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From: Doug Lloyd <dougl_at_islandnet.com> subject: [Paddlewise] Mermaid in the Mist (part 1) Date: Sun, 28 Apr 2002 22:38:07 -0700 · This archive was generated by hypermail 2.4.0 : Thu Aug 21 2025 - 16:33:29 PDT

(Log Book ^Ö Fall 2001)

It was one of those trips -- the kind that are poorly planned, decided
at last minute, and often done in the context of inclement weather
rather the waiting for a stable high pressure system; but in retrospect,
purely perfect in restoring a little perspective to life. Two jobs,
endless renovations, and an overabundance of charity work ^Ö it was time
for self and sea. It was time to drop everything and just go^Å

Mermaid in the Mist

I literally threw everything into a couple of big gear bags -- just that
fast -- then kissed everyone goodbye, making a fast break for the
freeway. Brain cells fired off more than few times: ^ÓMmmmmm, boat,
skirt, paddle, PFD^Åokay, basics covered.^Ô I knew it was going to be
tight at the ferry dock to Lasqueti Island. I^Òd only have 15 minutes to
buy food and then load once there, with a few minutes to spare if I
could average the speed limit for the next few hours. And it was the
last ferry of the week. A low-pressure system was brewing, so I didn^Òt
want to make the 17-kilometer crossing by kayak. There was a guy with
the burly beard hitchhiking. While he had looked like a pass, I pulled
over anyway. Luckily for me, massive paving delays in Duncan were
bypassed due to the local knowledge of the flannel-shirted guy in the
passenger seat making most of the conversation heading up-island.

Finally arriving, everything was running late anyway ^Ö Lasqueti time,
they reminded me. I was still on city time in the boat, sitting
stoically in high-tech gear amongst the hemp crowd returning to their
island ^Ö an island without electricity, police -- and few basic
services. Upon arrival, the Captain helped me unload my Nordkapp off the
roof of the large passenger-only aluminum ferry. He said we shouldn^Òt be
lifting the kayak up and down with so much gear in it. I didn^Òt have the
heart to tell him it was empty.

The grocery store had a closing time. When I rushed up the gangway, the
clerk just laughed: ^ÓHey, we don^Òt close exactly on the hour fella.^Ô
Yes, of course, we were on Lasqueti time. And Lasqueti prices.
Everything was triple priced. Also, selection was extremely limited. It
was a coffee shop with a few supplies on the back shelf. ^ÓForty bucks
for a few basics!?^Ô I pulled out my debit card and the only cash I had
--- twenty bucks. ^ÓSorry,^Ô said the clerk, ^ÓCash only.^Ô What a dumb
city-boy I must have appeared to be.

I told the clerk I was also on a mission. I had written an article on
the kite-sailing mishap of a local island paddler. I had come to pay my
respects to his habitudes, visit his habitat, and drop off the
long-promised article to the lady he co-habitated with. It turned out
the clerk was Werner's former partner. By the time we finished talking
about Werner, the wild winter weather, and other island lore, the earth
had rotated into shadows. She suggested I try the local tavern/hotel,
where I was able to open a Visa debit memo, convert my signature to real
cash, get dinner, and drink lots of draft beer in the totally dead pub
until the generator reached shut-down time. I retired to a modest room,
buzzed beyond belief, and annoyed at myself for not making an earlier
daylight break from town to a camping area. By flashlight, I sorted the
over-sufficiency of gear until collapsing from a
^Ómother-of-all-headaches.^Ô

They let me in the restaurant when the generator kicked in the next
morning. Breakfast time was supposed to be later, due to new winter
hours. The cook was impressed (as he did double-duty at the cash
register). He said most folks never finish his breakfast special. What a
meal! Looking around at the walls, Werner^Òs artwork hung everywhere. It
was unusual. It had soul and depth, despite the obvious casual nature of
the artwork. I made inquiries, but there was apparently nothing for sale
on the entire island painted by the former recluse come artist.

Finally on the water, I knew I had to move fast, in order to avoid what
Environment Canada was calling a ^Óseries as fast approaching intense
lows.^Ô I was behind schedule and didn^Òt want to get caught on the
southern tip of the island in a big Southeast blow. There must be
130-kilometers of fetch off the bottom of the island. Making tracks to
Jenkins Island along Lasqueti's west coast, it wasn^Òt long before I
reached Werner^Òs humble abode. It was clustered amongst two other
completely abandoned, rustic cabins.

Werner had drowned over a couple of years ago, yet I entered reverently.
An old pair of slippers still lay under the foam-covered bed. A flare
gun lay beside the window, its cartridge oxidized in the chamber. He
probably never had the money to replace it. Werner had lived on a
dollar-a-day. Food, rotting in old Coleman coolers out back, had
coalesced into black soup. But the view and serenity from the cabin
window was breathtaking. Werner was one of the United Nation^Òs top
translators, but had fled his country and family after some kind of
breakdown, to live off BC^Òs west coast, in seclusion. I had been
fascinated, collecting more details than required to finish the article
for sea Kayaker magazine before final submission.

Storm clouds were moving across the horizon. I needed to keep moving. It
would be a close race to make Jedediah Island in time to set up camp
comfortably. Before rounding Poor Man^Òs Rock for the run to Jedediah, I
pulled into a small bay. A large rock, nearshore, appeared oddly shaped.
Approaching a little closer, I did a double-take. I swore it looked like
a Mermaid^Òs tail. Paddling closer, her well-endowed anatomy took firm
shape. But the head, with hair, appeared to be bobbing up and down.
^ÓDang, I need new glasses or sumpthin,^Ô I said to myself in disbelief.
With better proximity, the mystery was solved. The sculptor had been
dropped off for the afternoon, as he busily worked away before pickup
and rain, at some final facial details. Where else but Lasqueti Island,
would one serendipitously encounter such a work of art in progress,
while underway in one's kayak?

Doug Lloyd
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