Prince Edward Island - Salt Air & Stillness

I’ve lived on Prince Edward Island for the past 20 years. Even though there are things in life I still long for, I often reflect on how incredibly lucky I am to be surrounded by its natural beauty.
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I grew up in New Brunswick, about a three-hour drive off-Island. I can still remember what it felt like arriving for the first time -You almost feel like you’re stepping into another universe — one that slows your pace and wraps you in stillness.

As soon as you cross onto the Island, the landscape opens up.
Endless farmland stretches in every direction, forming living patterns in the earth from tilling, planting, and crop rotation. Rows and curves in every shade of green, layered across the landscape. My favourite visual: fields of vibrant yellow—canola in bloom. Giant, marshmallow-shaped straw bales dot the fields like sculpture.

When I’m feeling restless or overwhelmed, these summertime scenes ground me. The beauty of the Island—a salve.

PEI is famous not just for its lush rolling hills but for its red soil— the colour the result of high iron content, though it feels more magical than that simple fact.

And the beaches? Five-star.

Unsurprisingly, PEI is a major tourist destination—with a record-breaking 1.7 million non-resident visitors last year alone.
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But here’s the incredible part: if you know where to look, you can still find stretches of ocean paradise with hardly anyone around. My favorite hidden gem? Adam’s Beach. I didn’t discover it until just a couple of seasons ago (and honestly, I almost hate to share it).

I started going more regularly last year, soon after my sweet companion Neva passed. I needed to fill the time I would have spent caring for her — sitting at home felt pointless without our walks

I’m writing this one year later - late July, and like clock work I’m finding myself being pulled back. I have realized that beyond a life event pulling me there, I simply need the hottest heat of the summer before I can lay on the beach in my bathing suit with comfort - let alone swim. I’m always cold, the slightest breeze on an only moderately hot day is enough to send me rushing back to my car, searching for warmth.

Most people would agree that spending time near the ocean is deeply restorative.

Healing isn’t linear, though, and those committed to the path know how it goes. It’s not healthy to always be rooted in trauma healing - breakthroughs of joy are essential or it will become your entire identity. The space between last year and this year was joy filled for me - in connection, friendship, and learning. Yet now I am at another edge, on the cusp of another becoming. What feels best for me is to turn inward in solitude - I need time and quiet so I can listen to my own inner knowing.

That voice gets louder near the ocean.

So I drift back -

to the shore, to the sea, to myself.

My first swim of the year was July 29th. A day off and 28 degrees. I sat there - the expansiveness mirroring the growing feeling in my chest as I took in the scenery. A book in tow for company, and a cold kombucha to quench my thirst.
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The shore - a warm blanket of sand — soft, shifting, alive. It moves with even the subtlest wind and forms and reforms beneath whatever touches it. Sand yields, yet holds. A place to rest, reset, recharge.

The horizon: a massive void of blue that seems to go on forever until it disappears into the sky.
The water called me.

I ran on my tiptoes to the shore, sand squishing between my toes with each step. I was already anticipating the blast of cold — but I was ready. I have no idea what temperature the ocean is — or was — but it never feels warm to me.

I noticed a few people scattered along the beach, but in that moment, at the edge of the ocean, I was alone. I reach shin level quickly, but beyond that, my body resists.

Thigh-deep — I let out a gasp.

Waist — I can barely stand it.

From here, inching in would be pure torture. I know I just have to go for it. I pinch my nose and plunge under — claimed by cold, sea, and salt. The warm light vanishes, and instantly --

I am alive.

I swim a few yards back and forth, reminding myself that I can — once upon a time, I was a decent swimmer. My heart begins to pick up its pace. Being held by the water — that weightlessness — feels like a relief for my tired body.

I stay close to shore. Swimming in the ocean beyond where you can touch bottom — where the space beneath you is mystery and black — exposes every vulnerability. It reminds me how small I am. How little control I have. How easily I could disappear into the vastness. I feel brave for showing up at all. The sea holds an ancient knowing that demands respect. I am only a visitor.

When I’m satisfied, I head back to my spot in the sand. I lay down on my ragged, worn oversized towel, used summer after summer — invigorated, lungs filled with the sun salt air, grains of sand magnetizing to my wet skin.
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I am so grateful to be here.
I am so grateful to be me.

​I dry in the sun while reading my book, passing a little time before deciding to head back home. On the other side of the dunes, I notice three horses grazing contentedly in the tall grass. Beyond them, a row of cottages — towels and swimsuits strung on clotheslines, evidence of paused responsibilities and long, easy days.
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I open the sunroof, set the music — grateful for the ocean, anchored by the ritual. I know I’ll return. I’m in a season of learning how to care for myself — gently, consistently. It feels like a profound and undeniable privilege to do that here, held by the land and sea of Prince Edward Island.