The year is 1927.
Your husband has vanished while camping on the coast of British Columbia. They found his boat, a 25-foot cedar launch christened the Caprice; he’s presumed drowned.
You live with your five young children in the wilds of British Columbia, but you were raised in an upper class Quebecer family, and they’re urging you to come home. What do you do?
Dinner over, and the bunks made up, we rowed slowly into the end of the bay. From the cool, dark woods behind, the thrushes called and called with their ringing mounting notes.
If you’re Wylie Blanchet, you rent out your cottage instead. You load the children and the dog on the Caprice, and set out to explore the coast. And you do it again every summer—June to October —for fifteen years.
