As Little Bay Islands faces the possibility of resettlement, I would like to share a story that I have written which I believe reflects many of the views and memories of the people who come for their summers on the island. I, along with many others, travel thousands of miles each year to spend time on Little Bay Islands. I consider it my second home, and it is truly sad to hear of the possibility of resettlement of this incredible place. Nearly 1/3 of the population of Little Bay Islands are summer residents, and I hope that our voices can be heard. LBI Forever: A Story The wind whips it's mighty tail across this rocky sliver of land, sending laundry fluttering on the line and goose bumps up the arms of girls wearing their sleeveless shirts for the first time this year. A welcome warmth has finally arrived after months of fog and rain and cold. Boats are launched and summer homes begin to buzz with life. The ferry bringing new folks each day, back to this place, this little dimple in the vast Atlantic, where 100 odd souls have grown to know as home. A quad rumbles up the road, going nowhere in particular, cursing the paved road, so much easier without it, even if it meant the constant mud and dust and bump, bump, bump of new potholes. The memory brings me back to a time of no pavement, when the plant was buzzing with life. Watching the fishing boats unload their mighty loads of crab. B and the boys smoking too many cigarettes as they escape the frigid temperatures of the deep freeze. Good ole' Roy, manning the store, ready to sell me a pineapple soda or a pack of peach gum, or a whole boatload of beer and smokes. Back then the houses all buzzed with life, children romped, teenagers, like myself were up to no good. Exploring every inch of trail on quad, just to pass the time, Western Cove, Northern Harbour, paths to nowhere, where you almost flipped the darn thing trying to see just how far you could push it, hoping desperately you didn't get a flat on the trusty Big Bear before making it back to the main road. Supper of fried cod or crab or capelin with the family, then up the dusty dirt road I'd go, off to the steps of the store where we'd all trickle in from this point and that, trying to see what the evening had in store for us. Well, let's see, what to do? Somehow the answer always had the same ingredients, just different locations. Beer, people, possibly a guitar and a fire if the weather was right. Sitting until the wee hours around a rinky-dink fire at Back Beach with a tub full of ice and beer, singing songs that no one was really good at singing, but nobody cared. Laughter, chatter, more beer, and mastering the art of peeing behind rocks. This was my life, and I loved it! Another night, the same thing, but now down at the gazebo down by the government wharf. Hours and hours of fun, until someone got sick of those youngsters making all that noise and we'd have to leave or mellow out. So many many summer nights, the same routine, rain or shine, warmth or cold. There's no getting away with anything here, no sir'ry, LBI has eyes and ears perked at every moment and when one person knows, everyone knows. I probably should have remembered that fact before I launched myself off the end of the wharf at 2am wearing nothing but my knickers on a dare that nobody thought I'd really do. I showed them, literally, as I instantly froze, crashing into the icy harbour waters. It lasted all of 3 minutes from starting run, until I scrambled back up the ladder and into more respectable attire. By morning, the whole island knew, but who knows what twists and turns the story took as it meandered its way from house to house in its twisted island game of telephone. Oh, that American girl, with her pink hair and her baggy pants, she's something else, isn't she? Somewhere in the midst of the fun and chaos, time began to creep its sneaky head into the mix. Summers passed and routines altered, gazebos turned to the bar and houses and sheds, as we all became old enough to be there. The plant still buzzed with work and trailers filled the empty lot up by the ferry dock. One weekend a year the island would be booming with life and laughter and a cop from Springdale, forcing everyone to park the quads and think twice before driving up the road with a beer between their legs. The field would be filled with tents and campers, and the music from the band would pour down the hill as we danced the night away. Memories begin to fade, just as the island began to change. The roads were paved, the bar closed, then the plant, then the store. The trailers all left and LBI day gradually declined until it was stopped completely. Families moved for lack of work, and elderly moved for lack of resources, and here we are 12 years later. The island is as beautiful as she ever was, with her rocky shores, quiet harbour, and evergreen mornings. But now you hear the birds, not quads, the waves, not boats, at least not nearly as many as there were in the past. Things have changed, but for the people who know this as home, she'll live on forever as a beacon of light, beauty, and calm, a place to escape the chaos of the rest of humanity. Her waters will keep giving fish, and her views will keep taking your breath away, regardless of whether 300 people or 30 people are here to enjoy. Time may change some, but her magic can never be taken. LBI forever! Written by Verina Robiller Campos 12 year Little Bay Islands Summer resident.   Submitted By: Verina Robiller