“I don’t think we’re going to make it,” I yell to my cousin Jake, struggling to make my voice loud enough to be heard over the sound of waves crashing over our tiny red kayaks bobbing up and down.

“Nope,” he yells back as we watch the island we were trying to kayak to get farther away as we feel ourselves violently pulled back by the current. “Where do we go now?”

“I have no idea. The wind is too strong too make it to Middle Island.” The current and the wind were going in different directions, relentlessly driving against each other, resulting in large frothing waves. The current was with us on the way to Middle Island but the wind was against us, and vice versa on the way home, leaving us virtually nowhere to go.

“Well we can’t make it back either, but we need to find somewhere because land is getting farther away,” he shouted, sounding a bit panicked.

I stopped paddling forward for just a second to give my arms a rest while I replied and immediately fell behind Jake and frantically started paddling again. I cast my eyes about in the increasing rain and realized our friend Jenny’s dock had no boats on it, the closest dock to us.
“Head for Jenny’s dock,” I waved him in the direction of her house and we both threw our tiny kayaks straight into the wind, while the current buffeted us forward.

We were in my favorite place in the world, Nova Scotia. Specifically, the Lahave ISlands, a group of more than a dozen islands, some of which are inhabited, but mostly not, and all need a boat to access.

We paddled as fast and as hard as we could, spitting rainwater out of our mouths, pushing hair out of our eyes. Finally, my aching arms feeling like limp noodles, we reached the shore, dragging our red plastic saviours up onto the sea weedy grass, and began trudging up the graveled path to Jenny’s house, and safety.

In Nova Scotia we own a small house (if it can even be called a house, more like a large shed) in the Lahave Islands. We live on Wolfe Island, one of the smaller ones, though it still manages to hold 8 homes. It is a small red painted house with yellow framed windows and a roof speckled white with seagull droppings. Personally, I think we have one of the more desirable properties, as our house hangs right out over the water, overlooking what we call “The Gut” a narrow separation of water between Wolfe and the mainland. Our house has only two rooms; upstairs, and downstairs, with the only walls being the four that make up the house. We have no running water, but we have an outhouse. It's a 2 minute walk over some marshy grasses, and into the moss covered woods. Every morning we are wakened by crows, a few songbirds, and the smell of the sea. Underlying everything is a sense of thrilling wildness, and unpredictable waters.

Growing up, and I am still growing, but growing up to where I am now, I was an interesting kid. I had sensory issues, and would often try to go to school naked, because I hated the feel of fabrics on my skin. I couldn’t even wear bracelets. It got so bad my parents would often try to dress me while I was still asleep, to avoid the tantrum that would surely ensue as soon as they told me to get dressed. As a result, I had one to two outfits I wore every day, including cowboy boots and a poncho. Which, by the way, I rocked.  On top of that, I struggled with too much stimulation so I was prone to crying and having a fit if there were too many people, or if it was too loud, so my environment was always controlled, and people were careful with me. Someone once said that I was always operating at 99% of my capabilities, and anything extra, just that 1% would push me over the edge. Ironic, that a kid like that would be able to exist in Nova Scotia, much less love it. I don’t know why it was easier for me in Nova Scotia, where everything was uncomfortable. It was always raining, or cold, or foggy, and I am never “comfortable” but I don’t ever remember wishing I was home. I think some part of it was that there weren’t as many expectations, even as a toddler. I wasn’t expected to throw a tantrum because not many people knew what we dealt with at home, so I didn’t, because no one knew enough to think that was strange, except for my parents. I loved, love Nova Scotia.

The weather in Nova Scotia is critical to daily life. In the islands, you have to be very aware of the weather, as it controls everything you do. For example, Jake and I should not have planned a kayak trip when it was a “bit” windy, as a “bit” in Nova Scotia often turns into a lot. You can’t just forget about it when the ocean starts seeping up through your floorboards, or your boat gets untied in a storm and drifts away (which has happened on multiple occasions). Mother Nature is right up in your face, telling you what to do and when to do it (the tides), whether you like it or not. Yet it is also such a place of beauty, with rocky shores and overgrown paths winding through skeletal forests, with crows flying overhead

In Nova Scotia, many things are outside of my control, which is sometimes difficult as I often need everything to be organized and calm for me to function. If I had not gone to Nova Scotia every summer of my life, I would be a different person. I would not have learned how to let some things go, that not everything can be changed, and many things do not have to be just endured, you can enjoy them as well. If you get sand in your shoes it’s not the end of the world, if the power goes out, you aren’t going to die, and if the wind and current are against you, go somewhere else. Determination and a little red kayak can get you a long way.