Last summer, I felt stuck. I was a year out of college and living in Nashville, with no idea where to go next.
Most of my friends were headed to New York City, with a few straying from the norm by going to other big cities, like Denver or Dallas. I, however, veered entirely off the norm — practically skidding on two wheels — by moving to a tiny, remote spot in Washington’s San Juan Islands where I spent summers as a kid in my family’s cabin.
The small island wasn’t on my short list of places to move postgrad. In fact, it wasn’t on any of my lists. However, the appeal of a slower pace of life, coupled with the quintessential feelings of being lost in my 20s, compelled me to try living there.
Living here is unlike anything I’ve experienced before
Blakely Spoor
My family’s 40-year-old cabin was built in just two weeks and was never meant to be lived in full-time. It has single-pane glass windows that creak with every gust of wind, and the rotting deck grows even more rotted with each rainy season that passes.
It’s a far cry from my high-rise existence in Nashville, but it has its benefits.
The beaches, scattered with sun-worn driftwood, stretch on for miles, with scarcely another person in sight. While sitting at my kitchen table, I watch seals bobbing in the waves, shorebirds diving for their dinner, eagles scanning the land down below, and geese flapping their strong wings as they take off.
Almost every morning, I walk the rocky expanse of beach that lies outside my front door.
However, life on the island has its quirks. Gone are the days of my convenient city existence, where everything I needed was within a few-mile radius. In fact, my new home has no grocery store, no gas station, and only one point of public access.
Trips to the mainland can only be made via a small water taxi, which operates a handful of times throughout the week. Thankfully, modernity has started to catch up, with the frequency of the island taxi runs increasing and even enabling local grocery delivery through Instacart.
Living here full-time requires meticulous planning, thorough lists and a sprinkle of resourcefulness.
I’ve even formed unlikely friendships with my older neighbors
In Nashville, I was surrounded by neighbors on the 15th floor of an apartment building — yet I never met a single one of them. Here, however, it didn’t take long for me to form close bonds with the locals.
They’re a hearty, salty, rugged bunch, and I quickly learned that I would do best to avoid getting on their bad side. They’re the kind of people who can catch, kill, and fix anything, and most of them are at least 30 years my senior.
I, on the other hand — young, bright-eyed, and with little to no hard skills — definitely did not fit the mold of an island resident. Despite this, I was welcomed into the community with open arms.
On the eve of the first bad winter storm, my 75-year-old neighbor came barreling down the dirt road in his mandarin-orange 1970s pick-up. He wanted to ensure I was prepared for the storm and even offered his place up the hill in case of a power outage.
He, along with our 92-year-old neighbor — another gruff but gentle gentleman — would become my most dutiful, watchful caretakers. We exchange chocolate chip cookies for backyard apples, compare foraged beach treasures, and grab groceries for each other in town.
On the island, looking out for others in your community is the most valuable form of currency.
I couldn’t be happier with my decision to embrace island life
Blakely Spoor
Here, I’ve found a sense of community that I never knew before. I’ve discovered a lifestyle that is filled with adventure, joy, and the kind of self-confidence that only comes from learning resourcefulness.
Every day, I’m lucky to experience a connection with — and reverence for — the natural world that surrounds me.
I know my life looks different than that of my peers. There are no coffee shops to frequent every morning, no going to restaurants with friends on a Friday night, and don’t even get me started on the dating scene. It’s the last place anyone would expect a 23-year-old to choose to live, let alone love.
Although it took some time to adjust — I’m a sucker for buying an expensive specialty latte at a coffee shop — I eventually found my groove, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
