Although it may not have the same appeal or enchantment as some tropical islands, to the youth of Old Perlican, the island, less than one half mile offshore, was indeed a "treasure island." Many of us could relate to E. Lockhart, "The island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever." Referred to as Saucer Island, it was captivating, giving a sense of a world unto its own, our "Magic Kingdom." After the short row across, the rodney was pulled up on a sandy and pebbled beach. The usual trek was to follow the beaten path to the lighthouse, first built in 1910. Sometimes we would row across to cook up a meal of fishermen's brewis. It was truly a unique culinary experience, to sit on a rock amidst rugged, natural beauty, and enjoy a simple meal contemplating this magical moment of solitude to refresh the soul. On a few occasions, I was in a rodney that accompanied some dauntless swimmer who possessed the intestinal fortitude to venture the human paddle to and from the island. There are two events, relative to the island, that are indelibly imprinted in my memory, one occurring in Summer, the other in Winter. At a time when we knew nothing of poetic license, my more advanced school mate and I used our freedom to bend the rules by borrowing a dinghy without prior approval. It was a case of two different personalities, the unassertive, fearful one, and the undaunted daredevil. We went to the island several times; each time on our return I expected someone would be on shore to chastise us. But such was not the case. We had one eventful trip when I thought our small craft (6-8 feet) would sink. My friend was just ahead manning the only set of oars while I was seated in the stern. When we got almost half-way across we came to a shallow area called the ledge where the seas were more boisterous; I feared the turbulence would hurl us into the water. My friend was an excellent swimmer, while I was a non-swimmer. It seemed as if we were in a stalemate; one foot forward, two back. On a few occasions I have used this allegory by way of comparison to the Christian life or life generally. We meet storms that test our faith and our resolve, and have moments when we seem to be treading water. But we must not lose sight of the prize or destination and must push on toward the mark. Eventually we did make it to the island and ultimately, safely back to a peaceful landing. The second episode no doubt, pales in comparison to the drama of Dr. Wilfred Grenfell's harrowing experience in 1908 when he and his seven dogs drifted out to sea on a pan of ice. But for two six or seven- year-old boys to be cast adrift on an ice pan in the frigid Atlantic Ocean was, in itself, a terrifying and traumatic ordeal. The coastal schooners were moored in the deeper water on the leeward, South Eastern corner of the island. One fine Winter day in the early 1940s my closest friend (who happened to be the resident clergyman's son) and I noticed that there was quite a bit of activity out near where the schooners were icebound or ensconced in the ice. Apparently, men were at work endeavoring to free the schooners from the grip of the crushing ice. I don't seem to recall how we managed to get out to the activity scene; I suspect it was from Hopkin's Cliff, since that would be the shortest distance. I don't know if our childhood innocence was being replaced by naivety, or we were so preoccupied with, and thus oblivious to, what was happening, but we suddenly found ourselves adrift on an ice pan. I seem to recall some kind of optical illusion, where the stationary field of ice appeared to be moving, not us. The tide or current took us westward toward the ledge and wharf. When we drifted by the M & S Johnson the skipper told us to jump. The distance to the schooner was approximately eight feet, and I did not like our chances of making it. We continued to be driven down towards the lower end of the harbor till we settled in among other loose pans of ice. We seemed to remain calm and kept our composure, probably unmindful of the perilous situation in which we found ourselves embroiled. It wasn't too long before we noticed some men in a boat, who had been observing our plight from the shore, meandering their way around pans of ice to come to our rescue. To this day, I have no idea who the members of the rescue team were. Neither do I have any recollection of the aftermath, or whether our parents were aware of our daring adventure. I don't recall any consequences or repercussions stemming from our venture. An appropriate description of the latter episode would be Graham Greene's quote, "Innocence is a kind of insanity." Our battered, weather beaten island is a stark contrast to Harry Belafonte's "Island In The Sun," but it radiates the same sentiments and feelings, "Her shores will always be home to me." By Charles Beckett Gambo, NL   Submitted By: NULL