Vancouver Island
We were a little disappointed upon our arrival at Long
Beach; actually, we were a lot disappointed. We encountered, maybe
ten vehicles traveling back from Long Beach. When we got there we
found a paved road with lots of people camping along the beach. I
didn't know where all the people came from; I just knew that they
weren't going anywhere. There were only a couple of stores, a gas
station, and a whole lot of ocean to accommodate these people. We
didn't expect to find this type of social gathering, especially
after traveling through 60 miles of people-less terrain. I suppose
most of the people camping felt the same way we did. It never fails;
paying attention to the extraordinary creates the ordinary.
We were not going to let this minor irritation stop us. We
pulled into a gas station and inquired about the possibility of
finding a less populated area. The attendant wasn't friendly, but
the guy whose flat tire he was fixing was, and he told us to follow
him. "I can't promise you a beach of your own," he said, "but I
think you will find the beach where I'm camping more to your
liking." The three of us looked at each other and smiled. As we
drove down the highway, the forest began to block our view of the
ocean. We kept driving until we turned on to a dirt trail. At the
end of the trail we left the van and Pete's car with the other cars
that were also parked there and walked down to the beach.
From an abundance of driftwood left over from the winter
tides, Pete had constructed a driftwood house. The three-room house
had a wooden platform for a floor and a roof and walls consisting of
sheets of plastic. Pete needed these rooms because he lived with his
family. A schoolteacher from, of all places, Grosse Pointe,
Michigan, Pete had his Master's degree and used to teach seventh
grade at Gross Point Middle School. He was now in the process of
immigrating to Canada and he had just signed a contract to teach
school in British Colombia. His 12-year-old daughter, Chris, sons
Keith and Kurt, 10 and 9 years old respectively, and their duck,
Toby, were all part of Pete's beach family. His wife and other
daughter were completing the sale of their house back in Michigan.
They would return to the beach and join the rest of the family after
selling the house.
Choose your superlative, and that's the way I was feeling;
the beach was out of sight, bitchin, far out, righteous, and groovy.
The beach people, Jerry, Sherri, and the animals (there were a
couple of dogs to keep Vira happy), all contributed to this good
feeling. What really kept this feeling going, though, was the place
itself. Everything about the place, its seclusion, its deep forest
entrance, the ocean swells rearranging the white sands that
stretched out along the horseshoe shaped beach, the two small
islands off shore, and, of course, the deep blue Pacific Ocean, all
made for a totally awesome and unforgettable experience. The
offshore islands were actually two giant submerged rocks. The
closest one was accessible at low tide. Barnacles, jellyfish, and
other varieties of marine life covered it. In fact, you couldn't
climb on the rock without crushing the inhabitants beneath your
feet. Standing atop the rock, I was able to see two whales
frolicking offshore. On clear days, I was told, it was not unusual
to see Russian, or Japanese fishing fleets off shore.
Brad, the solitary camper whose driftwood house was up near
the woods, came over to tell us about the sauna that he was having
at his place in the evening. We told him that we would be there.
Jerry offered him a glass of wine, but he said he would take a rain
check. He was busy preparing the sauna. When Brad left, Jerry filled
the wine glasses of both Pete and I, and then left with Sherri to go
back to the van. The kids had taken off down the beach, leaving Pete
and I to enjoy the sunset. I took this opportunity to ask Pete why
he was immigrating to Canada. "I'm tired of living on a treadmill,"
he said, "Canada is different than the States. It's more laid back.
Up here, you're not in the rat race trying to outpace the person in
front of you. Up here, you live and let live and that suits me just
fine."
As we were watching the red sun slip into the ocean, Pete
told me that he couldn't live with himself any longer, knowing that
his tax dollars were paying for the Vietnam carnage and for the
atomic bombs that one day may bring an end to all life as we know
it. "There's nothing wrong with living the `good life,' " he said, "
you just have to pay for it. When it got to a point where I felt
like I was paying with my soul, I couldn't do it anymore. My wife
and I agreed to taker our children to Canada and raise them. So here
I am, drinking wine with friends, watching a beautiful sunset, and
feeling really good about it all. For me, its better to live with
less, but in good conscience, than it is to live with half a
conscience." We watched in silence as the ocean swallowed up "big
red."
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