Usually around this time of year, newspapers can generate sure-fire copy by lamenting the crowding and chaos of the island ferry docks. Just wander over on a sunny afternoon and takes notes on the epic lineups stretching out into the street, the teeming packs of people penned into the barred gates of the ticket-holders’ area, the screaming children and sun-stroked seniors baking under the sun. Add a quote from someone in authority on the plans in the pipeline to improve things, another suggestion from someone on how we oughta just build a bridge already, and you can file your story and knock off early for the day. Maybe even get on that boat when you’re done.

In a turn from the Department of You Don’t Know What You’ve Got Till It’s Gone, this summer the news stories are different, and it’s obvious that the dysfunction of the ferry docks was a relatively good problem to have. Because this year, of course, visitors to the ferry docks can take their pick of park benches among the pathways and the clusters of seagulls. This year there’s a sign in the window of the ticket booth: “Toronto Island is closed until further notice.” This year, thanks to flooding that has submerged much of the islands — until at least the end of July, we recently learned, and perhaps longer than that — no one is getting over there unless they live there or have work to do there.

And standing there in the deserted ferry dock area, you can recall not just the hassles of getting onto the boat, but what came immediately after you’d endured them: the blast of the horn and the ferry lurching forward, and the waves and ripples of the water rushing toward you. From the upper deck railing, you could smell the lake and feel its mist in the breeze on your skin, see the trees of the island woods coming into focus as the cries of the children turned to laughter. Not just see the city receding behind you, but feel the relief of it doing so. The smothering humidity that radiates off the pavement, the harsh glare of sunlight off the glass, the stresses of the non-stop work at the office, the drudgery of the endless list of chores waiting at home — all of them left behind the wake on the mainland.

And ahead: the islands. Vast parkland and woods, barbecue space, gardens, playgrounds, fountains and amusement rides. Bicycle and boat rentals, and places to ride both. A trout pond for fishing, tennis courts and baseball diamonds and volleyball nets. Campfire pits. A petting zoo. Summer day camps. A clothing-optional section of beach for those inclined, and more conventional beaches for those inclined differently. There are houses over there, of course, and a school, but for most Torontonians it is a weekend or holiday oasis. Vacationland for those of us who cannot afford cottages or campsites, or time to visit them. The great Toronto resort, minutes away from downtown.

Paradise, for a few hours or a day at a time. Now lost to flooding, for a while, at least.

The islands were created by severe weather — a storm in 1858 that severed their sandbar connection to the mainland. And it is severe weather that has taken them away, record rainfalls raising Lake Ontario to submerge enough of the islands to endanger their structures and make them unusable as parkland.

It’s interesting to think of the many things lost and lives disrupted when the islands are taken from us for a season, or most of one. The parents scrambling to find new summer camps for their kids to attend. The teenagers and adults who thought they had secured a job for the summer who are now without work. The many businesses on the island that must find a way to survive without access to customers — the Rectory Café has announced already that its owners will close up shop after this season because the financial hit they’ve taken is too large to recover from. The weddings and sports tournaments and concerts and others among the hundreds of permit-holders left scrambling to reschedule or find a new venue.

Those things are easy to call to mind — the economic costs, the specific interested parties inconvenienced (or worse). But there’s also the rest of us: the beachgoers and barbecuers and those goofing off for an afternoon or a day. The barenaked sunbathers and incompetent paddle-boaters and romping playground gymnasts. The rest of us, who will simply miss the opportunity to spend a few hours getting lost among the bridges and pathways, surrounded by grass and trees and water.

There is amazing value in having an 820-acre park available, removed from the city’s life but so quickly and easily accessed from it. And in the sudden absence of it, there’s a cost that’s hard to measure.

There are other urban getaways in Toronto, of course. High Park and Rouge Park, Bluffer’s, Sunnybrook, Centennial and Downsview, all big enough to get lost in for hours. The great river valleys and the ravine system, for wandering. The eastern and western beaches — with greatly receded shorelines as a result of the same rains — for sunbathing and sandcastle-building. But none of them is quite the same thing: most of them aren’t as big, and they aren’t as centrally located. They don’t offer that unbeatable view of the skyline.

And they don’t require that stupid ferry ride — that hassle, that magical hassle — that psychologically reinforces the literal physical separation from the mainland city and its cares and concerns. The islands’ location means going there is an event in a way driving or walking into those other places is not.

Toronto will feel like a lesser place this July without access to the islands. Almost enough to make you look forward to the chaos at the dock when they reopen.

Edward Keenan writes on city issues ekeenan@thestar.ca . Follow: @thekeenanwire