Movements in the Sea

The rest of the Sea Quest guides and I are having a BBQ potluck at South Beach tonight and I still have to make cherry cobbler from the fresh cherry trees on my farm, so I'll try to be brief but thorough with this post!

Last Thursday was an absolutely perfect day on the water. The air was warm and sweet, the water was calm, and the guests were eager! I personally love guiding with kids because they seem to understand my enthusiasm and are filled with wonder. So when we arrived to pick up our guests at the ferry terminal, we split them in the groups and I took the kiddos. We sat and watched the juvenile Bald Eagle tip toe to the edge of his nest, debating whether or not it was time to fly yet. It ended up being a, "No, not today... maybe tomorrow, Mom." Then we slid past the Peregrine Falcon nest and watched the downy feathers flutter down the cliff side as those chicks begin to grow into their new feathers. As we were about to head into Deadman's Bay for lunch, the moment that I have been waiting for arrived. Looking like an upside-down surfboard, a Minke Whale popped up just 40 yards from our kayak. We hugged the rocks by the lighthouse and just watched him go by, feeding on plankton and herring by taking giant swallows through the sea and pushing the water through his baleen. Oh, and then the orcas came. J-pod wanted to remind us that these are their waters too and the calves wanted to jump and play by the kelp beds. We sat in front of the lighthouse for about an hour watching another Minke and then more orcas go by. A paddle and a show! On the way back to the County Park, the Minke returned for an encore, gliding swiftly through the water.

On Sunday, a group of Outdoor Adventure Women, the Executive Director of Sea Quest, and I were paddling back from an overnight trip on Stuart Island. The trip had gone excellently, though had been quite a struggle against the tides at certain points. A little stiff and sore from the fourteen-mile paddle on Saturday, we poured ourselves into our boats Sunday morning and geared up for another day on the water. Paddling out of the campsite in Reid Harbor is most delightful, as the long bay provides clear and calm waters and an occasional Great Blue Heron or Osprey at which to gander. But once freed from the safe confines of the harbor, the real fun begins. Spieden Channel is an open water crossing that can take anywhere from 30 to 90 minutes of sustained paddling, depending on the tides and winds. It can be a river in the right direction or a grueling fight to the end. On this day, we entered the channel just before the tides were turning and felt a slight ebb (a good thing) turning into a slack period (basically a time of confusion in the ocean as it sends all the water back to from where it came). The women were warriors, and although they were already tired, pressed on with power and endurance. We accomplished the crossing, passing Danger Shoal and Battleship Island to our east. Martine, the Executive Director, decided to push around Kellet Bluff before the current started going north against us with the flood tide. So we pointed our boats and charged. But as we glanced around the corner of Henry Island, a few boats started to bob past the point. Not just any boats though; these were whale watching boats. And they sure were watching whales. From about a little less than a mile away, we could see the dorsal fins of orcas gliding past the point. Then, the dorsal fins curved around the point and started heading straight towards us. Having just finished the majority of the crossing but not quite in the safety of shore yet, we rafted up and waited. The whales approached closer and closer. 500 yards away. Then 200 yards away. Then 100 yards away… a few females blew right past us, about 20 yards to the right of our kayaks, misting the air with their exhales. We had seen a bull (male) in the distance and his path was directed straight towards us. We waited quietly for his next breath while holding our own. WHIIPPPSHHH! Literally 15 feet from my kayak, the orca saddled through the water, smooth and shining in the sunlight. The size of the creature was astounding and it moved with such force. With just a few beats of its fluke it cleared a great distance. It was an overwhelming and humbling experience.

Orcas on the Horizon

The season certainly is picking up now! I took out six day trips in a row, all with great people and awesome sightings. The first few days were quite blustery and we encountered some rolling waves that sent the bows of our kayaks up at angles uncomfortable for some but thrilling for others. Nothing is too terribly scary in our extremely stable sea kayaks though- they are able to withstand 12 foot seas. So when the big waves come, I say, “Bring it on!” While we cannot always provide easy paddling conditions, we will, however, always provide competent guides who can navigate troublesome waters. On all of the trips that went out we were treated to soaring bald eagles, lounging harbor seals, and diving cormorants. One of my favorite moments over the past few days was watching a parent Peregrine Falcon bring food to her nesting chicks, tucked into a little cliffside outcropping. One chick became so excited that it spit up over the side of the rock, right in our direction. Nature can be a little slimy sometimes. 

Juvenile Bald Eagle (not my photo)

We also saw a Bald Eagle bring food to its young, which looks like it is about to fledge! The juvenile Bald Eagles are mottled brown and white and will not get the handsome white plumage on their head until they are four years old. From what I’ve seen over the past couple days in a nest just north of Bellevue Point, I think the flying lessons will begin soon; little Junior looks ready! There are an estimated 150 nesting pairs of Bald Eagles in the islands, with approximately 1 nest for every mile of coast line so the chances of seeing one are more than good!

The Harbor Seals have also begun to have their pups! We did spot a newborn hauled out around Lime Kiln State Park and sadly encountered another deceased pup, floating belly-up in the water. Sometimes Harbor Seals have pups before they are ready, and the one we saw looked like a case of a stillborn. The birth of new Harbor Seals usually means that we can expect to see more action from the Bigg’s or Transient Killer Whales, though! The Bigg’s Orcas are our mammal-eating orcas and will feed on the vulnerable seal pups, as per the great Circle of Life.

Harbor Seal Pup
(not my photo)

While we love to encourage our guests to take each trip for what it is and enjoy the great beauty of the archipelago, orcas or not, it is a treat when we do get to see the grand black-and white spirits of the sea. I had a great group of young friends (they let me have it when I accidentally asked if they were old friends), who met at a YMCA camp 37 years ago and have been travelling the world together ever since. They were great people, full of life and ridiculous jokes that rolled an eye or two. As we paddled south towards the Lime Kiln Lighthouse, that ever-so-sweet sound of a blow rose behind us. The killer whales were cruising right behind us, filing past the shore like a parade. They rose in and out of the water gracefully, letting out air and creating a mist above their heads. The dorsal fin of the males towered 6 feet above the surface of the water like the sail of a small sailboat. We saw a few tail slaps and breaches in the distance, and the closest whales came within about 150 yards of our humble little selves. One of the littlest calves popped his head up next to his mom’s side to see what all the hubbub was about at Lime Kiln State Park, where onlookers were shouting with glee. 

After seeing the whales a few times now, what I notice the most is how at ease they are in the water. It seems as though they are just enjoying a cruise for the day and their understanding of their rank as top predator allows them to relax and let their hydrodynamic bodies slice through the water and enter literal and figurative depths we could never imagine. If they want to jump out of the water, they do. If they want to roll belly up and feel the sun’s rays rake across their white underside, they do. I get the feeling that they are some of nature’s biggest hippies and like to just chill out and feel the natural world around them as much as I do.  They are so in tune with what is happening in their surroundings and they understand their part in it all. I think this is something that we as humans can learn from. I’m a nature-girl through and through but sometimes I need to remind myself that I’m not just in the middle of nature, observing it like a bystander. I am just as much a part of this earth as the ferns and the worms. I trod on this earth the same way a deer does. And for that reason, it is just as important for me to participate in the food web in a responsible way as it is for the animals. To not take more than I need. To be aware of how I fit into it all. The orcas are literally nearing extinction due to a lack of salmon. But we still eat salmon. For every salmon that we humans eat, that is one less that is being fed to the dear newborn orca calves. Orca whales need to eat about 20-30 salmon per day. A few weeks ago a count was conducted on the Fraser River where our Chinook salmon go to spawn. They counted 14 go by. We have 81 orcas that need to eat at least 20 salmon a day. The salmon just are not available like they used to be. It is incredibly sad to consider the falling numbers of many of our precious endangered species, but it seems as though nothing is changing. It is a conscience decision to be made: would we rather eat salmon tonight for dinner or would we rather be able to enjoy the presence of the great orca whales for the rest of our lives? I know which one I would choose.

Looking south towards the Olympic Mountains,
orca whales in the distance

After a long week of kayak trips, I enjoyed a day off on the farm and weeded in the organic garden for a few hours before taking a break to paint with the girls. We sprawled out on the grass next to the pond, mixing paints and depicting images of volcanoes, whales, trees, or some formless image yet to be understood. I startled a Barred Owl in the cherry tree who flew away silently as I picked the golden-red jewels and nibbled their sweet flesh. I know it may surprise you, but being a kayak guide actually has some pretty stressful moments as we try to manage boats that cost more than my car and we constantly worry about having peoples’ lives in our hands. But we require moments of peace and calm to make it all okay. At the end of a long day, I smile and know that no matter how stressful, I am a part of this earth and am happy to witness its small miracles every day.

A friend that hopped past my outhouse in the meadow

A Kayak Guide's Day Off

Well, the season has been a little slow to pick up and has left me with a couple days of exploration time, which I have gladly eaten up. Warning: what I’m about to say may leave you feeling envious, wanting, and could result in an expensive plane ticket to the islands.

Day 1:

 It began leisurely in my hammock, which I had slept in overnight simply because the stars beckoned me. Wiggling out of my sleeping bag, I rolled out and grabbed a book and relaxed for the next two hours, swaying in the breeze and letting my imagination walk through new, fictional lands. Once it finally came time to put the book down, I climbed the hill to the horse pasture where I raked grass for a while as a part of my work-rent-exchange and then just enjoyed leaning against the railing of the arena as the owner of the farm trained a beautiful horse named Alegre. Except for the pony ride at Howarth Park when I was 8, I have absolutely no experience riding horses. But Sus, the owner of the horse farm here, was explaining how the horse was cantering to the pace of her breath. In an out, step by step. When she released a large exhale, the horse stopped. It was pretty incredible. When little Johannes, the little 2-yr-old, cried to his mother, “Milk go night-night” the show ended and nap time commenced for the little guy. 

Some of the horses with their owners in the arena

 I headed into town and checked out a few books from the library on local history and tidepool critters. I learned that the road on which I live off of, Boyce Rd, was named for the first Sheriff in the county and whose wife was “toughened by the journey west” and a great healer and midwife, helping to birth over 500 babies throughout the islands. After the library, I popped by the farmer’s market for some rainbow chard and savory olive tapenade, all island-grown and island-loved of course. Then, I received a text from a fellow kayak guide that low tide was approaching and we made plans to meet at Grandma’s Cove for some intertidal foraging.

Grandma's Cove, located in American Camp

 The trail through grasses and madrone trees led us down the hill to an open beach piled high with driftwood which had been used to affix a swing, of sorts. After a quick ride, we started scrambling across the rocks, diurnally exposed by nothing more than the moon’s great bulk pulling water away from earth. We tip-toed through aggregating anemones and felt the pull of their stinging nematocysts harpooning our skin, too thick and leathery to damage. The Vancouver feather-duster worms waved their feeding appendages like a flamenco dancer waves her fan, tucking inside their parchment-like casing only when my curious fingers wandered too close. Beneath loose rocks, six-armed sea stars hid, their hundreds of tube feet clinging to the substrate using nothing more than water pressure in their water vascular system. Decorator crabs strutted their stuff, adorning themselves in bits of sea lettuce for a hat and red algae as modest top to their carapace.

Vancouver Feather Duster Worms

 I was completely engulfed in this world, where every little pool seemed to be another aquarium with ecological relationships like I couldn’t imagine. Each organism doing his or her own thing, crawling from rock to rock as if their life depended on it- because it does. Glancing up only to find better footing between the sharp acorn barnacles, I managed to glimpse something oh so one-of-a-kind in the distance: the 6-foot dorsal fin of a killer whale. Orcas! The southbound ebb current had brought them from north of us in the Haro Strait to the southern end of the island where we were. At first we only saw one male, one female, and one calf, which we thought odd since they usually stay quite close to their matriarchal family groups. After the first three passed by us, about 200 yards offshore, we looked into the distance and spotted the rest of the pod. Though they were about a mile out, they weren’t hard to miss as they lept clear out of the water and landed with a giant splash. One even showed off with some tail slaps, lifting her fluke high out of the water and then smashing it down to break the surface tension, emitting a sound we could hear clearly from our beach. 

Tail Slap

All I could think was how grateful I was to be able to witness such intelligent animals simply enjoying themselves. Not locked in a tiny tank, anguished by the pain of being removed from their family. Here they were, in all their glory, breaching, just for the fun of it. They weren’t leaping to touch a ball dangling from the ceiling, they weren’t lifting each other to the surface for some patron’s eager camera- they were so free out there, probably just as stoked as I am to live in this beautiful place. The freedom that they expressed with each lunge from the sea hung in the air like a lasting aroma, sweet and comforting. The tide began to come in and we walked up the trail, feeling more than satisfied.

To cap the night off, I stopped by “The Knoll” where some of the guides live and were making apple cobbler in a dutch oven and then relaxed at another friend’s house on a porch swing at sunset watching the ferries come in before cuddling on a couch with the girls for a documentary, twirling red vines between our fingers. It was a pretty darned good day.

Day 2: 

Another day off! The San Juan Islands are made up of many, many islands both big and small and it seems nearly impossible to get to all of them. But, the biggest and most traveled in these parts are San Juan Island (where I live), Orcas Island, Lopez Island, and Shaw Island. 

On this day, I decided to go to Orcas Island. Now, the ferry system here is pretty great but also pretty expensive if you plan to take a car anywhere. However, as a “walk-on” passenger, you can take the inter-island ferry all day for free! San Juan Island is particularly walk-on-friendly because the town is completely centered around the ferry terminal with all the restaurants, museums, and shops that a tourist could want. Orcas Island, however, is much more spread out and difficult to get around by foot. To solve this problem, the islanders encourage hitchhiking. There are hitchhiking posts all over the place and, in a place where the biggest war ever fought was over a pig, it’s a pretty safe thing to do. The first car that passed me by on Orcas picked me up and contained 3 college guys. What’s a girl to do? We hung out for a little while and drove over to Moran State Park where we jumped from a gnarled Douglas Fir tree into Cascade Lake and floated comfortably in the warm waters, gazing up at the cloudless sky. After the swim, I said thanks for the ride and decided to climb Mt. Constitution, the highest point in the San Juan Islands. With an elevation gain of about 2000 feet in the first 2 miles or so, it was a pretty tedious hike but the view from the top was beyond worth it. The trees at the summit opened to reveal an eastward view of Bellingham, Mt. Baker, and the Twin Sisters. When I first came through the clearing, I just about screamed, the view was so breathtaking. Mt. Baker, an ancient volcano proudly stood towering over the land, capped with snow and creating clouds as wet air is forced over its top. To the south were the Cascades and the Olympic Mountains, with Puget Sound tucked in there as well. And, peaking around the corner, you could see the Canadian mountain ranges, also capped with snow. It was all I could do to just sit on a bluff and admire it all. 

The view from the top with snow-capped
Mt. Baker in the distance

I started thinking about how everything I could see was once trapped under a glacier 2 miles thick, compressing the land beneath it. But 10,000 years ago the ice melted and revealed this: a beautiful expanse of fjordlands dotted with life and history. I considered how the waters would someday erode this place, wearing away the islands until they were no more. The islands, it seems, kind of stand as a symbol for each of us. We appear out of nowhere in a blip of earth’s great history, only to be removed from it. And while the idea may seem dismal, I watched the waters being forced around even the smallest of islands, creating forceful countercurrents. The islands have the power to change the course of water, just as we have the power to change the course of history. It is devastating to be here and know that the herring fishery has been depleted by 90%, that the waters used to be so thick with salmon it seemed as you could walk across them, that first-born orcas usually don’t survive because their mother’s milk is so full of hormone-altering PCBs. These things are absolutely tragic but they should be equally as motivating. Perched like an eagle above it all, I wanted the world to sit on the bluff with me and just feel the beauty of this place. To let the song of the crow and the pull of the water draw us in to the earth that we are a part of. To feel the rays of the sun freckle our skin and the Doug firs release their needles into our hair. I am of the belief that humans desperately need more moments like these to reconnect to the land we call home. It is easy to be doom-and-gloom about conservation topics but that’s just not good enough. The earth and sea are far too beautiful to be treated this way. One glance of an orca calf playing with his mother in the kelp forest, and I guarantee you’ll never want to go to SeaWorld again. The ocean is one big, giant classroom that welcomes us to learn but lacks a voice to speak for itself. So, we must be the speech-givers. We must be the ones to stand up and say that enough is enough, we are running out of fish, the oil slicks are unsightly, and dumping is disgusting. The ocean has given to us for thousands of years, and I think we owe it to the ocean to give back.

Orcas at last!

There has been quite a lot happening lately- fixing kayaks, running inventory on all the gear, and my personal trip back home for a wedding, but I'll jump right into the good stuff...

On Thursday my meadow-mate and fellow guide (Sam) and I led a day trip departing from Smallpox Bay and headed south towards Deadman’s Bay. If you can’t tell by the names of our coastal features, the previous island inhabitants had a rough go of things over the years. Anyhow, the sun started to emerge from the clouds right as we launched, a good omen since it had been rainy and gray the previous few days. We paddled out with our group of 13 guests and rounded the first of many points, enjoying the red sea urchins juxtaposed against the rocks down below. We wove in and out of the embayments, admiring the bald eagle nests to our left and Pigeon Guillemots to our right. The trip was going off without a hitch. As we were just about to round the next point of Lime Kiln State Park, however, one of the younger guys in the group shouted, “Hey guys! What was that out there?” We all turned to look in the direction he was pointing. Nothing. I assumed he had just seen a piece of driftwood or something, as our guests commonly do and had mistook it for a porpoise. Then, BAM, a beautiful splash caused by a breaching orca whale caught all of our attention! J-pod was cruising right past us!! My first orca sighting of the season! I was beyond excited- probably more excited than the guests, actually.

CWR

I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be in that moment: in my kayak, floating on my beloved and mysterious ocean, and admiring this animal that has brought so much fantasy and wonder to my dreams over the years. They dipped in and out of the water, their blows clearly audible as they sipped the sweet air that we breathe subconsciously but is a constant reminder to them of their terrestrial past in evolutionary history. Some jumped completely out of the water, rolled to their sides, and let gravity bring them back to their aquatic home creating a huge white splash visible from great distances. At one point, a mother brought her calf within about 150 yards of us, showing him off as they broke the surface of the water. Rafted up, kayak hooked to kayak, we drifted happily admiring Mother Nature’s finest. It was a beautiful moment and I cannot believe that it was just the first of many this summer.

I'll get better at taking pictures so that you can see the whale
without a giant arrow pointing to it, I promise.

To top it off a great day, some of the guides and I gathered on the cliffs of Lime Kiln State Park (the first park established for the purpose of whale watching) at sunset. Some came with ice cream, some with wine (okay… I’m the one that brought wine obviously), and we laughed and were glad for the bonds we’ve created in such a short amount of time together. The sun descended over Vancouver Island to the west of us and harbor porpoises bobbed along the eddy lines in a motion as consistent as the setting sun itself.

With so much happening, it’s hard for me to keep track of my thoughts and emotions here. But this morning, I woke up to find that a spider had created a web in the corner of my tent, just above my head. I blinked my eyes open and watched as he sat, so patient and calm. A few minutes went by before a small little fly had flown into the mercy of his trap. The spider was poised and ready and did not hesitate a second to scramble to the fly and quickly wind him in more of his silk to carry him back to his resting place for consumption. It was perfect. The spider was doing these things because he was made to. His ancestors and arachnids before him had so carved this niche and natural selection had worked in such a way so that this spider could catch that fly. And I know that this may be a very dreamy way to think of something so insignificant and I know people who would argue with me, but the truth is that I feel like I was created to do what I am doing. Maybe not to be a kayak guide necessarily, but to be a strong and persistent voice for the ocean that I love so deeply. My heart dips beneath the surface and rises again in time with the orcas that I saw. It celebrates each release of kelp spores. It laughs with the Laughing Gulls. Though there has been quite a learning curve in this leg of my journey through life, I know that every moment is an opportunity to grow. Sometimes it looks messy but it’s never going to stop. The currents may pull us offshore a little too far, but that’s okay. There are deeper waters out there and that’s what we need to explore.

Settling In

Well, here it is: my nomadic blog which I probably should have started long ago, but never late than never, right? My sincerest apologies to anyone who has tried to keep track of my whereabouts over the last few years- my wanderlust certainly has gotten the better of me. Instead of recounting where I’ve been I’m just going to pick up right where I am now…. in my tent in a meadow on a horse farm on San Juan Island in northwest Washington state- follow me?  I’m sure it doesn’t come as a surprise when I tell you that my meadow does not have wifi, so I’ll probably upload this the next time I’m in town, but you get the point. Okay, the here and now, let me paint a picture: when I crawl out of the door of my tent in the morning, I better be wearing my waterproof boots because I am instantly immersed in tall grasses laden with dew. The birds usually wake me before the sun rises over the tops of the Douglas Fir trees in the east- the red-winged blackbirds never hesitate to make me aware of their presence and the pileated woodpeckers have an incredible work ethic and begin their pecking in the early hours. The violet-green swallows chime in with the morning’s lullaby and the male Rufous hummingbirds try to swoon the ladies with a quick vi vi vi virrrr as the show off their incredible

flying speed zooming right past my nose.  I climb the hill, perhaps catching a glimpse of our very friendly Columbian Black-Tailed Deer that hangs out on the property, whom I have name Calypso, and is starting to bud his sexy antlers, and get to the hill ridge for my favorite view of the whole place: the horse pasture is on my left where Teagan and Alegre help each other scratch any itches while the red-necked ducks flap their way into the pond in front of me and all the while the rising sun casts the most spectacular rays upon the whole landscape, making the dripping grasses and daisies seem to twinkle. Johannes, the two-year old son of the horse farm owner, probably hasn’t woken up yet but I can expect to see him running around soon wearing nothing more than his froggy rainboots and striped shirt, exposing his little tush and allowing him to pee wherever he pleases on the property without pants to hinder him (obviously I’m a little jealous of his bathroom liberty, but I also have not used a toilet the whole time I’ve been here, so fair is fair).

 After a quick brekkie I cook up on our wonderfully simple outdoor kitchen, I pack up my kayaking gear and head to our base with my meadow buddy who also works with me. We’ve been in very intense training the past five days and have learned all sorts of rescue techniques and kayak re-entry skills should a capsize occur. The skills are incredibly challenging, especially in freezing water when you’ve already been hoisting yourself up onto a half-sunken kayak about 30 times that day and you can’t tell whether you’re sore or bruised or which part of your body hurts the most. Probably the most important thing I’ve learned is: do NOT fall out of your kayak in the first place. It’s a real bummer. Besides water skills, our boss has also been teaching us navigation techniques and natural history of the area. There is quite a bit to know but I’ve learned that the island was basically colonized by criminals. Men who were slaves to ships in the area escaped during the night and set up camp on the island and then started smuggling in two highly sought-after goods: wool and opium. There is at least one bald eagle nest per mile of coast line and we routinely see about 10 bald eagles a day. Each time I see an eagle, it still impresses me with its determined countenance and ability to manifest terror with just a simple glide past smaller birds- if you don’t see a bald eagle coming, you can usually guess there is one nearby when all other birds start screaming and flying about with frantic flaps of wings. While it has been a heck of a lot of muscle-straining work all week, today was an absolutely fabulous day. Our boss decided that in order to prepare us for extreme conditions, he would take us to the most dangerous point on the island: Cattle Pass. At the pass, the water from the Strait of Juan de Fuca is forced between a very narrow passageway between San Juan Island and Lopez Island. Depending on the timing of the tides, the current can exceed 4 knots with swirling eddies, whirlpools, and rips that carry you into the rocks. Groovy. This morning, I told the women I’m staying with where he was taking us and their response was pure shock, noting that they thought kayaks weren’t even allowed there and that they had a few friends who had nearly capsized their motor boats crossing the pass. Super groovy. With my nerves on edge, I opted for one of the larger, more stable tandem kayaks when my boss’s dog came bounding down the road begging to come along. So, of course, Valkeeri had to come… in my kayak. Luckily, this meant I got to take a very stable 3-person kayak, but with the pressure of keeping my boss’s dog in the cockpit between me (in the bow) and my coworker (in the stern). And off we went. We departed from South Beach in fairly calm water but were headed straight for what I will refer to from now on as “the Death Zone.” Suddenly, we were caught in waves coming at us from all directions as the water was being forced into the pass we were trying to cross. 

As we tried to turn the kayak perpendicular to the waves to avoid capsize, the stern would get caught by a swirling eddy and spin us off in another direction, causing the waves to fall right in my lap. Then we paddled hard to cross an upwelling that pulled us in every direction other than forward while at the same time trying to reassure the dog and reaching back to pull her back into the cockpit so she didn’t jump out of the boat and into a whirlpool. At one point, all of us were pretty much headed in completely opposite directions and I watched as one boat t-boned another and one of my coworkers capsized, quickly eskimo rolling back to rightside up just in time continue pursuit of the opposite shore. But the current was too fast and we missed our mark to get around the rocks and to Lopez Island. Our boss called out an immediate change-of-course and we succumbed to the current and flowed straight into the pass. I have to admit, it was a freaking blast. Dipping and diving over the waves and the chaos of it all was just the kind of adventure that I thrive on. Perhaps the safety of my large 3-person kayak had something to do with my enthusiasm or maybe every time I had to coo to the dog a reassuring “it’s okay” it was also for my own sanity, but I can’t say that I wasn’t laughing through it all. Once we got through the narrowest part of the pass, however, we opened up into a beautiful bay and pulled up on a beach for a well-earned lunch. 

We hiked around a little and identified some tidepool sculpin, evidence of shipworm clams in the driftwood, and nibbled on some of the local pickleweed. We cruised in and out of rocky outcroppings, listened to the high-pitched whistles of Black Oystercatchers, and pointed out the differences of the local loon species. I had a great time letting our kayaks get caught in a bed of bull kelp and watching the harbor seals come within about 20 feet of our kayaks to sniff us out, blinking their big round eyes at us and wiggling their whiskers. With each passing bald eagle and distant glimpse of a cetacean’s dorsal fin, I became increasingly more grateful for the opportunity to be here this summer.

 It is a beauty that far exceeds words and I am blessed to also be in great company. From the first step out of my tent in the morning to the last sip of tea in the meadow at night, I feel whole here in a way that feels simply natural.

Into the Octopus's Garden

It has been quite a whirlwind, to say the least. The training has continued and I've barely been able to find the time to breathe for the past two weeks, but I can’t refuse the constant stimulation of adventuring through this archipelago. I just got back from doing two 3-day camping trips back-to-back. The first was a training trip with one of the staff members and 8 very lucky guests. On the second trip, I was on my own with one other fellow guide. We departed from San Juan Island early on Day 1 and paddled around Pelagic Cormorant nesting grounds, were followed by curious harbor seals, and watched the Dall’s Porpoises feed around the eddy lines of passing currents. To get to Stuart Island, our camping destination, we have to do a somewhat major crossing where the currents can get strong enough to sweep kayaks into Haro Strait and right into the shipping lanes of major freighters with no ability to stop. In order to avoid this, the strategy is to overshoot your mark and “ferry glide” with the current by heading at about a 45 degree angle from where you want to go and letting the current push you the rest of the way. If it sounds complicated, it is, especially when you get a weather rip from opposing winds and are trying to avoid all the fishing boats crossing your path. But, we worked as a team to keep the group of guests together and safely made it to Stuart Island.

The extended feeding tentacles of the
California Sea Cucumber
 (photo cred: walla walla)

Once we arrived, we set up camp and indulged in a well-earned meal (we don’t mess around with our food on Sea Quest tours, it is a fine dining experience that takes “waterfront view” to whole new level). Stuart Island itself is a fascinating place- home to only about 30 year-round residents who live totally off the grid. There is no access to the island except by private boat and all supplies must be brought in under your own power. Each home has a beautiful array of solar panels and taps into the shallow aquifer. There is a one-room schoolhouse that has won many awards for its innovative architecture and even used old-time logging methods with horses and plows to clear space for the soccer field. We walked into the library and read a note from Jordyn, age 15 who was very sorry to write that she would be moving and therefore no longer able to collect donations for sea turtle conservation and that any contributions could be sent directly to her organization to save the sea turtles. The school operates on a “No Child Left Inside” motto and is entirely impressive.   On Day 2 we were fortunate enough to have favorable tides and hardly any wind so we were able to drift through the kelp forests with our eyes fixated on the life below. Like a lazy river, we let the current carry us across Ochre Sea Stars, Purple Sea Urchins, and California Sea Cucumbers whose bright orange retractable tentacles reach out into the nutrient-dense sea water to filter through delicious drifting sediment.

Just as we drifted into a daytime dream of underwater serenity, one of my coworkers shouted, “Octopus!” We quickly paddled over, and sure enough, a giant Pacific Octopus glanced up from her bulbous head from the kelp down below. These guys can reach lengths of 15 feet across, but this one was probably about 5-6 feet when extended. Her pink skin flexed to match the red algae bed she laid in by adjusting the size of his chromatophores- skin pigments that contract to show a varying range of pigment to match their surroundings. We stayed with her for about 15 minutes, trying to glide as gracefully in our kayaks as he did with her long tentacles. It was truly a remarkable experience and a great reminder of why I love the ocean so deeply (as if I need one).

Giant Pacific Octopus
(photo cred: alertdiver)

 Later that day we hiked to the westernmost point of the island for an astounding sunset. The fog rolled in, hovering around the base of surrounding islands, but revealing their summits so it looked like they were floating in the red-orange reflection that the sun cast on the sea. The other six kayak guides and I huddled together on the bluff, joking and laughing, in complete disbelief that we get to experience such beauty and in such good company. Fireside stories were told, hot cocoa was sipped, and all was right in the world. We made the crossing home the next day and watched a spectacular fight take place between three bald eagles fighting each other for a fish- dodging and darting, flying just barely high enough to miss our heads.

After unloading all the gear, my coworker and I geared up to do it all again the next day!! And, as you may guess, we had another fabulous trip with a great family from Portland. Although we still hadn’t seen any orca whales yet, we had a wonderful time getting to know each other and just getting to experience the nature of this place. I took them on a journey through the tidepools where we felt the stinging nematocysts of anenomes and caught tidepool sculpin with our bare hands. My intertidal invertebrate friends awakened my passion for teaching once again. At the end of the day, we hiked to the highest point on the island, known as Tip Top hill, which is essentially a sustained vertical climb from camp. Being careful to avoid the roaming goats, we finally made it to the top and were again greeted by amazing views of the archipelago, with the snow-capped Olympic mountains floating in the hazy distance. I often go through seasons of my life where I am routinely struck by a single world until I create a meaning for it that resonates. While I was in Guatemala, I discovered what perfection is: that which we cannot expect to create but can only be fortunate enough to recognize if we have the presence of mind to observe it. For the past few weeks, I have been dwelling on peace, trying to figure out how we come to name peace and more importantly, how to create it in each space we come to inhabit. I’m still working on it, but I’ve decided that peace is far from just being a lack of negativity. It is absolutely a presence. It is something you can sense, a feeling that comes over you when you slip into its entity. It is the presence of goodness. It cannot exist without Truth and without the desire to know Truth. When I hiked the verdant mountains of Oregon on my road trip, I sat under a waterfall and let the coolness of the air coat me in peace. When I sat at the top of Tip Top hill and gazed out into the glacier-cut fjordlands that have become home to my mysterious ocean creatures, I was a part of the peace. But it’s one thing to feel peace and quite another to carry it. If peace is the presence of goodness, and pure goodness can only come from the ultimate Truth and fullness of Love, then surely we cannot expect to carry peace within us without personally knowing each of these. For me, the Truth is most tangibly in the water- in the waves that never stop coming, letting me know that the ocean is still alive and pulsing and pushing me to do the same.