Too Much of a Good Thing

RACHEL ATTITUQ QITSUALIK

The waves had begun to crash upon the shore more strongly.

We were stranded on Grant Point, the mainland adjacent to King William Island, left there by a freak mechanical failure. My father’s boat engine had given up the ghost just as we were preparing a return trip.

What had begun for me as a fun, summer camping trip was now too much of a good thing. We were forced to subsist upon fish. We had fish morning, noon, and night. We had it dried, cooked, raw, fresh, and aged.

All that accompanied the fish was clear tea, since we had run out of sugar and biscuits quite some time ago. In my boredom, I was beginning to try different “flavours” of plants as tea substitutes, but the only one that came close to being drinkable was Labrador Tea, which we labeled “spider food,” since we had discovered hordes of spiders living upon it.

Sometimes, aircraft would fly overhead, eventually giving me an idea. I wrote a huge SOS in the sand at the beach. I then lined the letters with the spider food. This way, they would contrast with the sand colour, being more visible from above.

I informed my father of this, saying that I had learned it in Girl Guides. His face was concealed under the motor that he was disassembling, and he grunted something in acknowledgment. Encouraged, I then began to lecture him on how we should build a smoke signal fire. Like on TV.

Days later, I stared across the body of endless ocean, so hauntingly beautiful, and at the same time lonely. The sun seemed to mock our plight by offering one brightly shining cloudless sky after another.

How could I stand one more day of fish? Whoosh, whoosh, swiiiish, swish — the waves would gather momentum to gently break on the beach, shuffling over the pebbles on the way back. Endless, timeless whispering of eons past. A green crest suspended in air, curving forward, foaming as it sparkled in the sun, blinding one to any other sight as it backed away, ready to reform and crash again.

Please God, I entreated, just give us one rainy day. Or even some wind. It seemed like we were not only stranded on the mainland, but held prisoners of time as well.

I had carried my hundredth load of freshly caught fish from the lake, and could not be bothered to even help clean one without fear of screaming at the sameness of it all. I was losing weight because I was finding it impossible to dine on fish anymore.

Every day, I had rebuilt my SOS, until even that was intolerably tedious. My signal fire had never been built, being impractical. I had run out of ideas to assist in our rescue and stave off the tedium.

One day, a family arrived by boat. When I woke up that morning, lo and behold, I could have crackers with my tea! With jam! Ambrosia! God loved us again.

Strangely, even the day they had arrived upon heralded a break in the routine. It was thrillingly overcast, intriguingly misty — a fairy tale landscape. I hardly heard the adults chattering and gossiping around me. I just stood outside, feasting my eyes upon the different sights.

They tugged us behind their boat, enroute to Cambridge Bay (Iqaluktuutiaq), and we were soon back in civilization again. The ice-breaker, the “Lady Franklin,” happened to be moored nearby, and we caught a ride with them back to Gjoa Haven. Captain Thomas was happy to help our family, as he knew my father from previous visits.

Ironically, I used to beg my father to take me on every single trip. But I guess I found that there can be “too much of a good thing.” The landscape and seascape were breathtakingly beautiful, the food was of a type that I never could have imagined myself growing weary of, and my activities were all ones that I had thought I enjoyed.

I hear a lot of people groaning, around this time of year, that their holidays are over. But just remember, people: if you had a holiday all year ’round, it would no longer seem like a vacation, but like work instead. Everything in moderation.

Believe me, I know.

Pijariiqpunga.