Eyes snap open, heart racing. Where am I? The boat vibrates, a cradle gently rocking, and I’m swaddled in the bunk of room 807. For the last three months, memories and reminders of what is and what is no longer come rushing in the morning. They have all the subtlety of a 747. A soft, blue light bleeds through the porthole. Along the British Columbia coast, mornings are coming later and later as the calendar flips to October.

My name is David. I am a naturalist aboard the National Geographic Venture. I am loved. I am treasured. I am ok.

I grope for my phone and pull up the GPS app. The islands, passes, and channels look up at me, friendly little faces with names that bring comfort and order to my life. Broughton and Blackfish. Johnstone and Harbledown. Parson, Blackney, and Robson Bight. My second home. My first home. The place where this human, whoever he is, was born. It was in the waters of Johnstone Strait that I bobbed in a kayak during the summer of 2007. The A36s came swimming by, stately tall dorsal fins guiding me. Not north like they do in all the stories, but south.

Aboard the National Geographic Venture, I return to these places every fall. Not as a caretaker or paddler or biologist, but something of an educator. A representative of this place that has meant so much to me. But like everything, this sanctuary comes with some baggage.

I step onto the bow with a coffee cup gripped in my hand and greet an early morning drizzle. The boat chugs through Blackfish Sound. Hanson Island is off the port, Orca Lab just a mile behind me, cloaked in morning fog.

And there are the Plumper Islands off north Hanson Island with their little passes and reefs I memorized during three winters of town runs from the Lab to Alert Bay. Another lifetime ago in so many ways.

I pull out the spotting scope and train it on the shoreline of the Plumpers. There they are. Humpback after humpback hits the surface and are greeted by flocks of greedy gulls that divebomb the forage fish pushed to the surface. The harsh edges of this clump of islands float in and out of the fog, the world blurry and slightly out of focus.

There’s a Japanese phrase, wabi-sabi. It means impermanent, imperfect, but aesthetically appreciated. A spoon’s wooden handle worn smooth from years of use. A torn and stained pair of Carharts with oil, blood, grease, dirt, and grass stains worn into the fiber. A stained cabinet edge from a beloved cat’s insistent nuzzling.

This stretch of coast is my, “wabi-sabi.” These islands, these whales, the tantalizing promise that a six-foot dorsal could appear at any moment. But inside I also feel wabi-sabi. Incomplete, under construction, and loved all the same.

I get to talk about it today. Share this place and this history with 80 people. They’ll give me a microphone and hang on my words. A chance not just to share but influence.

But there’s no way to speak of Hanson Island, Paul Spong, orcas, or quiet nights in Robson Bight without sharing my own history. And so that means opening a vein and scratching the scab that’s just starting to heal. How will it feel when I see the picture of us grinning at the camera with a rabbit and a cat clutched in our arms?

***

I step behind the little pulpit in the middle of the Venture’s forward lounge. I glance at the TV in front of me, my presentation loaded and staring back. There’s the lab, framed in cedar and fir. I remember the day I took this photo, a spring day in 2016 when I knew our time at the lab was coming to an end.

A down payment was soon due on 4.2 acres of Gustavus clay. An era was coming to an end. A final gulp of wanderlust. My tumbleweed wanted roots, and we were learning what it took to grow them. It meant saying goodbye to black nights with chatting orcas and salt spray on the windows.

I don’t know if I made the right choice.

I pick up the mic and begin to speak. There’s the photo of Paul next to the projector, focused and handsome. A black and white photo of Skana the orca he was hired to perform “research” on. Paul playing his flute to her beneath the headline “Friend Wants Orca Freed!”

I talk about Paul heading up Vancouver Island and setting off in a kayak around Hanson Island with nothing but a flute. Did he have a life jacket? I never asked. Something tells me he didn’t.

I tap a button and the calls of the northern Resident orcas’ blast through the lounge. A Clan and G Clan. Pings, squeaks, and whistles. Calling me home. I never truly left. This is still my home. My first love. And just because life has changed doesn’t make that love and time any less significant. It’s part of me. My journey. Part of my wabi-sabi. The lump rises in my throat. Damn it I miss this place.

A couple slides later and there we are. There she is. A smile on her faces as she looks out the lab over Blackney Pass. A photo of Brittney asleep in the cabin with Porter on her lap, Penny the bunny nestled in her little house. But opening this vein, scratching this scab isn’t bringing tears. The lump is gone from my chest. And I realize I am celebrating the adventure. The beautifully braided journey we made. My mind will not let my heart take that away.

The spoon’s worn handle feels comfortable in my hand.  

I finish with a crescendo. Underwater footage of orcas at the rubbing beaches. I love this shot. A female settles right in front of the camera and rests on the bottom. She gives a few happy wiggles along those smooth rocks that mean so much to them for reasons we don’t fully comprehend. Their calls once again ring through the lounge.

 I break.

A tear slides down my cheek, then another. I’ve been scared to think about my time in British Columbia, much less talk about it. But sometimes what we fear is what we need to do. Destigmatize our traumas and pain and instead glorify all that was great and beautiful and precious.

I catch a few wet eyes looking back at me.

“Thank you for your time. For letting me share this place and these animals that mean so much, that makes me who I am. It’s a pleasure to get to come back here. If you’ve had enough whale talk, I totally get it. But I’m happy to take questions and talk as long as you want.”

I suppress a grin and allow my ego a couple cartwheels as hands shoot into the air.