Vancouver Island Homecoming

Navigating through the waters where Cormorant Channel merges into Blackfish Sound, I stood transfixed at the ship’s rail, gazing out to sea like an old-time sailor on watch. We’d recently spotted a pod of orcas and then identified a couple of humpback whales in the distance. Despite the cool mid-October breeze, I was captivated by the vibrant life surrounding the kelp-laden inlets and rugged, green islets scattered across the seascape off northeastern Vancouver Island. I didn’t want to miss a moment.

As a passenger aboard Swell — one of three vessels operated by the Victoria, British Columbia-based ecotourism company Maple Leaf Adventures — I’d been discussing the remarkable return of humpback whales to the area with the crew, and then I asked if sea otters were also making a comeback to this part of their historic range. They had just finished saying otters hadn’t yet been spotted this far south when, suddenly, a lone male made a brief, splashing appearance just off the bow. Surprised, the crew shouted, “Sea otter!” and Matt Whelan, the skipper of the 88-foot Swell, slowed the classic tug. I scanned the waters for the telltale fuzzy brown head and let out a happy sigh when the otter resurfaced just meters away and seemingly locked eyes with me.

Moments later, the otter arched and dove out of sight. Matt let Swell idle for a while, hoping for another glimpse. But gradually, the other passengers drifted back toward the salon for cocktail hour. Apologizing, he increased our speed to reach our anchorage by nightfall. Wind-chapped and chilled, I stayed at my post, watching the sea lions and seabirds and inhaling the achingly familiar scents of cedar, hemlock, and briny sea. Brushing hair from my face, I couldn’t tell if my cheeks were damp from sea spray, mist, or tears.

After dropping anchor in a secluded cove, the crew served a delicious dinner inside the comfortable wood-paneled salon of the Swell. Originally a coal-fired steam tug designed by renowned boat builder Arthur Moscrop, Swell was launched in Vancouver, British Columbia, in 1912. Although the historic workboat might not possess the sleek beauty of a sailing yacht, a thoughtful refit had saved her from the scrap heap and transformed her into a comfortable 12-passenger vessel with a rugged West Coast charm and character.

As we gathered around the cabin’s gleaming varnished tables, Matt, the skipper, pulled out a nautical chart. He explained that our weeklong trip would take us through Swell’s old stomping grounds, from the Broughton Archipelago into the remote waters of Desolation Sound. Along the way, we’d visit small settlements where we’d encounter biologists, Indigenous Knowledge Keepers (who are responsible for preserving and passing down their nation’s culture, stories, and traditional knowledge), and local artists and authors. Maple Leaf Adventures’ commitment to this region’s well-being extends beyond its certified sustainability practices and includes nurturing strong local connections, ensuring warm welcomes wherever we went.

Back in my cozy cabin, I used the last hours of mobile phone coverage to call my dad. Earlier in the day, we’d visited Y’alis (Alert Bay), his childhood home village. He and my mum had raised my sisters and me in a small town just a little farther south. Though dementia has robbed him of the ability to make new memories, he was thrilled when I told him where I was. When I mentioned seeing humpback whales and sea otters, he began to laugh and asked in wonder, “It worked? They came back?”

When I was a kid, my family and I called the rugged forests and isolated inlets of Kwakwaka’wakw territory on Vancouver Island home. Back then, sea otters and the kelp forests they helped sustain were a faded memory. From 1778 to 1911, some 10,000 pelts were taken annually. The last sea otter in B.C. was killed in 1929. However, in a last-ditch move between 1969 and 1972, Canadian fisheries biologists relocated 89 otters from Amchitka, Alaska (which was slated to become a nuclear test site), to Checleset Bay on the west coast of Vancouver Island. Despite the improbable effort, today, approximately 8,000 members of the keystone species have swum back into their traditional habitat, including the one we spotted.

As the otters returned, their diet of kelp-consuming sea urchins helped restore balance and coastal diversity. This reestablished the eelgrass meadows and kelp forests which provide food, shelter, and nursery areas for various species, including salmon fry. Meanwhile, this ecosystem revival, alongside a constellation of conservation measures, contributed to the return of humpback whales. In 1997, Big Mama made history as the first humpback whale to visit in almost a century, long after her ancestors were hunted to near extinction. Six years later, she returned with her calf, Divot. By 2022, 396 returning individuals were recorded, including Big Mama’s great-­grandchildren. In 2023, their numbers exceeded 800.

I drifted off to the gentle rhythm of waves, as comforting as a heartbeat, and dreamt of nature’s unwavering capacity to heal. As a teenager in this region, I had lost faith in this idea. Growing up in a resource town, I witnessed firsthand the devastation caused by greed: Overfishing and habitat loss had decimated salmon runs and threatened orca populations. Killer whales were used for target practice by the military, shot by fishermen who saw them as competitors, and killed during capture attempts. Feeling hopeless about saving my home, I left.

The rattle of anchor chain and thrum of engine woke me. After grabbing a coffee, I resumed my place at the rail, watching as rocky islets transitioned into steep coastal slopes. Here, lacy waterfalls carve narrow channels through the velvety green forests before cascading into the sea. Anticipation grew when we were briefed about an upcoming hike meant to reveal a surprise. Donning traditional coastal attire — gum boots and rainwear — we climbed into the dinghies for a landing at the head of a narrow cove.

The trail through the old forest was mucky, but as we ventured deeper, the crew pointed out trees whose heavy limbs were draped with Old Man’s Beard, or Usnea longissima, lichen that grows only in the purest air. A soft rain started to drum against the canopy, its rhythm as familiar as the laughter of ravens echoing through the trees. Reaching our destination, the 12 of us encircled a monumental grandfather cedar tree, fingertips barely touching, in a silent homage to the resilience of this land.

Falling back in love with the first place to break my heart happened gradually. During our journey through the winding passages, we paused to admire Tlowitsis Nation cliff art. These ochre drawings, depicting anchored ships and stagecoaches, symbolized the moment their culture and traditions came under siege by European settlers and were nearly destroyed. Despite this history, the region’s traditional stewards have never lost faith in their ability, and the land’s ability, to heal. They continue to teach the concept of maya’xala — respect for the land, ocean, air, and all living forms — believing in the interconnectedness of everything.

It’s easier, I think, to grasp this idea of interconnection on a voyage like ours with Maple Leaf. Navigating south, as if tracing the path of spawning salmon returning from the open Pacific, we passed through narrow channels where whales, seals, sea lions, and seabirds feasted on the autumn bounty. Venturing up Toba Inlet into Klahoose First Nation territory for grizzly bear viewing, our Indigenous hosts shared their own insights into the network of physical and spiritual connections in nature. They explained how salmon not only feed sea animals but also, upon reaching the rivers, bears, eagles, and wolves — and ultimately nourish the forest itself.

After days of light overcast mixed with sunshine, I woke to heavy rain. Pulling on a sweater, toque, and raincoat, I made my way to the salon for breakfast. Hoping for a break in the weather, we all opted for a leisurely cooked breakfast. Our morning activities included a choice between a hike or a kayak tour of the bay, but despite the unrelenting rain, only one person chose to stay back and browse the ship’s library.

The trail featured large puddles — perfect for stomping — but the rain barely breached the tree canopy. We paused along the way to examine mushrooms and lichens and ponder a clamshell stash left by a river otter. Reaching the lake, I noticed the rain was falling as snow on the hilltops across the water. For a moment, I could almost see the inter­connectedness, like a fine web of shimmering threads linking me to the land, ocean, and air, across seasons and generations. Soon, the salmon would finish spawning, the grizzlies would hibernate, and the salmon carcasses would decay into the earth, providing ­nutrients to the growing forests. The birds, sea lions, orcas, and humpback whales would migrate to their winter grounds, and Swell would be dry-docked for maintenance.

Stillness would descend on these islands and inlets, broken only by fierce winter storms that few would witness. Yet I knew it would all reawaken with the herring spawn, when the sea turns a milky turquoise in one of the region’s most stunning spectacles of life. The damage inflicted here will never fully heal, but cross-cultural reconciliation means the traditional stewards are no longer alone. Improved research and more responsible practices in fishing and logging, alongside thoughtful tourism like our trip aboard Swell, promote understanding and support local livelihoods. The concept of maya’xala has begun to take root.

Later, as we sailed south, past bird sanctuaries and ruggedly wild marine parks set against a soaring snow-dusted mountain range, a profound sense of awe washed over me. I realized that even a single broken thread could unravel the heartbreakingly beautiful fragility of this special place — but still, I hold onto hope.

Diane Selkirk is a Vancouver, B.C.-based travel writer who has been featured in publications including BBC Travel, Canadian Geographic, The Smithsonian, and Travel & Leisure. Her goal is to share adventures that inspire others to make a positive impact through responsible travel.

This article is featured in the July/August 2024 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives.