“Gone from mystery into mystery” (Bruce Cockburn)

P1150277 — Last night I woke in the dark and didn’t know where I was. Was I asleep in my bunk on the Aurora Explorer, the window looking out at floating jellies drawn to the light of the ship? But no. I was in my own bed with the deep blue quilt drawn up to my chin. We somehow made it home in record time after leaving the ship just after 2, driving onto the Comox-Powell River ferry minutes before it sailed. Then we drove down to Saltery Bay and joined a handful of others waiting for the Earls Cove ferry. I tumbled into my bed almost immediately.

I have to say that our five days in remote waters were beyond my expectations. Not an off-note, not an indifferent meal — and honestly, Kelsey surpassed herself with each dinner: miso-glazed sockeye; ling cod on a bed of quinoa risotto; tenderloin beef with prawns; chicken stuffed with tomatoes and pesto and draped with prosciutto; a final dinner of prawns from the traps the crew set out as we went up Toba Inlet on Friday, retrieving them on Saturday just in time for them to be cooked with Dungeness crab, scallops, little mushrooms, and garlic. Nice wines. Desserts I’ll never forget: chocolate mousse with caramel sauce flecked with flakes of sea salt; cheesecake with raspberry puree; crumble topped with ice-cream; lemon tart and blueberries; and beautiful pavlovas dressed with berries and cream. The crew were stellar. We were welcome to join the captain, Ron, in the wheelhouse where he pointed out waterfalls, a particular view of Mount Waddington glowing in the light.

Twice I swam in Bute Inlet, in waters fed by glaciers. At the head of the inlet, we watched the tank of Chinook smolts head off to a point at the Southgate River where the little fish would be released to make their acquaintance with the water, imprinting, some of them–the ones not caught or eaten or grabbed by the grizzly who was grazing on grass on the sand to one side of the estuary– returning to the river to enter into the cycle of eternity. The fisheries biologist and technicians brought up a glass bowl with 3 of the tiny smolts, their parr marks still visible, no scales yet, and I watched them as we learned about the project to enhance the run after a slide damaged the spawning grounds in Elliot Creek and the Southgate. I watched 3 small fish swim in clear water and I kept thinking there ought to be a ceremony for moments like that. Maybe my swims counted.

I didn’t know where I was last night but I know I dreamed of the beauty of chocolate lilies on the tiny island we stopped at so we could stretch our legs, the scent of wild onions underfoot, a feral apple tree blooming its heart out.

chcolate lilies

The nights were not quite as dark as I expected because a few soft lights remained lit onboard. The night I looked out and saw the jellies, we were as far from home as I’ve ever been, or at least it felt that way. It was dark enough. I thought of Bruce Cockburn, maybe I even heard him sing, as the night can do that if you’re lucky, funnel music into your inner ear. There were hours of night still to go and in the morning, warm cinnamon buns, good coffee, and water everywhere, green water, deeply mysterious.