How My Campervan’s Full Sh**ter Saved the Day

“My mom hit her head and can’t remember anything.”

As a female, solo van-lifer, these were the last words I was expecting to hear that day. Little did I know that serene morning that a series of events would lead me out of my self-inflicted isolation in the rainforest of Haida Gwaii and into the heart of a young family.

--

Dawn glows through my campervan blinds, waking me naturally to the day. I yawn and stretch out of my duvet to climb down the ladder from the top bunk that hung over the cabin. First things first -- I shuffle to the back of the camper, rubbing sleep from my eyes to pee.

This is where it all begins.

I pull the flusher, hearing the water pump purring over the sound of singing birds outside. But water starts to flood over the trap, filling the toilet bowl. I groan, as this means only one thing: that the sh**ter is, in fact, Christmas Vacation style, full.

My ol’ girl, named Lucy, as long as I’ve owned her, has never had functioning sensors that tell you when a tank is full or empty. It’s nearly always comes as a surprise, no matter how hard I try to predict the days, hours, and minutes it will last me on my ventures.

A throaty sigh escapes me as I peek out the window. A long-legged bird is strolling with purpose in the shallow ocean tide. I watch it strike its long beak into the water, like a javelin. It’s exactly what I came here for, a quiet mossy Galapagos. A place to reflect. To be alone. The last thing I want to do is leave my off-grid pad I found only yesterday evening. But, when duty calls.

“I’ll come back for you,” I promise, the sound of trilling frogs becoming distant from my open window as I drive out of the area.

The island is quiet, but I still worry that my spot will be taken upon my return from the necessary chores.

My old Ford chugs along the dirt roads and I come across the turn for Haydyn Turner Municipal Campground on the outskirts of town. Always a fan of right-hand turns, I shrug and decide to fill up my fresh water first before advancing further into town for the sani-dump.

The campground is deserted, not a camper in sight, but it’s what I expect. I’d found out from an overly friendly local who had approached my van window a couple days before that everyone and their dog took the ferry to the south island for the May long weekend to cast nets for sockeye and drink to excess.

But, when I turn the bend to get to the water source, there’s a white truck parked there with a little group congregating around it. My focus is on getting my water, but a child in the group begins frenetically waving their arm at me.

I squint from behind the windshield, wondering what the hell they want. I’m immediately suspicious, remembering stories from friend of a friend who pulled over to help folks broken down, only to end up robbed.

I put my camper in park and see what looks like four kids and a dog. All seem frantic and desperate to get my attention. I climb out of the van and advance towards them, caution at the forefront of my mind.

“My mom hit her head and can’t remember anything,” a young girl says, her eyes round with panic.

Oh shiiit. There it is. The words I never expected to hear that day, or any day for that matter. Always one to wear my heart of my sleeve, I immediately try to temper my facial expression and not show the kids that I am now just as worried as they are.

My voice is soft, re-assuring, honed from years of minimum-wage jobs where the customer is always right, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get this sorted out.”

Like a reflex, I look around the campground for help, but remember, there is no one else here. I am the help. It’s just me.

It takes me a moment to realize who the mother is because she seems child-like in her state. Quiet, shy, dazed, holding her left arm. She’s got three kids with her, all under ten, and a dog.

“What exactly happened?” I ask her. She shrugs and says she can’t remember, her expression bereft.

The kids chime in with an adrenaline-fueled determination, explaining that she had been on a makeshift swing along the trail that curtained the ocean. Years of sea salt wind and green dewy moss compromised its fibrous ropes, and it gave out, sending her flying into the rocks.

“When did this happen? How long have you been here for?” I ask.

“Just a few minutes ago.”

What a situation. I look around at our remoteness and think about the impeccable timing of it all. I had never planned on being here.

One of the girls is dialing 9-1-1, while I am still processing the scene. I take notice and say, “Good job. Now let me speak to them.”

She hands me the phone. I try to pronounce Daajing Giids to the operator and tell them which campground we are at. But, the more I try to describe our location, the more obvious it becomes that they had no clue what I’m talking about.

Then it clicks -- Haida Gwaii doesn’t have 9-1-1.

I take another look around my surroundings, as if an answer will appear before me. I have an idea, but will they trust me? I wonder how I look to them, my facial piercings still inhabiting my lower lip long after my punk phase and tattoos decorating body.

“I know where the hospital is. Can I just drive you all there? It’ll be easier than waiting around for help.” I make sure to ask the mother directly. She’s so discombobulated, I want her to feel like she has even a hint of control. Although, the question really isn’t much of a choice and she agrees to the offer.

Once again, never did I expect to have company in my van, let alone an entire little family. Embarrassment burns my cheeks as I hoist dirty hoodies and tights to my bed and throw dirty dishes in the sink, making room for everyone. After cramming everyone inside and a careful drive to the hospital, we filter out into the hospital parking lot and into the emergency room.

Like everywhere else in town, the emergency room is a ghost town, except for one other person. Before the mom can even get admitted, she faints, giving the kids another fright.

I try to calm them, offering distractions to placate their tears. I ask them every question I can possibly think of to get their mind off the situation. I ask about school, favourite colours, dance recitals (which the girls are happy to perform with great enthusiasm), and what exactly it is they are drawing with the pencils crayons I found them (Is it an elephant? Is it a dog? No one knows.)

After some time has passed, I wonder if anyone has contacted their dad to let him know the circumstances. I was told he was working and couldn’t come on this vacation.  I ask a nurse if they contacted him and they say no, so I ask one of the girls to give him a call so I can speak to him.

After explaining as much as I can to him, he asks, “Do I need to come out there?”

I can tell he wants the answer to be no. That he’s hoping his wife is going to be fine. But I’m honest.

“I don’t think your wife’s going to be able to drive for a bit…”

I curious how he’s going to manage to get here in a timely manner. Ferry tickets have been completely sold out for weeks. But I don’t ask.

After hours hanging out in the waiting room, a young nurse on staff tells me that the hospital has made arrangement for the family with their accommodations and that they would take it from there. To my surprise, she hugs me and thanks me for my kindness to the family.

I say goodbye to each of the children before leaving, hoping they will all be okay and taken care of. Then, something that would only happen in a small town, I drive the nurse and the dog to the mom’s white truck back at Haydn Tuner campground, so she could get their truck back to them, and that is that. The unexpected day is behind me.

The sky is beginning to darken when I resume where I left off on my day’s chores, filling up the campervan with fresh water and finally emptying the tank that started the whole day in motion.

When I return to my coveted spot, I’m pleased to see it is still available. Exhausted, I crawl into bed and let the dark envelope me as I reflect on my time that was soon to come to an end on Haidi Gwaii.

I had been on the island much longer than I wanted to be, not able to get a ferry ticket off for weeks. I came with the intention of working at a fish stand for the summer, so I didn’t have a planned departure. Parking with my campervan had been an issue already in the off-season, so I could not imagine how stressful it would be when tourist season was in full bloom. I was ready to leave.

--

On the ferry ride back to the mainland, I’m standing in the cafeteria line up for a coffee when three little voices exclaim behind me, “It’s her!”

I turn to see the three kids and their mother and smile, relieved to see they made it on the ferry to go home. But there’s one face I don’t recognize. I assume it’s the father. The man walks up to me and shakes my hand with a vigor of respect that I have never felt before or since.

“Thank you for everything you did. You’re an angel,” he says, his eyes full of sincerity.

I look down, uncomfortable with the compliment, and reply, “I would have expected someone else to do the same for me.”

--

Haida Gwaii had been described to me as a mystical land that harboured ancient and powerful energy to turn any trainwreck of a human into something salvageable. My hope was that the island would heal me. I was looking for a cure to the terrible string of bad luck and tragedy that had befallen me.

I was anything but healed after my trip to Haida Gwaii. I was still in deep grief over the tragic loss of my cat -- still lonely, even more broke, and feeling just as lost on what I should do next in life.

Despite all this, I do believe I was on that island for a reason.

The circumstances that allowed me to show up at Hayden Turner campground at precisely the right time were nothing short of serendipitous. Fate allowed me to step out of my own heartache, my own troubles, and my own hardships to be there for someone else when they needed it most.

Sometimes we get a chance to be an angel in the world. Sometimes we get a reminder that showing kindness and being there for people, even if we don’t know them, is the most important thing. Sometimes our adventures in the world go exactly as planned. But, where’s the adventure in that?