Island Kids

Island Kids

Tara Saracuse

To Lynne, Linda, and Ruth, for believing in me.

Contents

List of Maps

Introduction

The Raven, the Clam, and the Kids

Saltwater Children

Storm on the Salish Sea

Two Girls and a Rat

The Omen

Polly and the Parrot

Salt Spring Tough

Frank’s Dinosaur

Emily Carr’s Cows

A Lonely Castle

Miss Trickey and the Yellow Slug

Joe and the Cougar

The Golden Rule

We’ll Be Back Again

The Chocolate Strike

Escape from Alcatraz

The Tsunami

Moon Landing Over Paradise Beach

The Place with the Goats on the Roof

Castles of Snow and Sand

Luna the Whale, Our Tsu-xiit

SALTS Sailors

Island Kids Words: A Glossary

Sources

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Vancouver Island (Map A)

Victoria and Gulf Islands (Map B)

List of Locations for Each Story

1. The Raven, the Clam, and the Kids: Two Haida cousins, Gulf Islands, unknown times (Map B)

2. Saltwater Children: An unknown Saanich child, Gulf Islands and Saanich Peninsula, ancient times (Map B)

3. Storm on the Salish Sea: James Anderson, Strait of Georgia, 1858 (Map B)

4. Two Girls and a Rat: Mary Porter, Colwood Farm, 1861 (Map B)

5. The Omen: James Dunsmuir, Nanaimo, 1862 (Map A)

6. Polly and the Parrot: Polly, Craiglower Farm, 1863 (Map B)

7. Salt Spring Tough: Emma Stark, Fruitvale on Salt Spring Island, 1869 (Map B)

8. Frank’s Dinosaur: Frank Stannard, Race Rocks, 1881 (Map A)

9. Emily Carr’s Cows: Emily Carr, Victoria, 1882 (Map B)

10. A Lonely Castle: Dola Dunsmuir, Hatley Castle in Colwood, 1912 (Map B)

11. Miss Trickey and the Yellow Slug: Dorothy Payne, Saturna Island, 1914 (Map B)

12. Joe and the Cougar: Joe Garner, Victoria and Salt Spring Island, 1918 (Map B)

13. The Golden Rule: Norman Leung, Cumberland, 1940 (Map A)

14. We’ll Be Back Again: Alice Murakami, Salt Spring Island, 1942 (Map B)

15. The Chocolate Strike: Gerald Williams, Ladysmith, 1947 (Map A)

16. Escape from Alcatraz: Delmar Johnnie, Kuper Island and Duncan, 1955 (Map B)

17. The Tsunami: Allan Massie, Port Alberni, 1964 (Map A)

18. Moon Landing Over Paradise Beach: Karen McClure, Parksville, 1969 (Map A)

19. The Place with the Goats on the Roof: Megan McMullen, Coombs, 1989 (Map A)

20. Castles of Snow and Sand: Warren Nonesa, Victoria, 1996 (Map B)

21. Luna the Whale, Our Tsu-xiit: Cory Howard Jr., Gold River, 2004 (Map A)

22. SALTS Sailors: Noah Anderson, the Pacific Ocean, 2009 (Map A)

Introduction

On my first day as an island kid, a bee stung me on the foot. I was eleven years old, and my family had just moved to Victoria because my dad had found a better job there. I knew a job wasn’t a good enough reason to leave bustling Vancouver, our old home, and my friends. That first day, as my parents unpacked boxes, I decided to explore my new neighbourhood. Just twenty minutes into my jaunt through the park, I stepped on a bee and it gave me the most biting welcome to Vancouver Island I could imagine. As I limped home, I decided I would never love these islands, and I would never be an island kid.

Funny thing though, something about this place is magical. Here you can always smell the ocean on the steady breeze. Winter storms toss trees up the beaches like matchsticks. Seals poke their heads through the surface of the sea: curious, playful creatures like dogs, only slippery. You can build a goblin’s sandcastle only to find it washed away an hour later. Maybe the disappearance will make you sad, or maybe you’ll find that it’s just part of living on an island. This place is always changing. Out here, you can be more alone, because crossing the choppy straits has always been difficult, whether you travel by canoe, sailboat, steamboat, or ferry. Out here, we learn to rely on our neighbours and friends. The seasons are different, nightfall comes faster, and the colour of the evening sky can tell you tomorrow’s weather.

The longer I lived here, the more I explored. I travelled from the south to the north of Vancouver Island, and from the east coast to the west. Then I explored the Gulf Islands, which run up and down the eastern coast of Vancouver Island. Wherever I travelled, the beauty that I found, both the islands themselves and in the people who live here, amazed me.

When I was a kid, my family used to camp up the island. Our favourite spots included Little Qualicum Falls and Long Beach in Tofino. I think my favourite place on the coast is Miracle Beach, because it has gigantic waves, lots of geoducks to dig after, and the best sand for building sandcastles. I love anything to do with the water: swimming, sailing, scuba diving, and exploring tidal pools.

As I began to gather stories about island kids for this book, I started to see some similarities between the children I learned about, and me. Whether it was 1909 or 2009, the kids in this book love to explore, find adventures, and discover new experiences. They feel connected to the surrounding sea, yet afraid of it at the same time. They play on the beach in the cool ocean winds, uncover strange treasures, and love the land they are blessed to live on.

This book is about what it means to be an island kid.

The stories follow a pattern, as you’ll see. The first story begins long ago, when the First Nations of British Columbia were the only human beings who knew about these islands. They have lived here longer than anyone knows for sure. Each story will bring you closer to today, giving you an idea of how island kids lived at different times through the years.

All the named children in this book are real, and their stories are true.

I found some stories by talking to the actual kids who lived them, even though many of the storytellers are grown up now. Some stories happened too long ago to find anyone alive who remembered. I found the older stories in books, recordings from the past, letters, journals, and photographs. The first two stories were difficult to find; they came from a time when people wrote nothing down, but passed down stories to the next generation by telling them. For these stories, I found information about what a kid’s life would have been like long ago, and then I imagined one child who could represent all kids of that time.

I promise that every time I’m unsure of a fact or event, I will say so. Each story ends with a section called What do we know for sure? where I leave you with enough leads to learn more about any story you’re interested in. At the back of the book, you will find a glossary that explains some of the First Nations words I used, plus old-fashioned words; the island’s animals, birds, and insects you may not know yet; and sailing lingo. I have put other information, including a timeline at www.courageouskids.ca.

Maybe you already know you’re an island kid, or maybe you live on a large continent somewhere and dream of island life. It doesn’t really matter. Being an island kid is about the spirit that lives inside you, and once it’s there, it’s stuck for good. Even though I decided I hated the islands when I was young, I became an island kid eventually. It’s the sort of place that tiptoes up behind you, pushes deep inside you, and stays tucked behind your heart forever.

Now I treasure my home on these islands. I may not be a kid anymore, but I still have the spirit of the islands tucked away. Reading this book, I hope you can feel a little of the magic that floats into shore from the sea, and maybe discover a little island kid within yourself.

~Tara Saracuse, Victoria, British Columbia

The Raven, the Clam, and the Kids

Two unknown Haida cousins on an island south

of Haida Gwaii (Queen Charlotte Islands), in ancient times

My arms are sore from paddling. We came here in a canoe carved from one red cedar tree. My whole family fits in this canoe—nearly sixty of us. Now we’re resting on the shore of a small island—not far from Haida Gwaii—but I don’t know its name. Do other people live here? Maybe. We have met other tribes before, and sometimes we are peaceful with them and sometimes we have reasons not to be.

These islands look a lot like our own. The tall, green trees seem steady, but I’ve seen one crash and tumble down during a storm. The beaches are made either of fine sand or tiny grey stones; sometimes there are no beaches, just rocky bluffs that fall into the sea. I find berries to pick and eat, small birds to hunt, and fish that swim up the wide rivers.

When the sun dips below the treeline, my family sets up camp. Kids gather kindling from the beaches and pile it where my brother will build a fire. Our mothers prepare the seafood we have caught for our meal. I run over with another armful of kindling—the sooner we build a fire, the sooner we’ll eat dinner—but I stumble over a tree branch. Driftwood flies through the air, and scatters across the ground.

You’re in the way, my brother says, grinding his teeth. Go play until we’ve set up camp.

I’m always in the way. My older brother can do everything better than me. No matter where I stand, or how much I try to help, he thinks I’m in the way. I walk down the beach, wondering how far I have to go before I stop bothering him.

A wave rushes into shore. I watch my toes disappear under the white foam and fine sand, and then reappear as the wave goes back to the ocean. The water is so cold! With the waves and the gulls squawking, all I can hear is the muffled laughter of my brother and cousins, way down the beach.

A clam washes up, turns in the churning water for a second, and then settles by my heel. I scoop up the sandy shell before it’s washed away, and feel the shape with my fingers. Rough like tree bark, but hard like stone. Yet when I tap on it, I can tell it’s hollow. Deep inside I know there’s a squishy clam, but as long as it stays tucked inside its shell, it’s safe from becoming my afternoon snack.

I sit on a large chunk of driftwood, and look at the clam.

I shut my eyes, and I pretend I am inside the shell . . .

Around me many other boys wriggle and push for more room.

Move over, one whispers.

That’s my foot you’re sitting on, says another.

It’s dark, says a different voice. Will somebody let in some light?

There is a shuffle near our shell’s mouth, and then a crack and creak near the hinge as we all push with our arms over our heads, push on the upper shell until it sneaks the clam open. White light jets into our cozy space. Everybody stops shifting to look outside instead. We can see blurry colours. We can see wide open blue, and a thin strip of yellow with a green border. Everything outside drifts and sways. I’d like to see better, but my eyes are still squinting and hurting in the bright light.

Should we climb out and see what’s there?

No! says one boy. We’re safe here. We shouldn’t leave the shell.

Shh! Something’s coming.

We drop our hands and the shell lid slams shut.

We are very quiet for a moment. We can hear something walking around our shell; we can feel the footsteps vibrating through the walls. Then—

Tap, tap, tap!

The sound echoes loudly in our hideaway. I clap my hands over my ears.

Are you there? says a deep voice from outside.

We all share a shiver up our spines, and I whisper to the others, Did anyone see what it was?

I can hear what you’re saying, you know, says the voice from outside.

We stop whispering. What if it’s the sort of creature that eats boys like us? Best to stay quiet. Then the voice speaks again: I’m a raven, if you want to know, and I won’t hurt you.

I look to the other boys, but it’s too dark to see their faces.

Please come out, says the voice. At least open your shell.

The voice sounds sweet and gentle now. I don’t know what a raven is—I’ve spent my whole life in this shell, so how could I? But the raven’s voice calms my fears about the place outside. When he speaks to us, relief flows through our bodies like a magic spell.

Open your shell and join me, the raven coaxes. My world is green and beautiful. I can show you the forest and beach to explore, good berries and seafood to eat, and many creatures to play with. Come out, come out.

Slowly, we raise our hands and push on the upper shell. The light pours in through the growing crack; I squint against it. We push harder and higher. With a low creak, the shell pops open and we begin to climb into the world.

≈  ≈  ≈

What are you doing? The voice of one of my younger girl cousins pulls me back into my own life on the beach. She’s standing behind my log, her hands behind her back, looking curious. What’s so special about that clamshell?

I pass the clam to her. She inspects it but doesn’t seem impressed.

I was just imagining, I say. About the raven and the first Haida.

You mean the story our grandfather tells?

Yes, I was imagining what it would be like to be one of those first kids, climbing out of the shell.

I expect her to make fun of me, or go tell my older brother so he can laugh and tease me. Instead she sits down beside me and studies the clamshell.

The kids would notice the hot sand first, she says. She digs her toes into the beach like she’s feeling it for the first time too. I do the same. The sand is warm up to my first toe knuckles, but my toe-tips feel the cool, wet sand beneath.

And the sky, I say. We both look up at the world’s blue roof with fluffy white clouds.

My cousin stands up and stretches. Oh, it was so stiff inside that shell!

I scoot to my bum to the ground and push my hands through the thick sand. My fingers brush stones and shell fragments. Several crabs scuttle away as I dig a deep trench. Look at this stuff, I say, sifting sand through my fingers. It’s amazing. You can shape it into things. It’s full of these funny looking red bugs. I hold up a small, wriggling crab.

Laughing, my cousin spins around with her arms out and her face to the sky—then she stops and points.

Look at that!

In front of us, the ocean spreads out, dotted by the green humps of other islands. We run towards the ocean and stop at the edge. We both remember how the story goes next: the first Haida were shy and unsure of this world. I poke my toe into a wave, which rushes in and flows over both my feet.

Cold! I yell, jumping back. My cousin tries, but she too jumps back. We share a secret smile outside our imaginations. Neither of us has ever been shy about playing with the ocean. We grew up paddling across it, fishing in it, swimming in it, and always hearing waves as they hit the shore.

In time, the raven got bored watching the new boys, I say.

Wouldn’t you? my cousin answers. They were too afraid to explore this world, and they didn’t know how to hunt or build canoes or fish. And besides, they had no girls to play with!

But the raven had an idea, I say. He put all the Haida boys on his back and flew north!

I soar down the beach with my arms out wide like I’m flying. My feet splash in the surf until I reach a rocky place that juts into the sea. I leap up and my feet hit the sharp stone, but I don’t care, and I keep climbing. I balance and jump from stone to stone until I reach the end of the rocks, and I’m surrounded by puddle-sized tidal pools. As my cousin reaches my side, I find what I’ve been seeking.

Then, I say, the raven found some chitons. He pulled them off the rocks and hurled them at the confused shell people.

I crouch, dip my hand into a tidal pool, and find a chiton. The strange sea slug with its plate armour won’t budge. I try to slip my fingernails under its sticky foot, to pry it off the rocks, but I can’t get around its protective shell. I try the other side, but no