Googily Eyes

I pull a Jesus and walk on water. That is, I use my ferry ride to get in some steps by doing laps in the passenger lounge.

Goodness there are some adorable kids this afternoon. Two parents have three near identical wiry little girls under the age of five: one with yellow pants, one with the remains of a sucker, one with a tiny toy truck, all with shiny black hair and bright brown eyes. They are laughing, squealing, playing some magical game around the swivel stool by the vending machines. Three sisters. May you always play like this. May you always love each other. May you always give each other your suspension of disbelief.

The eyeball boys are back. Three boys on the cusp of puberty. At first I thought they were up to something quite naughty, huddled in the stairwell, whispering. Jaded me assumed they were trading drugs or looking at porn. But I forget, these are Bowen kids, not West Van kids. They get to stay innocent just a little while longer. What they’re doing is putting googily eyes on the BC Ferries posters. I love these boys so much. Their cow-licked hair. Their ski jackets. Their cracking voices. Their dirty runners and heavy backpacks full of homework and empty lunch boxes. Every ferry – googliy eyes are somewhere. I look for them now and I thank those boys for making me laugh.

And finally, Auntie and Momma are traveling with a little girl about the age of three. She is bundled in a padded jacket so she runs around with her arms stuck out. Her afro is split into two puff balls, a burst of curls bounce over her forehead. I don’t want to gawk but she is beyond adorable. She’s an exuberant cherub who thinks this boat ride is just AMAZING. I turn to the Mom and say, helplessly, “How do you not die from unbelievable cuteness?” She laughs and nods enthusiastically, “I know, right? I die a little bit each day, in a good way.”

I know what she means. Nora was a ringlet tousled sprite, full of wonder and delight. My love for her almost hurt. I just couldn’t believe she existed. I couldn’t believe I was so blessed to be her Mama. I still feel that way. Maybe even more so, because now she’s old enough to choose. She’s old enough to choose whether she wants to love me.

Taking the ferry might just save my writing. I get to people watch. Otherwise I am sequestered in my Island paradise and have nothing to share except me me me and that gets pretty damn boring. I have honestly thought of getting a job at the local grocery store just to get writing material. It’s important for artists to be connected to the rest of society.

On my tenth lap, I pass a family I’m sure I’ve seen around town. The big block of a man, Dad, calls out to me:

“Getting your steps in? Or just looking for a decent conversation?”

“I’m up for a conversation. How are ya?”

“We’re good, we’re good. Where you coming from?” Asks the wife. I like her wild eyebrows and her no nonsense pony tail.

“I’m coming from seeing my personal trainer. Though I suppose there are a number of them on Bowen?”

The wife, who I now know is Jean, lists off four and their credentials.

“Cool.”

We have a little chit chat about who we know and where we live.

“I’m Eagle Cliff, at the Y, beside Jenny and Don if you know them.”

“Oh yeah, we were supposed to go to their party!”

“I was there.”

“So you must know Izzy and Neil?”

“Love them.”

“So what do you do?”

“I’m a writer and an actor.”

“Oh yeah, lots of film people on Bowen. You know Michelle and Matthew? You know Susan – “

“Hogan, yes, good people!”

“And your husband?”

“Fire captain, Surrey.”

“Lots of firefighters on the island. So, what’s his commute?”

I love this small town business. Jean and Jim. Their eldest daughter wants to be a fire fighter too. She smiles at me shyly.

Back to my car and the windy leaf covered road down Miller to Eagle Cliff. Back to my little dog eager for another walk before the sun sets. Back to the solitude I have craved for years, the quiet, the calm, the space. I can sit and nothing touches my elbows. Ahhhh. Bliss. The yellow leaves, the smell of rain, the innocence of kids.