The list is long of things I missed during my six-month foray into the barren Saskatchewan north.
The smell of ocean air in the morning, deer wandering into your yard with nary a second thought. Fresh foods that have never seen a freezer and, believe it or not, the ability to recycle more than just pop cans.
Let's call this a sort of introduction. Greetings, Sunshine Coast, my name is Ben.
I'm one of those stereotypical born-and-raised eastern types who ventured west only to fall in love with the people, the sights and the sounds.
Having grown up in London, Ontario, one fateful lonely summer I gazed with wonder at the map of our vast and, to me, uncharted realm. It was one of those moments when you feel that anything is possible with two feet and a hunger for adventure.
My eyes were almost instinctively drawn to the West Coast. Perhaps it's a result of all the Jack Kerouacs and California dreamers out there in our culture, breeding that western romanticism that draws people like me out from our concrete jungles.
Whatever the reason, I felt impelled to discover what life on a West Coast island was like, and two weeks later, my flight was booked to Victoria.
Within four days of my arrival, I found myself clutching the railing of a Zodiac, bouncing off the ripples of ocean water in the Strait of Georgia. We came to rest amongst a pod of orcas on a salmon feeding frenzy. It was an incredible sight for someone whose concept of natural wildlife had up to that point amounted to watching squirrels rip each other to shreds for french fries in Victoria Park.
Suddenly, one of the whales erupted some two feet from our little dingy. Its teeth, clutching a fresh salmon, shone brightly in the sun. It's funny how quickly one can forget nearly being killed when the reaper that visits you comes in the form of a majestic sea creature.
I snapped a photo.
It came out blurry.
That's the West Coast I've come to know and love in the five years I've spent here.
Before journalism school in Vancouver, I dragged a friend along on a hitchhiking trek into the Interior.
Along the way we helped somebody move into their new apartment, got a ride from some bored country kids blasting techno music with a dollar store's worth of glow sticks strapped to their car and met a family of Swiss travelers with whom we could only loosely communicate, enough to know they too shared the West Coast fever.
But there's something about that disease that can leave you stranded. Sometimes those of us who have it the worst don't even know.
It's why we're susceptible to giving in to that inner forever-traveller, only to find ourselves lost in the endless fields of the prairies, miles from civilization and dreading old man winter's steady approach.
But such is life in the modern news business. One day you're choking on horse flies in the prairies and the next you're standing on a beautiful foggy beach at night, only a three-minute walk from home.
Even the things I used to dread, like the slowly lurching ferry from Tsawwassen to Swartz Bay, now fill me with endless joy.
I look forward to meeting you all and hearing your stories, what makes you angry and what makes you proud.
The truth is, you've been missed. It's great to be back.
