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“Of course,” I tell them, as I stand up to go, “I need to talk this over with my husband, Scott, and make sure it’s right for him. I’ll bring him with me to see our accommodations and the resort tomorrow. But I’m sure he’ll love it.”
Kayla smiles. “I’m sure, too.”
Salt Spring Revisited
We go to bed early, and in the morning we head to the ferry. The long line actually brings a smile to my face. Normally, I despise lines, but this brings back memories. I used to take the ferry back and forth to the mainland all the time with my friends when I lived here. Sometimes we’d be in a hurry, rushing to get someplace or another, but we’d still have to sit in line and wait. There was nothing we could do about the pace. There’s nothing to be done. The ferry takes as long as it takes.
Soon enough, the ferry loads and makes its way through the islands. I stand on the deck and take in the ocean water and the deep green trees of the islands as we wind our way through. Around the corner, Salt Spring comes into view. There it is. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and align myself with the feel of it. It’s been a long time, and now after all these years, here it is.
The loudspeaker chimes to alert passengers to return to their vehicles. Scott and I walk to our rental car and wait to be instructed to drive off. I grip the wheel as we follow the cars ahead of us, across the ramp, on to the road, and up the hill.
“Look at that.” Scott’s pointing to the “Welcome to Salt Spring Island” sign. Someone has spray-painted in drippy black letters, “Death by Tourism.”
I’m not surprised. Salt Spring residents stand up for what they believe in. “Tourism must be an issue here now.”
I focus on the road ahead, narrow and winding. We roll over hills, through forests, and beside lakes. We go through the village of Ganges, with its organic restaurants, coffee houses, and locally-owned shops. It’s all so familiar and wonderful. I used to walk through this town, past the stores, through the park. I’d always run into people I knew and end up going out for coffee, to a bonfire on the beach, or to a house party that was going on. There were always people to see and things to do.
The road winds out of Ganges, past the old church that’s been converted into a movie theatre, where Fritz the cat lives. Or used to.
“Where are we going? Scott asks.
“We have an hour before our meeting at the resort. I’m going to show you where I used to live.” Sophie’s old farmhouse is just ahead.
But as soon as we turn the corner, I can tell something’s not right. I swear that’s where her house should be, but it’s not there. Instead of the little driveway leading to a big old farmhouse with wildflowers and apple trees, there’s a condo. It looks a lot like the one that had been advertised on that billboard in the vacant lot in our old neighborhood in Duluth.
I pull up in front and turn off the car.
“Did they tear Sophie’s house down?” Scott asks.
“I don’t know. I can’t believe it.” The complex sprawls out in front of us. “Sophie’s family never would have sold their place for development. They were so against that.”
We’re both quiet. I look at Scott, hoping for an explanation, and he offers a faint smile. “Maybe they sold it to someone, and then that person sold it for development,” he says.
“Maybe.” At any rate, it’s gone. A wave of regret and guilt and disappointment rushes through me, tightening my chest. I left here thirteen years ago and never came back. I had promised to return for visits and I swore I’d keep in touch, but I didn’t. I got too busy and life got too crazy and suddenly so much time passed. Apparently life went on here, too. Things changed.
I start the car and head back to Ganges to grab a coffee before our meeting. At least I can show Scott the town, if not where I used to live. We park in the strip mall parking lot and walk past the new trendy Aveda hair salon and the line of stores.
Up ahead is the park where every Saturday people set up to sell their produce and crafts. What did they insist on, again? Oh yeah, everything has to be made, baked or grown on Salt Spring. I used to make necklaces, and sometimes I made my own beads, too. I set up a little table and laid the necklaces out, and Sophie would sit with me all morning to keep me company. Yes, I remember this. It’s good to be back.
Across the street is the coffee shop with the hardwood floors and bar stools, where I first learned about the concepts of free range and free trade. Scott grabs the only open table and I wait in line for our drinks, a double latte and a single mocha. I walk back to the table, taking everything in. A girl on the couch in the corner is writing in a journal. A group of five people with long skirts and dreads are joking up by the counter, filling the place with laughter. I take a deep breath and hand Scott his mocha.
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