A Seaside Escape: Finding Comfort in Urban Wildlife - March 17, 2025

I needed a brain break. After spending all day on the computer, I felt my soul yearning for fresh air and open skies. The fluffy clouds against the blue, the crisp cold air—it was the perfect excuse to get outside. You never really know what the weather is going to do on Vancouver Island, so I bundled up, preparing for anything, and set off in search of urban wildlife.

Brant Geese coming in for a landing, all in a formation

My first stop was a local beach where Great Blue Herons are often found. But today, no herons. Instead, I was greeted by the sight—and sound—of countless Brant Geese. Their calls filled the air as they fed along the shoreline, a chorus of chatter that felt oddly comforting. These geese are stunning, with their rich chocolate brown, black, and white markings.

Did you know? Brant Geese are one of the most sea-dependent geese in the world! Unlike their relatives, they don’t graze on land as much and prefer coastal salt marshes, estuaries, and eelgrass beds. They migrate thousands of kilometers from the Arctic to winter along the Pacific Coast, including Vancouver Island.

I sat on the beach for a while, watching them interact with their families.

And then it hit me. So much of my family is gone.

Lately, I’ve been missing my mom more than ever. She was my biggest cheerleader, and I know she would have loved all the photography I’m doing now. I also found myself thinking about my fur babies, my girls. They were water dogs through and through, and they would have absolutely loved this beach. That longing sat heavy on my heart as I sighed, feeling the wind pick up, and made my way back to the car.

Not quite ready to head home, I decided to stop by a small seaside town, hoping to find herons or cormorants. Just as I stepped out of the car, dark storm clouds rolled in. The air had that eerie, electric stillness before a downpour, and I knew I had only a few minutes before the heavens opened up.

I quickly snapped some shots of cormorants perched on the pier pilings. As I looked closer, I realized there was a mix of species—Double-crested Cormorants and Common Cormorants (Great Cormorants).

Did you know? Double-crested Cormorants and Common Cormorants often mix in coastal areas, but they have key differences. Double-crested Cormorants are smaller with a thinner neck and bright orange-yellow throat patch, while Common Cormorants are larger with a thicker build and white facial markings. Both species are expert divers, using their webbed feet to propel themselves underwater to catch fish.

As I watched the mix of cormorants on the pier pilings, one Common Cormorant in particular gave me a long, curious look, tilting its head slightly as if trying to figure me out. I had to laugh—it was that unmistakable mix of suspicion and curiosity that birds sometimes have, like they’re deciding whether you're worth paying attention to or not. For a moment, it felt like we were just two observers, sizing each other up across the water.

Then, to my surprise, I spotted a Great Blue Heron hunkered down on a piling. He looked grumpy, cold, and completely unimpressed by the weather—but still breathtaking in that unmistakable heron way.

Did you know? When temperatures drop, Great Blue Herons often scrunch up, pulling their long necks close to their bodies to conserve heat and minimize exposure to the cold. This posture can make them look shorter and rounder than their usual elegant stance. Despite their patience and resilience, they’re not big fans of the cold—you can almost see the grumpy expression on their faces when winter winds pick up!

As I wandered toward some nearby rocks, I heard the telltale squawking of seagulls. I turned to see a small group of them in an absolute frenzy, fighting over something wedged between the rocks. I couldn’t help myself—I asked them, What are you fighting over?

Then, to my shock, one seagull reached in and pulled out a purple starfish.

I stood there, camera ready, as he hopped a few rocks away and—without hesitation—gulped it down whole. Stunned, I locked eyes with him through my lens and, in that moment, I named him Sully the Seagull.

Gulp....

Gulp...

Gulp...

But Sully’s victory was short-lived.

Another seagull, this one grey, flew in and grabbed onto the corner of the starfish hanging from Sully’s mouth. He yanked. And yanked. Until—success! He stole the starfish and flew off, another seagull hot on his tail. Poor Sully was left standing there, looking utterly disappointed and, if I’m honest, a little embarrassed.

I laughed and said to him, That’s what you get for stealing someone else’s starfish and not swallowing it fast enough!

Just as I was finishing up, the storm finally unleashed its fury—hail came crashing down, and I ran for the car. I sat there for a while, listening to the ice pelt the windshield, reflecting on the day.

Even though I hadn’t expected to capture much wildlife, the adventure had turned into something more meaningful. Even though my grief is still very much a part of me—something I carry daily—I’ve learned how to live with it a little better. And in that moment, I felt gratitude.

Golden Crowned Sparrow

I’m grateful for my Aunt, my constant birding spotter, who supports me by just being there, listening, and reminding me that it’s okay not to be okay. I’m grateful for my cousins, who check in from far away, and for my brother and nephew, who show their support in their own ways.

And I’m grateful for urban wildlife. Because in the middle of all this grief, these moments with nature—these unexpected, wild, sometimes hilarious moments—help me focus my grief. They give me something to hold onto, something to document, something to cherish. And for that, I am eternally grateful.