Discovering the Island

I woke to a wall of green, sunlight filtering through the leaves and dancing across the blankets covering my legs and the chair was still wedged firmly beneath the door handle. I could hear the kids stirring, their voices thick with sleep as they asked about breakfast. Against all imaginary odds, we'd survived the night.

We showered, dressed and walked out the door to see our host and his dog crossing the field from what I could only guess was his home.

In daylight, the empty expanse was transformed into a wonderland of sculptures and gardens. Tiny huts dotted the hillside while giant chrome flowers bloomed between the trees. He pointed us in the proper direction of town and suggested a place where I could get tea. Cash writhed in canine ecstasy as the kids pet and scratched his belly.

The drive into town took almost a half hour over lazily rolling hills lined with wildflowers. We passed lakes cluttered with lily pads, meadows filled with sheep and cattle, orchards, and the ever present walls of evergreen. Between branches, we caught glimpses of beaches and the Sound.

We parked near the market and walked to a lovely restaurant with the promised strong, loose leaf tea and an omelet of roasted tomatoes, goats cheese, and arugala - and cell service. Feeling silly about my fears the night before, I took pictures and posted the sunshine where flowers bloomed and bees hovered.

After breakfast, we wandered down the street in the direction of the Farmers Market where I discovered children listening to a story and the beginning of my understanding of island life. The reader - a local librarian - paused between books.

"Can I help you?" she asked with a friendly smile, a new book laying across her lap.

"Oh. No. I'm just waiting for my kids," I gestured to the only little girl without feathers in her hair and the only little boy wearing shoes. "They are loving the stories."

Her smile widened. "You don't have to stay."

I looked around the open space noticing I was the only adult with the exception of the librarian. "Are you sure?"

She laughed. "You're new to the island. It's okay. They'll be fine here if you want to go walk around the booths."

I left reluctantly, still not certain of letting them out of my sight. Directly across from the story area, I found a booth filled with seaglass jewelry where I could keep an eye on the kids without being considered de trop.

I ran my fingers over the smooth bits of rainbow frosted glass. Suspended by silver chains and twisted in silver wire, it was expensive, but beautiful.

"If you find your own," the woman running the booth said, "I'll make it into jewelry for you."

I looked up as she handed me a card with the name Erica printed in script.

"There's seaglass here?" I fingered the card and did the mental arithmetic, trying to decide if I could splurge.

"This is all Orcas Island seaglass I collected myself." She gave me directions to the beach and, with a solidified idea of how to pass the remainder of the morning, I collected my gingers and headed to the long expanse of sweeping stone and warped driftwood.

"This doesn't look like a beach," Elizabeth said doubtfully as we picked our way across the muck of low tide and the fist sized rocks covered in barnacles. My Californian children are accustomed to powdery beaches and crashing waves. We kept our shoes on and picked our way across the land as tiny sand crabs scurried from under rocks. We sat on weathered logs, sifting through rocks and finding jewels. It was sweaty work without a breeze to cool us. The air hung heavy and humid as the kids shouted with delight at their hard won discoveries, more often than not, pretty stones and shells rather than glass.

Feeling sunburned and salty, we left the beach and entered the air conditioned storefront where Erica sells her wares. Showing her mother our treasure, she told us about another beach - a little down the way - where larger pieces were common and fewer people sifted the stones. She gave us a time frame to make the jewelry and, with smiles on our faces and a spring in our step, we left to get lunch and get ready for the wedding, knowing we now had a plan for the next day.

The drive home took twenty minutes while the air blasted and music accompanied the dips and bends of the road. We found the cottage after only one wrong turn and piled out of the car for a picnic lunch under the shade of a maple. We were delighted to discover our newly arrived neighbors were attending the same wedding. We exchanged smiles and small talk while Elizabeth carted our picnic supplies to the grass.

We sat cross-legged and spit cherry pits, bright purple juice staining our fingers and chins while we spoke of seaglass and mermaids. We watched as dragonflies darted between flowers and butterflies landed lightly on sculptures. With the exception of a small breeze in the trees and the sound of buzzing, it was silent. Blissfully so.

With reluctance and the knowledge we had time only for a quick wash, we finally made our way inside to dress.