This is how life almost off the grid can
affect you in a mere 13 days: It’s thundering rain this afternoon at our
borrowed beach house in the Discovery Islands, and my first thought when it
started to fall was, “This will be good for the reservoir.”
Paul and I are currently in the waning days
of an amazing housesit on North Rendezvous Island, at a property that is
normally a little summer resort for getting away from it all but at the moment
is totally ours. I can hardly believe our good fortune to have all of Solstua West to ourselves. I would be indebted for life to owners Pete and Karen
Tonseth for the opportunity had I not been already indebted for life to Karen
for picking up me and a Honduran dog in Vancouver after we got stuck there in April with
no way home to Victoria.
But back to the edge of the grid. A home
like this – solar electricity only, water an ongoing concern in the summer
months, no grocery stores for miles and even then only if you can drive a boat
there (which we don’t know how to do) – quickly gets you thinking differently
about things.
For me there’s usually never enough sun,
but these past couple of weeks I’ve found myself dwelling on the consequences
of too many hot days in a row. And I’m feeling genuine pleasure at the sound of
the rain pounding down all around us right now, imagining the depleted
reservoir filled to the brim again and the dry gardens and lawns grateful for a
good soak.
I’ve been stung by two bees since being
here, which also brought home to me another aspect of life on a remote island:
No easy access to medical care. I’m not allergic to bees but they say that can all
change with the wrong bee. So I stood there for a few minutes after the first
sting just to see if I’d just met my wrong bee, and thinking that if my time really
had come, at least I’d be dying in brilliant sunshine on a lovely island. But
it turned out to be just another bee sting.
Before we left for the island, we packed
provisions like we were headed for wilderness. I guess in a way we were; the
nearest corner store is a 40-minute boat ride away on Quadra Island, and as
mentioned, we don’t know how to operate a boat. (Or manoeuvre the intimidating
Surge Narrows.) But it’s wilderness with a super-nice gas stove, on-demand hot
water and solar-powered fridge and freezer. So I can’t complain, even if I did
eat through my treasured bag of raisins way sooner than I’d intended and at
this very moment would kill for a big restaurant meal of fish and chips.
We have no TV here, but I knew I wouldn’t
miss that much. It’s just so disappointing, all those channels and nothing
interesting. I didn’t bring anywhere near enough books, but happily there’s a
place called the Bluff Cabin where Solstua West guests can hang out, and it’s
full of books. And there are two kayaks and about a million miles of water to explore.
I’m in my thoughts more here, probably
because there just aren't the same number of distractions. I’m an introvert who
loves solitude, but now there are so few people around that I feel a bit
excited when I see someone pulling up at the dock.
It has been a restorative, peaceful time –
a gift that has brought me back to this beautiful country of mine after more
than two years of living in another country that I still miss a great deal. Life can be wonderfully simple, with space for reflecting on the light left on unnecessarily, the overly long shower, too much time on-line. I’m
here with my most hated form of weather falling all around me, and I'm thinking: Let it come.
