WHATEVER HAPPENED TO THE NEIGHBOURHOOD?

Spring flowers remain from an old homestead

Do you remember when people said about black folk (or Jews, or Pakistanis) moving into the neighbourhood, that property values would plummet and the neighbourhood generally go to the dogs? Well, it’s happening with an interesting twist on the Coast.

It’s a lovely spot. We call it Castle Anchorage after the impressive rock face on the east side: Last stop before running the rapids going north (Yuks – Dents – Greene Pt.– Whirlpool), first stop returning south. There’s an old rickety float in the cove and some wonderful lingcod, rockfish and greenling where the current swirls around the point. It’s where Elizabeth first learned to talk raven.

We were cleaning fish on the aft deck. A hot September afternoon. Two eagles watched with hungry eye and quickly swooped for the carcasses we threw overboard. Several ravens were on the dock, giving us what for. “They can’t get the carcasses out of the water,” Elizabeth said. “They want us to throw some onto the float.” And then she began talking to them in a wondrous mixture of raven and English.

Sure enough, that is what they wanted. “Thank you (Hy-clops),” they said!

Last fall a new thing appeared in Castle Anchorage: a fancy wharf attached to the north shore, with an airplane ramp complete with plane. Several cottages had been built over the years, around the point, and one fairly substantial house. But nobody seemed to be at home. We edged our way carefully in, tied up to the old float, and proceeded to catch a lovely lingcod in the shadow of the plane’s pontoons.

blue lingcod

This year we had a boisterous spinnaker run north from Irene’s on Cortes Island,

planning to overnight at Castle Anchorage, catch some fish, and time our departure for the turn to ebb in the first set of rapids next morning. The plane wasn’t there, but a powerboat was. Again we carefully edged in and tied to the old float.

gifts from an old coastal homestead

I was down below lighting the fire, Elizabeth on the float sorting flowers, when a nattily-dressed man strode down to the new dock and yelled across: “Private!” Elizabeth called me up from down below. Standing on the aft deck so I could hear, I asked if he had a problem with us tying up there. “It’s private property,” he said.

Not wanting to argue, I asked if it was all right, however, to spend the night. “O.k.,” he said, grudgingly: “But only the night. Don’t go ashore, and don’t come back!” “Hy-clops,” I said, “(Thank you.)” But only the ravens understood that I was trying to be polite!

Technically, unless he has a foreshore lease for the cove (which I doubt), the old float with anchors and buoys, cables and chains, simply clutters up a public anchorage, making it impossible for anyone else to use it. And it’s one of the few anchorages within striking distance of the rapids. Maybe if we meet again I’ll ask to see a copy of the lease.

Needless to say we didn’t feel much like fishing. Elizabeth immediately wanted to start a new blogspot called “!&%*# of the Coast,” but her gentler nature prevailed.

It is a problem, however. As property values increase, only certain people can afford to own and build on the Coast. They have no real investment in the life there. Nor do they understand coastal etiquette or appreciate the needs of those who travel these waters. Money talks, private property prevails, and—unfortunately--there goes the neighbourhood!