this strange and precious moment

(on danger & beauty)

In the distance, wildfire smoke hung heavy over the mountains and the colours of the sunset were muted, although the sea was perfectly clear. Gathered on the small Gulf island of Saltspring for the most meaningful of family weddings, we now had one last night together before sea planes and ferries took us away. From a rocky promontory at the northern tip of the island, we watched a smoke-smothered blood-orange sun drip into the sea, an echoing orange sparkle trail in the water.

British Columbia had declared a state of emergency, and although we were not immediately at risk, we found ourselves closer than anticipated to danger, under a darkening, apocalyptic sky. The smoke that caught at the back of our throats like fear had drifted for miles over the mainland, and all across the archipelago of fir-covered islands the ground was tinderbox dry. In each town, a fire hall on standby, with roadside signs warning stridently against any kind of flame.

My cousin Beth has two small boys who my sons—many years older—adore. Separated by a span of years and continents, their connection is uncommonly strong. All five boys clambered, sure-footed, over grey rocks and along a driftwood ballet-barre to a tiny beach, moving together, a loop of endless love. At the far end of the headland, a woman sat facing the sunset, placidly reading her book—a swimming towel and a wicker basket on the rock beside her.

The older boys spotted crabs beneath the pellucid water and dived down to catch them. Beth sat on a rock and nursed her toddler. The younger boys searched the beach for heart-shaped stones and skimmers. Before the sun finally disappeared, we stripped to our swimming costumes and waded out into the sea. The shock of Pacific cold was forgotten as I floated towards the hazy horizon, listening to familiar voices drift across still water. Wonder and climate anxiety mingled, swirling like the smoke.

We dried ourselves briskly in the last of the light and as we lingered, unwilling to say goodbye, a seal appeared close to the edge of the rocks. Suddenly, sharp-eyed Beth, who spent her childhood summers on the West Coast, spotted orcas swimming just offshore—between a small lighthouse rock and the next island. There were three—perhaps more—diving, their curved fins cartwheeling into the waves and arcing in and out of the water. Only a couple of hundred meters from them, we stood at the same protective distance the whale-watching boats must keep. I couldn’t know why these whales had come, but their presence seemed a blessing—a kind of wild magic.

As we watched the whales dance, the thin shard of a crescent moon rose into the pink sky. ‘Take a picture of this with your mind’, I told my boys: ‘the seal, the orcas, the moon, the sea, your family around you—this strange and precious moment. Carry it with you always.’

We are closer to danger than we think. We are closer to beauty than we imagine.

Thank you for reading,

Laura x

my book

my instagram