Joan SkoganThe Globe and Mail
Joan Skogan: Writer. West coaster. Voyager. Enigma. Born Sept. 29, 1945, in Comox, B.C.; died July 29, 2017, in Nanaimo, B.C.; after a long illness; aged 71.
A West Coast writer of distinction, Joan was brilliant, elusive and willful; she never failed to jolt those around her.
Joan cultivated her unpredictable persona, her otherness, while holding to high standards and stern discipline in writing and researching her books and articles (for Saturday Night and the Georgia Straight, among others). She brooked no opposition from friends, editors or fellow writers, scorning shoddy thinking, poorly researched history or badly expressed opinions.
Her affinity for being in, on or near water marked her entire life. She so loved boats, the sea, all moving waters, living chiefly in Prince Rupert, B.C., on Gabriola and Quadra Islands and in Nanaimo.
Her book Voyages at Sea with Strangers (1992) emerged from her years on Russian and Polish vessels as a fisheries observer; also her two picture books Grey Cat at Sea (1991) and The Good Companion (1998). Skeena: A River Remembered, (1983), a history of the Skeena fishery, and her novel Moving Water (1998) also reveal her instinctive connection to water. Her abiding respect for First Nations culture inspired her first book The Princess and the She Bear and other Tsimshian Stories (1982).
Baffled and fascinated by Joan in turn, I knew her for nearly 30 years. We met while swimming near Nanaimo, B.C. I saw her at a distance and swam out to introduce myself; we had mutual friends, we floated and talked of writing and the CBC, of editors and publishers, Joan's rapier-like comments enlivening our swim. As I came to know her, I learned quickly that she always saw through artifice; that any hint of racism brought out the explosive hellcat in her; that she was generous, loyal – and frequently impossible.
Joan travelled widely and lived tempestuously. She shared stories of her past only sparingly, often in vivid anecdotes, without context or explanation. Did she really steal an ancient cannonball and hide it in her handbag? Sleep in ditches in Bosnia during the Balkan war? Entertain Russian fishermen during a massive West Coast storm with tales of the Virgin? Probably. Given her flair for high drama, she could inject a tone of thrilling suspense in describing slack tide, in teaching a writing class or in recalling a rice-pudding recipe.
Driven by immense force of will, fuelled by black coffee and cigarettes, Joan became gravely debilitated by many years of ill health. She endured devastating grief when her only son, Joe, went missing in 2004; despite exhaustive searches, his remains were not found for three years. Alarmingly frail, increasingly isolated, Joan remained fierce, often angry, determined to remain her own boss. She died in her own home, as she wished.
Her brother John Macintyre, nephew Michael Macintyre and niece Stephanie Henderson survive her, as do many scattered and diverse friends. I doubt any of us would claim to have understood Joan; I'm sure none doubt her courage.
Joan's ashes were scattered on the Skeena River, onto moving water, where she loved to be.
Margaret Horsfield is Joan's friend.