i heart georgian bay

A few years ago I read a passage in "The English Patient" by Michael Ondaatje that literally brought my hand to my chest and sent me into one of those foggy eyed reveries that accompanies good memories. That I happened to be in Thailand at the time may have exaggerated my response to a small degree but I've never forgotten that somewhere in the 300-odd pages of text there was a passage that communicated 'home' to me in a way that I've never been able to put to paper.

I was reminded of this passage for the umpteenth time a few days ago while on our annual 'last time out this season' kayak trip. I've been tripping through the park we were in for 10 years and, as we moved through the water, I couldn't help but connect that island...this rock...that site... to memories from years past. My first trip there with M., the boy about whom I'll always wonder 'what if?'; that spot in the middle of the bay where V., too drunk to wait, leaned herself over the side of our teetering canoe and peed right then and there; that cliff where the boys insisted on cliff diving, scaring any training about handling head and neck injuries right out of my mind; and that campsite where G. and I spent our last weekend.

Yesterday, I borrowed "The English Patient" from the library to reacquaint myself with the passage that spoke so strongly to me of home that it stayed with me all these years. It took some time to find it but, eventually, I was successful. There it was, buried on page 296 in a book of 301 pages:

"I am sick of Europe, Clara. I want to come home. To your small cabin and pink rock in Georgian Bay".

When I found it, I had to read it twice - I was that surprised. "That's it?", I asked myself. Then I read it again and nodded to myself. That's it. The years of my life are spelled out across the sparkling pink rock that is Northern Ontario.

Summers spent at summer camp learning to canoe, kayak and pack enough belongings to last a week in a tiny little bedroll, never once suspecting that these would all be skills I would bring with me into adulthood. Weeks spent at Kilbear Provincial Park, a place I visited again this summer and realized how the years had passed: that the island I used to be afraid to swim to was nothing more than a large step away; that teenagers still climb the cliffs to sneak cigarettes and flirt with summer romance; and that the tradition of graffiti rock has survived only now the dates read "Smith family 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003" instead of the "1980, 1981, 1982" that accompanied my visits. With time has come new traditions like 'the last time out' kayak trip with my Aunt and Cousin last weekend where I think I surprised my Aunt by replying "None" to the question "How many children?".

In the city buildings are torn down and built over, forests are replaced by Walmarts, and friends move away but up north that tree just gets bigger, the islands hold their place, and that warm spot in the sun - the one on the rock with the built in chair at site 321 - that warm spot will still be there next year.