Keepers of the light
“Island swept by the surf”
Finding Lucie
I had heard of a woman on the island who’d grown up on lighthouse property (L’Anse-a-la-cabane). She was only a young girl when she would observe her father (Charles Cormier) climb the tower steps to ignite the kerosene lamp to ward danger from passing travelers — as did her grandfather. (William Cormier)
The daughter of a guardian:
people referred to the family by their community-appointed name, La Light
Lucie-a-Charlie-la-Light (Charlie rather than Charles because he was married to an Irish woman.)
Lucie was the last out of 10 children to be born at L’Anse-a-la-Cabane.
They used the lighthouse like a silo theater and dramatically act to an audience at the base, while at night, her father routinely ascended the spiraling theater stage to check on the kerosene lamp and reset the weighted pulley.
A lighthouse’s light source was originally a kerosene lamp. A thick cord was coiled around the lamp and through a series of pulleys was tied to a weight. The lighthouse guardian had to reset the mechanism several times through the night.
She and her siblings loved to take tourists up to the lighthouse peak to share with them a view that she refers to as “La vue de mon enfance”, where in every direction was met by a blue horizon wall.
During the summer, she and her siblings swam in the ocean under the watchful eye of the lighthouse.
Today, in old age, she has kept up with the tradition and bathes in the ocean every day; even in winter.
In our last moments together, as I was just about ready to leave she grabbed me by the arm and looked into my eyes, saying through the lips of her whistling smile:
“Rappelez-vous! L’eau est la couleur du firmament.”
(Remember! Water is the color of the firmament.)
Firmament definition:
The heavens or the sky, especially when regarded as a tangible thing.
I was enamored but conclusively saddened by what she had just told me.
I saw how slowly she walked into the ocean, and I saw where her stare hung as the water buried more of her flesh with every…slowing……step.
The horizon. The Firmament.
Four of the six lighthouses were retired from use in the late 1980s.
Since then, no light has ever shone again at L’Anse-a-la-Cabane.
A sorrowful conclusion for a family who was named after its fire.
A list of Magdalen’s lighthouses:
Bird rock 1870
L'Anse-à-la-Cabane 1870 - 1871
L'Île d'Entrée 1874
L'Étang-du-nord 1874
L’Ile Brion 1905
Havre-aux-Maisons (Cap Alright) 1928
Father Fisher
“Père Pêcheur”
I think curiosity is to blame for the winding paths that formed my life. As a kid, I remember making the discovery that no matter how far I walked, there was always more to go.
But where to?
The St-Lawrence river didn’t seem to struggle with this decision. During the entirety of my childhood, I watched its current restlessly flow in a northeastern direction. It rushed through the lower regions of Quebec and caressed the edge of my hometown, leaking into the Atlantic.
My father would often taunt me, saying that if I fell into the river, they’d have to fish me out of the ocean.
Well, I’d never been there before. Nor had I met any fishermen.
From that moment, I wanted to know what the breeze smelled like when it rushed from the sea. What song did the wind sing that made tall grass fibers sway by the shoreline; did the fishermen hum the same tune when they floated on its surface?
After years of traveling in unplanned directions, I believe these questions are what first sparked my interest in following the St-Lawrence’s flow towards the Gaspésie Peninsula.
Full story in my
Photography
and
poetry book,
Father Fisher
Honey in Bear Country
“Hornby Island”
I was ankle-deep in the freeze of the North Pacific ocean looking for mussels. The chill of the water stung my bones as the tropical fragrance of the air soothed my skin. Tides were rising onto the western Canadian shores of Hornby island while the sun fell, glistening red in the distance of its crystal waters.
Our hope for a free meal slowly dissipated as we’d pried open the unearthed mussels only to find empty mouths. “Be patient! Good things happen to those who are.” That was Xavier. A local of the island and an old friend from Quebec. He’d arrived here on his sailboat four years ago and like many others, had found within the island what he calls home. He’s since then joined the island’s community of mainland runaways and lost travelers.
“Crab! Crab!” Xavier waved me over as he stared down at the thinly submerged sand. He pointed out bubbles rising to the surface and swiftly kicked the sand next to it. Eight scrawny legs clinched to the surface to pull up its shell, throwing claws at the sun ready for a fight. A magnificent Dungeness crab. Its eyes like dark globes on the tip of antennas lock onto my towering figure as I question the safety of my toes.
“Grab it from behind!” Xavier shouted. Now it was my fingers I was worried about. Its ash-orange shell alone was the size of my hand and its legs spanned the length of my forearm. The passive hunt for mussels had not prepared me well for hand-to-hand combat with the sea critter. But we were hungry. I dove my hand over its head following my friend’s instruction and scooped it right up. My fingers held the pearl-white belly of its undershell as the pointy tips of its legs scratched at my skin.
I felt fascinated by the chase. Partly for the food we were bringing back to shore but mostly for the knowledge exhibited before me by Xavier. We both grew up far from any ocean shore so I asked him how he came to understand the right clues in order to find the crab. He said he had already given me the answer when he told me to be patient, adding:
“Our hands are too small to interfere with the natural occurrences of the world. All we can do is pay attention and choose our moments.”
The word of our successful hunt spread through the island before night fully settled over us. The truth is, there was little on Hornby to distract the locals other than the excitement of traveling news. Most of them lived without the daily necessity of cellphones and relied on the human delay of word of mouth to stay informed. I had forgotten what it was like to live without the immediacy of technology and its ironic claims of connectivity. I recognized the true desire to communicate with one another in the community of Hornby island.
Some locals joined us carrying wood they had scavenged from the forest, while others brought backyard-grown vegetables and worn-out pots to boil the catch of the evening. Our dinner by the beach had grown into a celebration as a dozen people had taken place around the fire to hear the story of our hunt and to participate in the group ritual of howling at the moon. The act of doing so served no practical purpose. So I sat silently, questioning my gut for its readiness to blow air into the dark sky. But soon enough, the built-up excitement of joining in burst out of my body as I howled to the depths of the cosmos tagging the moon along the way. After doing so I couldn’t pull my attention away from the sky. I came to realize that their howls were not only a sign of unity but also served to practice acknowledgment of the moon and the space it found itself in.
The night went on as embers floated in spirals in the entanglement of our conversations. I got to meet a few other locals and most of them seemed to wield a specialty necessary to the support of the community. Some were farmers, some were herbalists, some were tradesmen and others were artists. Among the group, varied as they were, was one man whose claims remain unforgettable.
His name was Matthew, and he introduced himself as a pirate. The idea seemed preposterous as the image I had of a pirate suited no modern man but the locals were all in agreement. If there were to be North American pirates traveling the modern seas, he would be one of them. He lived on his sailboat adhering to the laws of the sea and to the pirate code. This code, in his interpretation, conveys that any man claiming piracy must live outside of modern society and be of service to no one but himself and the sea.
Matthew doesn’t consider himself to be part of the Hornby community as that would imply that he lives on land. Yet, the locals know him as a friend and a neighbor. His attachment to them sources from their common interests of living on the cusp of society and their own set of laws.
“They would make damn good pirates.” Said Matthew as he winked at me in appreciation for the people we found ourselves surrounded by.
Hours later, the fire had smoldered down to a pile of ashes, and dawn’s faint luminance hovered over the island’s eastern horizon. I was left to delve into my newfound admiration for the locals of Hornby. Their way of living ran symbiotically with the natural occurrences of the island, and part of the reason why that worked is the minute size of their community. A boat ride away hummed the excess of a major metropole, Vancouver. Here the stars disappear behind the luminance of neon signs advertising half-off deals to a product-fed population. Nearby mountains pale in comparison to the height of office skyscrapers whose divine peaks can only be reached by way of the corporate ladder.
In this respect, Hornby island is proof of a functioning alternative lifestyle.
Later that day, as I ride the ferry back to the mainland, I will try my best to not forget.
I will try to remember that life finds a way with or without us and that our only real chance at finding meaning within it is to pay attention.
Even when the city lights blur my vision and the towers obstruct my path, I will try to remember the last piece of advice I was given by one of the Hornby locals.
- “There are two options when it comes to success. You can choose to succeed in life, or you can choose to succeed in your own life.”
