On an Island Without Granny G.

Lately, we’ve had this thing for islands. A lot of people don’t like them. They get something called “island fever” which makes them feel claustrophobic. I’ve never had that. Islands make me feel good; protected. Plus, there’s adventure on an island. My love of islands certainly started with Hat Island, aka Gedney Island, which is anchored between Everett, Washington and Whidbey Island. It’s quite small and sort of shaped like a hat. That is, generally round. In junior high school our youth group from the First Baptist Church always went on a summer adventure to Hat Island. We would arrive by boat (the only way to get there) then circumnavigate it walking on the beach. The weather was always nice. The tide was always out. There weren’t many houses on the beach so it was very much like being on a deserted island. As we sauntered we could see Camano Island, then Whidbey, Mulkilteo and then Everett again. We’d poke along pausing to study a dead seal or some such wonder of nature while being prodded by Granny Griffith, our chaperone. Granny was dedicated to serving kids our age but, the fact is, she wasn’t much fun. At our annual summer camp on Vashon Island (another cool island) she was constantly on the lookout for young love after dark and would sneak up and surprise you with her gigantic flashlight. Yet even the moral conservatism of Granny G. couldn’t dampen our fun. Our goal on Hat was to get out in front of her, setting a frantic pace that her gnarly old body couldn’t maintain. Oh, she was game and made the effort, finally huffing up to the boat full of smiling young Baptists who had managed some island mischief while staying just out of her field of view as we curved counter clockwise around the hat. She was like our conscience in those days—somewhere back there. I’m sure Granny Griffith was a well-intentioned soul doing her Christian witness. But I like islands better without her.