Swimming With Otters < The Happy Monk Baking Company

Evening swims off our little beach on South Pender are among my greatest joys.

Summer and early Fall evenings are sweet for solitary swims. The water’s placid, and the air is still. Swallows dip and dive, and a few seagulls call in the distance. The sky, with its soft colours, reflects off the water’s surface. The golden hour.

The sea calls for a slow swim out to the rocks at the foot of our cliff, a wide sweeping of arms through the icy water, and gentle treading of my legs. My body’s a little shocked by the cold, and my forearms and lower spine ache, but by the time I reach those rocks (about three minutes), the discomfort will have dissipated. My muscles begin to relax, my breath slowing, deepening. A luxurious calm settles over me.

I stand on a rocky bench knee-deep if the tide is moderately high. Today, with a near-king tide, the water nearly reached my chest. I strolled over the beds of bladderwrack and barnacles around the front and climbed up a rock where I could stand and look east. The setting sun was still touching the cliffs of Orcas Island and the tip of Lummi Island beyond. Gentle waves washed over my feet. Everything was slow and peaceful.

The water beckons

The water was so welcoming! “David, come in for a swim, do!” it seemed to say, all coy and a tad flirtatious. I could imagine the ocean was talking just to me and felt flattered. I happily accepted the invitation.

But I now understand the same invitation goes out to anyone or anything around to hear it. In this case, a family of river otters I see regularly — four, sometimes five of them. And if I accept the invitation, I must share the experience with them. The water’s not mine alone. In fact, I’m the interloper.

These otters range along the South Pender coastline, feeding on anchovy, crab and sculpin, whatever food they can find. I once saw one with a small starfish in its mouth, trying to bite through its rough exoskeleton. They look happy playful, skittering through the water.

They make me nervous

This family of otters favours our little cove. They come onto land at the foot of the stairs to our property. I think they have a warren in the bushes of the neighbouring property. Sometimes they lie on our stair landing, sunning themselves, shitting all over the place. As if it all belongs to them! The nerve!

And they make me nervous when they’re in the water with me.

I don’t mind a solitary harbour seal skulking around the periphery when I’m in for a swim. It might stop a minute and take a curious look at me. It usually keeps its distance. We communicate with our eyes. And I’m likely to utter a “Good evening, sir” and wave as it continues on its way.

Otters are another matter. They’re fast-moving chaotic, darting in all directions wherever they find fish. They dive underwater, whipping their pointed tails before disappearing below. And you never know where they’re going to come up again.

Hissing and sputtering

When they spot me, it’s almost comical. They stop abruptly and lift their long necks out of the water like a bunch of Disney cartoon characters. There’s a moment of stunned surprise as they behold me, this strange, lumbering, hairless creature looking back at them. I’m just as startled, I admit.

Then suddenly, there’s a lot of chatter. They hiss and sputter at me, like clearing phlegm from the throat and ending with a hiss. I interpret it as aggression. They usually keep their distance if I hold my ground and watch awhile.

When I saw them during this evening’s swim, they advanced … and kept moving towards me.

OK, I thought. Time to retreat!

I climbed out of the water and scrambled back up the rock, goosebumps up and down my spine. I watched, wondering if they would keep advancing up the rock. What would I do if they started snapping their teeth at me, swiping their webbed claws at my tender ankles?

The loudest otter hiss I could shout!

But they stayed in the water about 15 feet away. They stopped their noises and stared at me, a wondrous sight towering over them.

And I stood tall, raised my arms in the air and let out the loudest otter hiss I could manage. There was a sudden chaos of whipping tails and splashing water, and they were gone.

I watched a long while, wondering where they’d resurface. After several minutes, I saw them three hundred yards away to the east. It looked like they’d found a new place to feed. All was forgotten, it seemed.

I swam back ashore, a little tentative and nervous. I watched all around me until I was safe on shore.

Interloper status

According to a quick Google search, otter attacks are sporadic. I found one medical paper that said only 44 cases of human-river otter encounters had been published worldwide since 1875.

But the same paper also reported that in late 2016, a woman swimming in a lake in Quebec had been bitten badly by an otter. Treatment of the injuries was complicated and painful. The pictures of bite marks and scratches on her leg did not look pleasant. 1

So, while rare, otter attacks do happen. And I now have a newfound respect for these “cute” animals resembling Disney cartoon characters. I’ll defer to them if I see them playing about in the water. It’s theirs to enjoy, and I’m the interloper.

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The water beckons

They make me nervous

Hissing and sputtering

The loudest otter hiss I could shout!

Interloper status

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