From Rock Island to Buffy Sainte Marie Part 1

"Today, we're going exploring, B." "Where are we going?" B asks. "To the other end of the beach," I say, pointing in the distance. "Do you see those rocks?" "But that's so far!" He whines. "We can collect shells along the way and play games. It's worth the walk, I promise. It was your brothers' and sister's favourite place here when they were little." We begin our trek, jumping in and out of waves as they crash on the sand. B instructs me to walk only on seaweed or backward or hop on one foot for a count of 20, five, three. Before we know it, we've reached the red clay cliffs that jut out toward the water. "Oh wow!" I exclaim. "There was a lot less water when your siblings were little! We used to be able to walk all the way out there and there was no water! There was an island you had to wade to but it was much further." I point to a small rocky outcropping surrounded by water and, at the moment, inhabited by a family of about a dozen intrepid adventurers. I watch as they make their way back to the beach, remembering their path. "Okay, let's go," I tell B. He grabs my hand. "We're not walking all the way out there!" He cries. "Sure we are," I tell him. "Just stay close." No chance of him doing anything different given the way he clings to me. He squeals and laughs and cries at the slippery rocks under his feet, the seaweed that tickles his legs and the unidentified whatnot that bumps him but we make it to the island. "This," he declares after clambering up, "is Rock Island. Hey, look! Everyone writes their name on here. Can we write our name?" "I didn't bring anything sharp to write with," I tell B. He sets about exploring the outcropping and names every corner. "This is Falls Corner. This over there is Name Day Cliff. Over there is Seaweed Harbour." This goes on for a while as I take pictures. We sit back and admire the view. "We should head back," I tell B at last. He stays sitting, watching the waves roll in and out. "Can we camp here some time?" He asks. "Hmmmm..." I hedge. "It might not be the best idea but maybe." We begin our trek back to shore where B casts one last longing look at the island. "This," he declares, "was my favourite place." "That's good," I tell him. "And next, we're going to visit your second favourite place." "Where's that?" B asks. "The Butterfly Conservatory."