Nature boy
His whole life has been about islands it seems. He lived like an island within his family, a centre unyielding around which moved his wife and children, their minds forced into isolation by his presence.
Finally freed of his own filial obligations to landlocked weekends, he began to buy islands, rugged north and lush tropical havens.
The first was in the long longed for Canadian North, and purposely far from the regatta circuit. It came with an old wood cabin, big enough for just one hermit.
So he raised the roof, pushed back the walls as far as beams could bear, and turned them to glass.
During the first summer after renovations were complete, he would sit in a large armchair in the centre of his house, light streaming in off the darkening sky streaked postcard reds, ribbons of colour dancing across the water’s surface.
He’d sit in the chair, slowly completing a circle over many days, a whiskey in one hand and a chainsaw at his feet.
And as he sipped his new view, a peevish look would crumple his face now and again. A look that made him empty his glass then place it on the table. He’d pick up his chain saw, slip on his Wellingtons and walk on down to the dock.
He’d fire up his massive inboard and roar across the bay to a neighbouring island. Yank the cord igniting the idle putter then death screech of his saw, landscape deafened. And he’d cut down tree after tree, selectively carving his view.
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