The Kindness of Strangers
We wait at the jetty of the Powell River, me holding our three-year-old, Ferdie, Alec smoking. A small grey boat with an orange dragon painted on it materialises on the lake, a soft moan from the engine.
The boatman says his name is Roddy. He wears red braces over a naked chest. He waits for us to step on with our black shiny city cases and then jerks the engine back into life. I love that diesel smell.
We’d heard it was the writer Kurt Vonnegut’s old house, but that is probably a lie. We’ve run out of money – having been living on the islands for months – and the thing about Fiddlehead Farm is that it is some kind of left-over commune. This is 1992. You could pay your way by working. I’d teach a few yoga classes, Alec would fix things, cars, whatever.
Our room is one of the little wooden
