Preface

The water is calm. I dip my paddle rhythmically as a sleek grey seal surfaces just a whisker away from my kayak. I am circling Ucluelet Harbour, going counter-​clockwise, reliving history, trying to draw together the threads of the past.

As I glide along, the fabric of this book begins to form.

Strategically located near the mouth of the harbour is hitac̓u, also known as Ucluelet East, permanent village of the Yuułuʔiłʔatḥ (Ucluelet First Nation).

Farther along, I veer right of Lyche Island and glide past Port Albion, where the first colonial settlement was originally located, and where some Japanese Canadian families lived before internment. Passing the mouth of Mercer Creek, and then Mercantile Creek, I stay right of Kvarno Island. Ever hopeful of a wildlife sighting, I scan the entrance to Thornton Creek on my right. Site of the local fish hatchery, it is a popular hangout for black bears, but they are elsewhere this morning.

Close to the head of the harbour, I float and gaze at what was once the site of the logging camp where I spent my early childhood. The homes, swing set and forts, the bunkhouses, the cookhouse are all gone now. Only a dryland log sort, where felled trees are organized by size and quality, remains.

Starting down the harbour’s west side, I recall my aunt’s stories of the tiny, once-​thriving, now-​defunct community of Stapleby, a settlement dating from the early 1900s. Soon I am alongside the site of a Second World War Royal Canadian Air Force seaplane base. Next comes the boat basin and what was once called the “Japanese Dock,” in Sunahama Bay, with its wealth of fishing history. At the Eagle’s Nest Marina, I stop to mentally picture the former houses of Bunji Bay. Past several fish plants there is the Whiskey Dock, the original transportation hub for this harbour town. From the Whiskey Dock, Main Street runs uphill to where St. Aidan’s Church still stands sentinel, although newly clad and repurposed, a sign of changing times.

I glide between the 52 Steps Dock and the old houses atop pilings in Fraser Bay, below Imperial Lane. Before internment, Japanese Canadian families called these houses home. Several strong strokes later, I stop to assess what was once my family’s home. The house my dad built when we moved into town from the logging camp still looks good. Dad’s wharf is functional, but the boathouse he constructed for his boat building has seen better days.

I take a wide berth around Neptune Ice fish plant, wary of an ornery-​sounding sea lion on the lower dock. Past the fuel dock, I am soon passing my present harbourside home, to skirt alongside huumanʔiš ( Hyphocus Island), once another strategic Yuułuʔiłʔatḥ site. I nose into Spring Cove, site of an early trading post, then a small settlement that housed a lifeboat station, and now the home of the Kimotos, a well-​known Japanese Canadian family.

From there, I check for oncoming boat traffic. It’s all clear, so I head straight across the bay towards the small bay called t̓ukʷaa (Du Quah), a strategically placed site important to the t̓uk̓ʷaaʔatḥ ( Toquaht First Nation). A bald eagle calls from atop a giant red cedar. Avoiding a glistening kelp bed, I take long, even strokes around a rocky point to Stuart Bay, traditionally called hac̓aaqis and also Hakoda Bay, with its close connections to both First Nations and Japanese Canadian heritage.

Having come full circle, I pause, bobbing in a slight swell. Gazing up the harbour, I feel the threads of history wind around me. Things fall into place. This project doesn’t need to be my Everest. Mount Ozzard, looming over Ucluelet Harbour, is much more attainable. I feel ready to write this history of Ucluelet, my safe harbour, a book that stems from my deep love of place.