FOR the entire month of July, whenever I drive by a city park, I am struck by an overwhelming urge to stop the car, run outside and throw myself on the grass. I want to just lie there for a while with my face buried in it. I want to hug trees. It’s not a political statement. I just really want to hug them.
I’ve always been a city girl. In the past, when I longed for nature, I took off to a tropical beach for a while, and then came back to the city tanned and recharged. But lately, I find myself wanting more. Some days, when the city is too much to take—the buses too crowded, the line-ups too long, the people too mean—I picture myself living in a little house in the forest, within a walking distance to a quiet, sandy beach. There would be no sirens or traffic, just the sound of waves, the singing of birds, and the soft whistle of wind in the trees. I’d hang out on my porch and write. I’d go for long walks. I’d grow food. I’d do crafts. I’d be present.
So when Sean’s parents invite us to Gabriola Island on the August long weekend, I say yes. We’ll be sailing from their home in Victoria to Gabriola Island and sleep on their boat while it’s docked at the marina.
His parents have been invited to a regatta put on by the Ex Forest Service Vessel Squadron: a chance for forestry boat enthusiasts to come together and scope out each other’s boats. Theirs is 34-foot and wooden, launched in 1946 by the BC forestry service for timber cruising and inspections. It’s so old its picture appears in books about BC marine history. Sean’s mother shows me an old photograph passed on by a previous owner: a family with two blonde kids lounging on a deck on a summer day, smiling widely.
It is a small boat—in fact, it used to be a one-man boat—and it has an incredibly loud engine. It doesn’t have a shower and the kitchen (or galley, as Sean keeps calling it) is tucked in the corner of the cabin, between the head (the lavatories, I’m told) and the bed. Sean’s dad bought it last year and has already put a ton of money and time into it. He could have probably bought a yacht with all that money, but that isn’t his style. This is a man who buys antique furniture and listens to records. For Sean’s dad, the rewards of owning a historic wooden boat far outweigh the comforts of a fancy yacht.
Sean and I are planning to spend as little time as possible at the marina. I’m fantasizing about hikes in the forest, picnics on beaches, bike riding through island roads. Sean is excited too, but mostly about sailing his parents’ boat. As I entertain thoughts of living in the country, he’s been dreaming of buying a boat and sailing the world. Both our dreams are beyond reach at the moment—we certainly can’t afford a boat or a house in the country—and so they sit one next to the other in the waiting room, nodding at each other, never forcing us to choose. Still, I recognize in Sean’s eyes a flicker of hope that I’ll display even a fraction of his enthusiasm for boating.
• • •
We sail out from Victoria in the morning on our way to Gabriola Island. It’s a grey day, and the sea is flat and silver. The seven-hour sailing is mostly uneventful, except for when I comment on a yacht we pass by, referring to it as a “nice boat.” The energy in the wheel house shifts instantly. Sean’s dad looks at me stunned and appalled.
Sean shakes his head in disappointment. “That hideous thing?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. I look down at my feet. I resolve to never comment on boats again. After all, this is a family of seamen; both father and son work at sea for a living. The other son, Sean’s brother, stays on shore, building the kind of yachts no one in the family would ever set foot on.
We arrive at Gabriola Island Marina in the early evening. The squadron members wait for us at the dock, wave us in like a rewind take of the Love Boat. They are a friendly lot, all couples in their fifties and sixties. Once our boat is tied up, we walk around the marina, shake hands and repeat names.
It becomes clear at first glance that Sean’s parents’ boat is the ugly duckling. “Built for weather, not for comfort,” it is the smallest and shabbiest of the bunch. After dinner, when we lay our air mattress in the wheel house, it generates a cloud of dust and leaves no room for walking around.
Before bed, we go for a walk on the main road, eager to be alone, away from the marina. As soon as we step outside the gate, it’s pitch black. Above us the stars sparkle like tinsel, providing no light. The trees that seemed so huggable during the day now appear sinister, as if monsters and bad people lurk in their shadows. I look behind us, but I can’t see anything. It’s as if we’re floating in space and with any step we might fall off the face of the earth. I don’t remember the last time I’ve experienced such total darkness. I hear a rustling sound in the trees. “Let’s go back.” I latch onto Sean’s sleeve. “I’m tired.”
• • •
“So how do you like sleeping on a boat?” Sean asks as we fold up our bedding the next morning.
“If this is your idea of living on a boat, we need to talk,” I say.
He laughs.
“Besides, if we sailed around the world we’d have to stay at marinas all the time,” I say. “I don’t know how I feel about it.”
I feel out of place in the marina, and not just because I don’t speak their lingo—confusing the bow with the stern, the starboard and the galley. It’s full of older, well-off, white people, and I’m the only brown person in sight. I can’t help but notice these things. Sometimes at parties, I count people to calculate the ratio of women to men, whites to non-whites. A friend once told me it’s because I seek balance, a characteristic often attributed to Geminis.
While Sean’s parents lounge on the deck with books, we borrow their bikes and set off to explore the island. On our way out of the marina, we pass by a row of monstrous shiny yachts with names like “Blue Lady,” “Lazy Gal” and “Spirit” of something or other.
It’s a perfect sunny day. The clouds have blown away and through the trees the sunlight dances on the worn asphalt like light caught in a disco ball. The road curves up and down green hills. We can see hints of houses amid the thick layers of trees. After ten minutes, I start to feel a burn in my legs and back; sweat trickles around my armpits. After fifteen minutes we run into a woman walking her dog. We stop, panting. “It’s a long ride to the other side of the island,” she says. “Maybe another hour.”
Five minutes later I strain my back going uphill. We stop our bikes by a farm, lean them against the white picket fence, and I go into a child pose on the side of the road, knees tucked under my torso, my face in the grass. I try to breathe into my back, into the pain, like I learned in yoga. The ground smells nice, earthy and fresh, and when I open my eyes, everything is fluorescent green. I wonder if there are any bugs in the grass. Would I know if I breathed one in accidentally?
“Maybe we should walk our bikes for a bit,” Sean says.
“Or,” I say, “we can try and hitch a ride with a pickup truck.”
The first truck we flag stops. The young driver helps us load the bikes into the back. He takes us to the other side of the island, and drops us off by a coffee shop in Gabriola’s little shopping centre. We drink lattes on a sunny patio, surrounded by weekend city tourists, and hitch a ride back to the marina.
We’re back in time for the squadron’s potluck so we grab plates and line up for food, join the others in a messy row of lounge chairs on the dock. All around the marina, people are sitting on their boats or on the dock, eating and chatting. I realize the marina is not much different than a campsite. It’s everyone’s temporary home, equipped with common showers, a laundry room, a pay phone. People sit around, read books, drink and play cards. It’s like camping for people with money.
• • •
Sunday is open house, and everybody is welcome to come in and view the forestry boats. Sean and I spend the morning helping to clean up and prepare the boat for visitors. It’s the boat’s first official outing and Sean’s dad wants to make a good impression. We scrub oil stains off the walls, shine the brass and polish the windows, yet somehow it still looks dirty. The layer of dirt is so deep that it has become a part of the boat. By the time we’re done we smell like wet old wood and our hands are black with filth.
We walk around and visit other boats. Some have elaborate kitchens. “Galleys,” Sean whispers. “Stop saying kitchen to people.” Others have luxurious showers, spacious offices with laptops and framed photos of loved ones. I can picture myself sailing the world with an office like that.
We meet a couple who’s been living on their boat for twenty years. It feels homey: a messy kitchen, a chequered table cloth with flowers in a vase, a grey cat curled against a pillow in the bedroom and a fluffy dog barking at visitors. A few years ago they bought a house to retire in, except they missed the sea too much. “We’re going to sell the house,” the woman, a cheerful broad-shouldered blonde, announces. “We’re going back on the boat!”
I like that couple.
Sean glances at me. I realize that his yearning for the sea is essentially the same as my longing for nature. It’s a wish for a change, for something different.
We decide to try the coffee at the coffee stand outside the marina. “I’ll have an eight ounce single shot latte,” I say. “And I’ll have a double 12 ouncer,” Sean says.
“Great,” the perky girl behind the counter chirps. “We just learned how to make those yesterday!”
“Did you hear that, babe?” I tell Sean. “They just learned yesterday.”
Sean heads behind the counter to train the girls how to make a proper latte and I sit down at the white plastic table, watching people pass by on their way in and out of the marina. The dock sways lightly in the breeze. I hear Sean say, “The most important thing is the timing. It should take 26 seconds to pull an espresso shot. Any less than that means your grind is too coarse.” I hear the girl say, “Are you guys from Vancouver? I hear people in Vancouver love their coffee.”
As we sip our lattes I notice a lot of people in the marina wear white; some are sporting full white outfits, including shoes, as if they’re trying to match their yachts.
“There’s something about being on water that makes people want to wear white. I’ve never quite figured it out,” Sean says.
“Maybe someone should tell them that in Hindu and Chinese traditions white is the colour of death,” I say.
We walk to the farmers’ market and I buy a glittery purple scarf, a pink necklace and a red belt. Sean buys liquorice.
That afternoon we hitchhike to a beach, and get picked up by two dreadlocked jewellers from the market who drop us off at the entrance of a provincial park and tell us to follow the blue signs. “It’s about half an hour walk from here,” they say.
We start walking on the unpaved road, flanked by forest on both sides and no sea in sight. The few cars that pass don’t stop and leave a tail of dust behind them. After a few minutes of walking I trip and twist my ankle. I squeal, sit down on a rock, and rub it. I may have sprained it. The next car stops. It’s driven by two girls in matching ponytails from Nanaimo. They are here to cater a wedding. “I hurt my ankle,” I tell them.
The girl in the passenger seat offers me Advil. “Not that you should take drugs from strangers,” she says and giggles.
Sean tells them that we stay at the marina and I immediately explain that it’s his parents’ boat and add a brief description of it. I notice I do that a lot, as if I worry people might mistake me for someone with money. It’s like that time Sean took me to a fancy restaurant and I made a point of telling the waiter that I, too, was a waitress.
When we get to the beach, the four of us stand in a row and look. The tide is low and families stroll on the wet sand, their silhouettes dark against the shiny surface. They throw sticks into the water and their dogs run to catch them, then run back, spraying beads of gold in their flight. Couples are nestled in nooks and outstretched on flat rocks. The sea is calm, a shimmering mirror. “This is gorgeous,” I say.
“It all looks the same,” the girl who offered me Advil says. “Vancouver Island looks exactly like that.”
Sean and I find a flat rock, strip down to our underwear, and lie down on our sarongs. We look over at the families and their dogs, contemplate and then reject the idea of swimming. Sean uses his Swiss army knife to slice open an avocado and we dish it out with rice crackers, and then finish with some cheese and grapes. We lean back and watch faraway ferries cross between islands, slow and heavy, like hippos. I close my eyes and enjoy the warmth of the sun on my body. I try to nap but a constant buzzing keeps me awake. I open my eyes. Wasps circle around me. Must be my cocoa butter. I sit up and try to wave them away. Sean flips a page in his comic book, unaware of my predicament. I sigh. “You’re supposed to help people when they’re attacked by wasps.”
Sean puts his book down, stares at me from above his sunglasses. “What exactly do you expect me to do?”
“Save me,” I say.
• • •
After dinner we go for a walk, venturing onto a dead-end road that leads uphill. I turn around to find a perfect viewpoint of the marina and decide to sit down on the warm asphalt. The boats anchored in the marina appear suspended in midair, floating in purple skies. The small island on the other shore is underlined with a deep blue line, like kohl. There’s not a car or person in sight. I breathe in deeply. It’s so quiet. Perfectly still, a vast empty silence, like death. My heart starts racing as if it’s trying to take off, run away from here, back to the city.
I look up; there’s a halo of flies circling my head. My breathing is shallow. I turn to look at Sean who is standing behind me, taking in the view. “Can we go?”
“Are you okay?” Sean says.
“Yes, except I’m having an anxiety attack.”
He laughs. “Seriously? What, from too much peace? ”
I take a deep breath and exhale. Repeat. I blink slowly, focus on the horizon. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I think about the little house I pictured in the country, about swinging in my hammock. I keep breathing in and out until my body unwinds and my eyelids drop. My heart slows down and my body relaxes. I’m becoming one with the asphalt, softening and melting into it. Sean shows up behind me with a handful of blackberries he picked from a nearby bush and feeds them to me. They’re plump and shiny and a little tart when they burst in my mouth.
“This is nice,” I say, exhaling in a long sigh.
On the way home I trip Sean into a ditch covered in green grass and we fall laughing, landing in the crease of the earth. We lie there for a while, snuggled between walls of the ditch, a bed of grass, and look for stars as they start to appear. We hear the hiss of an occasional car passing and people laughing on their patio. It feels strangely soothing to be lower than the earth, to feel the vibrations of the cars from the road.
“This is how it would be to live here,” I whisper. “Away from the city.”
Could I do this forever?
• • •
On Monday morning we’re jumping ship and heading back home to Vancouver. I have to make it to work this evening. We say goodbye to Sean’s parents and wave to the club members as we walk down the dock with our backpacks.
We stand on the side of the road, trying to hitch a ride to the ferry, eating unwashed blueberries from a plastic bag for breakfast, with our backpacks thrown in a pile next to us, and Sean’s guitar leaning precariously on top. It takes longer than we expect. Most cars are full or not going far. I mentally step away from myself and Sean, from the pile of bags, and hover above, looking at this young couple, hitchhiking through the gulf island. I like what I see. I definitely belong here, standing on the side of this island road.
A man appears on the other side of the road, holding a cell phone outstretched in front of him. He walks gingerly, following a mysterious pattern, a couple steps forward and a few backwards, facing one way, then another, and then turning back on his heels, as if he’s performing some strange ritual dance.
I look at Sean, eating blueberries from his palm. I feel energetic, jubilant. I can hardly take it, it’s like I’m about to spill over from the inside out. “I’m going to jump on you,” I tell him and take a couple steps back in preparation. “Are you ready?”
“Whoa, take it easy.” Sean laughs, mouth purple. “I don’t have too much strength this morning. I’m running on blueberries.”
I jump anyway, and wrap my legs around his torso.
The man with the cell phone finds a signal and now stands at the top of the hill, speaking in a loud voice.
A car, shiny and metallic blue, slows down to a stop. Inside, the air conditioning hums. I tighten my new scarf over my shoulders and watch as the island turns into a green blur in the rear view mirror.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ayelet Tsabari is the author of the short fiction collection, The Best Place on Earth (HarperCollins), which was nominated for the Frank O’Connor International Short Story Award. She grew up in Israel to a large family of Yemeni descent, and began writing in English in 2006. Her nonfiction won a National Magazine Award and a Western Magazine Award, and she is a two-time winner of Event’s Creative Non-Fiction Contest. She was named as one of ten Canadian writers to watch by CBC.
BT #003 © 2014 Ayelet Tsabari. Published by Little Fiction | Big Truths, January 2014.
