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Ever More Remote: Searching for Space to Flourish
Is there a such a thing as TOO remote?
Four years ago, my husband and I moved to Orcas Island, Washington. Orcas is the largest of the San Juan Islands, and one of four that the Washington State Ferry system serves. (The other 168 named islands are on their own.)
A few weeks ago, we were invited to one of those other islands, Cypress, by relatives with a cabin there. We went by “water taxi,” which is a fancy name for a funky old motorboat that you can hire to take you to places where the state ferry boats don’t stop. We were picked up from a dock all the way across Orcas, at Obstruction Pass, and let off on a rocky beach on Cypress. The tides have to be just right, so there are only two times a day when you can do this. Also you have to step lively. The water taxi keeps a tight schedule; we felt lucky it slowed down enough for us to jump off without falling into the drink.
Once we were safely on dry land, we had a dreamy visit. Cypress is magical, gorgeous. Peaceful and serene. The island has no cars, no roads, no town. No docks. There are a few people who live there year-round, but mostly folks have vacation cabins there, like our relatives. They had described it to us as “like glamping,” but actually we were pretty dang comfortable. The cabin itself has electricity (run by solar and a propane generator), running water (from a system built into a stream on the property), and even the occasional scrap of internet (if you were near the shore).
And only my brother and sister-in-law and nephew had to sleep in a tent.
I mean, it was pretty idyllic. So of course my husband and I began lusting after the idea of living there: an even more remote island.
I grew up in the country (on a 72-acre backwoods commune, in fact), and then in a fairly small town. By the time I was finishing up high school, I was desperate to live somewhere more urban, somewhere where things were happening. I wanted a lot of people, and excitement, and fun stuff to do, and anonymity.
