As I entered Kyuquot, I was immediately in love. You come in through a series of navigational marks that wind you through the islands and reefs like a game of snakes and ladders. Then you are greeted by a series of remarkably beautiful old houses, tucked into the forests and the landscape. Some of them are really charming, with windows looking in all directions to take in the extreme, magical beauty of this place. I can imagine it must be quite a sight here in winter, during the storms. As I came into Kyuquot, small boats and skiffs move in and out, almost like a street, except instead of cars there are boats: people moving around, fishermen coming in and out from the ocean, small landing craft, and a surprising amount of carpentry and repair work happening on the houses. There were a number of contractors around, and they must have some good carpenters because, at least from the outside, many of the houses are very attractive and appear well built, making good use of the natural materials and setting. I tied up to the government dock. There was a large space available, and you can tie up for no charge. There was nobody around. I went up and looked through the windows of the closed general store, which seemed to have mostly empty shelves. That is not surprising somewhere like this, although it is a little surprising too, because there seem to be quite a number of households here. This is a water and air access only community. There is a floatplane that comes on a weekly schedule from Gold River, and there is also a very old, large supply ship that comes out of Gold River. I think in summer it may be once or twice a week. So getting things in and out must be tricky. It was interesting to notice that all of the boats are small. There are no large boats. Not a single sailboat. All small skiffs and fishing boats, with a handful of slightly larger fishing boats or landing craft. But no very large boats. Everything feels modest. There is a deep modesty to the community as a whole, which I found really moving. I felt a sense of peace wash over me as I stepped off the boat. There is a quiet that hangs over the bay, even though you do feel like you are in a village, with a number of houses around. There is a beautiful boardwalk that I walked along, and you feel as though you are walking through each person’s property or yard. Nobody seems to lock anything. Tools are left out. Contractors walk away from a work site at the end of the day with their tools still lying there, with clearly no concern about theft. There is just a sense that you could not live here without knowing everybody. And being an outsider like myself, everyone turns their head and notices. At least at this time of year, it seems unusual to have a sailboat arrive. Jura, I think, fits in nicely enough with the aesthetic, with her wooden charm. The mystery of the boats that came by the other night was also solved. I was looking to see whether the café in the village was open, which it was not, and I ran into a woman who saw me and said, “Well, who are you?” I told her I had just arrived on my sailboat, and she said, “Oh, were you out by Aktis Island, anchored there the other night?” I said yes. “Well,” she said, “you were the cause of some trouble. I was looking out the other night and saw this light bobbing around on the water. I thought someone might be out there in a rowboat, looking for help. So the Coast Guard was dispatched, and my son went by. They arrived and saw that it was just a sailboat, with an anchor light that was not at the top of the mast, but hanging over the cockpit.” Which, of course, is how my anchor light hangs. So they were indeed looking out for someone, checking to make sure everything was okay. Mystery solved in the most unexpected way. As I walked along the boardwalk and through the village, there were the most beautiful scents of nature: cedar trees, wood stoves, spring flowers, salt water. But it was not only the smell of nature. It was the smell of civilization living at peace with nature. Along the path there were little stones someone had painted with faces, placed delicately all along the boardwalk. There is a sense here that you can leave something like that out and it will not be disturbed. That feeling does not really exist in larger towns and cities. There, anything left like that feels as if it will not last long before someone trips over it, kicks it, picks it up, takes it away, or steals it. Here there is an immediate feeling of community, of shared space and respect. I walked out just past the village, and I am now standing on a small beach, looking out over the ocean and the reefs. In the distance I can hear the faint but rhythmic horn of a navigational mark, alerting mariners of danger in the fog.

Today was mail day. I’ve been tied up to the public dock in Kyuquot—the on on Walter Island—all day. I stayed here last night, and today I’ve mostly just been sitting on the boat working. Around noon, a floatplane from Air Nootka landed and tied up right next to me. The pilot began unloading parcels, which appeared to be deliveries for Canada Post. The post office is just up at the top of the pier in the general store. A number of people came down and began helping unload the parcels, talking with the pilot as they worked. They hoisted the boxes straight up onto the pier, so nobody had to walk them all the way around. Then, all day, little skiffs came and went, people picking up their packages. The Toyota Corolla of Kyuquot appears to be a 14-foot Lund with 9.9 horsepower. The Ford F-150 is maybe 18 to 20 feet of fibreglass, centre console with a small cabin, and at least 200 horsepower. There are a lot of outboards here. This is a sound full of outboards. On the pier, there are five or six 200-plus horsepower Yamaha engines that appear to have been abandoned, either waiting for an empty ship to haul them away, or kept around for parts, I can’t tell. It is so unusual, at least from my way of life, to be in a place where small boats are the primary mode of transport. It was kind of like being parked downtown in front of a general store, except everyone was coming in by skiff. Often people would come in, throw one line onto the dock, step off, leave the engine idling, and begin the trek up the pier to the post office. It has been incredibly warm. Just a really peaceful, beautiful day. Even though there is a very alive and bustling nature to the sound of boats coming and going — lots of fishing, people busy at work — there is also this sense of total peace, where things are moving in their own clocks. It is certainly true that this coast is subject to the curve of time. There’s also this paradox of feeling like there are people around, like the place is alive, but then there are long periods where I sit here and don’t see anybody at all. It’s just quiet. It’s a place full of paradoxes. I was able to get a few fresh things from the general store: a few pounds of frozen ground beef, some eggs, bacon, yoghurt, lemons and limes, and a loaf of bread. I’ve been trying to make a sourdough starter, but I think it’s struggling because I don’t have the right flour to start it off, and also because of the high variation in temperature. It’s often not warm enough for it to really get going. I also bought some fresh smoked sockeye salmon from one of the young women who came by on her boat. It was smoked just across the way at the village. I’m looking forward to that.