In pictures, the western edge of Vancouver Island looked like a jagged tangle of tree-covered islands, rocky shores, and sparkling inlets. Dark, hunched mountains brooded in the background. As she drove down the sole highway connecting the Pacific Rim area to the more settled east coast, Amanda was struck by some of the resemblances to western Newfoundland. The trees were taller and denser than Newfoundland, scoured as it was by the brutal North Atlantic, but the round, towering mountains and deeply cut fiords were the same.
Amanda had to devote much of her attention to navigating the highway through the twisting, mountainous terrain, and she was grateful Tag was content to watch the countryside in silence. He’d offered to drive, but she’d wanted to send a clear message that she was in charge. Tag looked like a man used to acting on his own wishes. She was anxious to make it to Tofino early enough to explore a little, so although they both stared in wonder at the magnificent old-growth forest of Cathedral Grove and the spectacular cliffside drop to Kennedy Lake, she didn’t stop.
Tofino and its sister town of Ucluelet had sprung up at opposite ends of a peninsula that jutted into Clayoquot Sound. At one time, the main industries had been logging and fishing, but now a national park had taken over much of the peninsula, famed for its endless, soft sand beaches, and the main industry was tourism. Traffic on the highway was heavy with RVs, campervans, and pickups festooned with surfboards, kayaks, and canoes. As they approached the coast, Amanda kept a wary eye open for the crass development and tawdry commercialism that buzzed around most tourist meccas.
But so far, beyond the roadside surf shops, the scenery was peaceful. After a brief stop at the park visitor centre to pick up literature and ask about group permit requirements, they headed down the long highway through the park toward Tofino. Amanda noted with excitement that a beautiful new bicycle path ran through the forest alongside the road.
“That would be a great activity for our beach days,” she said.
He squinted through the trees, distracted. “Sure. Or we could give them some choice for those days. There’s surfing, paddle boarding, cycling, swimming …” He chuckled. “Or maybe just lying in the sun.”
She turned her attention back to the park. Discreet signs announced the beaches, but nothing could be seen through the tall evergreens until they came to the turnoff to Incinerator Rock, where for the first time she caught a glimpse of the pale sands and rolling surf of fabled Long Beach. Tag strained to peer through the window, and his blue eyes drank in the sight.
“We’ll be back,” she said before he could ask. “Let’s stretch our legs and get something to eat.”
As they passed out of the park, signs to resorts and private mansions dotted the ocean side of the road, hinting at luxury perched on the edge of the sea, but nothing was visible through the veil of lush green trees. Gradually the town began to emerge from the green. Hotels, kayaking centres, surf shops, and restaurants, and before she knew it, they were driving through the centre of a classic beach town with boutiques, funky little houses painted bright colours, hand-scrawled menus on restaurant walls, and everywhere motifs of the sea — fish, seashells, boats, anchors, and vistas of beach — intermingled with First Nations art.
This was Tofino, a jewel cradled by the blue-green waters and lush islands of Clayoquot Sound. Beneath the shadow of silent, brooding mountains, the town was alive. Parked cars lined every side street, and she noticed with dismay that lines of customers snaked out of the restaurants.
A mix of emotions gripped her. Nature had created perfection, and humankind was swarming all over it. “We’ll have to get the group out of here,” she said. “This is not the escape I had in mind.”
“Beyond this town is wilderness. The islands are barely touched by tourists. Just First Nations communities. There should be plenty of escape.” He was peering at street signs, and now he pointed. “Look for a parking spot. There’s something I want to check out. Then we can grab some takeout.”
They finally found a parking spot opposite the town’s museum on the harbourfront and clambered stiffly out of the car. The mid-afternoon sun shone brightly in the cloudless blue sky, and a warm breeze redolent with salt, fish, and gas fumes rippled in off the inlet. Kaylee leaped out of the car and headed eagerly to the nearest patch of green. As she waited, Amanda took a deep breath and took in the scene. Boats of all sizes and types bobbed in the wooden slips, and a float plane was just revving up its propeller. Shorebirds of all sorts wheeled overhead, screaming and fighting over scraps.
A perfect day to explore. She glanced at her watch. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at her stomach, but they had only an hour to settle in at their B&B before their meeting with the first kayak tour company. Tag had drawn up a short list and promised they’d find the perfect fit for their needs.
“All these guys have been doing this forever and know every inch of the coast,” he’d said. “And they’ll each put their own creative spin on your ideas.”
She’d had some doubts about Tag during that first meeting. Matthew had even more, and she hadn’t even mentioned the ex-con line on his resumé to Chris. But as she trudged beside him along Main Street, she had to admit he was proving useful. He had given the activities a lot of thought and done some preliminary research into what companies could provide.
“It’s busier than I expected,” she said, dodging a surfboard as she raced to keep up with his long stride. Even her sturdy hiking boots didn’t help her reach five foot three, and her backpack felt heavier than her. Kaylee tried to sniff things on the fly, her tongue lolling with excitement.
Where are the takeout places anyway? No sooner had she asked herself the question than Tag veered off the sidewalk at a modest little house advertising e-bikes. A woman emerged through the front door, and her eyes flicked nervously over Tag before she pasted an expectant smile on her face. In his soft, polite voice, Tag asked about the e-bikes.
As the woman unlocked an adjacent shed, Amanda hung back. “Wouldn’t ordinary bicycles be better?”
“I want to check these out,” Tag said as he pulled one out. “Maybe you can bike for miles at a stretch, but our old-timers can’t. It’s sixteen K along Long Beach alone. I think these might be good for our group, at least for the dads, who are mostly over sixty and not in the best shape.”
The e-bike looked ordinary, except for a small electric motor mounted on the frame. She had to admit it was a good idea. After spotting Kaylee, the owner disappeared back inside and came out with a small bike trailer. “These are custom designed for pets. It would be perfect for your dog. And we have luggage trailers as well.”
Tag stepped astride the bike. “Try it. Have you ever ridden an e-bike before?”
Amanda felt a flash of annoyance. “I drive a motorcycle, and I’ve driven scooters all over the developing world. If I can navigate Bangkok, I can manage that nice flat path we passed.”
He laughed. “Ouch. What do you think? We could leave the car for today, rent these, and use them to get around town. No parking issues.”
“It’s an idea,” she said, almost against her will. She asked the woman a few questions about cost and availability and soon found herself dishing out money.
Tag had booked two rooms in the Silver Surf B&B perched on a point on the far edge of town. “The owners are long-time residents. They should know everything about everybody.”
The short ride there was exhilarating. The fresh air, infused with both ocean salt and evergreen forest, was glorious, and the electric motor made the small hills effortless. She spilled into the Silver Surf B&B, red-cheeked, shiny-eyed, and energized by the prospect of her tour. As she sat on her private terrace to eat her fish wrap, she breathed in the mountain air and revelled in the view. Below, the ocean lapped gently against the rocks, and in the distance the rounded tops of the island mountain range peeked through the trees.
When she stepped back inside, her eyes were drawn to the painting hanging over the bed. Bold sweeps of forest green and cerulean blue captured the jagged silhouettes of fir trees and mountains, gilded in the sunlight. She checked the artist’s name, Anonymous, scratched in small, spiky strokes in the corner. She had heard that the Pacific Rim was a haven for artists of all sorts, and there were more galleries per square foot in Tofino than anywhere in the world. Perhaps she’d find this artist’s work for sale in one of them.
Tag had set up a gruelling schedule of meetings with kayak companies that afternoon, and by the time she’d unpacked, washed up, and taken Kaylee for a brief break, they had just enough time to cycle back downtown for their first appointment. The official company office was a modest room in the back of an art and espresso bar on Campbell Street, but they found the owners, Charlie and Nash, down at their dockside shed, cleaning a tandem kayak. Every inch of shed space was taken up with racks of paddles, life jackets, skirts, and other accessories. Outside, brightly coloured kayaks were stacked on racks by the slip.
The two owners abandoned their cleaning to greet them with broad smiles and extended hands. Beyond the smiles, they couldn’t have looked more different. Charlie, who took the lead, looked as if he’d just stepped off a surfing beach in California. Deeply tanned, blue-eyed, and blond, his lean, muscular body belied his age until Amanda noticed the web of crow’s feet around his eyes. He did his best to be friendly and welcoming, but she sensed a wariness in his expression whenever he looked at Tag. Was she imagining it?
By comparison, Nash showed no such tension. He was slender, almost delicate, with dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a glossy black ponytail that fell long and straight down his back. He was content to let Charlie take the lead.
“If you go with our company,” Charlie said, “Nash here will be your tour leader, and he’ll take along two or three staffers, depending on your numbers. Let me show you some of our ideas.”
He laid a battered map on the counter and began to orient them. For nearly an hour, they discussed routes and camping options, pointed out the activities and sights each offered, and outlined the skill requirements of each option. Amanda’s excitement grew as each trip sounded better than the last. Should they take three days to dawdle around the protected archipelago of the Broken Islands south of Ucluelet or take a longer trip through Clayoquot Sound around a wilder island controlled by the Ahousaht First Nation?
Tag wanted to stick to the busier, more protected islands closer to Ucluelet, whereas Amanda was drawn to the less travelled wilderness that would present more challenge and encourage more bonding and co-operation.
“Most of the guys don’t have the skill to handle the tides, wind, and swells,” Tag said. “Too much could go wrong. The guys need to have fun. They don’t need to be terrified.”
She eyed him thoughtfully. Despite his physique, she judged he was at least fifty. He’d been in their shoes. She loved the adrenalin rush of being on the edge, but perhaps he was right. Maybe after years of living on the edge, they just wanted to feel safe.
At the end of an hour, Amanda thanked them and headed off with a stack of documents about the trips. After two more visits to tour companies and more stacks of documents, her head was spinning, partly from the deluge of information but also from hunger. She headed for the Java Bean, the art and espresso bar on Campbell Street.
“Food. And we can discuss.”
The smells of exquisite coffee and baking greeted them as they approached the door. The shop was packed with chatter, and the line to order food snaked toward the door. Tag scowled glumly at the lineup.
“Order me an Americano and a bean salad. I’ll get a table outside with Kaylee.”
Left to her own thoughts, Amanda shrugged off his surly mood and glanced at the paintings on the walls. Some listed prices or the artist’s contact information. The artwork was eclectic and striking, but all had the vivid colours and free spirit of the West Coast. One artist caught her eye. They had painted wilderness scenes of rock and ocean and trees, but using bold, unexpected colours that contrasted light and dark. Deep red mountains, jagged yellow pines that exploded into stars, shadowy black water. An artist not tied to reality, pouring their emotions onto the page.
After she’d picked up their order, she carried her tray over to the largest painting for a closer look. It had no title or price, and the artist was listed as Anonymous, like the painting in her room at the Silver Surf B&B.
“I really love that artist’s work,” she said as she sat down opposite Tag on the patio. “I wonder who it is.”
Tag glanced through the patio glass and frowned at the paintings. “Weird, if you ask me. Never seen a yellow fir tree before.”
She laughed. “It’s yellow in his imagination.” She considered the black ocean, with its hint of dark shapes below. “Not exactly a happy work, but it’s got a lot to say.”
“Never really did get art,” Tag replied, digging into his bean salad. “But there’s plenty of it in this town. Every second person who came here figured they were a Picasso.”
“Maybe the place inspires art. Its beauty cries out to be captured.”
“More likely the LSD. Or the mushrooms. I’d say that’s what that guy is on. And he probably wants two thousand bucks for his yellow tree.”
Later that evening, Amanda was sitting on the terrace of the B&B with her laptop on the tiny bistro table. Beyond the point, she could see the golden glow of twilight setting fire to the ocean. Shafts of coral and pink shot up into the clouds. It was magical, and she decided then and there to capture the memory.
“I found the perfect painting to commemorate my Pacific Rim tour,” she told Chris when his broad, crinkly grin filled the screen. He looked dishevelled and worn out, but it was the middle of the night in Newfoundland, and he had just returned from the scene of an accident between a moose and minivan in Gros Morne. No matter how many warnings were posted, some tourists never learned.
“Can you show it to me?” he asked.
“I don’t have it yet. I have to find the person who painted it. I saw it in a café in Tofino today, but I didn’t have time to ask about it. We had meetings with kayak companies all afternoon.”
“And how did that go?”
“Great. The companies are all really good and mostly do the same trips, so it will come down to who can handle the group size, provide enough tandem kayaks, and work within our dates.”
“Why tandem kayaks? They’re more unwieldy.”
“I know, but they’re more stable and provide the perfect solution to differences in skill and endurance. Some of our fathers may be over seventy. And as a bonus, it will strengthen the father-son bond.” She hesitated. “It was Tag’s idea, actually, but it’s brilliant.”
Chris waited a beat and dropped his voice. “How is Tag working out?”
She looked out over the shimmer of sunset, searching for careful words. “I think he’ll be fine. He’s a good match for the type of men in the group and sees problems I don’t. He’s no nonsense, down-to-earth, a man of few words.”
Chris grunted his skepticism. “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”
“We’re going to start looking into nature hikes. There are dozens of trails, some along the coast and some inland into the old-growth forests. Tag has to go back to work in Victoria in a few days, so I’ll stay on to check out some of the hikes.”
“You’ll be careful? There are cougars and wolves —”
She rolled her eyes, and he held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, babe.”
“I’ll get a guide for the big trips. There’s an overnight one in a First Nations tribal park that I’m really excited about. It’s guided by the local Ahousaht, and we may be able to work with them on restoring the nature trail along the coast, which was closed for the pandemic and is overgrown. I think that would be another good experience for our men. The First Nations have a lot to teach us about reconnecting with nature and supporting each other. They’ve had to do so much rediscovery and healing themselves.”
He cocked his head and smiled gently. “I wish I was there. I miss you.”
“I wish you were here too. You’d love it. It’s so different from the East Coast. Maybe after my tour …?”
“Maybe.” He didn’t give a commitment, but she heard the longing in his voice. Summer was a very busy tourist season in Gros Morne National Park, and the Deer Lake RCMP detachment was usually kept running flat out. This year especially, a deluge of tourists was expected now that pandemic restrictions had lifted and travel had resumed.
She savoured the thought as she shut her laptop and went inside to review her plans for tomorrow. Maybe they could include another visit to the Java Bean to find out who Anonymous was.
The breakfast room in the B&B was a warm expanse of natural wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that welcomed the dappled sun into the room. As Amanda made a beeline for the empty table by the window, she spotted Tag standing in front of a painting in the far corner. He was motionless, and he didn’t move even when she approached. For a man who claimed he didn’t “get” art, he was certainly studying it carefully.
The paintings hanging on the cedar-panelled walls were an eclectic mix of landscapes, streetscapes, abstracts, and people. This one was a portrait of a young woman sitting on a massive driftwood log in front of a makeshift beach shack. Her sun-bleached hair fell long and straight to her waist, entwined with pink flowers and beads. She was half-turned, looking out to sea. The painting wasn’t perfect; the perspective and lighting were off and the strokes rough, but the woman radiated life. At first, Amanda couldn’t read the expression on her face — sad, awe-inspired, regretful — but finally settled on wistful. As if longing for something far out to sea.
“That’s mesmerizing, isn’t it?” she murmured.
Tag jumped and swung on her, tensed for a fight. She took a quick step backward. An instant later, his fists relaxed and he dropped his gaze.
“Sorry,” he muttered, “I didn’t hear you.”
She hesitated but decided not to pursue it. Instead, she leaned forward to peer at the painting, which was signed AK. “This looks like the hippie sixties. I wonder what AK stands for.”
Tag spun on his heel. “Like I said, they’re a dime a dozen. Let’s eat. We’ve got a big day.”
As they took their seats, she eyed him warily. His expression was businesslike and his tone brusque. Was this partnership going to work? And how effective could he be as a counsellor with this much tension coiled up inside? Only once the breakfast arrived — a delectable spread of locally smoked salmon, capers, red onions, and apple slices on an open-faced bagel — did he sit back and relax. He grinned at the man who brought the food, the owner himself, whom Amanda recognized from the day before. Bald as a billiard ball with a face so creviced by years of sun and ocean wind, it was impossible to guess his age. The name on the Silver Surf B&B was H&H Keenan, but he had introduced himself simply as Keener.
Keener gave Tag a cool look. “Welcome back, Tag. You back for another —?”
“We’re here to plan a group tour,” Tag interjected briskly. “Only staying a few days.”
Amanda studied him curiously. Why hadn’t he mentioned he’d been here before? But given his mood, she decided the question could wait. Instead, she gestured out the window. “This is a beautiful spot. How long have you been here, Keener?”
“Here at the Silver Surf B&B? Or in Tofino.”
“Both.”
“Longer than you’ve been on the planet,” he replied with a wink. “I slid across Canada in free fall and landed on Long Beach in 1968. Just visiting, I figured. Sowing my wild oats. I spent a couple of years in the hippie commune at Wreck Bay until the park drove us out, then banged around a few years on logging crews, and finally got into the accommodation business in 1978.”
Tag had just bitten into his bagel, but now he snorted. “Accommodation business! You said you found this piece of vacant forest and pitched a few tents for the hippies.”
“Yeah, but it grew. I built the original B&B in ’85 and expanded it in 2006. This one will see Helen and me into our sunset years.”
Another couple had arrived and taken a seat at the next table. Keener nodded toward them. “Coffee to start?”
Amanda watched him head back toward the kitchen and saw him glance briefly at the painting of the woman. AK, she thought. Could that be Keenan? When he returned with the coffee pot, she gestured to the painting. “That beautiful portrait. Did you paint it?”
Emotion flitted across his face. Surprise? Sorrow? “No, I don’t have that talent.” He swept his hand around the walls. “I just support other people’s talent.”
“Do you know anything about the artist, AK?”
He busied himself pouring coffee. “That was done years ago. He’s long dead now. Listen, I better get back to the kitchen, or Helen will have my hide.”
Amanda was still trying to analyze his abrupt change of mood when she felt Tag’s gaze on her. “Like I said, a dime a dozen. Back in those days, the hippies used to trade paintings or jewellery or whatever they could make for food or drugs or a place to stay. Everybody thought they were Picasso.”
“Still, it meant enough to him that he kept it through all those years of tents and renos.”
“Tourists like that shit. It’s part of Tofino’s romantic past, before it all got fancied up for the millennial surfing crowd.”