I'm sitting in my car at the Fishers Field parking lot enjoying a moment of blessed tranquility from the churning maelstrom. A few families are deployed at the park's picnic tables, and I'm struck by the bucolic tableau vivant for a few moments.
The impression is soon acid stripped from my mind: an East Indian couple is having sex in the back seat of a car parked adjacent to the picnic area. A side door opens, and several soiled Kleenex tissues trundle to the pavement. Moments later, a man emerges from one side buttoning up his trouser front, and a woman emerges from the other, straightening her hair.
No sooner has this carnal enterprise rinsed itself off and driven away, then a small procession of sinister looking vehicles takes their place. It is clear from the darting furtive looks in my direction that these angels are involved in some drug-related enterprise.
Another desperately annoying element to the park is that it has become the de facto East Indian wedding photograph venue. What joy to have to wend ones way around vast pockets of East Indian wedding parties milling about on the roadway like so many bollards on a high street.
As well, despite the fact that there are multiple signs forbidding the practice, one has to be constantly on one's guard for cyclists on the trails. Good lord, if you haven't the pluck to walk a kilometer, you truly are a pathetic specimen, and some us like to go for a stroll without being constantly molested by bands of undomesticated cyclists who think that it is their god given right to ply their trade on every mm of the Lower Mainland's soil.
In short, it is best to approach Deas Island guardedly in the summer.
I have been a weekly habitue of the park for the last seven years, so I speak from authority, and am not some petulant, hypersensitive whinger who has needlessly decided to witter here because my pathological ego defenses have been triggered by another person's review deriding the ossified concept of societal diversity being a strength. read more