Nowhere in New Zealand is as landlocked as the southern Manitoba farm where I grew up. Reaching the ocean, by road, required at least 24 hours of non-stop driving.
The sea was a place of mystery where anything might happen because no one you had ever met had ever been there to tell you otherwise.
For eight-year-old me, the sea meant smugglers.
Every few weeks, a canvas sack of hardbound Hardy Boys mysteries would arrive at the small-town post office from the Winnipeg Public Library’s extension service – until I’d finished all they had on offer.
And most batches had a story about smugglers.