This weekend J and I went to visit my parents on Thetis Island. It was a kind of mini-Christmas in January, to make up for us having spent the December original (a pocketful of change, jingling) in south-western Ontario.

Normally a Thetis weekend would entail:

1. an advance ferry reservation ($15) for the 5:45 sailing from Tsawwassen to Duke Point (a further $45 this time of year)
2. an early Friday departure from work in order to compete in the Rush Hour Grand Prix, in which the entire city centre workforce leaves their desks simultaneously, jamming all major arteries (Granville, Oak, Knight, Highway 1 etc) as they head away. There is a certain anxiety even with the ferry reservation, because bureaucratic regulations dictate that these reservations must be picked up no later than 30 minutes before, yet no earlier than 1 hour before departure time. This forms a narrow 30-minute window which we then aim our car at, fingers clamped whitely to the steering wheel, right hand tensely poised upon the stick-shift, while jockeying from lane to lane (left lane: turn signal! curb lane: bus!)
3. 30-60 minutes waiting for departure (a time spent in desultory conversation, listening to the CBC, or re-reading sections from the morning’s paper)
4. 2 hours on the ferry (queuing for a dose of crapulous ferry food, more desultory conversation, more reading)
5. 45 minutes of anxious driving through the dark Vancouver Island night (white knuckles, lane changes as above) from Duke Point to Chemainus, in an effort to catch the 8:45 sailing ($24) to Thetis Island
6. 15-30 minutes waiting for departure (conversation, CBC)
7. 30 minutes crossing time (CBC)
8. culminating in a 9:30 or so arrival chez les parents, at which point J & I do our best to appear bright-eyed and sociable until sinking (eventually, gratefully) into slumber in the guest room

Our normal return rituals are essentially this in reverse, the process getting underway on early Sunday afternoon, and depositing us back home late that same evening, refreshed (!) and ready (!!) to restart the Monday-Friday grind once again.

This weekend, though, was different. This weekend we joined the birds.

Acting on a suggestion from The Grandmother, J and I booked seats on a Friday afternoon floatplane from Vancouver (the Fraser River) direct to Thetis Island, returning in the same fashion this (Monday) morning. It was a miracle of convenience: 15 minutes from bay to bay. A perfect small adventure, a genuine addiction taking root.

I can think of few experiences which offer the same Genuine West Coast™ thrill. The last time I felt as transported (!) was several years ago when J and I took the Discovery Coast run from Port Hardy up to Bella Coola: steep slopes napped with fir trees to the tideline; rain-shrouded fjords fading off into the dusk while the ferry diesels north. In both cases a sense that this is what it really means to live and work in the coastal rain forest that is BC.

So this morning’s commute was not our usual half-hour drudge across the Second Narrows. Just before 8:00 at the Thetis Island marina with a light rain falling, standing with our stuff beneath the eaves. Scritching the ears of the three-legged dog who mounts a wagtail guard. A typical low-cloud, low-light, west coast misty morning. All is still.

And we can hear it well before we see it: somewhere over Kuper Island, right on time. The sound fades, disappears, and then around the headland the Beaver floatplane roars into view, lights flaring, touching down. It’s all so casual: the pilot nonchalantly stepping onto the pontoon as it glides silently the last few meters to the dock.

10 minutes later and we’re strapped in, the engine full-throttle forward, racing down the channel with island coastline whipping fast past either wingtip. A slight shudder as the pontoons rise into planing position, the plane picking up a notch more speed. And then the lift-off: feather-soft.

Through the wing-struts you can see the gulls below you now, and the ragged coastline — dark blues, dark greens and greys — sliding softly, steadily along.

It’s not that the land and water fall away; it isn’t that at all. It’s as if the low clouds lift you; as if they’ve called you up towards them.

It’s as if you had been lifted up.