Salt Spring Island 2015

I went over to Salt Spring Island to visit an old friend. The connection between the bus from Duncan to Crofton and the ferry is to put it mildly, nonexistent. I had to wait in the small and sometimes smelly village of Crofton for almost two hours before I got on the ferry. The village, depending on which way the wind blows, is permeated by the unpleasant smell of the pulp mill that dominates the bay. 

It was cool, and foggy with a general sense of dampness that attached itself to the trees, the grass and my beard. I was glad that I had my three season jacket, beret and cheap dollar store gloves with me.The few people I talked to, all of whom were wearing their jackets unzipped, with no hats or gloves on, said how pleasant it was and how they almost preferred the fog to the sun. I do admire people who always find something positive to say.

When I am travelling, perhaps because of necessity, I become much more relaxed about doing nothing. Staring into nothing and thinking thoughts that I can't remember a few minutes later becomes a viable way of spending my time. In this fashion I passes most of the two hours. Along the way I got to watch some cormorant chicks swim in the shallows of the bay; saw a few harbour seals come to the surface, check out the sky,  roll a few times and then to dive perhaps to find some more pleasant skies to play under; and I watched some tug boats maneuver a log boom so that the logs could be loaded into a ship and sent elsewhere. I  also had a egg muffin along with a cup of tea at a small restaurant/craft shop near the terminal. They had some weaving done by a local artisan displayed which while not my style, were very well done. I would have like to have talked to the weaver. I miss playing with wool.

Perhaps for the first time in all of my ferry crossings, I sat in the closed-in upper deck of the ferry. Normally I sit outside, at the front of the boat with my large pack. Today the fog was so thick that there was nothing to see and my pack was small enough that carrying it up the steel stairs was not a problem. I did missed however, watching one shore slowly fade and the new one appear.

Once on Salt Spring Island I could have waited for the bus from Vesuvius to Ganges which would have come in another fifteen minutes or so, but I decided to hitchhike.  I was glad that I did. I got a ride right into downtown Ganges within three or four minutes; the bus to Fulford Harbour was not going to leave for another hour or so, so I walked to the edge of town and stuck my thumb out. This particular spot is a well known location to hitchhike from. There is even a box of wooden signs with various destinations hand-painted on them that people borrow to show to drivers as they drive by. I got a short ride withing a few minutes of standing there, and at the next spot got a ride equally as quickly right to where I wanted to go. Almost no walking, quick rides and nice drivers. Who could ask for anything more?

It  is now sometime after eight in the evening. My friend is sitting at the table with her adult son and two mid-twenties, absolutely charming young women. They are all painting in water colours. It is fascinating to watch this eclectic group of people draw and paint. Their styles are all so remarkably different. Across from me on the couch another friend, who has an wonderful voice and who I last saw sing at Hugh's Place in Toronto for a CD release party. She is singing some of her songs on a old guitar that she has just re-strung.

Again life may get better than this, but I have a hard time imagining how.