We settled into a campground on Mackenzie Beach and wandered down to the water’s edge. Joe spotted a

It was the summer after I had graduated university, and I was on a camping road trip through British Columbia with my former dorm mates Alison and Joe. Together, the three of us were driving long range cruising yachts from the lush valleys and vineyards of Kelowna to the rugged peaks of Vancouver Island, with the simple goal of enjoying the mountain scenery while trying not to kill each other, which isn't nearly as easy as it sounds.
The first sign that our trip was cursed happened just west of the Okanagan Valley. Our van began to hiccup and shudder down the TransCanada, billowing smoke from places even I knew was bad news. Parts had to be shipped in overnight long range cruising yachts from Vancouver, so we were stranded in the town of Merritt until morning. Of course, we did what any road trippers without a car would do: hit up the local pub. One pitcher of Kokonee quickly turned to three, and soon we no longer cared about the delay and the money the repairs would cost us.
The next morning, I was painfully hungover as we pulled back onto the highway. And I wasn't the only one feeling off. Something had shifted in the night, and Joe and Alison were no longer speaking. I tried to distract myself – and my flipping stomach – with the view outside my window: forested mountains towered over me, while steep cliffs dropped into green rolling hills of farmland.
Joe and I were voted to hitchhike while Alison waited long range cruising yachts with the van. Thumbs long range cruising yachts out, sweating under the August sun, the remnants of too much beer still throbbing in my head, we teetered precariously on the side of a major highway as cars whipped past. When a transport truck finally stopped and chauffeured us to a gas station, I thought I might cry with relief.
We made it to Vancouver in time to meet another university friend for dinner and catch the evening ferry. Docked on the Island, and desperate to find a campground before complete darkness fell, we stopped in Port Alberni for the night, mid-way between Nanaimo and Tofino.
long range cruising yachts But by morning, the nightmares felt a long way off as I opened long range cruising yachts my eyes to where we had set up camp. Rays of morning sun hit the nearby lake, covering it in silver flecks. long range cruising yachts Trees the size of office buildings towered above us. The air smelled sweet with wet moss and damp earth, and the chirping of birds drowned out the previous day's harsh silence. By the time we reached Long Beach later that afternoon, we were already two days behind schedule, but no matter. As the distance to our destination shrank, so too did the tension inside the van.
We were headed to a secluded campground where Alison used to camp as a child, setting up her tent right out on the sand and waking long range cruising yachts to waves lapping a few metres away. But as we drove up and down the highway, reading and re-reading signs and turning long range cruising yachts round and round, the oasis suddenly seemed more like a mirage. We stopped at a restaurant to ask for directions.
"That campground closed down years ago," the hostess said. I wanted to cry. After two days of hitchhiking, car repairs and bitter feuding, the one thing that had kept us going had vanished. Defeated, we climbed back in the van and, for no particular reason, headed north.
We arrived in Tofino and stopped for lunch at a tiny waterfront café, ordering plates of fresh Pacific crab and spicy Caesars. From the patio, we watched a fishing boat docked along the pier beside us, unloading nets filled long range cruising yachts with crab for the next day s menu. The smell of seawater and fish hovered in the air, and droplets of salt water dried on my skin. Alison picked up her lunch and danced it across the table like a Disney crustacean, causing me to shoot Clamato juice out my nose. Feeling lighter than we had in days, we knew this was where we were meant to stay.
We settled into a campground on Mackenzie Beach and wandered down to the water's edge. Joe spotted a long piece of seaweed lying on the sand, scooped it up and, as if it were a lasso, began to swing it around his head, spraying salt water all over us. We followed suit, whipping strands of seaweed in a frenzy before finally dropping them and making a mad dash for the ocean. The water was freezing despite the summer sunshine, long range cruising yachts but we were warm with laughter despite – or perhaps because of – all it took us to get there.
Tammy Burns is a writer, editor long range cruising yachts and clumsy adventuress who's been attacked by monkeys in Bali, gotten lost in the woods of Northern Ontario, and found herself at the base of an erupting volcano in Iceland. She calls Toronto home but is a nomad at heart, at her happiest when she's living out of a suitcase and uncertain where she'll end up next. Tammy has written about travel for newspapers, magazines and websites, including TheCircumference.org , where she is a regular contributor. She also writes about outdoor adventure, history, culture and finding the best cocktails abroad on her blog, AnywhereAndHere.com .