pulls out a plastic
bucket and happily aims the boat toward Montague Harbour.
I comment that the dinghy looks soft.
John tells me to stop whining. I express my unhappiness that the throttle
cable is held apart from the exhaust pipe with a length of greasy string.
John tells me it does the job. I mention that the boat has a list to
port. John informs me that I am far too particular and once we burn
fuel the Inuksuk will sit straighter in the water. I complain it's embarrassing
when neighbours sail toward us to offer help. John says it's nice to
know they're all on alert. I state that I'm unhappy the starter took
two tries to engage this morning. John tells me that if we sold the
boat, any property we could afford on land would be sure to have a chemical
toilet, a septic system and rainwater to drink. I resolve to be cheerful
and thoughtfully pay a visit to the bucket.
Montague Harbour hoves into view. We
are hours before anyone else; in fact, we have arrived before some of
the late-risers have left. Jean-Paul snags a mooring buoy ring. It sinks
six feet, and with three of us heaving on the line, the Inuksuk swings
to a halt.
A couple with a well-inflated dinghy
come alongside to chat. We invite them onboard. They are frightened
of Jean-Paul, who does not tell any more Marlon Brando stories. Angelique
falls asleep. John and I explore the Montague Harbour café with
our now-sinking dinghy. We hastily drink our coffee and rush back before
we sink. Dinner is Chinese food, and it is horrible. I am handicapped
because of the lack of refrigeration and an oven, but they are just
excuses. The sober truth is that I am a dreadful cook. John, Jean-Paul
and Angelique eat heartily without complaint, and I am humbly grateful.
It is evening. It is darker outside,
and cold, and the sky is overcast. The cabin smells like lamp oil. I
can hear our drinking water drip from the manifold into the bilge. It
is a peaceful sound. The candles and lamps glow.
The sea is calm, the wind has died and
the night is encroaching on us as tenderly as a mother. John and Jean-Paul
eat bread and peanut butter. Angelique curls into her father's arms.
The exhaust pipe is cool and the string
is holding. The list is less, with everyone sitting on the starboard
side. The softening dinghy was an improperly fastened valve, easily
fixed. The bucket is perfect for Montague Harbour, which is a no-dumping
zone. I think of our neighbours, who faithfully tow us home every time
we radio for help, and I am grateful. I lean over to kiss John.
"Lovely night, isn't it?" I
ask.
"What a way to live," says
John. "The Inuksuk and good friends and my own little flobber-chops.
Happy?"
"Living on a boat is the most fun
I've ever had," I say. And I know it to be true. 
