Qualicum Beach

Before bed, I let the children go down to the beach one last time. They threw stones into the sea as the sun began to shine low on the water. It looked like a scene from an idyllic childhood. I snapped a picture forgetting that good photographs are ninety percent composition and ten percent context. Sentiment hardly counts at all.

Then, I set off on my walk while S. managed the final bedtime ritual. I began to recall how the name Qualicum Beach had resonated on my grandfather's gravely, rich Wiltshire tongue so that I imagined it must be a magical place where even lonely little boys could find fun and friendship. Qual-i-cum. The way he and all the adults as well as my older brother and sister said it made the long trip from Victoria seem short in imagined splendor. There was even mention of former childhoods, of older cousins.

And then we arrived. It was raining. The boat we were to ride on bobbed and pitched against the dock. Too rough today. It was like all Pacific scenes in southern Canada in the rain: Cold and windy. As a child, I couldn't imagine the glory a little sun and clear skies could make. And so we went home. Only much, much later would I learn that so much idolatry of place in the adult mind has to do with the memory of children playing in the sun.