Restless Viking Radio — Season One, Episode Eight

Part 5 of the Cape Jones Saga

We’re camped on the rocks at Longue Pointe with ten people, freighter canoes below us, and a simple problem: we need two boats, and we have one.

At 6:30 in the morning, Jimmie shows up early.

Wind’s right. Tide’s right.

We go now.

What follows is a long, cold run up the coast of James Bay—threading islands, reading water by inches, standing for hours in the bow—toward a place that doesn’t announce itself and doesn’t promise anything.

This episode isn’t about arrival.

It’s about permission, patience, and the quiet competence of a man who doesn’t explain himself.

Cape Jones felt like an ending.

It wasn’t.

Welcome back to Restless Viking Radio.

This is season one, episode eight, and

it's part five of the Cape Jones series.

The part where the map stops

being a concept and becomes wind,

tide, and a man named Jimmie, who

does not waste words on feelings.

If you've ever tried to lead a group into

something remote, you know this truth.

The plan doesn't break all at once.

It breaks in tiny polite increments.

Until you look at your watch and

realize the day is left without you.

Alright, let's go to Longue Pointe.

This episode takes place on the

shore of Longue Pointe on James Bay.

We're camped on the rocks with

10 people freighter canoes

down the hill, and one problem.

We need two boats and we have one.

And for reasons I still can't

fully explain, Jimmie shows

up at six 30 in the morning.

I was still a little bleary-eyed as

I crawled outta the back of my Jeep.

Our camp on the shore of

Longue Pointe was still quiet.

We were a lonely arrangement of Jeeps on

the rocks above the receding morning tide.

A few of our team were just getting

started with breakfast and coffee.

The sound of gravel and tires

faded into the calm morning sounds.

I looked up to see Jimmy's

truck slowly rounding the curve.

Wow.

I thought he's early.

It was 6:30 in the morning when

we had talked during our awkward

negotiation the day before

we seemed to settle

between eight and nine.

JImmie said he would find another

freighter canoe and guide and meet

us where we camped in mid-morning.

I slowly walked through the wet weeds to

the gravel road, still a little sleepy.

The air was fresh,

chilled, and a little damp.

The sun was new and the light was dim.

He slowly rolled to a stop with his window

down and stared at the canoes, lined up

just down the hill without looking at me.

He put his truck in park, opened

the door, and stepped out.

I searched his face.

He continued looking downhill.

Hey, I said a little surprised.

He was so early.

He nodded.

Still looking away this

time at the quiet ocean.

He seemed to be sizing everything up.

I thought you said between eight and nine.

I said trying to cover the

fact that we weren't ready.

Wind, tide good.

We go now.

He said with a nod to the ocean.

I paused.

No second canoe.

I inquired.

He smiled, glanced at me.

A crooked, satisfied smile.

That was his answer.

We had 10 people and

room for five, maybe six.

I hesitated so.

Two trips.

He said, okay.

I said, we get ready.

I hesitated.

I'd said it the way he would've.

He nodded, still intently staring at

the boats at the bottom of the hill.

I started turning to walk away

and followed his gaze down to

the boats to see if there was a

polar bear or something important.

Nothing.

We gathered at camp.

Everyone had a curious look.

We had doubts that a second

trip would be possible.

We discussed who would

go on the first trip.

I was a little optimistic that if we

hurried on the first trip, we could

make it back in time for the second one.

At 35 miles an hour, we could go

over 70 miles in two hours, spend 30

minutes on site, then return by noon

or by 1:00 PM for the second round.

I would later learn how

optimistic that was.

We chose the five for the first trip.

Those who had been with the team the

longest, I hesitated, tried Feebly

to give up my spot, but they insisted

they knew I had planned to reach

Cape Jones for more than a decade.

To this day, I have a deep appreciation

for them in their unwavering kindness.

We weren't crossing James Bay.

We were working our way north,

following the coast, threading islands

and shoals all the way to Cape Jones.

After we gathered our gear, we walked

down to the gravel beach crunching across

stones passed over 60 freighter canoes, a

silent, heavy fleet waiting for the tide.

Jimmie had a small generator

charging a sat phone.

His attention was absolute

as he methodically arranged

seven large jugs of fuel.

He shifted the heavy

cans and rearranged gear.

his movements were

efficient and economical.

We fell in line, helping without

instruction or conversation.

Then without saying a word, he reached

into the back of his truck, pulled

out six halfpipes, and dropped them on

the gravel behind his 24 foot canoe.

A 60 horsepower motor

hung from the transom.

It was old and the prop

was pretty dinged up.

I swallowed as I walked around to

the other side without saying a word.

Jimmie positioned himself on the canoe

and began pushing it to the water.

Finally realizing what he was doing.

We quickly grabbed the gunwhales to help.

We slid the canoe closer to

the water by about six feet.

Jimmie picked up a

halfpipe from the front.

He walked with casual patience

to the back and dropped it.

We pushed again for another four

feet and repositioned a halfpipe.

After almost a dozen of those

maneuvers, the boat was floating.

Then Jimmie loaded gear

without conversation.

We loaded our gear, climbed in, and

positioned ourselves in the seats.

The last piece of gear a cased shotgun was

placed in the bow, and then Jimmie loaded

his truck and drove away to park it.

When he returned, he pushed us all further

out into the water than climbed in.

He fiddled with a motor for a couple

minutes, occasionally pulling the cord.

The rest of us used the hand carved

paddles to move slowly from the shore.

Then the motor roared to life.

The canoe vibrated and the gear

rattled against the hull with

a clunk, we were in reverse and

slowly backing away from the shore.

The others watched us launch

two, following for a while in

their kayaks before turning back.

The rest looked from

shore with another clunk.

We came about to starboard.

The canoe shuttered.

I positioned myself at the bow of the

canoe expecting a rough but exciting ride.

This is it 70 more miles.

When we finally reach our goal, 35

gallons of fuel and seven tank changes,

and we'll be back from Cape Jones.

I was pretty excited.

Cape Jones is one of those places

with very little written history.

The name was given by the English

sometime in the 17th century.

In 1961, it was officially

renamed Pointe Louis XIV.

A fact, most of the people living

within 300 miles seem unaware of.

It's a long, rocky point stretching

into the sea marking where James Bay

gives way to Hudson Bay, treeless, and

exposed right in the middle of the Cape.

Sits MCL site number 4 10,

an abandoned radar station my

father would've recognized.

My father, who adopted me at three

months served on BMEWS radar sites

a thousand miles North, but he

hadn't just stayed on the base.

He explored traded rides in military

trucks for dogsled rides with the Inuit

and Greenland wandered through abandoned

towns in Alaska, actually reading letters

left in the post office decades before.

He was curious about the north

in a way most servicemen weren't.

We motored north through a

maze of rocky treeless islands.

Jimmie would expertly maneuver

through shallow passes with just a

few inches between hull and rock.

He would lift the motor glide over

a line of barely submerged rocks,

then drop the motor and accelerate.

He would then position the

tiller between his legs to steer.

He kept his hands in his pockets as he

surveyed wildlife and harsh shorelines.

He stood almost the entire time

steering with his legs, his

expression still and silent.

We slid between rocks and shoals, Jimmie.

Timing each move with the tide.

One mistake here would mean a dunking.

It meant an abandoned canoe, a

ruined prop, and six people waiting

days for rescue, all because

of an inch of misplaced hull.

I was behind the upswept bow, mostly

protected from the wind, farther

back without protection of the bow.

The others were exposed.

They dug in their packs for emergency

blankets, trying to settle the

needling, chill, their hunch posture

the way that they winced, told me

they were miserable, and probably

wondering when it was all going to end.

Riding in the bow was rough.

Within 15 minutes, our course

took us directly into the waves.

Sitting was impossible, like

riding a mechanical bull.

I found a shaky equilibrium

standing locked in a low slight

squat while gripping the gunwhales.

It was comfortable enough for

the first hour, but as the second

hour began, the strain became an

immediate dull fire in my quads.

I knew what this meant tomorrow, legs

weakened, trembling and aching pain,

settling deep in the quads and muscles

that would simply refuse to move.

I was going to look and feel

like a tired old man, three hours

standing in the bow, legs burning.

My father had done journeys like

this too, not for duty, but out

of curiosity, trading with people,

exploring abandoned places, collecting

stories to bring home, we never talked

about what drove that curiosity, but

standing there feeling the biting,

chill, work its way through my jacket

I understood something.

This was the conversation.

Every mile closer to Cape Jones was

a sentence I couldn't say out loud.

Every hour on the water

was a word he'd recognize.

We passed many geese.

As we got close, they would lay flat

in the water to hide behind the waves.

At times, Jimmie would turn to make

his approach between two islands.

When we got too close, they would

flap and waddle their little webbed

feet kicking, taking flight to escape.

At one point, a small seal

was sunning herself on a rock.

Her huge eyes fixed on us.

She dove into the water and

her head popped up a minute

later, much closer to us.

She seemed curious and kept following

us until our speed took us outta sight.

And somewhere north a Longue

Pointe, the wind caught my hat.

My kids had given it to me years earlier.

A sun bleached, frayed grumpy

hat that had seen better days.

It skipped once and

disappeared in the chop.

I wrote it off immediately.

Jimmie saw it.

He eased off the throttle.

Then he began to turn the canoe.

Don't worry about it.

I said, it's old.

Pretty beat up.

He paused, glanced over his shoulder and

cracked a crooked smile, expensive hat.

He said.

We go back.

Only then did the rest of us start

looking like we were playing along.

I leaned forward near the bow,

scanning the water, thinking I

wave 'em off in another minute.

There was no way we were finding that

brown hat in miles of dark water.

Jimmie never searched from the

outboard at the back of the canoe.

He brought us around once, then

slowed the hat, drifted to the bow

from 24 feet back running the motor.

He had put it exactly where my hand was.

I looked back at him, the smile was gone

now.

I grabbed my hat out of the icy water

and he brought the throttle back

up, and we continued north as if

the outcome had never been in doubt.

After an hour, we stopped

at a small rocky island.

Jimmie talked on his radio in Cree.

I hopped out with the rope.

He threw out two fuel

containers and crawled onto

the shore to mix fuel with oil.

He did this a couple times.

He worked hard for us and we never

knew what he was planning, why we

were stopping or why we were turning.

At one point, I looked back to notice

that he had left his position as Stern

Sentinel and was rearranging gas cans.

He disconnected the engine's fuel

line from one can and connected it

to another while the motor hummed on.

I would try to understand

how he was navigating dozens

of miles of uncharted water.

I could sometimes see his aid to

navigation, a lone stick with an

animal skull or a shipwreck part

carefully stacked on an island knoll.

He would take a heading straight at it.

Then promptly turn and I would

scan for the cairn set up

on the next distant island.

We passed a couple of camps, the

size of small villages, unmapped

settlements that stood in hard

contrast to the lonely landscape.

Occasionally Jimmie would

chat with someone on the

radio during one transmission.

He spoke in Cree and I suddenly

recognized the words Cape Jones.

There was a long pause at the other end

and suddenly Owa, Owa, Owa, which is a

Cree expression of WTF, with a smile.

I kept track of our progress

on the satellite tracker,

and it was painfully slow.

We left at low tide and into the

wind, just the right conditions

for crawling up the coast.

We were still over 15 miles from

the Cape After three hours at a

fuel stop on one of the countless

islands, he announced Cape Jones

not long as he loaded the tank and

the fuel can back into the canoe.

Shortly after we left with about

six miles to go, we rounded a

point and immediately spotted the

imposing antenna arrays at the cape.

They were small at the distance, but

striking as they languished in the haze.

These arrays had their anchor

bolts cut more than 50 years ago.

During decommissioning, they assumed

that the wind would easily topple

them, but there they were still

suffering the elements unwavering

for the next 20 minutes, we moved

closer with the cape slowly growing.

The wide expanse of open water was

still rife with submerged obstacles.

With three miles to go.

We spotted the Cape Jones hunting

camp, a couple of small buildings

on the shore at the destination.

Finally, we closed in on our

landing site near a small cabin.

Jimmie cut the motor and we drifted.

I finally jumped out with the rope

of my legs, trembling a little.

We secured the canoe and

Jimmie unloaded some gear.

He looked at me and said,

what do you want to do?

Stay a bit.

Look around, walk to the towers.

Curious to know if that was okay.

You take pictures, walk around.

I'll have lunch.

He said.

With that, he busied himself,

hauling gear to a shelter area

among the rocks and lichen.

I quickly started hiking toward the

towers, just over a rocky knoll.

We all split up for our

own silent exploration.

As I passed a small hunting cabin

comfortably nestled in the hill, a

raven the size of a small child suddenly

stumbled at the back of the building.

I think we both jumped surprised to

see each other in this empty place.

His wings flapped as he regained

his balance and he took flight.

He flew to the top of a knoll, landed

on a rocky perch and kept watch over me.

I thought of Odin's Ravens, my

birth family's Icelandic mythology,

not my father's Scottish roots.

I know it was indulgent, maybe

even disloyal, but the raven

stayed and I kept walking.

The hike was treeless and

seemed to expand forever.

The towers loom like

giants in the distance.

The raven stayed behind, still and stoic

with his feathers waving in the wind.

I walked alone across the tundra as an

angry bird circled above me and screeched.

The silence, the kind my father would've

known, sucked away any noise I made.

In today's world, someone would probably

ask why I hadn't just called him, why

I hadn't told him what this meant, but

standing there among the rusted drums

and broken steam pipes, I understood.

This was telling him, not in spite

of the silence, but because of it.

The Cree don't talk about

honoring their ancestors.

They live it.

They walked the routes

their grandfathers walked.

My father and I do the same.

I pulled out my phone and took a picture

of the towers, not for social media,

not even for myself, but for him.

We all converged on the buildings, like

some sort of great gathering of travelers.

We explored the disintegrating

buildings, steam pipes, broken and

shattered, ceilings bowed walls,

slowly leaning until they fell.

The sun was bright and the

wind was gentle and steady.

We began our amble back to the canoe.

Returning to the landing

site on Cape Jones.

Jimmie was finishing lunch.

His campfire was done, and

he offered me a pork chop.

I graciously accepted.

A little surprised.

We launched, and for hours we

traced the edge of the land.

Sometimes the shore was close

enough to feel, other times it

drifted miles away, broken into

low islands and narrow channels.

We slid between rocks and shoals.

Jimmie timing each move to the tide.

Reading water depth, the way

some people read a clock.

The radio had been silent all morning.

There was no one to talk to.

I kept checking our distance, speed tide.

I sent short updates on

the satellite messenger.

Careful not to promise anything.

I checked the GPS and looked at

my watch, 2:00 PM We wouldn't

see Longue Pointe until five.

The window had closed hours

ago, and I finally accepted it.

We failed the other five.

The radio crackled to life.

A tugboat was heading north,

following the same ragged coastline.

They hailed Jimmie hearing

another voice out here felt

unexpected, almost intrusive.

He answered in Cree.

At first, it sounded casual, but the

exchange went on longer than I expected.

Jimmie spoke a little, listened more

eyes forward, tiller between his legs.

When it ended, he said nothing.

We kept moving, slipping between

islands again, water rose

and fell against the rocks.

After a while, I asked what they'd said.

He shrugged.

They think I should have

two boats for safety.

He didn't sound like he was just lectured.

He went back to watching the water.

By the time we reached Longue Pointe, the

second group was waiting on the rocks.

I tied up, climbed out, and

started apologizing more than

once for the time for the hope.

For doing the math out loud

and they wouldn't have it.

That was enough.

They were gracious, insistent,

almost stubborn about it.

That took most of the 10 minutes.

While talking I kept glancing at Jimmie.

He was packing fuel cans,

rope gear, fast and efficient,

like a man closing an account.

I finally broke away money in hand

and started walking toward him.

I was still a good 50 yards away.

When he shut the back of his

truck, he got in and drove off.

By the time we crossed paths

again the next morning, Cape

Jones was already behind us.

Jimmie was sitting with his wife in

a small restaurant, halfway through

breakfast, no introduction, no ceremony,

just a table by the window in a morning

that clearly hadn't been arranged around

us, and I stopped and said, hello.

He said, hello back.

I told him we needed to settle up.

He nodded.

That was it.

I had the distinct feeling I was

interrupting something private,

not rudely, just improperly.

So I left them alone and went back to

our table across the room, coffee, eggs,

the low murmur of the place, waking up.

After a while, Jimmie stood up.

I expected him to come over.

Instead, he and his wife

headed for the door.

I got up and followed.

In the entryway, that narrow space between

two doors where the cold always sneaks in.

I called his name.

He stopped and turned.

I handed him a wad of cash, and

it was more than we talked about

days earlier, maybe twice as much.

and standing there, I realized

I wasn't even sure if we'd ever

actually agreed on a price.

He looked at the money.

What's this for?

He asked.

For taking us to Cape Jones.

He took it.

No thanks.

Just a nod.

Then he turned and left.

A day or two later, we were back in

the commercial center again waiting.

Darcy was there full of energy

surrounded by people laying out his

thatched geese, like a man who knew

exactly how long attention lasts.

He was insistent, not rude, just

determined that we weren't going

anywhere until a transaction happened.

People gathered, watched,

drifted in and out.

At some point, I realized

Jimmie was standing beside me.

He hadn't announced himself.

He was just there watching

the same thing I was.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

Then he leaned over and asked if

I wanted him to talk to Darcy, see

if he can get me a better price.

It surprised me, not the offer,

but the assumption behind it that

we were together in this moment

that advocating was natural.

I said something non-committal, maybe

yes, maybe we'd see, and we kept watching.

A few minutes later he turned to.

How long are you staying?

He asked.

I told him we were

leaving the next morning.

Then I asked if the white female

captain had talked to him.

He said, yes.

That's when the smile appeared.

Not big, not performative,

just easy, genuine.

He reached into his pocket

and pulled out a check.

He held it where only I could see it.

$2,500. I reacted with Surprise

and something like Pride.

It felt like a lot of money to

him, though I don't really know.

What I did know was that he was happy.

It was the first time I had seen him

like that and it explained the rest.

I had met that captain earlier right

after we got back from the Cape.

She was with the Royal Canadian

Geographic Society, the Canadian

cousin to National Geographic.

Licensed Captain,

institutional Backing Purpose.

She wanted a guide.

They were working on the coast,

mapping routes, learning the

waters, filling in places where

charts were thin or non-existent.

She said they'd been looking

for someone for over a week.

She carried herself like someone who

was used to being listened to just

enough to make sure I understood

where I ranked, which was ironic.

I probably had more northern miles

behind me than she did, but credentials

matter differently in different places.

The band office suggested she talk to me.

Apparently she also stopped in

the office to see if she could

find someone just like we did.

I agreed to meet her.

I told her to ask Jimmie.

She asked for his number, insistently.

I told her I didn't have it, but

she could usually find him in

the commercial center sitting.

She seemed impatient with that as

if sitting wasn't a serious answer.

I tried to help anyways.

I offered that insisting

wouldn't get her very far here.

That sharing would.

Then I said she could tell him I sent her,

the guy he had just taken to Cape Jones.

She treated the suggestion

like it was acceptable.

Then she left, and

frankly, I'm glad she did.

Later, Jimmie showed me that check.

I like to think he was

hired because we sent her.

That without that thin thread of

connection, it wouldn't have happened,

but that's not really the point.

What mattered was why she wanted him.

They weren't documenting the

coast, they were designing it.

Mapping routes that could become

curated experiences, authentic feeling

eco travel for people, unwilling

or unable to do what we had done.

Packaged access.

Jimmy took the money, of course he did.

The system that displaced his people

now offers survival through performance.

That isn't hypocrisy.

It's economics and it isn't new.

We paid him more than we agreed to.

I was happy he got an institutional check.

Both things were true, but

neither thing was clean.

While we were there, interest in us,

quietly grew online, posts appeared.

White people at Long point watch

your stuff, some white people

poking around the graveyard.

Nothing dramatic, nothing hostile,

just information moving through

a network we weren't a part of.

The sitters weren't just sitting,

they were watching, reporting,

deciding, While I thought I was

having individual encounters,

the community was having a collective

conversation about us, and I didn't know

that at the time, but it explains a lot.

At the end of the trip, we were

back in the commercial center again.

Someone asked where we were headed next.

Someone asked us not to leave.

The radio station asked if we wanted

to do an interview, but we declined.

Partly because we were leaving, but

mostly because I didn't know what to say.

We weren't the story.

We hadn't come to explain Chisasibi.

We had just shown up slowly and

waited to see if we'd be tolerated.

That didn't feel like

something you put on the air.

Eventually we did what everyone does.

We left.

A year later, I came back.

Different group, different destination.

Just one night in

Chisasibi passing through.

No agenda, no expectation of recognition.

It was the opening of goose season.

Canoes came in low and

heavy piled with birds.

My group stood back unsure.

Without thinking, I stepped forward and

grabbed a canoe to help pull it ashore.

The rest of the group

followed immediately.

A teenage boy proud, trying not to show it

was standing in the boat with a shotgun.

I asked how the hunt went.

He held up his goose and let

his prize linger for a bit.

So I understood.

To me, it was just an interaction

with people I had met.

That was the difference.

The next morning I went looking

for Jimmie in the sitter's mall.

He wasn't there.

A quiet disappointment when you

realized you'd hoped without

admitting to see someone.

In the parking lot,

just as we were about to leave, I

spotted him and I yelled his name.

He turned, smiled broadly

and walked toward me.

We shook hands, then we stood there.

Long pauses.

Answers like, good.

Yep.

A nod, silence again.

This time it wasn't tense.

We weren't evaluating.

We were just there.

Eventually I said, take care.

He nodded and walked away

like he hadn't known me very

well and I took that as good.

Cape Jones felt like an ending.

It wasn't.

If I had gone on the radio,

maybe I would've said this.

Come slowly, come humbly,

be willing to be told no.

Help pull the canoes, stand in

silence, and if you're lucky

enough to be welcomed, come back.

But that won't fit on a brochure.

Brochures bring money north so Jimmie

will guide the tourists and I'll

come back when I can and somehow

we'll both know the difference.

Cape Jones didn't give us a conclusion.

It didn't explain itself, it

didn't thank us for coming.

It didn't even pretend to

notice we'd been there.

And maybe that was the point.

We packed up, the boats

went back in the water.

The trucks pointed south.

One by one, the voice is thinned

out and the trip ended the way.

Most of them do, not all

at once, but unevenly.

Cape Jones felt like an ending.

It wasn't.

It was just where the group stopped.

The road kept going.

It bent east, it followed colder water.

Next time I went alone, next time

it's Labrador and it's Thanksgiving.

Stay tuned.