Sea of Dreams

The Salish

She is the child of the vast Pacific and lofty mountains. She is cold, clear, shrouded in clouds, and dotted with islands. Sometimes, she is translucent and black, like obsidian. Sometimes, she is emerald green, frothy and angry. Sometimes, she is cumulo-grey, somber, and still. Sometimes, she is royal blue, white-flecked, sparkling, and joyous.

She is a witch devoted to the moon, who lures her this way and that. She follows lunar temptation with fierce tides and swift currents. Her mother ocean inhales wet, cloudy streams from the south and exhales hard, cold wind from the north. The wind swirls, splits, and twists around mountains and between islands. It blasts down long, narrow reaches and fans across burly open sounds.

South of Juan de Fuca, she kisses the plunging slopes of the Olympics. North of the rolling strait, she laps the gentle, rocky beaches of Cowichan, Comox, Nanoose, and Nanaimo.

In the clear-cut, settled south, people encrust her shores. In the blazing Seattle/Tacoma megalopolis, they look inland, barely know she exists. In crowded Vancouver, piled high in steel and glass towers, a population stares vacantly across the wide, foggy straits toward enticing, forested islands. Her prolific indigenous shellfish mudflats gave way to smoking pioneer lumber mills and canneries now superseded by affluent resorts, marinas, and waterfront mansions. Such is the price of progress.

In the wild north, quiet still reigns. Deep, ancient forests dip down to tidal coves and beaches. Elk, eagle, otter, and bear roam her shores and splash in her surf. Orcas, seals, salmon, herring, and trout swim and spawn in her inlets and bays.

She converses with Mother Ocean twice a day when the moon sends pelagic water swirling and turbulent through narrow rock-lined channels and bottlenecks. She piles up against island headlands in rolling bow waves. She rushes inbound down opposite shores - slows, slackens, turns, and rushes outbound again. She swashes in and out, except in some mysterious, magical places, where she always flows in the same direction regardless of time or tide. Most of her passages are deep, and her currents are fast and cold. But, some places are shallow and muddy, extend well out from shore, and dry completely twice a day. The prudent sea creature works with her tides, never against them.

Once, cedar canoes propelled by drum beats and chants carried families to visit friends and neighbors, fish the sandbanks, smoke salmon over cedar fires, and dig succulent oysters and clams from the flats. Later, small sailing ships and steamers plied up and down to deliver goods and people to growing cities and isolated islands. Roaring railroads, airplanes, and automobiles soon made such slow, tranquil transportation obsolete. But, in the far reaches, her bays and islands still persist as the serene haunts of vagabonds, sailors, and fisherfolk.

She sounds like gentle acoustic music when the sun sets orange and gold behind the Olympics. She sounds like a hissing chorus of demons when the wind howls out of the southeast. She sounds like a chuckling, joyful, electric jazz guitar when a sailboat reaches down tide for home.

She is the deep reservoir of peace at the bottom of meditation. She is an ever-changing, timeless presence. She is other than human. She is refined wilderness amid corrupt civilization.

She is this place’s ancient, sacred soul - she is the keeper of dreams.