Islands are cool. There's a certain sense of semi-detachment from the rest of the world. Just ask a Brit, or a Kiwi, or a Newfoundlander.

	The water around gives a definition, sense of place and togetherness that's simply not possible on a mainland.	I’ve always been drawn to islands. Maybe that’s why I’ve chosen to live in Newfoundland. Growing up in small-town Ontario, I had my first visit to a sunny tropical island near Barbados called St. Vincent. My parents, seeking adventure, jumped at the chance in 1967 to take the family on an assignment to provide medical care to rural islanders. While we played in the black volcanic sands by the sea, the tiny island and its 80,000 people were moving from British colonial status to independence. I later wondered how such a place would fare on its own, as if islands by definition needed to be watched over by distant rulers. More recently in Toronto I encountered another island struggling to survive. The Toronto Island community, dubbed “pressure island” in a provincial report commissioned to decide the fate of its 750 residents, had fought a 40-year losing battle with metro Toronto to stop the demolition of its homes. The community of modest houses sat defiantly in the way of progress and metro’s plans to turn the island into a 400-acre park for two million people. Six hundred and fifty homes were demolished by metro since 1953, but rather than move to the “mainland,” many islanders floated their homes to safer parts of the island not yet threatened by the bulldozer, rejoining their neighbours in the fight to save the community. Island leader Liz Amer, whom I supported to become city councillor, taught me to appreciate but not idealize island life. She argued the island was no more exceptional than any city neighbourhood, except that the water around it gave it a definition, sense of place and togetherness that was simply not possible on the mainland. Those characteristics helped sustain the struggle for self-preservation and, in 1992, islanders won the right to stay. In 1989 my interest turned to northern islands. Boarding a plane to Iceland, with nature author Barry Lopez’s book Arctic Dreams under my arm, I hoped to find what he had described so passionately — the uncluttered isolation, an open, wild landscape. Tucked beneath the Arctic Circle, this nation of 200,000 people speaks an ancient language, enjoys a high standard of living, high literacy levels and near-zero unemployment. But the young people I met were aching to leave its isolation. I, on the other hand, left too soon for my liking and landed back in Toronto planning my next escape.
	“Here’s to changes in attitude, changes in latitude,”	As I resigned myself to Toronto, I met a Newfoundlander at an Irish pub. I had never met a Newfoundlander before and as we talked I realized I knew nothing about the place. I embarrassed myself by asking if his accent was real. The more I learned about Newfoundland, the more I wanted to be there. So last summer we decided to quit our jobs, leave our friends and my family, and move to Newfoundland. “Here’s to changes in attitude, changes in latitude,” my sister wrote to me. We took the ferry from Cape Breton in February. When the boat pulled into the fog and rain at Port aux Basques I felt a door lock behind me. For an instant, the refrain “Thank God we’re surrounded by water” sounded ominous to me. But like others before me, I fell in love with this island and its people. It’s a kind of northern Galapagos to which people have clung for centuries, withstanding the Darwinistic tests of geography, climate, politics and economics, and out of which a unique kinship, culture and generosity have evolved. Toronto playwright and cultural historian Deanne Taylor, when asked about the lack of a Canadian identity, said, “Canadians were put on this earth to pull each other out of snowbanks.” I think I’ve found the place that embodies this best. And it’s no surprise — it’s an island.