Letter from the Editor When I first met my late wife, Staci, I experienced what can only be described as family culture shock. I grew up in what you might call a tiny family – my parents, my brother, two aunts, two uncles, two sets of grandparents … and one cousin. One. Total. If we’d held a family reunion, we could’ve met at Tim Hortons without moving any tables.
One of Staci’s favourite cousins, Brad, went out on Georgian Bay in a paddle boat with his girlfriend. No life jackets. They paddled a little too far. The boat flipped. Brad didn’t make it. He was just 27. I will never forget the image of so many family members sitting on that beach, stunned, grieving, helpless as searchers combed the water. The shock. The silence. The unbearable waiting. Twenty years later, the family still gathers. There is still laughter. There is still love. But when they look out at that beach, once everyone’s favourite place to be, there is also a space where Brad should be. A son. A brother. A cousin. Gone far too soon. Life on the beach is not always a life at the beach. Water is beautiful. It draws us in. It’s part of what puts Port Stanley on the map. But it demands respect. Too often, we forget that. That’s why, in the next three issues, we’ll feature Nathan MacIntyre, CEO of the Rip Current Information Project. Nathan will share practical, potentially life-saving information about water safety, from understanding rip currents to making smart decisions before heading out. If sharing Brad’s story helps one family avoid that nightmare, if it helps one person put on a life jacket, if it prevents one more empty seat at a family reunion, then it will be worth sharing. I hope you’ll read Nathan’s commentary. I hope you’ll take it to heart. And I hope together, we can help ensure that a day at the beach remains exactly that, a day. Stay safe out there.
Then I met Staci. She came from a big Newfoundland family. Her mom was one of eight siblings; her dad was one of nine. Staci had nearly 50 first cousins. Fifty. I needed flashcards. And unfortunately, I have what I can only describe as a black hole in my brain where names go to disappear forever. Learning everyone’s name was an Olympic event. But what a family – loud, loving, welcoming, and fiercely connected. More than 20 years later, I’m still proud to say I’m family. One of their cherished traditions was an annual reunion at their cottage on Christian Island. Picture it: 50 tents scattered across the lawn; aunts and uncles catching up, cousins everywhere; kids running barefoot from beach to deck and back again; one working bathroom; one outhouse, both extremely popular. It was chaotic. It was beautiful. It was something we looked
forward to every single year. Then, in 2006, tragedy struck.
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Page 2 Port Stanley Villager • April 2026
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