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Adrian Chamberlain column: Deprive me of ice and I'll send in the seagulls

We rent the same seaside cabin on Gabriola Island each summer. It's a family tradition. Sipping G&Ts while watching seagulls dive-bomb otters is about as idyllic as it gets.
XXXAdrian Chamberlain
Adrian Chamberlain

We rent the same seaside cabin on Gabriola Island each summer. It's a family tradition.

Sipping G&Ts while watching seagulls dive-bomb otters is about as idyllic as it gets. However, the cabin's proprietors have let things slide somewhat over the years.

For starters, our toilet overflowed. When we told the maintenance guy (let's call him Jake) about this, he stroked his chin, hiked up his overalls and said he was well aware of the toilet overflowing problem. That's because it happens twice a year. Jake then walked off in a jaunty manner reminiscent of the little folk in Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

To my mind, the best plan of action would have been to fix the faulty toilet before the Chamberlain family got within 10 kilometres of the cabin. But my wife told me pursuing this line of conversation with Jake would disrupt the holiday vibe.

Happily, the toilet was repaired. But the next night we were awakened by an ear-splitting din. A smoke alarm. The bedside clock said 12: 38 a.m. I lumbered about like a zombie, wondering if the cabin fire was somehow connected to the overflowing toilet. Only there was no cabin fire; the smoke alarm had malfunctioned. We shut off the electrical breaker.

In the morning we told Jake who - perhaps emboldened by his toiletrepair victory - said he'd take care of the alarm. When we returned that afternoon, a Post-It on the door said all was well.

That night, at 2: 13 a.m., the alarm sounded again. I leapt out of bed, fists clenched. Once more, we shut off the breaker. Unable to sleep, I tried to console myself by imagining Jake being dive-bombed by angry seagulls. This fantasy was both pleasant and soothing, allowing me to slip into the Land of Nod.

In the morning, I was anxious for a tête-à-tête with Jake. But I'd made the mistake of describing the seagull-pecking fantasy to my wife. She said it would be best all around if she talked to Jake herself.

This cabin had another defect. A bar fridge had been plunked in the kitchen to take the place of a defective fridge, which was still sitting there. The plethora of fridges made for close quarters in the kitchen. And the bar fridge wouldn't make ice cubes, putting a real kibosh on the whole G&T process. I had to send my wife out several times to get buckets of ice from the front desk.

Naturally, the ice-cube situation got on my nerves, coming as it did on the heels of the erupting toilet and the two false alarms. As a diversion, my wife suggested we see a concert at Gabriola Island Community Hall. A hippie band from the early 1970s, Medicine Wheel, was having a historic reunion.

We arrived to find the Medicine Wheel clan had set out a vintage photo display. Some photographs portrayed long-haired folk cavorting in the nude. I was keen to examine these more carefully, but was diverted by the last call for organic cherry juice.

The Medicine Wheel played Grateful Dead-style music. Grey-haired fans in flowing robes did bobbing dances with serpentine hand movements. The musicians included Huckle, Straw and Starshine. I was quite taken with Straw's guitar playing. But then again, it's possible I have confused him with Huckle.

Several days later, when we checked out, I hinted to the front-desk clerk that overflowing toilets and post-midnight wakey-wakey calls might translate into a discount of monumental proportions. To clinch the deal, I also mentioned the bar fridge's inability to produce ice cubes. The clerk shook her head, seeming to dismiss me as yet another uptight tourist getting hung up on minor details.

"I booked it again for next year," my wife said as we drove to the ferry.

"Really?" I said.

"Yes."

From a distance, I heard the faint cry of a seagull.

This, for some reason, cheered me up a little.

achamberlain@timescolonist.com