An Island Life…

I have been again to the black soil and cool seas of my island home off the south shore of Nova Scotia.  I’ve smelt her sweet summer sweat, climbed her lichen-patched curves and walked through her tall sharp marsh grasses; done battle with voracious swarms of assorted mosquito varieties.  Admired her soft mossy groves and played in her seaweed skirt that swirls and dances in the tide. It has been my greatest pleasure to see her again and rest with her a while.  To listen to her song, feel the wind’s caress, to taste her summer salt and to reminisce.

 

Trees speak in the wind and branches tap out island rhythms.  Tides come in hesitantly, sometimes slowly seeping and creeping, sometimes in a rush, and bubble with urgency, wind pushing foam up out of the water.  Tides go out with a quiet determination, drawing and pulling a water cloak around bends and over rocks to race towards deep channels and push against everything in its path to the open sea.

I have memories of my sister as a ponytailed child with fine wisps of hair dancing tendril-like around her face in the breeze. Delicately freckled and long of limb, she’s always had a dazzling smile. Under a bright clear sky with seawater lapping at our feet, we played together in our own little world, on a small island.

We had a tiny, leaky plywood dinghy kitted out with sapling mast, removable centreboard and tiller.  S.V. Sugarplum was our first sailboat.  Our mother watched nervously as we made the short passage from the island across the channel to Cherry Hill Beach or to other islands near by.  She was a Captain and owner of a wooden schooner, called Orion, for a time herself. 

Nowadays our family can be seen heading in and out of Voglers’ Cove or Port Medway in our little aluminium dinghy during the summer months.  We are mostly quiet and keep to ourselves, yet sociable.  We are always happy to stop and bend an ear when the opportunity presents itself.

When explaining that we are going to or coming from an island, it captures folks’ imagination, as it still does mine. For me, it is a home like no other in my life.  I have been on and off the island since I was just a wee babe.  My sister was slightly older, a toddler when we began our life there.

I see the island as my parents’ best work together, apart from bringing my sister and me into the world, that is.  The little island has taught me more about life than anything else in my life.  It was a sort of wonderland for a growing child when the universe existed in a tidal pool and the rich depth of the natural world was a new discovery.  Since I can remember, I’ve always felt comforted by the island.

We do not poach or grow anything illegal there.  There is no power, generator or dug well.  It’s more like a big boat than an island in shape.  Tapering on each end, long and slender.  The island features eelgrass, marsh, muck, mud and sand flats, woods and rock: island swamp country, really.  The A-frame house my parents built, with the help of family and local folk, now creaks in the wind like me.  We are the same age.  People once raised sheep on the island, thus it’s name, Sheep Island.

My wish is to honour this place and its people, as it holds a deep place in my heart and stays with me no matter where in the world I roam.  I wish to pay respects to friends, family members and acquaintances that have come and gone in years past.  Those who taught me, as a child, befriended me and helped me learn the value of stopping in the road to say ‘hello’.  Whether one speaks of the weather, or any other whatnot, it matters much less than the moment taken to appreciate and connect with another in passing.

There are still some about whom I am very pleased to know and call family and friends.  There are many more people I have seen in passing, perhaps heard of and haven’t met as yet.  So by way of introduction, we are the crazy family on the little island behind Cherry Hill Beach.  My Mother was previously known in the village of Voglers’ Cove as ‘the lady Doctor with the two girls’.  She hailed from Annapolis Royal and her father from Margaree Harbour, Cape Breton Island.

I’ve now lived and worked on the other side of the world for about half of my forty years, in Australia.  I’ve been fortunate to live and work on a few other islands too, including the north island of New Zealand and the Big Island of Hawai’i.

Islands especially, and in fact most natural habitats, bring me a sense of ease and comfort.  In a place that is alive, I feel most energised and filled with wonder.  My early fascination with saltwater life has led me to explore other places where land meets sea as well as places offshore, far from any landfall.  I find that I am one of those most contented to be a tiny speck floating on the big blue.  I love the sea.

Our little island home and its surrounds have changed over the years.  There are more people coming and going from the area now.  There are more kayaks than ever before.  We’ve been lucky over the years and only had a few sticky fingered visitors.  It’s an uneasy feeling to have people, unknown and un-welcomed, come when we aren’t there and help themselves to what they find.

Local people have always come to the island through hunting seasons and to dig for clams. We ask graciously that anyone visiting respect the island and not take from her or from us.  Neighbouring islands, Great Island and Selig Island, are now part of the Nova Scotia Land Trust.  Our long time friends and island neighbours, who retain residence on Great Island, decided to ensure the future of the islands is protected, as well as can be.

Nowadays, as local resources become scarcer, we turn to natural places to find what more we can sell, driven by a need to survive.  This is true the world over, by degrees.  As a child, I remember bounty.  I remember catching everything that swam or crawled on and around the island.  Sometimes to eat it or just to look at it and then let it go.

I recall the final collapse of the cod fishery and the local inshore fishery.  I’ve seen the steady harvest and disappearance of some of what used to live here. Sadly, if ironically, there are no more clams (‘steamers’ Mya arenaria), to speak of, on the island and sand bar known as Clam Island on the backside of Cherry Hill Beach.

When I was a kid you could dig a bucket full straight up on either side of the channel. We always dug clams by hand. People came with pitchforks, shovels, and every other implement imaginable to dig for clams. Commercial Clammers came too with buckets and boats.  It was quite a large clam bed once.

While it’s true that natural cycles have always brought about changes in ecology, the human impact cannot go unnoticed or be denied.  It seems to me, human degradation of our world is currently our greatest challenge for survival.

I am forever and deeply grateful to know and to have known this place and the people here all my life. I hope to return to the island throughout the remainder of my years and continue to share it with family and loved ones.  She is a rare beauty. My hope is that she will remain a quiet and safe place for all life that seeks refuge there.

By Karman Lippitt

Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia

October 2012 ©