the Island

Sometimes, there are things that just can't be written about. That are too dear and special and close to our hearts. We can't find the words to truly describe what the thing means to us. Orcas is one of those things. When you go somewhere all you life, so many times that you've lost count, and it becomes a place so full of memories you can't but look at something and it brings up a story, it becomes all the harder to talk about.

You have to be there, to understand how magical gushing water out of the old red pump is, or waking up before anyone else and starting a fire in the wood stove in the bright blue kitchen, painted that color because of a sale on blue paint at the Eastsound hardware store years ago.

 You have to be pumping your legs up and down the slope to understand why we run around the house or down to the creek, as fast as we can. You have to be there, to understand why we hike the path that to outsiders, might seem exactly the same year after year, but to us, the cousins, changes constantly. You have to be there to know how ridiculously funny washing our hair in the pump is. You have to be there to know why we tip each other over in the hammock, or lie on the grass and just read or or playing dodge ball on a hill, or organize our beach glass by color. You have to be there to understand why we dress up and dance in the parade in front of the whole island.

You won't understand the magic unless you're there. 

Orcas is one of those things. Filled with our favorite haunts, that we visit year after year. Ice cream at the grocery store, the farmer's market, an afternoon on the lake at the state park, hiking up the mountain, treasure hunting at the Exchange, kyaking at West Beach, the tide flats at Crescent. They're all a part of what make Orcas, quite simply, Orcas. 

And I wouldn't ever want it to change.