by Pat Ardley
Over many years, medical missionary Dr. George Darby bent this tree on Calvert Island. The tree is situated on the route to what we called West Beach. Everyone who crossed the island to West Beach had to stop and have their photo taken through the frame.
There was a bit of salal to push through, and then we stepped up onto a log with a clear view of the most magical stretch of white-sand beach and bright blue ocean with waves curling up and breaking onto the sand. It completely took my breath away. The beach was at least a mile long with logs all akimbo at the high points where they had been pushed up by the tide and winter storms. It curved around slightly with rock cliffs at either end. There were several tiny islands with short deformed and gnarly trees a hundred yards offshore. We leaped off the log and ran and ran and ran. I hadn’t realized how much I missed stretching my legs. I felt free and laughed and cried as I ran, the clean white sand squeaking with every flying step.
We then slowed to a stop, turned and stared at the beauty of this incredible place. How could we be so lucky? We hadn’t been told how special this beach was. Just past the winter high-tide mark the beach was lined with low bushes and in a few places there were steep, sculpted rock walls. Along the walls there were narrow ledges with wild strawberries growing as if someone had planted them there. The bushes were all slanted away from the water, and the trees beyond them were beaten, twisted, gnarled and pushed in that direction by savage winter winds. Tall grasses were growing high up on the beach with purple beach peas and bright red fireweed safely tucked in amongst them. Lanky columbines, yarrow plants and huge cow parsnips grew above the tide line. About halfway down the beach there were sand dunes that gradually rose fifty feet high that we climbed and then threw ourselves down, stumbling and leaping, shrieking and rolling to the bottom. Then we picked ourselves up and walked along the waterline where the sand was wet, and seaweed and shells were washing up on the waves. The water was icy cold but it felt wonderful when I stood still and it eddied around my bare feet as the sand slipped away from under them.
We walked back to where we came out of the woods and built a fire to cook our go-to hiking lunch of hot dogs. Even looking for bits of firewood felt special as we poked around under logs and cut hot-dog sticks from the shrubbery. We sat quietly on a log and stared out to sea while we ate. We were full of the wonder of this place. It was here on this beach that we first talked about getting married.
Visitors and Visiting
We had the luxury of a few visitors at Addenbroke. Every few months, and if weather permitted, the Thomas Crosby V, an eighty-foot ship owned and run by the United Church, anchored in the bay, and the minister would row to shore and climb up to the wharf.
Sometimes his wife and a few of the crew came with him. They had a small library on board, and it was a treat to be able to pick up a few extra books and trade ones I had already read. We didn’t discuss religion, but we did enjoy having someone new to talk to. George and I both felt a spiritual connection to the beauty and grandeur of the wilderness setting of the island, and the minister appreciated and understood our feelings. They were often keen to have a bit of a party, and it seemed to us they were just happy sharing their joy with the often forgotten remote communities along the coast.
In the middle of August, George’s mom and dad came for a visit. They drove to Port Hardy on the north end of Vancouver Island and then flew in a Gulf Air float plane right to our island. The pilot circled a couple of times before landing on the water and taxiing into the bay. This gave us time to run to the wharf, lower the speedboat and then motor out to meet them. George’s dad, Ernie, climbed eagerly down the airplane steps and into the boat, then George and the pilot had a heck of a time manoeuvring George’s mom, Irene, out of the plane, down the three steps onto the pontoon and into the little bobbing boat. It was like trying to stuff a cat into a tub of water. I was anxiously waiting on the beach and willing her not to tip out the other side. I couldn’t tell for sure, but Irene had the look about her like she might have had a wee dram before climbing into the plane.
Irene and Ernie were great houseguests. They were interested in everything we did, and we were happy to tell them all about our secluded life here and how amazing it was that we were still enjoying spending all our time together. That afternoon, George took Ernie fishing and they caught a beautiful coho. We planned to celebrate with a wonderful dinner of fresh salmon and lots of fresh produce that Irene and Ernie brought with them. We invited Ray, Ruth and Lorna to join us. I had never cooked for so many people before so by the time we were finally sitting down to eat, it was quite late. No one was in a hurry though, since there was no place else to go.
We were having a lovely time when suddenly there was a knock on the door. We all looked around the table to see if anyone was missing. Our glances nervously returned to the door. It was unheard of for anyone to turn up unexpectedly, especially after darkness had fallen. George finally stood up and went to open the door. An axe murderer was wielding his weapon—no, actually it was only John, Ray and Ruth’s son. He had arrived from the north side of the island so he hadn’t driven past in front of the houses. One of us would have surely seen or heard him go by if he had. Then he had anchored his tugboat in the bay, used his own skiff to get to shore and knowing that we didn’t know he was there, he thought it would be fun to knock and give us all a fright! Well, he had succeeded! We all laughed nervously and pretended not to be surprised or scared. I wasn’t the only one thinking about the lighthouse keeper who had been murdered behind the wharf shed at Addenbroke in late 1929—a murder that is still unsolved.
George took his dad fishing early each morning and they always came back with huge grins and bright silver coho. They didn’t have to go far; just below the lighthouse was the perfect spot. The tide, the lack of early morning wind, the way the feed follows the shoreline—all provided the best fishing conditions. Ernie liked to be the one to clean the fish when they got back, which worked for me, and still works to this day! From then on, I said, “If I cook them, I don’t clean them!” One day we canned the fresh-caught salmon the same way that we did the clams, except this time we put the meat into canning jars, not cans, then into a boiling water bath. I’m still here, so I think I have proved that it works!
Ernie never liked to sit still anywhere for long and was perfectly happy to have work to do with George and Ray every afternoon. Irene and I spent hours sitting on the deck crocheting in the sunshine while listening to Ray and Ernie talking about how life was when they were young. Ernie grew up in the Courtenay area on Vancouver Island, while Ray grew up in Sointula on Malcolm Island near Port Hardy and had spent many years on the West Coast of BC. The two men were about the same age and both had an easy storytelling way of keeping us all entertained. Ray and Ernie did most of the talking while George listened and learned.
George and his dad built two watertight wooden boxes with Plexiglas bottoms and handles on two sides. We went out in the skiff and motored slowly along the shore while hanging overboard looking into the boxes. The see-through bottom didn’t need to be very far into the water, just far enough to break the surface to make the fascinating sea life so much more visible. We drifted along the shores watching eel grass and bull kelp sway in the current. Dungeness crabs skittered sideways, starfish seemed to glide along the bottom. There were sea cucumbers, little pike fish and eels, limpets and hermit crabs. So many coloured sea anemones that opened like giant flowers then disappeared into their long tube if we got too close. Long siphons stuck out of clamshells, and feathery fingers reached out of mussel shells combing the water for nutrients. We spotted bottom fish almost hidden in the sand and starfish sometimes sucking out the contents of a clamshell. There was always something new to look at.
Irene didn’t like to stay too long with family because she didn’t want to impose. We were waiting for the float plane to return to pick them up when the Thomas Crosby V arrived and anchored in the bay. Irene had already fo
rtified her nerve with a couple of stiff drinks, bracing herself for the flight to come, when the minister came to our door. We invited him in and chatted for a few minutes while Irene tried to pretend that she was drinking plain soda water—on ice with a twist of lemon. The float plane was soon circling in front of our house and we had to hurry down to the wharf. George ran ahead so he could get the boat organized, and I was last out the door as I made a quick check in case they forgot something. I jogged down the walkway and up behind the minister and Irene walking quickly down to the wharf. The minister was kindly carrying Irene’s “drink” for her and they were passing it back and forth so she could sip a little more courage. In the end, all went well, and Ernie and Irene were safely tucked into the plane for their return home.
The day after Ernie and Irene left we borrowed the boat again. Ray had told George about the people who were living at the Egg Island Lighthouse. Egg Island was the next beacon marking the Inside Passage for ships travelling south and we could see their light on a clear night. I had no idea at the time how far the island was. We headed out in the little tin boat early in the morning because the trip would take a couple of hours. I felt very small by the time we passed the entrance to Rivers Inlet. At that point you start to get out into the open water and the swells of Queen Charlotte Sound, and the safety of land looks very far away. The swells here are different from waves, they are more like the ocean heaving up in huge round-topped speed bumps. You can have a six-foot swell and ride up and over it just fine, but when you add the chop on top, well, things can get ugly. This morning though, as luck would have it, the sound was flat calm as far as you could see in all directions. I don’t think I have ever seen it that calm since. Our little boat was a tiny pinprick on the vast reflective surface that merged with the sky. I didn’t know how scared I should have been, and would be, on future boat rides.
We zipped along past the Dugout Rocks and Cranstown Point then past False Egg Island and Table Island. Finally, we approached the west side of Egg Island where the houses were. We could see the lighthouse keepers waving to us and knew that we had to drive around the island to the back, more sheltered side where they had their wharf and crane. When Ray radioed the 6 AM weather report he had sent a message through the Prince Rupert Coast Guard that we would be visiting Egg Island that day. The Coast Guard then contacted the Egg Island lightkeepers, Ed and Carlene Carson, and passed on the message. They were expecting us, and they were very excited.
Egg Island is even more remote than Addenbroke, and almost no one ever visits. There is no safe harbour or anchorage so everyone generally just passes by. It’s a very small island in the middle of Queen Charlotte Sound and because of exposure to winter winds there is not a lot of greenery or trees growing on it. The first lighthouse there had been built in 1898 but was very badly damaged by a huge wave in 1912. They built a new foundation farther away from the water, but still not far enough! On a cold November night in 1948 the lighthouse was destroyed again by a huge rogue wave during a tremendous storm. That night the house trembled each time another wave hit. At 2 AM the lightkeeper, his wife and young son just barely managed to get out of the house and up to higher ground before a wave hit and carried off their home. They endured piercing rain, frigid temperatures and intense hunger for five days.
Shortly after the storm abated, the father attempted to row for help but he had fallen and damaged both of his elbows so he was not able to get very far. Then they saw a fishboat circling the island and the three of them climbed into the rowboat and rowed themselves to the Sunny Boy and safety at last. The crew on the Sunny Boy fed them and gave them clothes because they were still in their pyjamas. They then took the family to the hospital in Bella Bella where they were treated for various injuries and exposure. The federal government had assumed that the family of three had been washed away and did not send help to check on them! The family who had helped keep boaters safe for many years was never properly compensated for their ordeal or the loss of everything they owned. They did not continue to work as lightkeepers.
George’s dad and a friend with a nice catch of salmon caught off of Addenbroke Island. Our guests would still be fishing this area for the next thirty-eight years from the sport-fishing resort that we would build called Rivers Lodge.
Ed and Carlene helped us lift the skiff out of the water with their crane and swung it over to rest safely on the wharf and ushered us across the island to their home. It was a quick few minutes’ walk to cross the entire island. They showed us the foundation of the original lighthouse and told us why it had been destroyed so easily. Apparently when the new foundation was built in 1912, the old lighthouse was moved up onto the foundation but was never actually attached to it. Just simply plunked down on top and that was that.
We sat at the kitchen table while Carlene made lunch and we all chatted at the same time. Everyone wanted to talk, but there was so much energy in the room that it was okay and no one felt left out or shy. It wasn’t long before Ed brought out his homemade salal-berry wine. We sipped politely for a little while before he plunked a bottle down beside each person and that was the end of polite. The salal berry doesn’t taste very good just picked off the bush, but it can be turned into a great wine. Or so we thought at the time. Why, that wine was some of the best that I have ever had the pleasure of drinking! George managed to keep his wits about him just enough, and asked Ed to call the Coast Guard to pass along a message to Ray at Addenbroke that we wouldn’t be returning that day but would come back in the morning. Ed convinced George that he shouldn’t worry, that Ray or Ruth could cover his middle-of-the-night watch. I convinced George that we sure as hell couldn’t drive back to Addenbroke after we had been drinking all afternoon. It was all Ed’s fault!
We did manage to get out of bed in the morning and made our way back to the wharf. Ed lowered our boat into the water and we sadly hugged our new best friends goodbye then scrambled down the rocks to climb into the boat. The trip back to Addenbroke was much longer and more uncomfortable than the day before because there was a bit of a chop on the water that slowed us down, and our heads were still feeling the effects of all that wine.
As we got closer to Addenbroke we were suddenly travelling with a pod of huge orcas. There must have been twenty of them and I think they just happened to be going in the same direction as we were. I was startled at first then scared half to death. We all seemed to be travelling at the same speed. They kept surfacing and blowing great puffs of smelly, fishy mist and because we couldn’t speed up in our tiny boat, we couldn’t get away from them. I kept watching off the front of the boat in case one came up and we ran into it. I had no plan—I just wanted to be the first one to know if I was going to die.
The whales travelled with us for several miles and then they just seemed to melt into the ocean and disappear. When they didn’t reappear anywhere that I could see, I started to breathe a little easier and unglued my eyes from the front of the boat. I turned to George, and he called out over the engine, “Wasn’t that amazing, wasn’t that fantastic?!”
Oh yes, it was amazing to me, but deep in my heart I am a Prairie girl. About this time I was thinking a farm in Saskatchewan might be a nice place to be.
We had been back on the island for a few days when I decided to use some of the salal berries that were ripening everywhere and turn them into jelly. They taste awful and they had a funny texture but when you added a whole lot of sugar, and strained the lumps out, the flavour was like an intensely delicious blackberry sauce. Unfortunately, I was a little late picking the fruit and little white worms had gotten into the berries. As I boiled the berry and sugar mixture, a worm-filled foam formed on the top as worms floated up to the surface. I stood bent over the pot for what felt like hours, skimming the top and picking out worms. I had to stop occasionally when the salal fumes steamed up into my face and I started gagging with the memory of drinking too much salal-berry wine. Maybe the worms added to the flavour, becau
se the salal-berry jelly that I made at Addenbroke was so good it could have won awards.
We were due to have six weeks’ holiday after being at the lighthouse almost nine months. It worked out that we would be in Vancouver through the Christmas season. I had missed being with my family the previous Christmas and couldn’t possibly miss another one. We flew off the island on the Coast Guard helicopter. What a thrill as it lifted straight up off the helicopter pad. I was surprised to see from the air that the island was completely green. Other than the few buildings on the west side, the island was lush forest. No clearings, no streams, no meadows, no wide-open valleys. No wonder we got lost! We went to Vancouver and visited our friends before I flew to Winnipeg and George went to Lake Cowichan to spend the rest of the Christmas holidays with our respective families. One afternoon in Winnipeg before New Year’s, there was a knock on my sister Marcia’s door. There was George with a big grin on his face!
We had a great big reunion hug. We missed each other so much after living together where we were practically joined at the hip, day after day, morning, noon and night for nine whole months. I made a pot of coffee and we sat in the living room telling each other everything that had happened in the last week and a half. I couldn’t believe how much I had missed him. I had trouble taking my eyes off him when he tried to show me something. I finally saw that he was holding a ring in his hand and was trying to give it to me. He asked me to marry him, and I said, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”
Lighthouse Keepers Sometimes Save Lives
We headed back to the lighthouse at the end of our holiday. George liked to say, “We had six weeks of holiday after nine months of holiday.” We got right back into the daily routine of more holiday. Since it was now mid-winter, there was no garden work for me so I spent a lot of time reading about gardening, and knitting and cooking. I looked after the chickens and wrote a lot of letters documenting our life. I didn’t get bored with the routine, there always seemed to be something interesting to read, learn about or do. I became fascinated with food and studied all the cookbooks that I could get my hands on. George was my very willing guinea pig and was happy to try anything that I put in front of him. There were a few hits: roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, carrot cake, Manhattan clam chowder. There were also a few misses, like canned-salmon soufflé. “I feel like all I’m eating is air,” George said, which of course was the whole point! I’ve already mentioned the awful fried herring, and I won’t go into what he said about the stuffed and baked green peppers, but he would hold on to a long-lingering hatred of green peppers after that.