Shivering Beyond Empty:

Sweeping, broad and impressive, Canada's untapped points have their moments

Earlier in the week, John had cackled when Nico told him we’d come looking for surf. “Sure, it’s been warm so far this year boys,” he’d said, “but by this time last year, we had slush in the bays and the sea-spray was freezing on the rocks.” But after determining that we were in fact serious, he’d shifted gears from shocked humor to that particular brand of lighthearted encouragement that usually ends with someone, somewhere, doing something stupid. And as the stuffed jackrabbit—which was adorned in pink overalls—watched through glass eyes from its perch above the Glacier Manor’s bar, he’d even gone so far as to call his friend, the mayor of a nearby town, in an attempt to arrange a boat ride for us. The proposed destination: an offshore reef that the local fisherman were known to avoid. “I’ve seen 20-footers out there,” he’d said while dialing.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the viewpoint—I found it fortunate—the mayor, who also makes his living fishing, was already out to sea, and over the next few days he remained there. We’d never made it to the offshore reef, and John’s unhappiness to see us go, perhaps, was tied to that. As he left us to our beers on our last night’s stay, he went with the reluctant air of a sideshow enthusiast who’d been told he’d never see the bearded wolf-boy swallow swords.

After a week of wild desolation, the car-ferry terminal, with its bright lights, rain-slicked sea of pavement and rows of automobiles seemed like a street corner in the heart of Tokyo. I’d suffered culture shock while initially adjusting to the loneliness we’d found in the North, but now, as we returned to civilization, I was having a hard time acclimating back. The hustle and noise of hundreds of cars loading into the ferry’s cavernous hold was deafening, and once we moved upstairs, into the passenger’s areas, I remained on edge. The overnight crossing, which would take us within striking distance of Nico’s town—and the approaching swell—was jammed with weekend vacationers returning from the countryside, and because we hadn’t made reservations, we were without bunks.

Our solution was to find a quiet corner somewhere in the main cabin and sleep, but there was a flaw in the plan: The ferry’s crew, it seemed, had instructions to wake anyone who hadn’t paid for a bed. The evening turned into a cat and mouse game of cramming ourselves into dark and unobtrusive pockets of the ship in an attempt to grab shuteye, but the sleep-Gestapo, and their flashlights, and their relentless rounds through every public space, made slipping off into dreamland a tough sell. We stumbled off the boat the next morning sleep deprived zombies.