My island home

I remember skipping stones. Getting that stone to skip more than 16 times was my personal best. I would watch the rings grow larger and larger until they would melt into the surrounding water. Could my life be any better? I sure didn’t think so. I had what many children could only dream of — a quiet peaceful existence in the most beautiful of surroundings. My little island home in the North Atlantic created for me the most pleasant of childhoods.

There were times when adventure tourism took on a whole new meaning. Copying from ice pan to ice pan required careful precision and a misstep not only meant a chilling bath in the bay but you could also count on a darn right scolding in the porch when you got home. Warmth came quickly, though, as many nights ended with a song and a yarn around the kitchen table surrounded by family and friends.

Twillingate or Toulinquet as it was known in the 1600s was my playground, my home, and for much of the time I believed, even then, it was my personal paradise. It was on that little island iced-in for much of the winter that I learned to love our great province of Newfoundland and Labrador. Then again what wasn’t there to love? As a kid I watched the slow train of icebergs, all shapes and sizes, pass by every summer from the end of June to mid-July. I followed the dance of the Northern Lights through the skies on a crisp September night — light shows occasionally interrupted by the regular flash of the beam from the lighthouse at Long Point.

One of my favourite memories is fishing for tomcods off the rocks beneath Mr. Bath’s flake — except, of course, for the time I jigged my cousin Randy. He had to have the hook cut out of his hand at the hospital and my mother suspended my fishing license for a spell.

I didn’t really know how much I loved this place until I had to leave. Jobs in the mid-1970s were scarce and after finishing college so off I went to the mainland in search of work. The streets of Toronto were a long ways away from the rocky shores of Twillingate but I quickly adjusted. Like many other displaced Newfoundlanders, I found more of my kind to gather with, to share our songs, our stories and our common bond of missing home.

Newfoundland and Labrador was always at the centre of my heart and going back never far from my mind.

It took me 11 years to find my way back. I can still remember the excitement of crossing the Gulf and when the ferry docked in Port aux Basque I immediately announced “ I’m home” even though home was technically several hours away. I knew then I was here to stay. My travels still take me around the world but no matter where I go or for how long am away I’m always the happiest when I am here where “the paths of whales and icebergs cross”.

I no longer live in Twillingate but have made my home in St. John’s. Still, there is the occasional iceberg that makes its way past The Narrows and just last September I watched the Northern Lights put on a marvelous show. I’m constantly reminded of how right I was to return. More than that, I’m constantly reminded of how important it is for me to help in any way to create a place here for my children’s children.

That might seem like a lot to hope for but I’m very motivated. In recent years I’ve helped to build businesses here in this place where “the paths of whales and icebergs cross”.

Today I feel a lot like I felt many years ago in Twillingate when I learned to skip beach stones. I feel a little like the kid who missed the edge of the ice pan for the first time — totally excited and terribly anxious. Could my life be any better? I sure don’t think so.