Where the Mountains Meet the Sea

One of the aspects I love most about living here is endless possibility and freedom to explore the bay. I’ve come to understand more of the bay’s nuances at this point: I know which passages to avoid at low tide, when water recedes from shelves and connects islands, forcing us to detour. I also know where deep channels wind between shelves, dividing islands to allow passage throughout the day. I know what the water level must be to ride waves through arches or to sneak into specific caves and tunnels, and I know that exploring new tunnels is to be saved for a receding tide–fighting an incoming current as it fills the connecting lagoon can easily trap me inside the black passage.

I’ve come to recognize the majority of islands in the bay by silhouette, as well as major channel markers, specific floating houses, shrines and shipwrecks. I know which coast lines form the mainland, which comprise part of the bay’s intricate peninsula and which stand alone as islands. On days when mist rolls in so thick and fast we can’t see twenty meters in front of us, I’m able to navigate safely, keeping to areas I’ve known for longer and finding my way through the haze back to our boat. 

I’ve gained confidence to choose my own route on days as kayak guide, rather than following a set path. If I want to check out a cave I spotted in the distance, I’ll head that way. If there’s an inlet or region of the bay I haven’t explored yet, I’ll probably paddle that direction next time I’m out. If I feel like returning to the massive tunnel down beyond the harbor, we’ll head in that direction.

I also know that the huge brown jellyfish, often as big as a person, move faster than anyone would expect through the water. The white jellyfish covered in red spots tend to show up individually. On the other hand, if I spot a tiny translucent one with tiny tentacles, there are most likely hundreds more in the area. This may not be the best time to jump off the boat for a swim…

The bay in itself has so many moods. Light changes by the day, even by the minute. Also by night– after dark, bioluminescent plankton rise to the surface and blink neon turquoise when they’re disturbed. When rain pounds down, the drops themselves create enough turbulence that lights flash into existence all across the water. When swell rolls into the main channel, waves crash against rocks in brilliant luminosity.

Three months in, life is looking pretty good.