I saw an island tip today, a little peninsula jutting out
that looked exactly like the one I’d imagine the Pevensies and Trumpkin the
Dwarf would’ve rounded in their small canoe right upon re-entry into Narnia at Prince Caspian’s beginning. The sand was
all bright white, likely made of the same stuff I was standing on: millions
upon millions of pieces of seashell, worn down to near grains by ages of
tirelessly roving waves. Above that were the trees – tall, dark, and mostly
evergreen; these forests must certainly be just as capable of containing ghosts
as the ones in that book, or at least of inspiring rumours thereof.
Here in Montague Harbour, as it is all up and down the West
Coast, the forests are so full of life the plants hardly know where to go. They
grow at haphazard angles, branches jutting here and there, twisting,
intertwining, weaving together a collective forest carpet: ferns, pines, salal,
more, and, my and most people's favourite, the arbutus tree. They all reach out towards the sea.
Everything, everything, is green – if not wholly, then bright moss grabs hold,
ensuring that each living thing is capable of joining in to that wild and
hallowed chorus, breathing: Life.
There are otters, sea lions, herons, oysters, and crabs in
abundance. Sometimes I wonder if I was horribly cruel to kill all the barnacles
I’ve killed. When all is growing, even the ground you tread is home to millions
of creatures. Everything is alive. Even the rocks, great walls of stone, are in a constant process of slow transformation. They’ll be pockmarked with holes,
like a wall in some city of cave dwellers, or sometimes have large scoops taken
right out, as if the sea were a greedy child going in for too large a scoop of
ice cream.
I love it here. There must be few places in the world, or in
North America at least, where you can find so many distinct shades of green and
blue, and where you share an instant bond of camaraderie and mutual life-love
with every person you meet, confirmed in a wave, smiling nod, or friendly
greeting.
If ever the chance comes your way, seize it, and simply be here, if only for a short time.
Breathe in the salty air, float a long while, talk, walk, sit, explore a long
while, and savour the remoteness of it all, how real and alive everything is.
It’s good for the soul.
