The Otter Was Dining, the Gulls Were Screaming, and I Was Thriving - May 19, 2026

Sometimes we convince ourselves that in order to spend time with wildlife, we need to pack snacks, drive for hours, hike into the wilderness, cross a suspension bridge, climb a mountain, wrestle a bear, okay, maybe not that last one and generally make it a whole dramatic production.

But sometimes?

Sometimes you just take a short drive along the coastline near your apartment and nature says, “Excellent. You’re here. We have a full program prepared.”

That was exactly what happened.

I wasn’t far from home. I wasn’t on some epic expedition. I was simply driving along the coast with my camera, seeing what I could see.

And apparently, what I could see was an entire wildlife soap opera.

First up: a Great Blue Heron in the bay.

Elegant. Focused. Majestic. Basically the supermodel of the shoreline.

The heron was fishing, standing there with that calm, prehistoric patience that makes you feel like it knows secrets from 4,000 years ago. I watched as it stared into the water, waiting for the perfect moment.

Then, strike. Tiny fish acquired. And somehow, by some miracle of timing, I managed to capture a photo of the heron gulping the fish down mid-swallow. Mid. Gulp.

It was incredible.

The tiny fish was having a very bad day. The heron was having an excellent one. And I was over there with my camera like, “Thank you, nature. No notes.”

Honestly, I could have gone home happy right then.

But no.

The coastline had apparently decided this was not just a casual outing. This was going to be a full wildlife variety show.

Next, I saw a Bald Eagle fly overhead. Beautiful. Powerful. Iconic. And then I saw a crow chasing it.

Because of course. Nothing humbles a Bald Eagle quite like a crow with attitude.

The eagle looked like it wanted to land along the shoreline near a boat launch I was approaching, but the crow was persistent. Actually, persistent might be too polite. That crow was committed. That crow had a mission. That crow woke up and chose violence.

The eagle eventually gave up and moved on, which honestly felt like the bird version of, “Fine, I’ll go somewhere else.”

But then I noticed the seagulls. There were a lot of them gathered near the shore, and they were absolutely losing their minds. Now, I have learned something important from spending time around wildlife: when seagulls are freaking out, something is happening.

It might be food. It might be drama. It might be both. Either way, I needed to investigate. So I parked, grabbed my camera, and approached slowly. The gulls were still carrying on like someone had just cancelled brunch. There was flapping. There was yelling. There was a general sense of chaos.

And then I saw him. A river otter. Not swimming by. Not posing politely. Not offering a cute little National Geographic moment.

No. This river otter was chowing down on a fish like he had a reservation for one and absolutely no time for nonsense.

He was tucked along the rocks, fully invested in his dinner. I took a few snapshots, then repositioned myself to get a better vantage point.

The otter looked at me once or twice, but let me be clear: he did not care.

Not even a little.

He gave me the briefest “Can I help you?” glance and then went right back to destroying his fish.

Honestly, I respected it.

There is something deeply admirable about an animal that is completely committed to its meal and entirely uninterested in people, boats, gulls, photography, or society’s expectations.

He was busy. He was booked. He was dining.

At one point, a boat approached the launch. Did the otter panic? No. Did he abandon his fish? Absolutely not. Did he dramatically flee the scene?

Please. He grabbed that massive fish, slipped into the water, swam farther down the rocks, climbed back out, and resumed dinner.

Icon behaviour.

This otter did not lose the plot. He simply relocated the restaurant.

I sat there with my 400mm lens, watching him eat. At first, I kept taking photos because obviously, when a river otter is sitting several feet away from you eating a fish, you take the photos.

But after a while, I stopped. I lowered the camera and just watched.

There he was, a wild animal living among the city, eating his dinner, keeping to himself, bothering absolutely no one, and somehow causing an entire committee of seagulls to have a public meltdown.

And beneath all the humour and chaos, there was something really beautiful about it.

The otter reminded me that sometimes the best thing we can do is stay focused on what nourishes us.

Life can get loud. The gulls can scream. The crows can chase eagles. Boats can interrupt. Everything around us can feel dramatic, noisy, and completely ridiculous.

But the otter? The otter simply picked up what mattered, moved to a safer place, and kept going. That felt like a message. Maybe healing does not always look graceful. Maybe it looks like gathering what is precious, moving a little farther away from the noise, and continuing to feed your spirit. Maybe it looks like protecting your peace with the calm confidence of a river otter holding a giant fish.

And honestly? I love that for him. I love that for all of us.

This short coastal drive reminded me that we do not have to go far to find wild magic. We do not need a huge plan, a perfect day, or some distant destination. Sometimes nature is right there beside us — in the bay, above the shoreline, tucked along the rocks near a boat launch, living its life while the city carries on around it.

A Great Blue Heron gulping down a tiny fish. A Bald Eagle getting aggressively escorted by a crow. Seagulls screaming like unpaid extras in a disaster movie. And one very unbothered river otter enjoying dinner with the confidence of someone who knows exactly who he is.

This is why I go outside. This is why I bring my camera.

BONUS

And because apparently the coastline had committed to a full cast of characters, I also had an underwater visitor.

At one point during my journey, a harbour seal popped up to the surface and looked at me with that classic seal expression that says, “Hello. I noticed you are a human. Humans sometimes have snacks. Are we sharing today?”

Sadly for both of us, I did not have anything good to offer and, of course, wild animals are better off finding their own food. But for a brief moment, this curious little ocean potato surfaced, gave me a hopeful inspection, and then carried on with its watery business.

Honestly, harbour seals always look like they are halfway between being ancient sea spirits and nosy neighbours checking who just parked on the street.

I loved it.

It was such a sweet little reminder that the ocean is always watching back. While I was scanning the shoreline for birds, someone beneath the surface was apparently scanning me for snack potential.