Prologue

I was nineteen when I moved to Tofino. Young in all the obvious ways. It was a time before the technology explosion, when boats were expected to leak, or sink, and boat motors were expected to be fickle. It was an era uncomplicated by cellphones or GPS—or even wealth—when simply having a compass elevated me above those who approached the fog with mumbled prayers, or fingers crossed. It was a place where there was a roaring trade in tarps and candles and lamp oil. And it was a place where a good story was valued above all else.

I didn’t embark on my new life with any firm plan; rather, at every turn I took the path of least resistance. I found myself drawn to the lands and the waters and the people, and allowed myself to be led further and further in.

I’m not a doyenne of kayaking, or a boater of great renown. I haven’t hiked the highest peaks, or crossed the Pacific in perilously small craft. I don’t think my resilience equals that of women who’ve gone before me, raising huge families far from help, with few resources.

But there have been times in wild places when things simply became precarious. And when they did, the intensity of those moments opened previously uncharted regions of myself. I found and lost fears, contemplated death, expanded my understanding of humankind, and of history. I felt time telescope from milliseconds to millennia. And I noted points of inexplicable connection between myself and my surroundings. It is these moments, combined with the jeopardy of their situations, that I’ve set out to explore and share.

To my parents, whose extraordinary life stories are remembered by many a rapt listener; to Frank Harper of Island Beach, who could tease out the humour, the irony and the synchronicities of any story; and to all those with dangerous moments of their own to tell of—I raise a toast.