As I was turning my watch back an hour, somewhere between Golden and Revelstoke, one of the many realities that would “pinch” me over the next few days struck. I would be on Pacific Time, full-time, perhaps for the rest of my life.

            Only a few hours previous, it seemed as though the dream of moving to Gabriola had turned into a monstrous joke. Everything seemed to be going wrong. We weren’t going to be able to fit everything we had planned on the trailer we were driving out, the cat threw-up his Gravol and started to gag and foam rabidly at the mouth, I had butterflies the size of bald eagles in my stomach because of separation anxieties over leaving my two sons and Jordan wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to tell him how to properly tarp a trailer! I knew we were in for a rough ride.

            Despite numerous pit stops to clean up phlegmy-cat and duct-tape the now wildly flapping tarp, we arrived at Horseshoe Bay, basically intact although looking somewhat like the Beverly Hillbillies. But as soon as we opened our car windows and smelled the fresh sea air, we knew we were home. Even the cat finally settled down and was sniffing the air, likely with thoughts of dinner in his mind.

            One of the things that kept our spirits high, despite flying drool and tarp, was an amusing summer replacement host on CBC radio. She hadn’t intended to be a source for our amusement, I am sure, but in our black and cynical moods, she managed to hit the right buttons.

            In one segment, there was a call-in quiz. The question was to do with the origin of the Caesar salad. Now, I would have thought that by now everyone knew the answer to this one. I know that CBC has done it on The Good Question and even Jordan once did an article on it for the Sounder. Most people vaguely know that it has something to do with a chef named Caesar in Mexico. But this host seemed to think that it was a difficult question, and that everyone was going to be tricked into calling in with “the obvious” answer. Jordan and I looked at each other in amazement, until I yelled at Jordan to get his eyes back on the road! We could hardly wait to find out what she thought the “obvious” answer was. We didn’t have a long wait; the second caller had the right answer. The host was puzzled that it had come so easy because surely, she said, “everyone must think that it was invented in Rome because that is where Caesar …” It is just too silly to go on.

            Next, this same poor girl introduced and then interviewed a man who is a naturist, but she kept pronouncing it to rhyme with the word “naturalist.” She sounded so pompously CBC that even we thought she might be right. We gave her the benefit of the doubt, but when the naturist came on, he pointedly pronounced it sounding like the word “ nature.” But she kept right on with her CBC pronunciation, likely because her producer had written it phonetically for her on her script. She finally starting referring to it simply as “that thing you do.” A naturist, by-the, way is one who does as much as legally or sanely possible with no clothes on. Yes, listening to this broadcaster yanked us right out of our tense moods.

            We did something on this trip that we have never done before; we ate in the ferry restaurant. For some reason we were loaded with over-height vehicles and were the fourth car on the ferry. Either the guy directing vehicles in the plaza actually thought we were over-height, or merely wanted to save the Clampetts further embarrassment from people staring at their oddly secured trailer, which by now sported two rolls of duct tape, fifty assorted bungee cords plus some rope for good measure. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves the first passengers on the passenger deck and the restaurant was just opening and empty. We decided to make this a really special trip and doing something new. The salad I had was quite nice, but when I went looking for salad dressing and couldn’t find any, the cashier pointed out these tiny packets which were all either Ranch or mayonnaise, saying that most people use the dressing for their fries. She did manage to find a box of low-fat Italian hidden somewhere in the back. Obviously they don’t sell a lot of salads.

            Talking to the ticket-booth worker at the Gabriola ferry, we couldn’t help but let slip that we were now full-time residents, and she congratulated us. In fact, over the next several days, the greeting I got from many people was “congratulations!” It was as though we had successfully completed a tortuous initiation (we had, in some ways) and were now being allowed into the secret society of “islanders.”

            On my first morning walk as a full-timer, I met a charming gentleman, watering his garden. I knew that this beautiful home had been for sale a month earlier, and seeing the sign gone, assumed that this must be the new owner. I said as much, and he quickly corrected me. In the eleventh hour, he knew that he couldn’t leave his lovely garden, the spectacular ocean view and the island. I told him that he had made the right choice. I know that Jordan and I have.