It’s more than distance that separates us from our teenage nieces. Jim and I are outdoors people, thus are considered weird by the rest of the family. Kim and Sam are cousins from Saskatchewan and are city girls, prairie girls. They’ve never traveled beyond Alberta. They’ve never been in a plane.

We’re picking the girls up from Victoria Airport and taking them sea kayaking for a week. They stroll out of the gate. Silk flowers gather long hair and hold it back from their carefully made up faces. They clutch trendy, plastic looking handbags. We’re wearing pants with zip off legs.
Later, our friends Bill, Lynn and their eleven-year-old daughter Jessica meet us at Bamfield. From here, our outfitter takes us by motorboat to our base camp on an island in the Deer Group. At six o’clock the hum of continuous travel is replaced by silence, interspersed with fish splashes and eagle cries.

"What should I do Auntie?” Sam and Kim’s handbags are now packed away. Their hair is windblown—their lipstick worn off. I look at these beautiful young strangers.

“Why don’t you collect some firewood?”

Next morning the sun warms my face as I sip coffee. Our white sand beach is about 100 yards long. We’re camped on spongy moss under looming trees at the east end. The west of the beach ends in a jumble of rocks—the far side exposed to the swells of Imperial Eagle Channel and the Pacific beyond. In between is an enclave of perfectly calm mirrored water. Let the paddling begin.

Kim and Sam are comfortable around water after spending many summers in Saskatchewan lakes. They aced our canoeing challenge when we took them on a multiday trip down the Red Deer River. Now it’s time for an introduction to sea kayaking.

We head to the water with our wetsuits on and paddle to the band of kelp. The girls look at each other and grimace. Slipping past the green fronds we look down to the now sandy bottom. The water is about 20 feet deep, cool and clear.

Paddle left, right, then backwards and forwards—now for the fun stuff.

“Try to lean your boat so your spray skirt’s in the water,” Jim calls.

The girls start to brace.

“Hey Sam—you’re doing great. Even your lifejacket’s getting wet.” She smiles at me as she slaps the water with her paddle and leans her boat on edge.

Someone has to be the first to go in, so I volunteer—cold water and all. Upside down, I pull the skirt off with my knees and come up for air. Sam paddles over and stabilizes my boat. I grab the coaming, crawl onto the back deck, slide my feet into the cockpit, flip over and sit.
Kim is next. Paddle by her side, she looks down and flops herself and her kayak over. She surfaces seconds later.

“That water tastes disgusting,” she yells after she spits the salty seawater from her mouth.

“You ain’t at the lake now,” we call back, laughing.

Back on shore, Bill, Lynn and Jessica are ready to leave, and the seven of us decide to circumnavigate our island. Paddling the lee shore, everyone is having an easy time. Rounding the bottom end of the island, the swells and wind pick up. Kim and Sam get a little too close to rocks with breaking waves. My mouth goes dry as I call for them to come over to me to look at ... what? All smiles, they paddle to my side. I point out some trees then point to the rocks and waves that they’ve been toying with.

It’s a slow limp up-island in the headwind. We turn into our little bay haven in time for a late lunch.

That evening we all walk down to the end of the beach and watch the sun disappear into the ocean. Returning to camp, firelight dances on our circle of smiling faces. There is no talk of malls or makeup. The girls listen as Bill, Lynn, Jim and I compare tales of previous camping calamities.

“Michelle woke me at two in the morning to let the mouse into the tent,” Jim says straight-faced. Barely heard above everyone’s laughter, “Then she woke me at four to let it back out.”

Each morning the tide slips further down the beach. From my tent, I hear Jim calling to me. He has a shovel and a pile of grey muck at his feet. He holds out his hand filled with a heavy, yet delicately curving moon snail. The commotion wakes the camp and soon everyone’s on the beach.

Thirty minutes later, the moon snail is safely reburied but the clams are not so lucky. Shouts of “I got one” are followed by the clink of shell landing on shell as our pot fills. Breakfast is postponed while we squat in the mud and dig with our hands.

Following our day’s paddle, it’s time to prepare our meal—clam chowder. Kim and Sam’s visits to the kitchen are characterized by furtive whispers and wrinkled noses as they watch the preparation of the clams.

The soup is served. The girls look at each other, and down at their bowl before gingerly picking up their spoons. “It was good Auntie,” Kim says as she collects my dish. “I even had a second helping.”

Camp life develops its own routine. The adults cook the meals and the kids (now unprompted) clean up.

Our days develop their routines too. We paddle in the mornings. We nose our kayaks into sea caves, skirt around rocky headlands and slide our boats onto sandy shores. We listen for the blows of whales and snorts of seals. We stare into the depths and wonder over the abundance of critters and crustaceans. We’re usually back in camp by early afternoon.

This afternoon, we put on wetsuits and go snorkelling in our bay. Deciding not to swim through kelp, we paddle our doubles near a small rocky outcrop. The cool water makes us gasp.

“I’m scared to go under,” Sams says as she treads water.

We put our snorkels in our mouths and submerge together. Schools of herring flit around the kayaks. Sea grass and kelp intersperse with areas of rock and urchins. Sun stars and bat stars are scattered throughout. Sam dives and sneaks behind and underneath me—and then grabs my leg. I guess she’s not nervous anymore.

The morning of our sixth day brings a negative tide and an early wake up call. Where we were once snorkelling there’s a patch of sand. A small pond contains hundreds of small sculpins. Gently turning over a sea star, we see a fish poking out of the sea star’s mouth. Walking through the slippery seaweed, we’re soon out among the bright red and purple urchins.

Sam tugs at one of the spikes, “It doesn’t come off.”

A disc of eggs surrounds a moon snail. We find bat stars of blue, purple, red and grey—ranging from loonie to hand size. Sunflower stars and sea cucumbers look slimy and deflated.

After our day’s paddle, Bill and Lynn harvest mussels from our point for supper. Kim and Sam’s kitchen nose-wrinkling has ceased.
“I like these even more than the clams,” Kim says.

That evening we watch the sun set from a perfectly clear sky. Lines of mountains fade into the evening and the darkness creeps towards our fire’s circle.

“If I saw a painting like that, I wouldn’t buy it,” Sam says. “I’d think the mountains are just too purple—but look, they are.”

The last morning, Kim and Sam disappear into their tent. Ten minutes later two orange sleeping bags thump onto the moss. The therm-a-rest bags quickly follow. They carry their belongings down to the beach, then turn around to help with the group gear. A pile is collected on the sand and we begin to wait.

Easy chatter floats around us. Some of the group are wandering the rocks. Some are tossing a frisbee. We all listen for the hum of the outfitter’s motorboat. We soon hear it.

Kim strides waist deep into the water to hang onto the boat. Sam starts shuttling the gear. Jim and I watch as we help gather the stuff. The girls are at home here, even though it’s far from the mall. The distance between their world and ours has shrunk.