I wake up to the sound of waves crashing against the rocky shoreline. Searching for my watch, the time reads 6:15 am. It is pitch black outside and I contemplate attempting to fall back asleep on my partially deflated air mattress. Then I hear the shuffling sound of someone getting out of their tent. After a moment of silence, there’s the comforting sound of cedar being delicately split with a hatchet. I immediately know it's Pete and decide to rise and help him get a fire going; the lifeblood of every surf trip up the coast.
There’s a reason Pete’s always the first one in the water on these excursions – it’s because he’s always the first one to wake up, too. He’s been coming out to camp and surf here since his teenage years and has this particular spot so dialled that the moment he touches the water, the waves start pumping. Often, after he catches his last wave in, the wind will inevitably switch.
We continue chatting excitedly, until Pete suddenly says, “Bear.” He says it calmly, mid-sentence, and at first, I think I mishear him. Then I point my headlamp in the same direction as his gaze. Only a few metres away, a young, healthy-looking black bear is roaming around just outside our makeshift campsite. Before we can react, the bear looks up and notices us watching it, and a standoff ensues. The bear’s giant eyes are glowing from the reflection of our headlamps and we instinctively freeze, in awe of the beauty of this being, while also anxious as to what might happen next.
The bear makes the first move. It lifts its paw in preparation for its next step and turns its shoulders in our direction. Pete and I simultaneously start shouting at the top of our lungs and throwing our arms in the air in hope that the “Bear Aware” skills we learned as kids are still on point. Our furry visitor considers us for a moment, then turns around and slowly saunters off into the darkness. The rest of our crew wakes up abruptly, heads popping out of tents, and want to know what the hell just happened?
By the time we’ve finished our coffees and recapping the encounter, dawn is breaking. I start suiting up in my damp wetsuit as quickly as possible – the thought of the frigid water seems less of a concern, knowing that a bigger, less amiable momma bear could be lurking nearby.
Pete is eager to surf and explains that he’ll test out the tide and meet us in the water. He’s offering to be the guinea pig, but I know full well he wants a brief solo session before everyone else joins him. I take longer than Pete to get ready, putting my camera and water housing together. I start the 30-minute journey alone, walking across the wet, slippery reef, fins clacking together in my hand with each step. I briefly turn back to see the campfire smoke billow through the spruce trees, causing the backlit sunrise to create the effect of light beams piercing the forest.
I look to the lineup and see Pete backdooring the peak into an overhead barrel as the morning light touches the water. The tide seems just fine to me. After he kicks out, he paddles assertively, hoping to make it back to the empty lineup to snag the final wave in the set.
Later that day, we’ve created a human conveyor belt to move all our gear and supplies from camp, to the shore, to the boat, as quickly and efficiently as possible. We need to get back to the harbour before dark, but there’s another reason for our haste. Across the bay, a larger bear is sitting, patiently watching us roam around their territory.
Various images and text were utilized for Surfline, The Surfers Journal, White Horses Magazine, Carve, Yeti, Manera Wetsuits & Cold Comfort.