Sails up at last.

It glistens in the sun; it is of the deepest black and it is insanely big. It is the dorsal fin of Super Dolphin, aka the God of the Underworld, the Wolf of the Sea, the Killer of Whales, the Terror of Seals, the Destroyer of Rudders. It is the fin of the Orca Bull.

Several pods of orcas were cutting through the water like a pack of wolves through heaped up snow. At first their black fins were rising in and out of view in slow motion as if in a dream.
Until suddenly they sped up torpedo-style with the males’ oversized dorsal fins piercing the surface like ominous periscopes. The scene evoked visions of Apocalypse Now with Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries as booming soundtrack.
We stayed with them for over an hour, as chills were running up & down our spine. We always kept the boat at a respectful distance, though. To our great relief, they did the same.

This encounter of the third kind happened as we were on our way to the West Coast of Vancouver Island. It was a welcome respite from the general boredom of plowing through windless and at times foggy days. A fog so dense that from the helm’s perspective it was impossible to discern the bow. Considering that O2 is a mere 13 meters long, this bad visibility was a matter of concern. In Canadian waters, driftwood and runaway logs are always an issue, forcing us to be on constant alert.
And when the fog lifted it was not always a pretty sight. The northern forests along the West Coast of Vancouver Island are still being “harvested” . The hills are scarred with patches that are completely plucked clean. Some First Nations Tribes have now put a hard stop to all logging activity on their lands. Which is a bleeding shame, according to David.

We met David while we were taking a stroll along the boardwalk of Winter Harbor, a former logger and commercial fishing hub. Now only seasonally alive thanks to a recreational fishing crowd, but altogether dead in winter. From the porch of his summer house on stilts, David invited us up for a chat and a beer. We gladly accepted. We are always eager to meet the locals that aren’t yachties like us.

“Oh, you are into wildlife. I shot me a cougar a couple of years ago. Wanna have a look?“
The cougar pelt was draped over the entire length of the bed, with eyes still fierce. The claws were amazingly sturdy and fearfully sharp. David urged us on to feel them, and that’s how we know. Back on the porch sipping our Budweiser, we thought it a good idea to entertain him and his neighbor who had joined us with the story of our orca encounter. David wasn’t too impressed. “I see way too many whales (sic) around lately. I don’t like it. They eat all our fish. Can you imagine that the Indians (sic) even started feeding them by sliding salmon down a tube they have installed on their boats especially to that purpose?!!? Feeding orcas for God’s sake! And don’t you fall for the scam of the good Indian dancing and singing in the streets of Vancouver and beating his drum to a so-called celebration of his culture. If I got millions from Trudeau, I would be dancing and singing, too.”
When he noticed our bewilderment, he added with a woeful smile: “Mind you, I am telling you all of this while I have two Indian grandchildren. My son got himself an Indian wife.”

So we thought it was wise to change the subject to the healthy comeback of sea otters in the area ever since they were re-introduced from Alaska. How exciting it is to see the Canadian sea otters thriving again. “Yes, well those sea dogs (sic) eat all the crab. We used to have good crabbing in the bay, but those days are gone.” We answered by praising British Columbia in general and how lucky he is to be part of it. How impressed we are as poor little Belgians by all this natural splendor. That hearing wolves howl while we are at anchor in some isolated bay is one of the highlights of our journey.
“Wolves you say? There are too many wolves. I love to hunt deer. But the numbers are down. The wolves are finishing them off.” That’s when My Captain couldn’t help himself and jokingly replied, “But you are hunting them too, and you don’t have to be killed for it.” Which made David break out in a hearty laugh. When I mentioned our wish to see sea wolves, the kind that swim and catch fish instead of deer, he simply ignored me. It was just another pest to him, a competitor for the natural resources that were growing scarcer by the day. The poor man was nostalgic for the Canada that once was. And lonely, too. “Now that I am retired and that I’ve built myself a fine summer house in a prime fishing spot, the young don’t want to come fishing with me anymore. They want to go camping and kayaking instead” he said with clear disdain.

Now that we come to think of it, David had been rather fun to chat with. Our concerns did not align for sure, but beneath it all we felt his pain. But the time had come for these tree-hugging-wildlife-loving aficionados to finish the beer and hit the water again. With the dinghy up the crystal-clear Marble River for instance, where the bald eagles and the vultures were patiently waiting for the salmon to run and where the seals came checking us out. Or exploring the Bunsby Islands, First Nations Territory and totally protected.

We have now rounded Cape Cook, named after Captain James Cook. He called this point “the cape of storms” for a reason. We timed our passage with utmost care. On a nice beam reach we could sail for the first time since long, which was downright exhilarating.

All the anchorages along the West Coast have been pretty so far. They have kept us safe and well protected against a potentially raging ocean (but not against horseflies). The territory largely belongs to the First Nations now. We normally never schedule and let the weather decide when to go and when to stay put. But it is clearly summertime when the living is easy. And we are getting a little overconfident. We have booked a table in The Pointe Restaurant in Tofino for August 26th. According to Windy, the weather will stay on our side.