A Perfect Day on a Perfect Isle

On a sweltering hot day last summer, heaven, quite unexpectedly, dropped a pearl in my palm. Heat waves are rare on Pender Island, for it is blessed with one of the mildest climates in the country. But for the third day in a row, the temperature was climbing toward 30 degrees. My wife, Allyson, and I spent the morning moving slowly and listlessly, dressed in shorts, tank tops and flip flops, sticking to the shade whenever we ventured outside.

“Let’s go kayaking,” suggested Ally. Soon we were paddling along the west side of the island, our heads shaded by wide-brimmed hats and our skin lathered in sun-block. Gentle breezes brought delightful coolness. An eagle soared above. A dozen seals were hauled out on a rock, balefully watching us.

“Look, look!” shouted Ally, pointing at an enormous black dorsal fin that rose elegantly out of the water and then disappeared under the waves, only to appear moments later. Then another appeared and another. A pod of killer whales, or orcas, was passing by, only 60 metres away. I’d seen orcas before, usually from a cliff-top viewpoint or a ferry. But here, down at water level, the killer whales were enormous, their dorsal fins towering above us. For the next ten minutes, whale after whale went past, accompanied by several whale-watching boats. The orcas were as smooth and graceful as ballet dancers. I had a feeling of awe and of privilege to be sharing the water with these magnificent creatures.

All abuzz, we returned home to find that a friend wanted me to drop by. I drove over. Smiling he said, “This morning my crab pot brought up more than we can eat,” and handed me four crabs, already cleaned. Then he hauled a bulging canvas bag out of the water beside his dock. “How about some fresh oysters,” he said. What a bonanza!

Ally and I sat on our deck, savoured oysters the size of T-bonesteaks, sipped a chilled sauvignon blanc and surveyed the beautiful vista of islands that stretched before us. Then we tackled the crabs, butter oozing from our fingers and dribbling down our chins.

After dinner we strolled to a nearby rise. We gazed at islands turning into ever-mistier mauves as they receded. We raised our glasses and toasted our perfect island home.

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Island Car Stops

A small red car stopped. The driver, a short white-haired woman who could barely see over the top of the steering wheel, beckoned me in. Turning to her companion, she asked with a mischievous grin, “Do you think we’ll be safe with him?”

“I hope not,” giggled her elderly friend.

I was hitching a ride from the community hall back to my home using the Car Stop system. It’s one of the things that makes our little island special. Other places frown on hitch-hiking, here we encourage it. Operating like bus stops, Car Stops have been installed at 29 locations where people seeking rides wait for willing drivers.

The rules are printed on green signs at each stop:

Drivers don’t have to take the first in line.

You’re not obliged to accept a ride, that’s fine.

You accept a ride at your own risk.

But the ride is free so consider it a gift.

Barry Mathias, a retiree, was the driving force behind the Car Stops, which were introduced in 2008. The idea was to reduce the number of cars clogging the narrow winding roads. With a population of about 2,000, Pender could not support a bus system but Car Stops were a simple and effective solution.

My wife and I moved here from southern Ontario to escape gridlock and pollution. Coming from a place where hitch-hiking is usually illegal and risky, Car Stops are like a breath of fresh air. I’m pleased to save gas, and do my part to reduce road congestion and limit green-house-gas emissions.

Best of all, Car Stops are a wonderful way to meet people. I’ve hitched rides with construction workers, lawyers, retirees, young and old, rich and poor. Their vehicles have ranged from a luxurious Mercedes SUV to trucks and jalopies held together by duct tape.

I seldom wait more than three cars. Once aboard, the driver and I chat about the approaching fall fair, water shortages, the recent infestation of raccoons and rats on the island and, of course, area gossip. I rode with a local politician and vented about an irksome by-law. Another time, I hung on for dear life as the teenage driver careened around tight corners with tires squealing.

My wife and I also offer rides. One morning I stopped for a young man in his early twenties. He had long dreadlocks, carried an enormous backpack and wore shorts. A happy face was tattooed on each knee and their smiles grew larger the more he bent his legs.

His face, in contrast, was a picture of sorrow. “I want to catch the first ferry, and I don’t care where it’s going,” he told me. “I need to get to a city hall fast so I can annul my marriage.”

He described how he was married two weeks before, but that his new wife had changed. “She’s turned into a monster,” he said miserably, “I can’t take it any more. I’ll do anything to get out.” He wailed non-stop until we reached the terminal. I wished him luck.

                                            Barry Mathias at a car stop

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