One Bright Star
September beachfire
reaches through darkness, calling
to faraway stars
There is an allure to darkness—an exhilaration that accompanies the sudden arrival of the unknown, the sense of extraordinary potential. Perhaps that’s what prompted me to paddle away from the beach on Vargas Island one late-summer night. Or perhaps I was prompted by nostalgia for my equatorial childhood, where evenings were warm and life continued after darkness fell. In Trinidad, I loved the night wind at Mayaro Beach, the pale onslaught of breakers and the back-and-forth mutter of coconut branches. In darkness, the wind seemed different on my face. I smelled its dense salinity. I relished its fresh warmth. In a recurring dream—one I can still conjure—my young self goes night-walking beyond the safety of the yard, down a seaward path where I linger at the edge of the beach, my fingers seeking out the ringed bark of a coconut tree. A temptress appears, twice my height, her cool hand tugging mine. I resist, clutching the tree and looking to the unlit porch of the house for help, where—deep in conversation—my parents talk about grown-up things, watching me but never coming to my aid. The dream always ends with my hands slipping over the dry bark as I begin to let go. Night—the pull of her.
And then there was the festival of Diwali, when Hindu families placed tiny clay lamps at regular intervals along walls, railings and stairways. They split lengths of bamboo, bending and twisting them into shapes along which to place the lamps—confronting the wilderness of spiritual darkness with a symbolic fantasia of inner light, each flame so small, so bright, so imbued with meaning. I remember the simple red clay cups, their string wicks anchored in pools of oil. I remember the thrill of our nighttime excursions to see the displays.
But night’s greatest secret was more exotic even than Diwali. With no calendar date to pre-empt it, we watched and waited for the nocturnal blossoming of the Queen of the Night, the scented white cactus whose straggly limbs were woven into the hibiscus hedge at the bottom of the garden. Daily, the flower buds would tempt us with their growth, but only my father seemed certain of their opening night. We tiptoed down the hill behind the flashlight’s yellow path. And there we stood, waiting like penitents for the miraculous light of the unfolding flower, the night air feeding our excitement and amplifying our held breath. Our cheeks glowed in the bright face of the queen, our gasps caught in the explosion of scent as the petals spread open like fingers, offering up the pollen-tipped stamens—the naked heart of the plant. That this magnificent creation only lasted until morning exemplified the strangeness of time and the fleeting nature of life. I remember wondering if plants grieve.
Perhaps these special childhood moments increased my attraction to darkness, or perhaps the attraction is universal, felt by many. Regardless, paddling six kilometres at two in the morning didn’t seem like an unusual choice. My campfire friends encouraged me to stay, for reasons of companionship more than safety. But the idea of waking up in my own bed had taken hold.
The moon was sinking toward the Vargas treeline as I hauled the warhorse of the kayak rental fleet down to the water’s edge. Bucephalus was an ancient double kayak my place of work had loaned me for its front cockpit, which perfectly fitted my dog, Sweetheart. She stepped aboard with her customary elegance and waited while my mind played over the plusses and minuses of leaving. That night’s fire had reached a point of perfection, blushing with the shifting hues of radiant coals. Shadow puppets danced against the glow as fireside fellows settled and resettled themselves, their murmured late-night thoughts punctuating moments of quiet and contentment. It was a peaceful scene, one I wanted to be part of. Yet somehow the contentment of the following morning was more important to me. I didn’t want the chaos of a hurried departure. I didn’t want the noise and bustle of a busy Tofino, inevitable when I returned Bucephalus to the kayak store. I wanted to wake in my own bed, far from the sudden roarings of floatplanes and charter boats, cars and people. On mornings when I woke up at home I slipped naturally into the mode of the slough, gliding through the off-grid day with ease. But if I arrived home at midday, the transition was less fluid. There was the inevitable unpacking, followed by a protracted sense of dislocation before I finally settled in. On partial home days, the wilderness drug was less potent. And that realization is what propelled me to grasp the toggle and move the kayak into the water.
I left quietly, not wanting to draw attention to my desertion. North of me, the lights of Kakawis twinkled on the flat water; to the southeast, I could see the blinking green light of a buoy. I took the most efficient route, crossing Father Charles Channel to the westernmost point of Clayoquot Island and adjusting my angle of glide to accommodate the sideward push of the tide. At Clayoquot I would take the proverbial fork in the road and choose either an outer or inner route—the outer route exposed to the ocean, but possibly quicker; the inner route glass calm, but with an area of mudflat which might not be deep enough for me to cross. I gave myself up to the sweetness of the moment and thought it likely that I would choose the outer route. Sweetheart sighed and settled herself, sinking into the seat and resting her chin on the rim of the cockpit, her ears forming two pale triangles. Behind me, the quarter moon became yellow as it neared the horizon. There was barely a hush from the shore waves as I paddled away.
With the departure of the moon, my surroundings grew darker, lit only by the stars. The air was sharp and my hips rolled side to side as the swells palmed the kayak’s hull, lifting it up and sliding it down, as if passing me hand to hand. I considered the alchemy of the Milky Way, the bright spiral of gasses and dust smeared across the sky above me. Just a few weeks earlier I’d watched the Perseid meteor shower from a canoe, lying on my back and drifting up the slough on the flooding tide. Back then the stars were rocketing to and fro like popcorn, but now they showed more restraint, pulsing with clear light from their fixed locations. Ahead, one bright star beckoned me onward.
Partway across the channel the green light of the eastern buoy seemed to grow dim. It flashed, then vanished, flashed again, then vanished completely. Perhaps it wasn’t working properly, or perhaps the disappearance was related to my moving position. Sightings on the water are difficult that way—visible from one angle, invisible from another. I kept my course and paddled onward. But when the glow of light from Tofino also disappeared, I knew something was up. If it was fog, I couldn’t see it. And the foghorn hadn’t yet called out its arrival. I considered taking the compass from my life jacket and placing it on the taut apron of my spray skirt. But my compass was a fiddlesome thing, hard enough to see in daylight. If I flashed my headlamp at the compass I would be night blind, unable to locate any visual bearings. Instead, I let down the rudder, determined my line of travel and locked my feet in position on the pedals.
That night the fog moved with such stealth and swiftness that the foghorn didn’t boom until my world was completely obliterated. I watched each landmark vanish, one after the other. First the Tofino peninsula, then Wickaninnish Island, and lastly—bit by bit—my landmark, Clayoquot Island. With nothing ahead of me, I looked up, finding that one bright star still visible above me. It was flanked by two smaller stars, not part of any constellation—simply the only stars left in my visual range. Together they made a triangle with the brightest at the apex. The sight of them bolstered my courage, reassuring me that the fog was still only a very thin layer.
Fast-moving fog is often accompanied by wind, but the fog on this night had no running mate. The surface of the water was unruffled and the swells pushed me onward as if nothing had changed. Their unbroken rhythm didn’t allow me time to stop. I paddled forward, keeping the stars in a triangle above me, appreciating their persistence. From time to time the smaller stars in the triangle faded from view, obscured by wisps of fog, but always the bright star gleamed. It wasn’t Polaris—the North Star—but its celestial guidance seemed trusty as any compass. I didn’t paddle harder or faster. I didn’t worry where I was going, or whether I would get lost. Ahead of me, the peaks of Sweetheart’s ears vanished as she sank lower in the cockpit, only the tip of her nose visible. She wasn’t worried, either.
For fifteen minutes I paddled this way, my gaze drawn to the eastern sky, my ears hearing only the one-two slice of paddle through water. When the sound of crashing waves finally became audible, I knew I was just where I’d hoped to be. By then the two smaller stars had vanished completely and even the brightest star was sometimes fading. But now that I was nearing land I had sea sounds to guide me. The surf became louder and dark rocks rose up ahead, marking the western tip of the island. It was time to choose my route. Technically, the inner route was safer: it offered protection from surf and swell—calm passage over shallow eelgrass beds. But if the tide were too low, I would have to go around these areas, following an unknowable perimeter. The trip could be long, made much longer if I got stranded or lost.
I chose the outer route, drawn partly by the sound of the surf. In the absence of visibility, sound meant knowledge. The louder the crash, the closer the shoreline. And unless I strayed from the source, this simple form of echolocation couldn’t be taken from me. I liked that. Paddling more slowly, I inched to the right, heading to the first outer beach.
It was harder than I’d thought. The beach faces southwest with a dumping shore wave. Even at a distance from the beach, propagating waves mount steeply, peaking but not always cresting. I swung out as wide as I dared, not wanting to lose the dark mass of the land, but a wave still took me by surprise, accelerating beneath me with a thrilling surge. Bucephalus made an excellent steed, so wide and stable that even the sideways thrust of the breaker didn’t wake my sleeping canine passenger. I moved further offshore. Or where I thought offshore was. I could barely see—deprived not of sight, but of sights. I could see my hands on the paddle, I could see the forward cockpit and, with effort, the bow. Everything else, however, was a mystery, not at all resembling its daytime self.
I wasn’t deprived of other senses, however; in fact, I was immersed in a sensory language, straining to identify disparities in sounds, shocked at my illiteracy. The planet has spoken for millennia, yet only now was I paying proper attention to the words. Within the general assonance of sea sounds, I listened for specifics: the relentless soldiers’ march of the beach waves; the cannonade of swells breaking over rocks; the twirling waltz of water surging—but not breaking—around reefs or kelp beds. Each of these phrases was useful in its own way, telling how close I was to safety, and to danger.
At the jutting point between southwest- and southeast-facing beaches, I manoeuvred around a collection of rocks. With visibility, I would have sought out the gap between these rocks, waited out the biggest waves, and darted through the gap in a brief surge of glory. Now I virtually tiptoed, not wanting to stray from my landmarks, nor get too close. A wave arrived out of the blackness like a magic carpet, sluicing me forward. I dug the paddle aft, fighting to halt the momentum of the kayak as a shape rose before me. The bow glanced off a rock, turning the boat parallel to the next wave, but by then I was in full reverse, just able to avoid being thrown sideways on the reef.
Despite the sudden challenge of the journey, I was surprised at my lack of fear. The route was demanding but stimulating. I knew it well, having paddled it day after day, season after season. Seen through the filter of fog and darkness, it was a puzzle with most of the pieces missing. And the fragments I could see were untethered to the whole, like images cropped from a composition. Each rock or kelp bed needed me to identify it, catalogue it and place it on a mental map, along which I could plot my guessed-at position. My brain whirled and spun with effort. Anticipating the next few kayak lengths always seemed to be the hardest task. The puzzle neared completion as I reached the last obstacle, a string of rocks jutting out to the south.
Here, I dithered. I didn’t want to go all the way around the point. Doing so would expose me to greater swell and a longer, more challenging route. If I could find a little gap between the rocks, one passable at the present level of the tide—if I could shoot through it and thereby cut the corner—if I could do all this, and come out in one piece, I would be so much closer to safety. There were two possible options. I just had to find them. I turned the bow southward and moved parallel to the rocks, slowing my pace and whetting my senses. I would have missed the first passage if a wave hadn’t broken through it, pushing me sideways. I remembered that the wave always broke on the south side of this little gap, spilling over a reef. Only in big swell did the wave occlude the whole channel. I turned to face the rocks and tried to see the gap. Twice more, white water cascaded toward me out of nowhere, but by the third time I was prepared. As soon as the whiteness passed under my hull, I heaved on the paddles, forcing the boat into the space and—miraculously—through it.
Through! I wanted to cheer, but I still needed to hear the world around me. Turning north again, I picked my way along the edge of Van Nevel Channel, nearing the Tofino Harbour with every paddle stroke. I began to think about the next part of the journey: whether I’d be able to boat home after returning the kayak. It seemed unlikely, which was depressing. I had just decided to think about that later when I glided out of the fog.
I gasped, looking over my shoulder. Behind me, the fog bank stood like a blank wall, lacking any sense of movement. I was near the private dock at Clayoquot Island. Above, stars speckled every part of the sky, my guiding star still bright among them. Ahead, the harbour gleamed with shapes and reflections. Lone Cone Mountain rose up from the lowlands of Meares Island like a child’s cut-out, slightly imperfect at the top. The lights of Opitsaht cast long, shimmering reflections, as did the lights of Tofino. It was just like Diwali, the street lights placed at regular intervals, illuminating the urban wilderness. Ahead of me, two white triangles reappeared as Sweetheart sat up and took in her surroundings.
I thought of the conditions I’d just left. There was no way to compare the two realities. I could have taken a calm route home without suffering a moment of self-doubt. But would I have had the same sort of connection with the ocean? Out there, the sea whispered with comings and goings, warnings and lullabies. Those sounds were now alive in me—a freshly minted melody.
