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Showing posts with label beach. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beach. Show all posts
September 6, 2015
stranded (adj.)
[The announcement's official - that I'm moving to the UK - so I can post this now. From September 6th]
This weekend, I learned that I've approached the "final" weeks of my time in Vancouver all wrong, or at least, in part.
I've had this idea that the next couple of months have to be filled with as much time with doing as many of my most favourite things with my most favourite people because time is ticking. I want to make as many new memories with them, in some valiant effort to solidify those relationships even more, give them more definition so that when I look back on them from miles and time zones away, they're less likely to look faded and distant. So that I don't feel stranded out there, in big ol' London, but instead, warmed by the embrace of those relationships and the moments that made them possible.
strand (v.) Figurative sense of "leave helpless," as of a ship left aground by the tide, is first recorded 1837. 1620s, "to drive aground on a shore," from noun strand.
- This year's long weekend, like all others since my decision to move, I planned on spending with those I care about most. It didn't go as planned though. Ironically, I got stranded, unable to find the evasive sign - and campsite - where my friends had set up shop for the weekend. I had no tent, and had driven for 4 hours (getting a wee bit lost having never been to Pemberton/Strawberry Point before).
- Stranded is being "left without the means to move from somewhere." Yet, ironically, being stranded this weekend has only given me more means to move away from Vancouver; it has given me more strength and confidence that it'll all work out.
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| Sometimes when we most think we have a chosen destination, we wind up places we never thought possible. |
- Yesterday, all signs were pointing down. I found myself driving on a very dodgy logging road, at KM 14 beyond the point where my friends had said we were camping. I knew they weren't there, as I had walked the shores looking for them and later found that I had cell service there - and knowing they didn't, meant they definitely weren't there. After some time at Strawberry Point, I got back in my car and decided to continue along the shoddy gravel pot-holed road, tires bumping hard and lifting dust behind me until I reached - and passed - the point where my cell lost service. Slowly rolling forward in my Corolla trying to avoid a flat tire, I stopped every car in sight to inquire, yelled "Ally or Andrew?" at every campsite along the shoreline, but...zilch. I eventually had to turn back, the sun sinking slowly and my faith dwindling along with it.
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| The smoothest patch of that logging road. |
- I made it back to Strawberry Point and the beautiful campsites there on the beach...and found an incredible group of people who had helped me out when I had first showed up on my search. Before I knew it, we were drinking around their massive bonfire, dancing to country music, talking and cooking up sausages at 4am, partying like old friends. By the next day, I was calling it "our campsite" and we were frying up potatoes in bacon fat on the grill together like we'd done it a billion summers before.
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| Who knew being stranded could look like this... |
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| Stranded? How about found. |
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| And just like that, even more ready for what tomorrow's tides will bring. |
- Eventually, and one day soon actually, I'll feel like
I'm sliding, lost in a new place wondering why I ever bothered to pluck
myself out of a wonderful place and relocate myself - and I'll
remember my drive home today, reminiscing on an unforgettable camping
adventure that showed me there's so much magic out there in the world to
be found, and that sometimes you have to trust the uncertain, move
toward the unfamiliar, and touch the edge of something to actually feel It.
strand (n.): Old English "shore, beach," from Proto-Germanic *strandaz (Old Norse cognate strönd "border, edge, shore.)
-~-
And as a final note, because, yes the universe works in mysterious ways...After I wrote this tonight, a good friend came over and I was telling him about how all my thinking of moving started around the time I came back from India last June. I mentioned, that perhaps, sometime, when I feel ready to venture back (or move elsewhere) after London, that I'd take myself back to India, visit the south this time, and round out the experience I had, a closure of sorts. Just as I was saying this, I felt the strands loosen from my wrist and I caught it, the worn and torn bracelet that I've had around my wrist since that temple visit in Varanasi...
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| A new chapter. My #IndiaThreads finally fall away after a very full and filling 14 months since a Hindu priest tied them around my wrist in Varanasi... |
December 29, 2010
bushwhack (v.)
My first encounter of "bushwhack" in a sentence came from my early childhood days spent at Camp Miriam, a wholesome, socialist-leaning, nature-loving, Jewish summer camp on Gabriola Island. Each age group (or "kvutzah" in Hebrew) had a daily branch of work (or "anaf avodah"), and mine was Anaf Bushwhacking.
My second encounter of bushwhacking was a week and a half ago when my boyfriend, Ben, and I were in Uclulet/Tofino. (It seems this bushwhacking thing and the Island are inseparable in my life.) Anyway, as I've mentioned, we attempted to go beach-combing in the morning (during low tide) at Schooner Cove, one day before our four year anniversary. After a nice one hour walk down the beach, kicking logs and sipping coffee from our tumblers, we decided it was time to head back.
However, seeing we'd only walked down and not back at all for the entire time, we were a few kilometres short of being anywhere near the (only) trail back to our car, the highway, the town, and well, civilization.
Before we knew it, our little stroll amounted to me running for my life toward shore after the tide came back and the ocean filled my Timberland boots and soaked me to my knees. So much for waterproof.
To avoid the waves that were crashing into the cliffy shoreline (and out to get us), we had to climb - yes, literally climb - into the forest.
I was in a frenzy, shaking from the cold that was climbing up from my frozen feet, and totally paranoid that the ocean was gonna take us in alive. I kept looking at the ground, the dirt and the branches all mushed together beneath my feet, and whenever I saw shells, I kept screaming to Ben, "Keep climbing higher!! It's moving fast! It's coming for us and it's gonna get us here!"
To say the least, fear makes you crazy. In retrospect, though, the only image I have from this moment was cliffs and slippery rocks in front of me as I quickly skittered across them, and Ben, scurrying along behind me, a tumbler in each hand high above above his head.
Once the shells in the dirt disappeared, and the ocean waves sounded far behind us, we calmed down a bit. This only lasted for a moment, though. It's hard to remain calm when you look around yourself and all you see are dense trees, storm debris, and no sign of human life (apart from the odd Birkenstock that just brings up images of a castaway's death).
We started walking. Well, hiking, climbing, crawling, and (wait for it)... bushwhacking.
I'd never in my life realized what a real forest really looks like, how unpredictable terrain can be, and how utterly exhausting it is to move through it. There were tricks we developed. From staying low when the brush was high, to moving backwards to keep branches from hitting us in the face. Ben found it easier to move forward once he put the tumblers in his backpack and I found it easier to keep going by yelling at him. I threatened to kill him if a cougar didn't first. I blamed him for not bushwhacking fast enough (to beat the dark), or bushwhacking with too much gusto (for fear he'd get hurt and I'd have to drag his 6-foot self through the forest alone).
My favourite plant was soon the fern because it signalled easy terrain and no swampland or thick brush.
After walking for an hour, we lost all orientation. It sounded like the ocean was surrounding us (which we later found was true because we'd reached the end of a small peninsula). We eventually called 9-1-1 (as my cell phone blinked "low battery"); while Ben gave out our information (B-E-N...May 2nd..... Vancouver... V-I-S-N....), I imagined our names in the paper: Due to a freak accident on Vancouver Island, Visnja, 23, and Ben, 25, were.... I didn't dare finish the thought.
Eventually, the operator put us through to the local Constable (Our Saviour!) who then told us we had two choices: 1: Wait at least five hours (two of which would be in the dark!) until the low tide came back; or 2: bushwhack.
Seeing I was not going to listen to animal sounds, freezing my butt off in a dark forest, we moved forward. To gain orientation, Constable B. played his car siren at the reservation close to the trail we were aiming for. Every couple of minutes, we'd stand in silence, our ears perked up listening for the sound of our target.
Luckily, we weren't hurt. We sang together loudly (the silver lining) to keep the wildlife away (yikes) and tried to stay positive. Three and a half hours later, I, covered in mud and twigs, and Ben, with rain pants ripped to shreds, set foot on the trail.
Down the trail we saw Constable B. He looked back at us and smiled, then uttered a simple "fuck".
After a short car ride in the back of a police car, and another short drive back to our place in Uclulet, we realized how exhausted we were from our four hour trek. Never in my life had I tried so hard to move 1 km/hr.
Once at the condo, Ben had to actually hose down our clothes. We left everything at the door (our muddy clothes and our negative feelings). Soon we were sipping rum and egg nog in front of the fire sighing over what had happened. Ben even looked at me with a smile saying, "When you said we weren't going to make it to our four-year anniversary, was that because you were going to break up with me or because you thought we were gonna die?"
I didn't bother replying and just gulped my drink, pulling twigs out of my hair.
That night we had a burger and wings and fries and clam chowder and a whole lot of beer. We also sang karaoke.
We had a whole new appetite for life.
Happy Anniversary, baby!
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| Ben, before the real tumbling. |
However, seeing we'd only walked down and not back at all for the entire time, we were a few kilometres short of being anywhere near the (only) trail back to our car, the highway, the town, and well, civilization.
 |
| Just a stroll. |
To avoid the waves that were crashing into the cliffy shoreline (and out to get us), we had to climb - yes, literally climb - into the forest.
I was in a frenzy, shaking from the cold that was climbing up from my frozen feet, and totally paranoid that the ocean was gonna take us in alive. I kept looking at the ground, the dirt and the branches all mushed together beneath my feet, and whenever I saw shells, I kept screaming to Ben, "Keep climbing higher!! It's moving fast! It's coming for us and it's gonna get us here!"
To say the least, fear makes you crazy. In retrospect, though, the only image I have from this moment was cliffs and slippery rocks in front of me as I quickly skittered across them, and Ben, scurrying along behind me, a tumbler in each hand high above above his head.
Once the shells in the dirt disappeared, and the ocean waves sounded far behind us, we calmed down a bit. This only lasted for a moment, though. It's hard to remain calm when you look around yourself and all you see are dense trees, storm debris, and no sign of human life (apart from the odd Birkenstock that just brings up images of a castaway's death).
We started walking. Well, hiking, climbing, crawling, and (wait for it)... bushwhacking.
I'd never in my life realized what a real forest really looks like, how unpredictable terrain can be, and how utterly exhausting it is to move through it. There were tricks we developed. From staying low when the brush was high, to moving backwards to keep branches from hitting us in the face. Ben found it easier to move forward once he put the tumblers in his backpack and I found it easier to keep going by yelling at him. I threatened to kill him if a cougar didn't first. I blamed him for not bushwhacking fast enough (to beat the dark), or bushwhacking with too much gusto (for fear he'd get hurt and I'd have to drag his 6-foot self through the forest alone). My favourite plant was soon the fern because it signalled easy terrain and no swampland or thick brush.
After walking for an hour, we lost all orientation. It sounded like the ocean was surrounding us (which we later found was true because we'd reached the end of a small peninsula). We eventually called 9-1-1 (as my cell phone blinked "low battery"); while Ben gave out our information (B-E-N...May 2nd..... Vancouver... V-I-S-N....), I imagined our names in the paper: Due to a freak accident on Vancouver Island, Visnja, 23, and Ben, 25, were.... I didn't dare finish the thought.Eventually, the operator put us through to the local Constable (Our Saviour!) who then told us we had two choices: 1: Wait at least five hours (two of which would be in the dark!) until the low tide came back; or 2: bushwhack.
Seeing I was not going to listen to animal sounds, freezing my butt off in a dark forest, we moved forward. To gain orientation, Constable B. played his car siren at the reservation close to the trail we were aiming for. Every couple of minutes, we'd stand in silence, our ears perked up listening for the sound of our target.
Luckily, we weren't hurt. We sang together loudly (the silver lining) to keep the wildlife away (yikes) and tried to stay positive. Three and a half hours later, I, covered in mud and twigs, and Ben, with rain pants ripped to shreds, set foot on the trail.Down the trail we saw Constable B. He looked back at us and smiled, then uttered a simple "fuck".
After a short car ride in the back of a police car, and another short drive back to our place in Uclulet, we realized how exhausted we were from our four hour trek. Never in my life had I tried so hard to move 1 km/hr.
Once at the condo, Ben had to actually hose down our clothes. We left everything at the door (our muddy clothes and our negative feelings). Soon we were sipping rum and egg nog in front of the fire sighing over what had happened. Ben even looked at me with a smile saying, "When you said we weren't going to make it to our four-year anniversary, was that because you were going to break up with me or because you thought we were gonna die?"I didn't bother replying and just gulped my drink, pulling twigs out of my hair.
We had a whole new appetite for life.
Happy Anniversary, baby!
December 27, 2010
beach combing (v.)
Ah, the art of beach combing - or perhaps the art that comes of it. It's a pretty neat activity that many people take part in while they're on the Westcoast, especially on Vancouver Island. Many people try to accumulate enough cool stuff to make art pieces (including picture frames and jewellery), but most take part in the hopes of clearing the beaches of unnaturally beach-occurring stuff.
Cool finds:
- shoes (hopefully, foot-free)
- boxes of high quality merchandise from China lost at sea that fell off of freighters (like boxes of shoes).
- beer bottles, beer cans, beer bongs, beer caps, lots and lots of beer stuff.
- plastic bottle caps (it's always disappointing).
- These awesome Japanese glass floats or buoys, from as early as the 30s (read about them here), which some persistent beachcombers spend their entire lives hoping to find. They're worth a pretty penny but no true beachcomber would sell it if they stumbled across one.
- poles, tubes, and other phallic objects.
- shipping pallets, or at least pieces of them (not that exciting seeing there's plenty of timber around anyway).
- nets, hooks, and other fishing/aquatic equipment) & boat parts (even motors).
- lots and lots of dead sea stuff (that still looks alive).
With all this adventuresome opportunity, my boyfriend Ben and I ventured out to Schooner Cove to partake in this island hobby.
However, much to our chagrin, we wound up bushwhacking.
Stay tuned.
Cool finds:
- shoes (hopefully, foot-free)
- boxes of high quality merchandise from China lost at sea that fell off of freighters (like boxes of shoes).
- beer bottles, beer cans, beer bongs, beer caps, lots and lots of beer stuff.
- plastic bottle caps (it's always disappointing).
 |
| Japanese glass float |
- poles, tubes, and other phallic objects.
- shipping pallets, or at least pieces of them (not that exciting seeing there's plenty of timber around anyway).
- nets, hooks, and other fishing/aquatic equipment) & boat parts (even motors).
- lots and lots of dead sea stuff (that still looks alive).
With all this adventuresome opportunity, my boyfriend Ben and I ventured out to Schooner Cove to partake in this island hobby.
However, much to our chagrin, we wound up bushwhacking.
Stay tuned.
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