a love letter to the Columbia 111
Dear September 2026 Mothership Great Bear Kayak Adventure,
Eight days ago, three small groups of people boarded the Columbia III. A few of us knew each other well, several somewhat, and others not at all. Magically, it has all worked.
Perhaps we are (or maybe we are not), flexible in our other lives, those outside of this restored BC intercostal hospital boat. Here, though, the magic has made us all easy-going. Here we have left other worlds behind for a minute and put ourselves into the capable hands of the crew, of the rhythm of the days, of the changing weather. It is a gift not to make any decisions (except for type of sandwich and preferred animal), to give up control, and to roll with it all.
We have had days where sea and sky are indistinguishable, fringed by infinity mountains in every shade of gray. We have had the bluest skies that backdrop undulating island ridges lined with cedar (red and yellow – “see, the droop of the leaves is different”), pine, spruce, hemlock, and alder. We have had rain and drippy rain, one day only and appropriately in the Great Bear Rainforest. On board, we have the cozy cabin of this well-loved boat with her original brass fittings, deep honey-colored wood (painstakingly varnished year after year), charming portals (one that framed the Big Dipper for me on a starry night), and glorious picture windows that allow almost 360-degree views from comfy, forest green leather couches. On board, too, we have the mouthwatering galley from which ridiculously delicious scents and tastes emanate three times a day. And, we have the Columbia III’s decks, the wooden railings wet with dew and salt air each morning, from which we can peer down into the deep dark water and watch jellies – moon, lion’s mane, fried egg – float by at the mercy of the strong tides, the same tides that boost us along in our kayaks.
Oh, the kayaking! Some of us were familiar with these sleek (and tippy) boats, and some not so familiar. I am in the latter category, and I love that I began to learn the full body dance required for kayak balance: hips, core, arms, back, legs, and head. Day One, I fought the kayak, the water, the rudder, and my own inexperience. How to move the nose back upwind once I was broadside?! Surely Al and Sarah noticed since nothing escapes their guide gaze. Day Two, Al mentioned casually that perhaps I could trust the water. Day Three, I pulled up the rudder for good, put my boat behind Sarah’s, and began to imitate (as best I could), her kayak language. Have you noticed how lightly Al and Sarah hold their paddles, how their strokes fairly kiss the water without a sound? I loosened up and gripped less, and maybe, too, I trusted more – the ocean, the boat, myself.
When the ten of us signed up for this trip, we imagined we would get glimpses of the BC coastal wildlife. I think all of us agree now that our expectations have been blown right out of the water. Each day has been different, but always a reminder that we, as human beings, sense in relation to that which is other – the scent of damp, mossy forest after hours of sea air; the splash and crash of swells against barnacled rocks; the unexpectedly high musical call of bald eagles. On one magical day, our tiny human selves in our kayaks felt the reverberations of whales surfacing and sounding. We lived not only the mist and blow of their exhales, but the deeper following sound of their inhales echoing off the steep mountainsides.
We have been immersed in this real, sensory world night and day:
Whales – humpback, fin, and orca
Black bears, and grizzlies with cubs – playful, swatting, rolling over and lifting a padded paw in the tall grass
Spirit bears – one within seconds of anchoring off Gribble Island and another strolling unhurriedly up and down the salmon-laden river
Mink, and so many otters – river and sea
Jellies, nudibranch, sea stars (in colonies!), chiton (gumboot and black Katy), sea urchins, moon snails, abalone
Mergansers and harlequins, loons, sandhill cranes, a lone petrol, great blue herons, ravens, crows, kingfishers, jays, wrens, seagulls, Canada geese, and more bald eagles than I thought possible (so many that not even the current U.S. government could co-opt them all)
Early on, Al (and poet Jess Housty) asked us:
What part of your heart is made of feathers?
And what of stone?
My heart balance is shifting toward feathers, perhaps starting with the birth of my kids, and blessedly accelerating as I age. This trip has continued to plume my heart. Maybe I can think of each of you as a downy feather fluff that remains floating in the air after an eagle soars overhead.
Misty – My reason for being here. The other morning, I stood on the bow before dawn and stayed long after I was shivering and the first rays of the sun reached my face. I was composing in my head a list of things that have saved me. Right at the top are coffee, being outdoors, and you, my friend.
Aunt Patty – The other reason I am here. I love your laugh and your passion for EVERYTHING. I will carry with me always your awe and amazement as Brett swirled around us in the beam of light that night on the deck. Magical.
Sue – I love that you shared your 70th with us (oh, the miso-maple frosting!) and added “superfluous” to my vocabulary in a whole new way.
Debra – I love your calm and your pluck; both are essential for a Patty adventure. I love that you carry Doug with you wherever you go, always in your heart and sometimes (as he would wish) in a simple plastic baggie.
All three of you, so many decades of friendship.
Karin – With your easy smile that lights your whole face (and maybe your whole self). I love that we share knitting (to different degrees of outcome), and that we know the answer to life, the universe, and everything is 42.
Lois and Jean – How you live your retirement dream inspires me. Lois, I love your delight in all that we experience. Once I said, “But you live here…” and you replied with great glee, “I KNOW!!” Jean – now when I look at you, I see the 10+ languages you speak and your worldwide adventures. I love that you have witnessed firsthand (in, on, and under the water) the comeback of these incredible kelp forests and their creatures.
Dan and Alice – Your tenderness for each other is heart-opening. How many times have I watched Alice lay her hand lightly on Dan’s leg as you sit quietly together? Dan the Man – I love your dry sense of humor. Aldernators are now a part of my mechanic vocab. Alice, you are so steady, open, earnest. I know I would have loved you as my chemistry/physics teacher.
And Columbia III’s crew:
Steve – you are our sealife-finding captain. We are safe in your agile and attuned care. I love how you move and speak with balanced grace, navigating these waters that you call home in this boat that you know better than the back of your own hand.
Kris – I love your food! The magic that comes from your galley to our plates is remarkable: not only the tastes, but the presentation and the variety. You go barefoot onboard, but I like to imagine you filling our cookie tin while dancing in roller skates.
Sarah and Al – our guides with a seamless partnership of boundless energy, love, and knowledge. Thank you for sharing yourselves and your passion for this place with us, in evening briefs and during our daily meanderings.
Sarah and your binos – I love your HUGE laugh and how you not only observe profoundly but also seem to feel everything you experience. Thank you for the book recs and the deep dives into the natural world.
Al and your snacks – I love your contagious enthusiasm and immense curiosity, and how quick and light-footed you become when you get excited, which is all the time. Thank you for the poetry readings, the kelp horn, and the silly jokes.
To all our crew – What we know and begin to understand, we desire to protect. Your work is more important than ever, thank you.
And so, tonight marks the winding down of our magical trip. I wasn’t sure if I would write this letter (or share it), but something in me, the sometimes writer, has been rekindled and rejuvenated during these days. One of the beauties of writing, to borrow from Terry Tempest Williams, is that it allows us to experience things twice. It also allows for a new experiencing of events even years later when we read again what was written. I love that this journey is one it will always be a pleasure to re-visit.
Finally, I thought I would close with us standing on the bow at sunset, mid-trip, after our Spirit Bear day. Patty looked out over the water and, being Patty, remarked, “Oh, I’d love to see a whale breach.” Then she paused and said, “But could we even handle that?” Could we take any more beauty, appreciation, and communion with nature and with ourselves?
Soon after, we ambled to the back deck and there, radiating upwards from a pink cloud was a thick, bright beam of rainbow. As the colors continued to stretch skyward, humpbacks in the distance burst into a chorus of tail-slapping splashes. Encore after encore, and somehow not one of our hearts gave out.