Before we had personal navigation systems on our Smart phones, we would calmly pull over to the side of the road, unfold our nine square foot paper map, mark our bearings and carefully chart our next course of travel. Counting on the fact that we were not using an outdated map from another century, most of the time this system would effectively arrive us at our destination soundly.

Currently I was at a staggered intersection in a strange city, having a near panic attack trying to follow the calm voice on my phone’s GPS. It was instructing me to turn right, but their were two options to that directive, and with my luck I would choose the one that led to the on-ramp of no return. Cuss words would emit violently from my mouth as I headed at warp speed down the freeway in the wrong direction. Eventually I would find an exit or a U-turn, but not before I had collaterally expanded the vocabulary of my human cargo by a few nasty phrases. My children would later use these very words against me, and in their defense, they were given right of passage through the University of Wanderlust; the Headmaster’s emotional ruckus had reaped it’s just reward.

Thankfully, though, I turned right at the first street, which was the correct one, but a moment too late apparently, as I snuggled intimately up against the vehicle which had the right of way, narrowly missing him by an inch, triggering an extended lean on his horn and a gnarly glare. If looks could kill...

On Friday June 19 I had a visit with a friend who had just arrived back from a road trip with her kids; taking them down through to Tofino, Victoria and back. I was inspired by this, so on Saturday while out on a bike ride with another friend, I proclaimed that I was getting out of Dodge for a few days. I made the decision that afternoon, planned it out the next day and by Tuesday my kids and I were packed into my Rav 4 on our merry way down to the coast. The plan was to camp overnight at Cultus lake, take the ferry across to the Island, stay for a night in Victoria and then head up to Nanaimo’s Rathtrevor beach park. We would be back home by Friday. .

The trip was exactly what the doctor had ordered, and although my parental workload was heavy, the boys and I had a blast. I had two days to plan the route, book the camps, hoping there was last minute availability, research ferry schedules, plan the menu, purchase groceries, top up camp supplies, pack, prep the car and arrange for cat sitting. By Monday I was already exhausted, but we were on an mission and I was able to supplement my energy level simply by being around the kids and absorbing their collateral excitement. We were like three young delinquents in line for an early parole.

Dylan, the eldest, wanted in badly, however I had to make the tough call at our first stop in Hope, and called him to ask if he could sit this one out. He had been fighting a strep throat infection for a few days, and after all the COVID-19 bullshit we’d been through, the last thing we needed was to carry around a living Petri dish with a highly contagious bacterial infection. Poor kid! I’m proud to say he did the right thing and got himself tested. He managed to hunker down in his Langley apartment with a good dose of prescribed antibiotics, while we blasted classic rock tunes in the car, moving from one city to the next, eating fast food burgers, taking pictures and engaging in new and interesting experiences. Being our first born, Dylan has enjoyed a lot of family road trips; eight years more then our youngest Marshall, so as much as he missed out on this trip, he has made up for it, with surplus, during the years we had him when he was a young boy..

By the time we’d arrived in Nanaimo on Thursday, our nomadic fuel tanks were already close to full. Marshall and Rowan had slept soundly in the back while I navigated my way through and out of this strange new city. We were looking for any kind of beach that we could pull into for an afternoon swim, but oddly enough, being a Harbor city, there appeared to be nowhere to go. So we found a local guide to exploit for useless directions and then made a beeline for our camp site. That’s when I found myself idling at the city intersection teetering on the edge of a choice and after my quaint encounter, almost side swiping a car, we happily set our course for Rathtrevor Provincial park and counted heavily on the fact that our last camp out would be the Grand Finale we’d hoped for.

We were not disappointed. With it’s two-kilometre long stretch of sandy sea side and very clean and organized camping arrangement, Rathtrevor Beach Provincial park is a stark contrast to the noisy, somewhat dirty conditions of our regular camping digs; Cultus Lake. Campsites were arranged in sections separated by little round-a-bouts. In the center of each round-a-bout were clean toilet facilities surrounded by an organized recycling and disposal system. We happened to take the last booking, a double lot which was way too big for us, but nonetheless, we were grateful for the extra space, two picnic benches, two fire pits and multiple options for placing our tent. Two nights ago, we roasted marshmallows in a confined gravelly little space, in the rain while having to bear with convoys of loud motorcycles ripping up and down the highway beside us. Our bar has now been raised by this new and wonderful little gem, and we will think twice about our camping destinations in the future.

Once we’d checked in, we located the site. Ours was off of “Ocean Spray lane” which, in itself, gave us the feeling we were at a relaxing seaside resort. Suddenly I felt the day’s tension begin to melt off of me, and I couldn’t wait to get our tent set up so we could hit the beach, which turned out to be an adventure in itself. Coming from Penticton, we are used to pulling our car up next to a beach, gathering our belongings and then walking for a few yards across foot scorching sand, settling into a small section by the lake surf and then lasting only as long as our skin could handle the direct rays of the sun’s summer inferno. This beach was an expedition: It was low tide so it took a good half hour to get to the water line, crossing over whatever was sitting on the seabed at higher tide. Little crabs, oyster shells, sand dollars, various species of seaweed. It was vast and exciting to experience this thriving underworld of sea creatures crunching under our feet. Even Rowan, who would usually park himself in protest a few awkward strides in, was in awe of this unfamiliar marine world and didn’t mind the walk. We eventually found the waterline, threw down our towels and ran into the warm Strait of Georgia, celebrating our long journey’s end by splashing each other with refreshing salt water bombs and chasing each other through the surf like little children.

That evening, we found a little section of rocky beach not far from our campsite. It appeared there were little clusters of campers strewn along the surf, collecting shells and wading in knee deep water. I set up a camp chair and enjoyed a cider while I watched my children work in collaboration, building a “lean too” out of deadwood while the sun made it’s final exit from this beautiful seascape. I was a content man. We had found what we’d set out to discover: An old world that I’d traded in many years ago, for our life in the arid region of the Okanagan Valley. A new world for my children, as they embraced the playground of an ever changing surf, inhaling life giving salt air and offering pilgrimage to a small journey away from the confines of familiarity.

“Some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle and an end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next. Delicious ambiguity…” —–Gilda Radner.