I knew this one, him and his wife and that multitude of kids, wild as scatter stones and yet close as could be. Together, that’s what I thought. We met on the CB radio, at least I did, as Sea Bear, my husband, reached out to communicate with another islander, one beyond the one we lived on. The men had met, of course they had, out there above the feisty challenges of the wild Atlantic wavery. Not that that ocean ever wavers. She is always super confident it seems to me. The CB radio sat in the Tapselteerie kitchen, in the corner, crackling and snorting away with half sneezes, faltered messages, broken at times. This was the way we communicated way back in the day. For all its frustrations, it was the only way and, somehow, we settled within such limitations. They also pushed us into inspirational ideas, these limitations. We always found a way and even if I was catering to a load of dinner guests with way too many children bursting in and out, the smaller ones crawling about under tables and work stations with tonka digger buckets full of earth and wet stuff, asquirm with puzzled worms and tickety beetles, I would dash to the CB and say, Lady Q here. Lady Q, for goodness sake. I blame my posh accent which did me proud in elocution lessons and later on stage, but here among the west coasters I just sounded ridonculous.

Many winter nights when dark fell like a surprise and the gale-propelled rain slammed like hammers against the wispy single-glazed windows, we shared family info. Our lives could not have been more different. There we were living in a mansion house, a load of acres under our belts, and there they were. It didn’t seem to matter one jot. We just really liked each other. We laughed together as we rarely laughed with others. These people get real. They had a naughty streak we were drawn to. They knew how to live outside of the uppity nonsense we had bought into. Of all my memories, and there are gazillions, of my 48 years here, our times with this family, even mostly over the scratch of broken CB radio, stand tall and bright.

Now both men have gone. Two unlikely friends, for they were just that. If I go deeper in my thoughts, this gives me hope. It didn’t matter, the difference between us. What mattered was the spark, the naughtiness, the fun, the mischief, the solidarity of like-minded humans. We went over once, as a family, for a meal and sleep over. In our slow, very slow, boat, it took ages, but we got there to a glorious welcome. We feasted on their catch from the sea and we drank whisky and whatever else and we shared stories and laughed as the rain blattered against the stone walls, warm by the fire, warmed by each other. I won’t forget that evening.

RIP Big Man Frank. I hope you’ve met up with Sea Bear, wherever you both are.