Seasons of the Island


It was dark. I meandered around our dock, the marina and its paths, with a flashlight in hand, walking the Dog as per her nightly ritual. The wind was strong and brisk, as it has been all week. The leaves skittered about my feet. I wore a toque, a heavy vest, and sandals. The damp but yet, dry leaves brushed against my
toes. As we ready ourselves for our move north across the Harbour to the city the different seasons of the Island impressed themselves upon me. 




In early May it all starts with the Sticky Bud season. These are horrendously awful tree buds, there is not much nice to say about them. Sticky little bundles of spring regeneration, they land themselves everywhere and anywhere. They are not kind to fiberglass. Fortunately, our boat is far enough down the dock to avoid the worst of them. However, there really is no escaping the saturating yellow stains they leave behind. Our Dog tracks them inside, onto our bed and our settee, as they hopelessly stick to her fur. You’ll inevitably find them stuck to your clothes, and then that item is sadly, history. I’ve yet to find a stain remover to remove those stubborn, bastardly yellow marks. 
Then, the Summer snow is upon us. The sticky buds give way to a downy white fluff. From the Poplar trees, it flies through the air like a fine snow, a blizzard of sorts. It accumulates along the paths like a heavy dander. It tickles your nose, it covers the water. It blows inside your boat, a whole new definition of dust bunny. It is dangerously flammable. 


After the snow, there are the usual mosquitos. No need to say more, and they are followed by the mud wasps. Seemingly harmless creatures, albeit a bit frightening looking, the mud wasps are merely intent on building their little com massive mud dwellings. Any crevice aboard your vessel, inside or out, is not immune to the industrious nature of these insects. After a rain you’ll find them hovering over the mud, only to track it to some deep hideaway. The best solution I’ve come up with is to stuff a paper towel in such crevice. I don’t like to use noxious sprays. So please don’t be offended come July, if you happen to come aboard and see tufts of paper towel sticking out of here and there. I’m keeping the mud wasps out!
Then come the real wasps. Yellowjackets. The kind that sting. They hover and congregate above anything remotely sweet. Your beer, your wine, your apple juice. Keep it covered or beware. Even last weeks spill. Your freshly shampooed hair. This year they seemed worse then ever. 
All to soon the leaves turn and begin to fall. And here I stand tonight. Writing about all the changes I’ve witnessed as the days of the summer have passed us by. The marina has emptied out, and the boats are being hauled out. They dissapear daily. Our Island season has come to an end.


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