A Little Corner of South Pender

David Morton

2 years ago

Ringed in light: the Living Rock Island on Bake Day, Feb. 23, 2024, 1:04 a.m.

A group of neighbours and their houses sit atop the rock cliffs above Craddock Beach, South Pender Island. Generous land spaces separate them, each looking out across Boundary Pass to the northern San Juans. A few more down the road get glimpses of the beach, but none get the panorama of the bent bay the way we do.

We are a blessed group of neighbours, all spectators to the great parade of life that passes by. The water world: the whales and dolphins, seals and otters, abundant birdlife, the occasional mink. On land, raccoons and deer cross our properties, at least of those who don’t mind or have given up keeping them away.

Water world

We see the vast human enterprise, too: the freighters, tankers, tugboats, whale-watchers, sailboats, yachts, kayaks … even the occasional submarine. Families stroll the beach in summer. Dog owners take their constitutionals in the mornings or afternoons. Forts are built out of logs and driftwood by excited kids.

And a winter storm can batter and bruise the beach, clear it of driftwood and seaweed, making way for more detritus: old buoys, boat bumpers, bits of Styrofoam. Sometimes, a seal carcass washes ashore. Or that of a sea lion.

It’s a quiet, snug place, this little shoreline. When we look across at each other, we see who’s got a fire going, who might be cooking dinner, who’s sitting outside on a summer’s eve sharing a glass of wine with friends.

Harrowing wind crescendos

It’s quiet, for the most part, except for the wailing winds of winter storms, which are more like harrowing crescendos in a symphony. Colossal roughhousing. We hear the plaintive cry of seagulls, the insistent braying of Canadian Geese, the chatter of beach bums in the summer.

A few of us along this line of houses love the ravens and are mesmerized by their polyphony of calls and busy lives. They are scavenging food, raising babies, and playing sentries on the coastline. When something dead washes ashore, the ravens join the eagles and turkey vultures as they peck and pluck the carcasses clean. The great circle of life, we say.

And there is Living Rock Island, the little island to the southwest off the prow of our snuggle of homes. 1 I often see it in the moonlight, in the early morning hours of a bake day. Silent, permanent, the waves washing, polishing its barnacled rocks. Or cragged and variegated in the open light of day.

Living Rock Island

Living Rock Island is my own name for it. There is no mention of it on maps, but it’s such a central point of our outlook that I had to call it something. The ancient people who occupied this land before us must have taken note of the island. Did they have a name, I wonder?

It’s properly a peninsula; you can walk out to it at low tide. It’s most striking at high tide when the currents of Boundary Pass swirl and eddy around it. Or during the autumn storms when huge waves batter it, sending explosions of foam cascading over the top.

There’s a whole world out there on Living Rock Island! Tufts of grass grow in crevices, and patches of colourful lichen and moss stain the rock. It’s a resting place for birds, an ever-changing tide of different species.

A legion of cormorants has recently claimed the island, the first time we’ve seen them there. Gulls have been more consistent occupants, but they appear to have been edged off the rock.

A gulp of cormorants

What strange guttural sounds the cormorants make, the 30 to 40 of them perched out there, stretching their wings against the sun after a dive for fish. A group of cormorants is called a “gulp,” you can see why when they surface from a dive with a small fish in their bills — gulp!

They jump at some signal, leap into the air, circle out over the water, then begin diving into the waves. They stretch their long necks, tuck in their wings, turning themselves into black darts and plunge into the water. And they emerge a moment later, smacking their lips in a manner of speaking.

An eagle swooped in on them one day, and the cormorants flew off the island similarly. All of them! They circled the island several times and dove at the eagle perched on the patch of land they owned rights to. Eventually, the eagle left, and the cormorants gradually returned.

Eagle didn’t need the hassle, you might guess. Or maybe it had feasted on cormorant eggs. Was happy and left.

High-pitched screams

We used to see Oystercatchers on the Living Rock Island. Stout little shorebirds with gleaming red bills and pinkish legs. They fed on the mussels and barnacles that grew in the crevices, especially on the rock’s south side.

They also laid eggs on the rock and were invariably scandalized by predators like eagles, ravens, gulls and otters. Like the Cormorants, the Oystercatchers would flee the rock, then circle with high-pitched screams and wails as if loudly mourning the loss of their babies.

I haven’t seen Oystercatchers or heard their loud screeches for a long while. They’ve moved on, away from the plundering ways of predators.

Ringed in light

I’ve watched the Living Rock Island at all hours of the day, most notably in the dark mornings when I’m baking bread.

Last week, the waters of Boundary Pass were strangely still for wintertime. A full moon was behind low-lying clouds in the west and just about to dip below the horizon. The island was ringed in moonlight, and its dark form seemed to glisten with life.

It was like a talisman. Something permanent, immovable, yet teaming with possibility. A place that nurtures and destroys inhabitants. It’s a waypoint, a crossroads where birds and other inhabitants can rest their wings or legs before moving on.

The lee of Living Rock

The island creates a shelter, too, from the turbulent waters that roil through Boundary Pass. Inside our bent bay, the water is quieter, thanks to the Living Rock, yet it still swirls gently closer to the beach, inviting new life inside for a brief pause. Wildlife can shelter in the lee of the Rock and feed on crab, anchovy or shellfish. They can rest their fins or sea legs before venturing out again into the currents. Rested and replenished.

The island giveth and the island taketh away, Job might have said. The inhabitants of Living Rock Island, its water-bound benefactors, the shellfish that cling to its permanence and the humans that live along the cliffs of Craddock Beach own nothing of it. But we’re all recipients of the great wealth it bestows on us.

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