With Photographs by Nigel Motyer

‘In these northern waters, time is measured differently. Not by clocks or calendars, but by the eternal rhythm of tides. The First Nations peoples of these shores understood this - how the waters would surge and retreat, how they would tremble the very foundations of islands, how they would dictate the patterns of all life. To truly know these waters is to learn this ancient wisdom.’

          – Chief Dan George, Tsleil-Waututh Nation, 1967 

The ancient cedars loom through ribbons of morning fog, their shadows gradually revealing the bones of the British Columbia coastline. After twenty years, I have returned to these northern waters, drawn back to explore the diverse marine life and dramatic underwater landscapes of Vancouver Island. The seas here inspired my first book, Cool Waters Emerald Seas, born from a journey aboard the Nautilus Explorer in 2004 when we circumnavigated the island, exploring its diverse underwater realms. That trip revealed the extraordinary nature of the Pacific Northwest – from the pristine walls of Browning Pass to the rich marine life of Rock of Life. Nakwakto Rapids, one of the planet’s most challenging cold water dive sites, was unknown to me then - its existence and remarkable nature were revealed only on this return trip when our skipper described planning our entire week’s diving schedule around a single slack tide window. Each day leading up to Thursday’s planned attempt, we consulted weather reports and discussed conditions, hoping the sea gods would cooperate.

As we enter Seymour Inlet, the landscape closes around us, and we reduce speed. Now released from the fog, the cedars and spruce grip the steep shoreline, their lower branches draped with pale green Usnea lichen that seems to glow in the filtered morning light. These forest-clad walls rise nearly 3,000 feet from waters that plunge 700 feet deep, creating a fjord-like passage that channels water and history through its narrow confines. Looking at the quiet shoreline now, it’s hard to imagine that less than sixty years ago, this inlet supported thriving Indigenous communities, their lives attuned to the rhythms of tide and season that had sustained their ancestors for millennia.

The skipper, noting my gaze toward a sheltered cove, speaks quietly. “The native Gwa’sala-‘Nakwaxda’xw people lived here until ‘64,” he says, letting the date hang in the air. “Government came in summer, burned their homes, moved everyone to Port Hardy.” His words carry the weight of a tragedy still raw in living memory. The waters we traverse were once their highways and hunting grounds, the forests their gardens and gathering places. In a single season, centuries of connection to place were severed, leaving only empty shores and memories.

The boat’s motion changes as we approach Nakwakto Rapids. Here, the waters of multiple inlets funnel through a passage barely 400 meters wide, creating one of the planet’s most powerful tidal flows. At its peak, currents can reach 14.5 knots—faster than most boats can power against. Even now, approaching slack tide, we can see the water’s surface betraying the forces beneath, whirlpools appearing and vanishing like spirits.

Turret Rock is at the heart of this maelstrom, known locally as Tremble Island. The Gwa’sala-‘Nakwaxda’xw people named it thus, saying the island would shake when the waters reached their full fury. Science now confirms what traditional knowledge long knew - these are among the fastest tidal rapids on Earth, moving nearly four billion cubic feet of water with each exchange. The forces that make this place so challenging for divers have also created something extraordinary beneath the surface - a unique community of marine life found almost nowhere else on the planet.

Preparing to dive into Nakwakto demands a peculiar combination of patience and urgency. While we wait for the precise moment of slack tide, each diver double-checks their equipment while there is time. The skipper has planned this day for months, calculating when the rapids’ fury will ease enough to allow safe entry. Even now, an hour before slack, the water moves with such power that bull kelp stands horizontal, like pennants in a gale.

“Maybe twenty minutes of diveable time today,” the skipper advises, studying the chart plotter that shows the complex interplay of multiple tidal streams. The success of diving Nakwakto depends entirely on precise timing. Miss the slack window, and these waters become simply impossible.

I leave my underwater camera behind, surprising my dive buddies. This first dive in Nakwakto deserves undivided attention, a chance to simply experience these remarkable waters. If fortune grants another visit, I’ll know what photographic possibilities await. We perform our final equipment checks as the boat manoeuvres into the lee of Turret Rock. The water temperature is 9°C – cold enough to demand respect but typical for these northern waters.

Our entry is cautious but deliberate. Even in the relative shelter of the island, the water holds latent energy, like a runner catching breath between sprints. Descending through emerald waters, the first thing that strikes me is the density of life clinging to every surface. The rocks are transformed into living tapestries by countless red gooseneck barnacles, their translucent stalks glowing with haemoglobin-rich blood. Unlike their black-pigmented cousins in the shallows, these deep-water variants display their internal chemistry openly, creating a submarine landscape that seems almost artificial in its vibrancy.

Among the barnacles, feather-duster worms extend their spiral crowns like living flowers, each a miracle of natural engineering. Their tentacled heads, resembling Victorian chimney sweeps’ brushes, filter the nutrient-rich waters swirling past. Everything here is adapted to survive and thrive in conditions that would tear less specialized creatures away.

We fin carefully toward the channel’s edge, watching the bull kelp for signs of current strength. Earlier, these giant algae streamed like flags in a gale; now, they hang more leisurely, marking our brief window of opportunity. The rock faces beyond the kelp forest reveal even more spectacular life congregations. Every surface hosts competing colonies of creatures, each adapted to harness the energy of the rapids. Jewel anemones create patches of living colour that would humble any artist’s palette while soft red corals pulse gently in the dying current.

As we move through these waters, I reflect on how this place has drawn me back. Twenty years ago, photographing the vibrant life of Vancouver Island’s waters, I couldn’t have known how those images would lead to a book or how that book would lead me back here. Now, without my camera, I see these waters differently - not through a viewfinder, but with the direct wonder of a first-time visitor.

The forty minutes we spend in Nakwakto’s embrace pass with the peculiar time shift that divers know well. Each moment demands complete presence—monitoring the kelp’s movement, checking our position relative to the rock, and watching our computers. Yet simultaneously, the dive feels suspended in time, as if we’ve entered one of those rare slack periods when past and present flow together like mixing currents.

Our ascent comes as the first pulse of the returning tide makes itself known - a subtle but unmistakable shift in the water’s energy. Breaking the surface in the lee of Tremble Island, we find ourselves momentarily wordless. The skipper’s knowing grin asks the question that takes us several moments to answer. How do you describe a dive that represents not just the culmination of twenty years’ anticipation but a return to waters that shaped your understanding of what cold water diving could be?

Later, as our boat turns south toward Port Hardy, I watch the rock island recede into the fog that’s returned to cloak the shoreline. These waters have witnessed so much—the traditional lives of the Gwa’sala-‘Nakwaxda’xw people, their forced departure, and now the slow process of reconciliation and return. The unique creatures that thrive in these rapids—the blood-red barnacles, the feather-duster worms, and the tenacious bull kelp—have their own story of adaptation and survival to tell.

My journey with these waters began in 2004, leading to words and images that attempted to capture the essence of cold water diving. Twenty years later, experiencing Nakwakto without a camera has revealed something more profound: how some places demand more than documentation. They require us to simply be present, witness their power and beauty directly, and acknowledge the natural and human histories that flow through them like eternal tides.

The twin engines harmonize once again as we make our way home, their rhythm echoing the pulse of the rapids we’ve just left. Time moves like the tides in these waters - sometimes rushing forward with unstoppable force, sometimes creating brief moments of clarity when past and present become as clear as the morning we were granted today.