2. Ocean Days & Hovercraft Ways

Saturday morning, we pulled ourselves together in Cobble Hill, layered appropriately for coastal wind, packed snacks with military precision, and pointed the car toward Swartz Bay. Island to mainland.

We drove onto the Ferry and found Mitch in the upper passenger decks, who had joined us for the crossing. The girls were vibrating with first-Big-Ferry energy. These vessels are enormous. Not “big boat” big. Floating-small-neighbourhood big… where hundreds of cars and people are ferried across the Strait of Georgia.

Claire and I braved the exterior deck for the views. Standing there with wind in our faces, scanning the water for orca pods like amateur Ontarians. Claire gripped the railing and narrated every splash, telling me all about her Orca friends.

When we arrived in Delta and drove off the ferry, the landscape shifted quickly. Wider roads. More traffic. Mainland momentum.

We were headed to meet Hillary and Adam, my cousin and her fiancé. I will admit, when I first saw her mailing address, I felt… cautious. Surrey’s reputation travels faster than its real estate listings. I had prepared myself mentally for gritty, like Puerto Vallarta on a bad day.

Of course, Hillary does not live in gritty Surrey. She lives in White Rock, the greater Surrey area.

If Surrey is cartel headlines, White Rock is oceanfront yoga and artisanal sourdough. If Surrey is sirens and COPS, White Rock is sea glass and kale chia seed paradise. Bougie, breezy, and blessed with a promenade that makes you forget any preconceived notions you arrived with.

We arrived at Hillary and Adam’s place and were immediately granted entry into their condo. Guarding the premises was Sushi the cat, who conducted a thorough inspection of our group. Sovereign ruler of the living room. Tolerant, but not impressed by the children…

Once settled, I asked questions to (read: I interrogated) Adam on life as a Public Safety Diver with the Coast Guard. Which is to say, extreme search and rescue but make it underwater and colder and more intense than anything I could imagine. He showed us photos from his work, and then vessels and colleagues he dives with. The kind of job most of us only see in documentaries narrated by someone with a British accent.

Adam was once diving deep when an octopus wrapped itself around him. Not attacking. Just… asserting. Pressure testing. Letting him know that, in that moment, the octopus was in charge.

Apparently sea lions are worse. They’ll nip. Just a little taste test. A curious, “can I eat this?” kind of bite. Imagine doing your job and being gently evaluated as a potential snack.

At this point I began softly recruiting Hillary and Adam for my future fictionalized Coast Guard adventure series. Hillary in the Arctic region, securing the north, windswept and formidable. Adam on the mainland, descending into dark water, negotiating with octopi. Interwoven storylines. High stakes. Maritime tension. Taking orders now.

And Hillary? Endlessly cool. Recently up dogsledding in the Arctic as part of her work securing Canada’s north. Just casually gliding across frozen expanses like that’s a normal Tuesday. Between the diving and the dogsledding, I felt deeply underqualified in my current skill set, which mostly involves snack logistics and ferry schedules.

The girls, of course, were just thrilled about Sushi the cat. Maybe too thrilled. Poor kitten.

But I was sitting there thinking: this family is out here living in a cross between a coastal thriller and an Arctic expedition documentary. And I get to write about it… (insert maniacal laugh)…

We then packed into our rental car and drove down a hill so steep I’m wondering why I hadn’t signed a waiver. The kind of descent where you question your brakes and if it will be scarier driving up.

At the bottom, the waterfront opened up in that wide, cinematic way only the rainy coast can. The girls darted from driftwood to pebbles, Claire scanning for treasures. Claire chose a pocketful of pebbles that she announced are crystals from her second home in Crystal Land, where she is a Mermaid Queen.

Eventually we found ourselves at Ocean Beach Bar, where minors are allowed until 7pm, which feels like a generous loophole. Lucky for us it was 4:30pm, which in our family is considered the ideal dinner hour.

The cool cousins, plus me, plus the kiddos claimed a high-top table. Shared drinks. Ordered appies. Fought over the last tater tot, as one does.

At some point, the conversation devolved into reviewing the most bizarre ChatGPT wedding dress makeover ever generated… but that’s a story for a different day!

Sunday morning began too early for some, rising heroically at 5:00am PST for the gold medal hockey game, eyes bleary but patriotic. On the flip side, the children and I were still blissfully unconscious, starfished across a borrowed bed, entirely indifferent to national glory.

We arrived at Hillary’s at 8:00am for eggs and sausages, which felt like a civilized compromise between sport and sleep.

Then we packed up and headed to the Vancouver Aquarium, where we were meeting my BC friend Naomi, from my Whistler days, and her daughter. There is something deeply grounding about seeing someone who knew you in a different chapter of life. Pre-kids. Pre-bedtimes. Pre-snack logistics. And now here we were, meeting at a place filled with jellyfish and toddlers.

The Vancouver Aquarium is extraordinary. Truly world class. One hundred stars. You could spend hours moving from one glowing tank to the next, from rainforest exhibit to Arctic gallery, each one immersive and beautifully done.

We started outside with the sea lions and seals.

That’s when I noticed Claire.

At first, she was just moving quickly along the pathways, weaving between railings, peering over edges. Excited. Curious. I assumed she wanted to see everything all at once. Evelyn stayed behind with Hillary and Mitch while I jogged after Claire, circling the enclosures one direction, then the other.

And then I realized.

This was not random movement.

Claire was testing the perimeter.

She was scanning gates.

She was evaluating structural weaknesses.

I watched as she reached for a gate latch near the sea lion enclosure. I got there just in time.

“They’re trapped,” Claire said, breath quick, eyes wide. “I have to free them.”

It took me a second to recalibrate. I crouched down, trying to explain that these animals were rescued. Injured. Being rehabilitated. That this was temporary care, not captivity.

Claire was not persuaded.

“They are my friends. They are trapped.”

Her jaw was set. Her moral compass blazing. There was no nuance in her worldview.

I gently redirected her away from the gate, fully aware that I was essentially negotiating with a tiny activist preparing for a midnight operation.

Finally she declared, with complete seriousness, “I’ll come back tonight and free them.”

And there it was.

The cover-of-darkness plan.

While other families were admiring marine biology, I was explaining international wildlife rehabilitation protocols to a five-year-old who was one poorly timed opportunity away from launching a sea lion jailbreak.

And then we entered the jellyfish gallery.

First of all, can we take a moment for their official classification: gelatinous zooplankton. It sounds like either a failed indie band or the best insult in existence. Next time I want to burn my brother, I’ll just say, “Stop being a gelatinous zooplankton.”

The exhibit itself was hypnotic. Blue-lit tanks. Translucent bodies drifting like living chandeliers. Truly, my favourite part of the Aquarium.

Evelyn made a beeline for the touch lab. Children were invited to gently touch the jellies under staff supervision, and she took this responsibility very seriously. For thirty full minutes she stood there, carefully and kindly giving each gelatinous zooplankton what can only be described as a tiny back rub. Light fingertips. Slow movements. The same tenderness she uses when petting our house cat.

Meanwhile, I stood behind her, quietly marveling at the contrast in my children. One plotting covert aquatic jailbreaks. The other administering spa treatments to plankton.

Somewhere in that, by midday, I hit a wall.

The kind of bone-deep tired that comes from travel, wind, overstimulation, and mediating sea lion freedom negotiations. When we saw there was a 4D short film in the theatre, some wholesome nature learning experience, I thought: Perfect. Ten minutes. Dark room. Seats. I can close my eyes and no one will know.

So we took our seats in the theatre…

We put on our 3D glasses. The film began to roll. I leaned back. Just a brief reset, I told myself…

And then—

Water.

A sharp blast to the face.

I jolted like I’d been baptized without consent. Apparently 4D means water effects. And wind machines. And bubbles. And immersive environmental sensations designed specifically to prevent middle-aged mothers from achieving micro-naps.

As the on-screen storm intensified, the theatre filled with gusts of wind perfectly timed to the nature scenes… salmon jumping upstream, bears catching them, fierce struggles. Mist sprayed. Seats vibrated. The children shrieked in delight. I clutched my armrest, fully awake and betrayed by my own optimism.

It was not the restful, restorative pause I had envisioned.

But it was memorable.

It was sometime between jellyfish backrubs and in line for our MERMAID DELIGHT ice creams that Hillary’s phone buzzed with urgency.

Adam was working Sunday. Official Coast Guard business. Which, in their world, means the day can pivot at any moment.

She looked down at the screen.

Adam: On the hovercraft. Will be by Third Beach in 30 mins. If you guys can make it.

We all froze.

Hovercraft?

In action?

Third Beach was ten minutes away. Ten minutes plus parking plus herding plus Stanley Park logistics. This was not a casual stroll scenario. This was a mobilization.

Mermaid Delights were instantly converted to go-cups. Spoons clutched like batons. We exited the Aquarium at speed, hustling toward the car, weaving through traffic with the urgency of people who might miss something extraordinary.

Stanley Park blurred past us.

We parked. We ran.

Across the path. Down the trail. Onto the sand.

And just as our shoes hit the beach, we heard it.

Not a hum. Not a boat engine.

A roar.

Across the water, cutting through wind and waves, came the Canadian Coast Guard hovercraft. Bright red. Massive. Impossible to ignore. It did not glide politely. It arrived.

There are only two of these in all of Canada. The east coast one handles icebreaking. This one serves the Pacific. It can carry up to 100 people, built for serious rescue operations. And here it was, bearing down on Third Beach like something out of an adventure plot.

The fans thundered. Spray exploded outward. Sand whipped up as it approached. It didn’t dock. It didn’t ease in.

It came straight up onto the beach!

Like a mechanical whale beaching itself.

We stood there, windblown, ice cream forgotten, watching this massive machine crest onto the sand. The noise vibrated in our chests. Children shrieked. Strangers gathered. Phones lifted.

And at the front of the craft, steady and unmistakable, was Adam.

He jumped down onto the beach with calm efficiency, like this was just another Sunday. Like he hadn’t just slid one of the rarest rescue machines in the country onto a public shoreline.

By this point, it was a full-blown spectacle.

From somewhere in the crowd, someone shouted, “That’s my hero!”

We turned.

It was Mitch.

And honestly?

Accurate.

We stood there, grinning like absolute nerds, admiring the massive hovercraft that had just dropped itself in the middle of a beach.

Some families do brunch on Sundays.

We apparently do live Coast Guard demonstrations.

After the hovercraft spectacle, after the sand and the spray, we exhaled.

We moseyed through Stanley Park, letting the adrenaline drain out of our systems. The park does that to you. Tall trees, winding paths, ocean peeking through in flashes of silver.

Eventually hunger re-entered the chat.

We decided on Linner. Not quite lunch. Not quite dinner. That sacred late-afternoon meal that families with children understand deeply. We landed at White Spot, which felt appropriately Canadian and comfort-forward after a day of aquatic adventures.

Naomi and her daughter joined us, along with the cousins. We slid into booths, and reminisced about the day. About Whistler years. About how strange and wonderful it is to fold old friends into new chapters of life. Kids weaving between conversations. Laughter layered over the low hum of the restaurant that conveniently had a happy hour going on.

By 5:00pm, the day had reached that full, satisfied kind of tired. We hugged Naomi goodbye, packed back into the car, and aimed ourselves toward the ferry terminal.

Mainland behind us. Island calling. Girls endlessly repeating, “I miss Uncle Luc” and “Can we stay here forever?”

As the ferry pulled away and Vancouver’s skyline softened into evening light, the girls leaned against us, quieter now. Waves rolled under the hull. Mountains darkened on the horizon.

By the time we reached Cobble Hill, it felt like we had lived four separate days inside one weekend.

Ocean Beach. Olympics. Aquarium. Hovercraft. Happy Hour. Ferry again.

Not bad for a weekend in Vancouver!

Stay tuned for the roundup of Days 5 - 6: back in Cobble Hill + Langford.