The Life of Part Time River Rats

I retired 22 years ago.

By then we had owned our island for several years and had spent every vacation resurrecting what the real estate agent optimistically described as a "fixer-upper." The neighbours had another name for it.

A teardown.

We took a 125-year-old hand-hewn log cabin that was one good sneeze away from collapsing and somehow talked it into another century. The neighbours were relieved. They had feared someone would bulldoze it and replace it with one of those chrome-and-glass McMansions with twelve bathrooms and no soul.
After all, we were Californians.

Before the island, we had already restored two homes in France. A friend confidently predicted we'd tire of dividing our lives between countries and be back in California permanently within six months.

Twenty-two years later, we're still waiting to admit she was right. We dread the day we might have to do just that.

Living in three homes in three countries on two continents hasn't divided our lives by three. It has multiplied them by three.

Ironically, although I am an American, I grew up in Montreal. Every summer my father, who was born in Belleville, ON, took us to Cape Cod. I didn't even know the Thousand Islands existed until I was fifty. Like many Americans, I thought Thousand Islands was something you put on a salad.

Then, while flying home from Paris, I noticed an advertisement for Boldt Castle in the seat-back magazine. I tore it out and tucked it into my briefcase.

The following summer, while vacationing on the East Coast with our family, we decided to visit the Thousand Islands. Like every tourist, we took the obligatory "Gilligan's Island" boat cruise.

The next morning, we found a realtor who showed us a private island that had just come on the market.

We didn't choose the River Rat life that day. We just thought we were buying a cottage. The rest, as they say, is history.

Neither of us had ever owned a boat before. In hindsight, purchasing an island first and learning to boat second may not have been our most logical sequence of events.

So, we practiced on a small lake near our California home, where I earned my California Advanced Boater Certificate.

I call it "advanced" because that's how they made me pay for it—in advance.
We then towed our boat across North America, along with a U-Haul full of college furniture to furnish the cabin.

When we finally arrived, we proudly owned an island . . .

. . . and couldn't find it.

I bought a navigational chart and fortunately, someone pointed us in the right direction.

Today, we have wonderful friends in all three places we call home. About a month before we return, someone inevitably writes and asks,

"When are you coming home?"

I usually answer, "Which one?" They're all home. Just at different times of the year.

Over the years we've learned to follow the seasons, living in each place when it's at its very best. Moving has become surprisingly simple. The only things I absolutely have to carry are my wallet and my passport. Clothes, tools, dishes, toothbrushes—everything else is already waiting.

Wherever "there" happens to be.

Wherever we are, that's where we live. When we're in the Thousand Islands, we don't spend our days wishing we were in California or France. We become islanders. We spend time with friends, volunteer, support local businesses, attend community events, and usually arrive with a year's worth of projects already planned. Our other homes simply fade into the background until it's time to board another aeroplane.

For years, I flew my amphibious aircraft low and slow over the Thousand Islands. No matter how often I made that flight, I was always awestruck by the beauty below.

People who have never lived on an island are endlessly fascinated by the logistics.
"You don't have a bridge?"
"No."
"So . . . how do you get there?"
"Fly, swim, or boat."
"Usually we boat."
After a brief pause comes the inevitable question.
"So you have to take a boat to your island?"
"No."
"We GET to take a boat to our island."

It's amazing how much difference one little word can make.
Mention that you own a home in California, two private islands, and a villa on the French Riviera and conversations tend to stop. Some people assume we've inherited money. Others think we won the lottery.

We didn't.

We built our first house ourselves. We bought the materials, worked our regular jobs, came home, changed into work clothes, turned on the floodlights, and built all night.

All night.
Seven days a week.
Christmas.
New Year's.
Birthdays.
Anniversaries.
Two years—and what felt like four thousand trips to the hardware store—later . . .
. . . we had a house.

My wife somehow managed to work full time, raise five children, and keep me alive.

Looking back, I may actually have been the harder job.

Every home we've owned since has been a serious fixer-upper. We've renovated them ourselves, hiring very few people along the way. My wife cooks, gardens, and somehow keeps three homes running smoothly. I handle the repairs, maintenance, winterize our boats, and, perhaps most importantly, turn all of her "great ideas" into reality.

We have become deeply invested in the Thousand Islands and proudly support the local economy. Although you won't catch us here in January, we admire those hardy souls who embrace winter on the River. We love snow, but only in the movies.

I spent 30 years in prison.
As I write this, my wife insists that I include the word "administration." Experience has taught me that if I simply tell people I spent thirty years in prison, they stop listening to everything that comes after. I've now been retired for twenty-two years.

People sometimes ask if retirement gets boring. I don't care what anyone says about retirement. It isn't true. It's much, much better.

We've worked hard for everything we have, but we also know we've been extraordinarily blessed. We have far more than we deserve, and we never forget that. As for being part-time River Rats . . . We can't help it. We didn't choose the River. The River chose us.

By Michael Laprade

Michael Laprade and his wife Janice are retired Californians, who spend the summer at their “Honey Bee Island” property. It is located in the International Rift, between Blacksnake Passage at the mouth of Lake of the Isles and the stone span of the US / Canadian Customs Bridge. Michael is a former prison administrator, and also is a Professional Magician. In October 2013, Michael and Janice wrote "Honey Bee Island’s Little Free Library" for TI Life, as well as "I Was the Pilot" in September 2016, and "Boarding of the SS Honey Bee" in January 2018. Two recent articles include his participation on Team Rubicon with FEMA in April 2022, and Chief Tecumseh in September 2021 - plus many more. Now Michael has joined our regular team of authors and I encourage you to see his past articles here and here. His articles are both interesting and fun to read!