November 1 & 2, 2025 — Duke’s Marina (Sechelt) to Buccaneer Bay (Thormanby Island)
We hadn’t been back to Sea Goat since August. Every time we planned to go, the weather turned. Wind warnings. Rain. One excuse after another from the coast. By November, it felt like the boat had been waiting for us as much as we’d been waiting for her.
This time, we weren’t coming alone. A new mate had joined the crew.
After fostering a dog for a month, I somehow ended up adopting him. But that’s another story. Funny how life moves like that. One day you don’t believe in signs at all, and the next they seem to be everywhere. Sometimes I wonder if Juno had something to do with it. As if she knew this part of life wasn’t meant to be done empty handed. I like to believe so.
His name is Milo. I didn’t know how he’d feel about the boat. He’d already been through enough in his pup life, so there was no pressure for him to become some salty sea dog overnight. I bought him a little life jacket and promised him we’d move at his pace. If he hated it, we’d adapt. Comfort and safety first. Always.
To my surprise, he walked down the gangway without hesitation. Good sign.
The water was calm enough that afternoon that the crossing barely felt like movement at all. We kept the plan simple and headed for Buccaneer Bay on Thormanby Island, our favourite anchorage. Protected water. Beautiful shoreline. Easy beach access for a dog still learning the world.
Winter days disappear fast out here. By the time the anchor set, dusk was already folding itself into the bay. We took the dinghy to shore and watched the sky burn through layers of cloud. One of those sunsets that feels almost too dramatic to be real.
We built a fire on the beach. Sat on the sand. Looked up at the stars shimmering above.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Juno. Grief is strange that way. It doesn’t always arrive loudly. Sometimes it sits beside you quietly while driftwood burns down to coals.
The next morning, the clouds were gone. Cold blue sky. Coffee on the beach. Eagle calls somewhere in the trees. I walked the shoreline with Milo while he sniffed absolutely everything like it had all been placed there specifically for him.
We ran into the island caretaker Brian and his dog, Sparrow. Milo attached himself to Sparrow instantly. They’re gonna be island buddies. In winter, those might be the only people we see out there. Most of the cabins sit dark for months once the cold settles in.
That’s part of why Thormanby feels so different in the off season. In summer, it belongs to visitors and seasonal residents. In winter, it feels like it belongs to the weather.
Back onboard, Milo stayed curled on his little bench while we cooked dinner. Maui ribs sizzling on the BBQ beside a pot of mac and cheese, the kind of oddly luxurious meal that somehow tastes even better at anchor in cold weather. Condensation slowly gathered on the windows.
Having a dog changes the rhythm of boat life. Suddenly your days are structured around someone else’s needs. Shore trips. Bathroom breaks. Short walks between tides and weather windows. It pulls you out of yourself a little.
And I’m all here for it.
November 8 & 9, 2025 — Duke’s Marina (Sechelt) to Buccaneer Bay (Thormanby Island)
The second trip with our new crew member felt different already.
Milo remembered the dock. Remembered the sound of the dinghy bumping against the hull. Remembered where his spot was inside the cabin. Small things, but they felt important.
We stayed close again. No reason to rush any of it.
The coast in November has a kind of silence that feels impossible in summer. No music drifting from anchored boats. No generators. No paddleboards sliding across the bay. Just the occasional gull overhead and the soft knock of halyards somewhere far away.
Milo was beginning to understand the routine. Shore. Boat. Blanket. Shore again.
And slowly, we were too.
November 29 & 30, 2025 — Duke’s Marina (Sechelt) to Buccaneer Bay (Thormanby Island)
By the end of November, Milo had become part of the crew.
He moved around the boat carefully but without fear, watching the shoreline pass from the cockpit like he’d always belonged there.
That weekend brought one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen at Thormanby. The kind that turns the entire horizon into something alive. Layers of orange and violet spilling through low winter clouds while the water reflects all of it back in broken pieces.
There’s something about Thormanby Island in winter that makes sunsets feel bigger than they are elsewhere. Maybe it’s the openness of the sandbars and the low horizon. Maybe it’s because there are no distractions left once everyone leaves for the season. Just sky. Water. Wind. Light.
Not a single person passed through the bay all weekend.
Only bald eagles circling above the trees. Buff-leafed gulls drifting over the water. The occasional loon calling somewhere beyond the fog line.
At night, coyotes echoed across the island.
Their voices carried farther in the cold air, weaving through the darkness in waves. Beautiful and unsettling at the same time. After sunset, Milo stayed on leash.
Listening to them from inside the cabin, I kept thinking about how wild the coast still becomes once winter strips the crowds away.
And somehow, in the clouds above the sunset, I could almost feel Juno running there.
Still watching. Still loving.
January 17 & 18, 2026 — Duke’s Marina (Sechelt) to Buccaneer Bay (Thormanby Island)
By January we’d learned another lesson about winter boating.
Leave a crack in the windows.
We arrived to a cabin so damp it felt like the boat itself was breathing condensation. Every surface wet to the touch. Blankets cold with moisture. Next time: humidity packs. Better airflow. Another small lesson added to the long list the ocean keeps teaching.
Outside, though, it was beautiful.
The water stayed impossibly calm all weekend. That soft steel-grey calm the coast sometimes slips into during winter. No wake. No traffic. Just stillness.
I love the coast most this time of year.
Everything unnecessary disappears.
That morning the fog sat low across the bay while sunlight tried to break through it. The whole world glowed white and silver.
And then I saw it.
A white rainbow.
The second one I’d seen that year.
The first had appeared the day after Juno died.
I never used to believe in signs like that. Never thought much about the idea of people staying with us after they’re gone. But grief changes the architecture of your thinking. Suddenly the world feels full of messages you can’t quite explain.
Standing there in the fog, staring at that pale arc suspended in the sky, I felt the same thing I’d felt the first time.
Like she was still here somehow.
Watching over us.
By evening the fog dissolved and the sky opened completely. Another unreal sunset. Another white rainbow… Then stars. Thousands of them scattered over the mast and the dark water.
Brian and Sparrow passed by on one of their walks along shore, though we stayed onboard that time.
Inside the cabin, wrapped in blankets while Milo slept nearby, I remember feeling something I hadn’t felt in a while.
Full. I was feeling full.
Maybe that’s why I love the coast in winter so much. In all that quiet, she still feels close.
Like maybe life doesn’t return after loss by replacing what disappeared. Maybe it returns by making space for something new beside it.
Footloose Diary 