The Mother Ship

 

A picture is worth a thousand words.

This picture was photographed on April 4, 2023 from the ferry between Crofton, BC and Salt Spring Island, BC. It looks upon Mount Erskine on Salt Spring, where my camper sits, and fits me in my ultimate lifestyle and in my happiest moments. Riding the ferry that day, it was one of those moments of idle thought, standing on the sunshine lit deck of the ferry, gazing out across the water, when I was struck by the stunning colours and reflections in what I saw. I took out my iPhone, and snapped this photo.

I have since been on this ferry many times, but I have never seen something quite so picturesque as this. It was a magical moment in time.

For me it represents a general sense of time and moments on Salt Spring. Things have a way of manifesting in the most meaningful ways. Always unexpected, and rarely unpleasant. It’s like the island has its own timeline and agenda. One need only immerse themselves into the flow of island vibe and time, and trust that things will work themselves out.

I have been visiting Salt Spring since 2004. That’s almost 20 years of coming to this coastal paradise. The climate is moderate. The landscape beautiful, no matter where you go. There’s hardly any bugs that bite you or make you itch. You can be outside as much as you want, in comfort, and in the nude (if you prefer).

I mean, this island is the Hippie Mother Ship, after all.

Not that I have anything against hippies. I have prided myself in being one most of my life. It all started in high school. I was 16 years old, and unsure about which category my identity fell under. I for sure wasn’t a jock. And I wasn’t a punk rocker. Or a metal head. I didn’t really click with the preppies. But I did wear clothes that were probably a little bit pretty boy. But not overly so. Rather, I just dressed normally and decently. And I drew weird crazy pictures. And listened to weird crazy music. I was also just beginning to experiment with socially encouraged influences that worked magic on my thought processes. Perhaps then being a hippie was more of a natural calling? It was definitely one that answered… especially after the New Year’s Eve party where I got bullied and beat up.

Yep. That’s right.

One of my high school friends thought it would be cool to spread rumours around this largely homophobic male gathering that I was a flaming faggot who wanted to perform oral gratification on most of its members. By the time I caught onto this, I was heavily under the influence of various brain magics, and my guard was completely down. I became fearful, and in my vulnerable state, I tried leaving the party unnoticed.

But someone alerted everyone that the faggot was making a run for it. ANd so the crowd pursued me outside and into the lane. I ran, but it was winter and icy and I slipped fell, and my attacker fell on me. He proceeded to smash my head into the icy pavement until I screamed for him to stop.

He did.

I picked myself up and walked home. I got in and my parents were there, entertaining their own NYE party with friends. I got into bed and escaped into sleep, about fifteen minutes before midnight.

The next day I reflected heavily on who I was, how this happened, and how I never wanted it to happen again. I concluded I needed to change. I threw my nice shirt out (a gift from my parents, that was the main object of the bullying and beating) and started dressing more like the 60s music, hippie culture homophobes that I had hung out with the night before. I grew my hair long. I wore peace signs. I tie dyed and I bleach blobbed my clothing. I went to peace rallies. I was playing a part. I did it with all my heart.

As it turned out, this was exactly who I was meant to be. It fit my personality. And so this identity stuck with me, through all the years. And in 2004, I made my way for the first time time to Salt Spring Island, where hippie culture seemed to have a home. And subsequently, so did I.

For I felt so much at home. I felt accepted. I felt alignment with policies and practices that revealed themselves to me, bit by bit, as I spent more and more time visiting in the following years. In 2010 I moved there with my wife and twins. Five months later we moved back. The marriage ended and I felt out of place, lost and far from my new home. I was desperate to claw my way back, any way I could. But I could not move. I had children and all the obligations of fatherhood keeping me away. I was stuck, and there was nothing I could do.

So I kept breathing. And one day the tide brought me a sail. I got an increase in my income and  as a result, qualified to get a WestJet Mastercard. With it, I could now afford to travel to the island more often. Eventually I bought a camper there. I was even closer to making more of a life for myself there. The kids were older now, in high school and headed for graduation. I started to plan my next move.

A lot of things started to happen though, that threatened to derail my plans. I had a shaky relationship rise and fall and rise and eventually fall again (several time, in fact). That could have held me back. The housing market there is outrageously expensive now (compared to when I lived there). But I am letting go of all my concerns…

And wholeheartedly trusting in the magical manifestations of the mother ship.