The Summer That Stayed

The summer of 1980 was supposed to be a short, golden pause—a five-week escape after high school, a taste of something different before the serious business of university life in Germany began. That was the plan. But plans are fragile things, easily scattered like dandelion seeds in the right wind. What unfolded instead was a summer that lodged itself deep into the folds of memory, unfinished, unforgotten, and never quite let go.

It was my first time flying alone, across the Atlantic no less, with a suitcase packed in more hope than preparation. I had sent letters ahead, of course—one to my aunt in Vancouver, letting her know when I’d arrive. But the world moved slower then. No emails. No cell phones. Just postage stamps, crossed fingers, and the hum of engines above the clouds.

When I landed at Vancouver International Airport, the arrival hall was a blur of strangers. No familiar face. No sign with my name. Just the cold realization that I had no address, no phone number, no backup plan. I stood for a long while, watching people reunite with hugs and laughter, until the crowd thinned and the space around me felt much too large.

And then she appeared.

An older woman with silver-streaked hair and the kind of presence that suggested she'd seen more than her fair share of lost souls. Her name was Margaret. She noticed my confusion and asked, simply, “You need help, don’t you?” I nodded, the lump in my throat swelling like a tide.

She didn’t ask for details right away. She just told me I was coming home with her.

Margaret lived in a cozy house on the North Shore, framed by forests and the scent of pine sap. Her husband, Frank, greeted me like an old friend, and before I knew it, I was swept into their world: breakfast on the deck with hummingbirds in the trees, a dog named Copper who barked at shadows, and a photo wall lined with people I would never meet but who somehow made me feel like I belonged.

Their adult children were visiting that summer, and I was invited along without hesitation—to hike into the mountains, to fish on quiet lakes, to witness, for the first time in my life, the breath of a whale breaking the ocean surface, the graceful arc of an orca slicing through the waves. We saw wolves one morning, distant and still, like sentinels watching from the tree line. The days stretched long and warm, the kind of golden you think only exists in postcards.

But it wasn’t all wonder.

I got lost once—stupidly—chasing a trail that wasn’t a trail, believing my curiosity more than my common sense. The woods folded around me like a green curtain, dense and silent. Panic doesn’t always hit all at once; it creeps, leaf by leaf, until the sky feels too far away. I don’t remember how long I wandered, but I remember the sound of shouting voices, of snapping twigs, and then hands—kind and strong—pulling me back to the world.

The local fire crew had been called. I was embarrassed, tear-streaked, covered in scratches and mosquito bites, but everyone was just relieved I was safe. Margaret cried. Frank brought me ice cream.

Three weeks passed before we finally located my aunt and uncle. A letter had gone missing in the mail. They had waited at the airport the wrong day. When we reunited, it was with hugs and confusion and a quiet joy. I moved in with them for my last two weeks in Canada, and they showed me their version of the city—the markets, the parks, the beach at English Bay.

But something had shifted in me.

Canada had unwrapped something I hadn’t expected. A sense of home that had nothing to do with where I came from. A heartbeat that pulsed in time with rivers and mountains and people who made space for strangers. When I boarded the plane back to Germany, I promised I’d return in a few years—maybe three or four. Enough time to study, to plan. Just a pause.

But life doesn’t always wait.

The years spun on. University led to work. Work to responsibility. Responsibility to routine. Every summer after that came with reasons to stay—exams, jobs, relationships, detours. But none of them felt like that first summer.

I’d sit sometimes in cafés in Cologne or parks in Munich, and I’d see the slant of light fall a certain way, or hear someone mention orcas, and I’d be transported back—to the damp smell of forest, to the sharp sting of a mosquito bite, to Copper’s bark echoing off mountain rocks.

It took me twenty-five years to return.

By then, Margaret and Frank were gone. The house was sold. The firemen who rescued me were probably retired. But when I stood on that same shoreline, the one where I had seen my first whale, I felt it: the summer that never ended. It had waited for me. It had lingered like unfinished music, like a sentence without a period.

Not every summer is made of golden light and unforgettable memories. But some are. Some summers don’t end because they never really finished. They become part of you—etched into your story like a chapter you never stop re-reading.

That summer was supposed to be an intermission. Instead, it became the beginning of something that still hasn’t quite let go.