Wolfe Island

The older, bearded fellow with whom we chatted while walking off the Wolfe Island ferry strode quickly towards where Emily and I waited below the “Ferry Shuttle” sign. A few minutes earlier, he had explained that we would catch the school bus/shuttle by waiting where we stood between the shed and the bathroom. Now he came to us with news, shaking his head. The last day of the season for the shuttle service, he explained, was Thanksgiving Monday, the day before. He was sorry, but we would have to walk the couple of kilometres to the village of Marysville. He thought we should know. Emily and I exchanged looks of stunned surprise. The website had not contained any cancellation notice.

In September, our daughter began her Masters in English at Queen’s University in Kingston, Ontario, bravely moving to a completely new setting more than 2700 km from our home in Saskatchewan. I hoped my week-long visit would be a consolation to both of us. I hoped that two nights away at Hotel Wolfe Island, just a 20-minute ferry ride from Kingston across the mouth of the St. Lawrence River, would be fun and relaxing. Quaint rural scenery or not, an hour or more of hauling our overnight cases to the hotel did not appeal to either of us.  

We turned into the bright sunlight and walked up the road, passing close to a young ferry worker wearing a reflective vest. “Excuse me,” I smiled at him, “We’ve just been told  that the shuttle service is not running since yesterday.  Is there any other option for getting to Marysville?” He shook his head, no. “Is there a taxi service on the island?” I wondered. He smiled a wee smile at my naivete but again replied, “No,” and shrugged. With the disembarked vehicles from our ferry already long gone, he ambled away from us down the empty road.  

I turned to Emily, seeing fatigue and disappointment on her face. She wasn’t blaming me out loud, but I felt a deep sense of mom-failure. Flashing what I hoped was a brave smile, I marshalled an upbeat tone. “Well, let’s start walking. Whatever happens, we’ll have a great story to tell. And the first car that comes by, we’ll try to hitchhike!” Of course, our kids had always been told not to hitchhike, but I had a hunch about this small, rural community, especially during the off-season. So we started off towards Marysville and our hotel, trying not to notice the weight of our cases as their wheels whined along the paved road.  

Then, the sound of an accelerating engine made us turn our heads. A black jeep was coming up the road behind us. Shifting into the hitchhikers’ backwards walk that I’d not used in more than 40 years, I stuck out my thumb.  

In what seemed like a miracle, the jeep stopped just beyond us. Out from the driver’s door stepped the young ferry worker. “Are you going to Marysville?” I asked, completely surprised, and he said he was, as he lifted the back hatch and made room for our cases. Emily jumped into the back seat and I settled into the front, radiant with joy. “Have you finished your shift?” I inquired, but guessed he had not heard me properly because he said no, he hadn’t. When I spoke of our gratitude, he agreed that the walk was a long one, closer to four kilometres than two. His name was Will. As the jeep flew between the corn fields, he described what he loved about being a life-long islander: the quietness, his work with the volunteer fire department. It was like something from a Hallmark movie. The road began to wind along the shore, sun sparkling on the water, and in a few minutes we drove into tiny Marysville. Will stopped the jeep adjacent to the orange, green, and yellow frontage of the hotel, where he let us out and lifted down our bags before driving away.  

I wish we had seen Will again when, at the end of our stay, one of the staff from our hotel generously drove us back to the ferry through pounding rain. I would have asked Will whether he actually had any business in Marysville that Tuesday afternoon, or whether, instead, he just had compassion on a couple of tourists new to their island. I’ll never know whether I actually needed to stick out my thumb or whether the lift to Marysville was a done deal from the moment Will got into his jeep. Given all the other graces, all the kindnesses Emily and I received while on Wolfe Island, I believe it is the latter. 

Next year, when it is Thanksgiving week, I’ll think about Will and have a story to tell. God bless him.