Unplugged Vacations

By Ann E. Michael
A Web Exclusive

"You're a better woman than I am," sighed my friend, "And out of your mind." I had just told her of our summer vacation plans: my husband and I were traveling to an island off of Nova Scotia, a place without electricity, plumbing, gas, phone lines, roads or satellite reception. And we were taking our teenagers along.

I know there are families out there who rough it on a regular basis, who've been backpacking with their kids from infancy and for whom a flush toilet constitutes a modern amenity. But let's face it. With the miniaturizing of electronics and the crunching of schedules, few families these days opt to spend a summer—or even a week—unplugged and disconnected. Especially families with teen video-hounds or kids whose entire social network is bound up with a cell phone or computer. It's not just the teenagers who object to being out of the loop, either. For many of my peers, a week at a beach house is merely a change of venue. Mom and Dad are still on the phone every day, checking up on the office; family outings are often just shopping sprees at a different set of outlets, and everyone's upset if the VCR breaks. Even the perennial family road trip is interspersed with amenity-packed hotels or campgrounds that feature cable hookups. Fellow parents of teens warned us to expect rebellion and sullen withdrawal on this trip, even though our children seemed excited about the vacation.

I booked ferry passage, and my husband and I downplayed the no-frills aspect of the visit. It helped that our host, Simon, is well-loved by our two kids, who were eager to see his boathouse (he builds wooden boats, by hand) and get some sailing lessons. We stressed all the things they could do on the island—sail, swim, explore on their own—and didn't say much about what wouldn't be available. The little issue about electronics came up as we were packing, however, when my son reminded us to get batteries for the GameBoy™. After a bit of negotiation, we agreed that the toy could accompany us if it stayed in the car. I don't think we mentioned that we'd be parking the car for the week on a different island from the one where we were to stay.

Simon's house was built in the mid-1800s and expanded just once, to add a summer kitchen, sometime before 1910. Simon bought it 30 or 40 years ago, attracted by its excellent situation on the little cove. Sited where a slope blocks much of the prevailing wind, facing southwest for light and warmth and overlooking the inlet, the roof pitch steep, the windows well-considered, and up a gentle incline from the dock, the house settled harmoniously with its surroundings over a hundred years ago and seems as much a part of the island as the rocky beaches. We parked on neighboring Bell's Island, which has a bridge to the mainland, and traveled by motorboat to our destination. Thus the first day at the island was exciting enough, salt spray in our faces and the awareness of our adventure dawning on us once we recognized our cell phone was out of range. And the house is quite welcoming and snug. I don't think we realized how primitive the place was until we needed water, and there wasn't even a pump. Simon showed us the path to the well and the trail to the outhouse. Then, it got dark. Really dark.

Rebellious Murmurings
Of the four of us, it was my then-13-year-old son who suffered the most during this withdrawal from the 21st century. He felt restless at first with neither computer nor phone, no peers but his sister, no water tap and no fridge to raid. He loves to read, but reading by kerosene lamp tired his eyes, so he went early to bed. He also found himself wide awake at sunrise—unheard-of summertime behavior for a boy his age. On the second day, he was clearly bored. The wind was too strong for a sailing lesson, so after breakfast Simon headed to the boathouse workshop with my husband and 12-year-old Alice. I was occupied with the garden and the wood-burning cookstove, but I could sense an oncoming battle if my son kept moping.

"Mom," he said at last, "It's so boring here."

"Walk to the well and fill up these buckets," I said by way of an answer, to which he responded: "Who am I? Gunga Din?"