© the other press ¢ Features March 17, 2004 The Wild Women’s Weekend Karen Larsen OP Contributor The invitation said, “Wear your WWW t-shirt, bring an appetizer, and meet in the forward lounge,” just as it’s said for the last sixteen years. Eleven friends gather at the covet- ed window seats towards the bow of the BC ferry, not to gaze at the breathtaking September views, but to convert the life-jacket storage bin into a buffet table. Gina barely posi- tions the linen tablecloth and we are deftly placing sumptuous canapés upon it. As the ship laboriously pulls away from berth number two, Gina’s blue eyes lock with my green ones. Estelle, renowned for her tardiness, is missing. She is a walk-on, and was supposed to arrive first. As a home economics teacher, Gina is always looking out for others; today is no different. “I'll just take a little stroll to look for her. Remember one year she sat in the aft lounge?” Gina is barely out of her chair when Estelle magically appears, slightly out of breath, her tightly- cropped black curls bouncing. “Sorry I’m late,” she pants while she straightens her designer eyeglasses, “I ran all the way from the upper lot.” In her hand I spy the coveted fresh fruit and Belgian chocolate dipping sauce. Estelle, a dietician, is a well-known chocoholic who always shares. The friendly chatter of women aged 40-something, who haven't seen each other for a year permeates our sec- tion of the Queen of Coquitlam. The 90-minute voyage, which seems like for- ever when I’m alone, is over in the blink of an eyelash. I've often mused that the journey, not the destination, is the highlight of the Wild Ba Page 20 ¢ http://www-otherpress.ca Women's Weekend trips. Eight of us luxuriate in an envi- ronmentally insensitive Suburban for the next leg of the voyage. The three walk-ons walk off and take the six-dollar taxi ride from Departure Bay to the Gabriola Ferry Terminal. Approaching the terminal, we watch the churning wake of the Quinsam as she chugs away from the dock. The missed connection provides an opportunity to sit in the vehicle to continue a book club conversation or to walk to Harbour Park Mall. I opt to wait in the parking lot and squeal with delight when Alison, a former Powell Riverite, asks if I'd like, “an icy cold Kilkenny Cream Ale?” Carol, a history professor dressed in a tasteful mix of Gap and Mountain Equipment Coop cloth- ing, gives us a disapproving stare. “You bet,” I reply, and the two of us drink from plastic cups. We do it mostly because some think it inap- propriate and juvenile. As the 15-minute crossing to Descanso Bay commences, women tumble from the gas-sucking pig onto the ferry. The sea breezes con- vert my highlighted hair into a 1960’s bouffant. I don’t care. No lip- stick, no dry-clean only clothes this weekend. In the enclave of Gabriola Island they don’t know that puka shells, rainbow toe socks, and low- rise pants ever went out of style. “There’s Lindy!” blurts Alison, pointing to a solitary figure standing on a rocky outcrop. We can barely make out his shad- owy image in the fading light, but we know my dad is waving a red tea towel that says, “Welcome to Gabriola Island.” There really aren't any words on the towel, but the meaning is implied and we've come to expect his salute. Once inside Lindy’s three-story log home, which he vacates for the annual Wild Women’s Weekend, we admire the twinkling lights of Nanaimo Harbour—a sight that never ceases to impress us. In his kitchen, the cast iron wood stove is working overtime and my dad has the house heated to 82 degrees. Bundles of maple neatly stacked by the stove are his way of encouraging us to keep the home fires burning. As soon as he’s off to spend the weekend at a neighbour's house, we open every window in an attempt to fend off heat exhaustion. Partly to cool off, and partly because it’s on the agenda, we head out to the White Hart. The pub lighting is dim and the furniture is showing signs of wear. Our youthful server, who sports numerous body piercings, saunters over. “What can I bring you ladies?” she asks. The feminist in me wants to say, “We're not ladies, we're women.” But for this weekend we can be ladies...or maybe even girls. Alison orders for all of us. “Three pitchers of Piper's Pale Ale and two buckets of hot wings.” Tracy adds amiably, “A Crantini, please.” At 41, Tracy is the youngest in the crowd. Imagine a Canadian- born Chinese princess, and you'll see Tracy. She does not own blue jeans, has never felt grass on her bare toes and as a child, bugged her sister by dressing Barbie in a mismatched outfit. We will never convert her to our beer- drinking ways. Tonight's pub activity is Canadian trivia. The tiebreaker question is asked. “Who was the first Canadian female Lieutenant Governor?” Gina clinches her team’s win by knowing it is Pauline McGibbon. “How could you possibly get that?” asks Alison. “Its rather an obscure fact,” notes Carol. “Easy,” Gina replies, “she lived next door to my Aunt Jen, in Toronto.” Gina is not only a gour- met cook, she’s smart too. In the morning Carol is up early, reviewing the Communist Manifesto and the Magna Carta. She takes a reading break to serve coffee tender- ly laced with Bailey’s Irish Cream to the sleepyheads upstairs. The aroma of freshly baked cinnamon buns from the Farmer’s Market, picked up during Gina and Estelle’s 7am power walk, envelops the house on this Saturday morning. A Saturday afternoon event is another WWW ritual. In the early 90s it was a car rally, where each squad had a Polaroid and a list of ten “must have” Wild Women photos, including: in a police car, holding a live bunny, and rowing a boat. Later, the rally became a scavenger hunt where we retrieved items such as a valid passport, a shopping cart, and a tropical drink parasol. “What do you have up your sleeve for fun and games this afternoon?” Alison asks me. She won't have to wait long for the answer to that question. This year’s Gabriola croquet match gets all the women laughing, since rule changes and cheating are part of the fun. We regroup on the log house deck to share stories and laughs. “Listen up,” I command, sounding like the demanding high school teacher that I am, “every per- son must tell her most poignant memory of Gabriola Island.” The replies flow like a raging river: “Gin and tonic at the croquet match,” “Dancing on board the Mary J,” “Nancy’s first kiss with Moustache-Man,” “The Fall Fair,” “Bathing in the outdoor claw-foot tub,” “Lindy flying from Vancouver to fix the plumbing,” “Leaving Estelle stranded on Tugboat Island,” “Meeting the Gabriola Rude Boys in the White Hart,” “Alison driving the 67 Comet in the Mardi Gras parade.” The list goes on. My friends’ reflections suggest that maybe it’s neither the journey nor the destination that keep us returning to Gabriola Island year after year like the swallows to Capistrano. The people and the memories are the real attraction, as well as the opportunity to create our own little piece of history each and every year.