Ode to Pacific Winds

I met my husband on a weekend trip to Tofino on Vancouver Island. It's circa 1980 and the night was sultry. Just kidding, a spoof from the movie "Throw Momma off the Train" . It's a tiny village on the northern west tip and boasts scenic shorelines and tranquility. My girlfriend and I rented a chalet on the beach and spent two days admiring waves bursting to shore, as we don't usually see angry waters on the mainland. The waves were, ironically, like the panic attacks I began to suffer at 19 years old. One minute I'm feeling calm and tranquil, the next I feel complete panic. I suddenly cannot breathe, there are no more waves of breath.

But the waves keep crashing, the winds force them from the ocean, deep from the Pacific waters, and sometimes we found partial remnants of Japanese buoys or garbage. We pretended they floated to us all the way from Japan, but we really knew their fishing vessels were nearby in International waters, netting whale and sea lions or other innocent sea creatures that got caught in their nets, depleting the First Nations of their rightful heritage to kill whales with respect, with guns and spears. The Japanese ships will keep the bountiful salmon and tuna and return to their homeland, only to mass fish again on the outskirts of Canadian waters and Canadian sovereignty.

The winds are strong and forceful, more so than we're accustomed on the mainland coast. There are no wind breakers until Vancouver Island and the trees that align the edge of the beach are repeatedly blown backwards, now sculptured at a 45 degree angle. It's odd to see trees not standing straight. They remind me of a Queen's beheading, a graceful death.

There is a constant mist around us, ocean spittle, and down the road there is an ancient forest, where the spit has been soaked up to be recycled again. It's green, several hues of green, so thick of moss and vines and earth, even the rain is green. I close my eyes and it smells like rotten salt, then I panic, again. I suck up rotten salty air into my lungs, over and over, until a brown paper bag provides me with calm.

My husband blew in from the east coast, straight from the thick of Quebecois separatism and the smoking man. He came "west young man" to find a job gooey-duck diving and worked off a fishing vessel with 20 other non-English speaking nationals from around the world.

I first saw him standing beside a black corvette. I wanted to meet someone who had a nicer car than mine; a gorgeous 1980 Firebird, with corvette rally rims and Michelin 50's. God, my car was hot.

Turns out he was just standing beside it, admiring my car, but by then it was too late. He found a place in my heart right then and there and we have never been apart, except for the occasional trips back East to Frenchland, but at least he keeps one of the kidlens with me.

He's a motherfucker, dip-shit french fucker frog, pisses me off all the time, we argue over everything, but I know there is no problem, because I usually win these battles, since it's coming up to our 27th anniversary of togetherness and celebrates our first meeting at the Pacific's crest.

He was wearing tight jeans and I was wearing a brown paper bag. And not much has changed since then.