That’s our island, Orcas Island, in the distance there–those middle lumps. I took this photo from Cypress Island, last week.
We were invited to Cypress by relatives who have a cabin there, and we went by “water taxi,” which is a fancy name for a funky old motorboat that you can hire to take you to places where the Washington State Ferry boats don’t stop. We were picked up from a dock all the way across Orcas, at Obstruction Pass, but we had to be let off on a rocky beach on Cypress. The tides have to be just right, so there are only two times a day when you can do this. Also you have to step lively. The water taxi keeps a tight schedule; we felt lucky it slowed down enough for us to jump off without falling into the drink.
This is the rocky beach we were picked up from at the end of our visit, which is different from the rocky beach we were dropped off on. Because time and tides, etc etc.
It was a dreamy visit, magical, gorgeous. Peaceful and serene. Cypress has no cars, no roads, no town. No docks. There are a few people who live there year-round, but mostly folks have vacation cabins there, like our relatives. They described it to us as “like glamping,” but actually we were pretty dang comfortable there. The cabin itself has electricity (run by solar and a propane generator), running water (from a system built into a stream on the property), and even the occasional scrap of internet (if you were near the shore).
And only my brother and sister-in-law and nephew had to sleep in a tent.
A tent on a big deck overlooking the water.
I mean, it was pretty idyllic. So of course Mark and I began lusting after the idea of living there: an even more remote island.
I grew up in the country (on a 72-acre commune, in fact), and then in a fairly small town. By the time I was finishing up high school, I was desperate to live somewhere more urban, somewhere where things were happening. I wanted a lot of people, and excitement, and fun stuff to do, and anonymity.
I went to college at UC Berkeley, and that was great. Berkeley supplied everything I’d wanted, and then some. Then, after graduation, when even Berkeley got to feel too small, I moved across the bay to San Francisco. I spent many happy years there, enjoying all that a major city in a big urban area has to offer.
I did not precisely realize I was beginning to reverse this process when I moved to Portland, Oregon, in 2010. I had all kinds of other compelling reasons for making the move, after all. But I did enjoy the more relaxed pace of the smaller city. I loved always being able to find parking. I marveled at how my house didn’t even touch the houses next door.
In due course, even Portland began to feel too busy, too crowded. (This wasn’t just a shift in my perspective: the city was booming then, new residents pouring in, construction everywhere.) So Mark and I moved to Orcas Island in 2017, buying a house on five wooded acres.
That’s it, we said. No more moving. This is our “splendid isolation in style and comfort.”
Until, that is, we visited Cypress.
A small digression: to explain that quote, just above. Back in my San Francisco days, when I was married to a different man, a wealthy man, we traveled quite a lot. One of our trips took us to Australia, where we stayed in a glorious resort on an island in the Great Barrier Reef. I found the resort in a travel guidebook (remember those? before the internet?). That quote was its tagline: Splendid Isolation in Style and Comfort.
After we’d written the resort and secured our reservations (yes, physical mail, remember that?), as the months went by and the vacation approached, we got more and more excited about this. “Splendid isolation,” I would intone, after a chaotic day at work; and he’d answer, “In style and comfort.”
We were not disappointed: it was amazing. We were one of only two couples staying there. Our accommodations were in a luxurious “tree house” (though no climbing involved, beyond stairs). We were served gourmet food and fabulous wines. We saw sharks and rays, and did not see pythons or death adders, though we were warned to watch out for them.
Alas, I just looked up the resort so I could show you how glorious it was, and found out it is no longer. That photo of the dining area breaks my heart. I remember eating our delicious meals right where the photographer is standing.
Nothing lasts forever.
So here’s the thing. I think in the real world–at least for us non-billionaires–everything is a trade-off. You can have the Splendid Isolation, or you can have the Style and Comfort, but not both.
Our relative built that cabin on Cypress Island himself–with some help from the fellow who lives on the property next door, who oh by the way has his own sawmill. Nearly everything had to be brought over from the mainland on a boat, then dragged up the steep hill by tractor.
Maybe not this tractor exactly. But you get the idea.
Our relative developed his own water system–and he has to maintain it himself; it sprang a leak while we were there, so he shut it off when we left, and made a mainland hardware store shopping list for his next visit.
When they go to Cypress, they bring everything with them, and pack it out again when they leave, turning off the power to the house. (And then carry it all on their backs as they hop onto the water taxi from the rocky beach.) The planning and organization involved are epic.
We didn’t get to meet the next-door neighbor with the sawmill, because he was on the mainland for a few days while we were there, getting some dental work done. But we did enjoy the view from his porch.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
Upon reflection, I actually like living on an island where there are stores and restaurants and a post office–and a dentist. I like the fairly decent internet we have. I like (most of) the other people I see around; I like being able to drive to a ferry and take our car back and forth to the mainland.
And Cypress isn’t completely isolated, either. The occasional boat does pass by.
Anyway, it’s a moot question: there’s nothing for sale on Cypress right now; things don’t come up there very often. Even if there were a property on the market, we would of course have to sell this place to be able to buy it. And, yes, though my own parents lived in a tent while they built a house and set up a water system from scratch, we’re a bit too old for that ourselves. (See “style and comfort,” above.)
So I guess we’ll stay here for now…and wait for our relatives to invite us back for another visit.
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