Shaw is a careless dot in the middle of the San Juan Islands. On a map, it kind of looks like a cowboy boot with a broken spur. In my heart, it looks like my friends laughing behind an old cabin, drunk off of Jam Jar wine.
In November 2010, on a day full of strange fiction coming to life, we gathered gold maple leaves the size of a giant’s hand into bouquets. We ordained Emily a minister and pretended to marry each other with Eskimo kisses on the mossy ground behind the cabin. (The boys hit golf balls around in the front, oblivious to our silliness.) Afterwards, the brides jumped into a rusted, orange hollowed-out Charger with a cardboard “just married” sign in tow.
The ceremony concluded with this photograph and a reception of spiked hot chocolate and more Jam Jar wine, enjoyed around a snapping fire.
The mainland is full of responsibility – jobs, bills, irksome social media we can’t seem to live without. But on Shaw, nothing exists but the moment and the limits of our imaginations and friendships.