On a sweltering hot day last summer, heaven, quite unexpectedly, dropped a pearl in my palm. Heat waves are rare on Pender Island, for it is blessed with one of the mildest climates in the country. But for the third day in a row, the temperature was climbing toward 30 degrees. My wife, Allyson, and I spent the morning moving slowly and listlessly, dressed in shorts, tank tops and flip flops, sticking to the shade whenever we ventured outside.
“Let’s go kayaking,” suggested Ally. Soon we were paddling along the west side of the island, our heads shaded by wide-brimmed hats and our skin lathered in sun-block. Gentle breezes brought delightful coolness. An eagle soared above. A dozen seals were hauled out on a rock, balefully watching us.
“Look, look!” shouted Ally, pointing at an enormous black dorsal fin that rose elegantly out of the water and then disappeared under the waves, only to appear moments later. Then another appeared and another. A pod of killer whales, or orcas, was passing by, only 60 metres away. I’d seen orcas before, usually from a cliff-top viewpoint or a ferry. But here, down at water level, the killer whales were enormous, their dorsal fins towering above us. For the next ten minutes, whale after whale went past, accompanied by several whale-watching boats. The orcas were as smooth and graceful as ballet dancers. I had a feeling of awe and of privilege to be sharing the water with these magnificent creatures.
All abuzz, we returned home to find that a friend wanted me to drop by. I drove over. Smiling he said, “This morning my crab pot brought up more than we can eat,” and handed me four crabs, already cleaned. Then he hauled a bulging canvas bag out of the water beside his dock. “How about some fresh oysters,” he said. What a bonanza!
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