TRAVEL TUESDAY / TWO U.S. SAILBOAT LOONIES FIND EXTREME HOPPINESS IN VICTORIA, BC

Fisherman's Wharf Park colorful floating homes reflecting in the water in Victoria, British Columbia 

Another in a year-long series of liveaboard (and off) adventures. 

GUEST BLOG / By Jennifer Silva Redmond, Author of Honeymoon at Sea. 

It’s hard to believe that in my 64 years of traveling the western hemisphere, the last 36 of those years spent on a sailboat and the last 3 sailing in Puget Sound, I had never been to Canada before this month. So, I was thrilled to be heading away from Washington state in flat calm seas, crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca. 

We motor-sailed toward Victoria, the biggest city on Vancouver Island, and then veered east to end up at Oak Bay, home of the Oak Bay Marina, where we’d reserved a slip. Not only would it make clearing Canadian customs easier, since there was a customs dock right in the marina, but it would be nice to be able to walk around the neighborhood easily by simply stepping off a dock. The people who handled our marina and slip reservations over the phone had both expressed the same reaction when I said it was my first trip ever to Canada: “Amazing!” It really was. 

In spite of the entrance to the slipway being one of the narrowest and trickiest we’d ever seen, Russel managed to maneuver Watchfire into our slip without incident after I tossed a long dock line to a young man from the marina, who was waiting on the dock to help us get in. I was very glad to step down onto the wooden dock and tie up the boat and a few minutes later we were walking over to the customs dock adjacent to the fuel dock in the marina. At the small building we found a telephone marked “Customs” and called in, but after getting the recorded voice twice and being transferred twice, we were disconnected twice. Eventually, we switched to our cell phone, and the call went through perfectly. The customs officials were very clear and welcoming; they simply asked when we’d arrived, requested our boat make and model and its registration number, along with our passport numbers. After that we were given a Canadian Customs report number to post in our boat’s window, and we were legal. 

Oak Bay Yacht Club

That first afternoon we only took a short walk around the marina and the nearby park. Oak Bay looked lush and verdant, set picturesquely on a rocky shore adorned with plenty of trees. We stayed in that night, happy to chill in front of a streamed movie on our TV—one of the perks of being in a marina is having free wifi for our smart TV (we don’t use free wi-fi for our computers, for security reasons). We looked at the free neighborhood maps we’d gotten from the marina and figured out our itinerary. I also emailed one of our old friends, Joni, a globetrotter who now lives in Victoria. She invited us for dinner Friday night, which worked out perfectly as that gave us a few days to take in the sights, as well as provision and do errands, before leaving the marina on the weekend. 

The next morning we did some boat jobs and took nice hot showers at the marina, which felt great after a week of boating with only “sink baths.” The showers operated on Loonies (Canadian dollar coins), with two Loonies equaling a five minute shower —the water continues coming out of the shower head, but gets cold when the time runs out. We boaters are practiced at taking short showers, so we managed, with my final hair rinse having turned ice-cold by the time the conditioner was out of my hair. 

 We were soon headed into the Village of Oak Bay, a short walk from the marina north along the waterfront park and then west along a nice avenue. At each residential intersection we looked down another broad tree-lined avenue of stately homes. The Village itself turned out to be a gem, with dozens of cool shops, a nice choice of rather upscale restaurants, and a food market. We’d only chosen Oak Bay because it looked easier to get into by boat, rather than coming into the busy main harbor of Victoria, with its cruise ships, ferries, tugs, and even seaplane arrivals and departures (not to mention other sailboats and power yachts zipping around!). It turns out that Oak Bay is one of the oldest and wealthiest neighborhoods in Victoria, so it is a great place to window shop. 

We visited a bank to inquire about changing money (we’d gotten a couple hundred Canadian dollars from our bank, but that wouldn’t last long in this neighborhood!). it turns out that bank tellers don’t change foreign money, only their ATMs do. I was able to figure out which bank was in my debit card group and withdrew a stack of the gorgeous and colorful bills. I’d almost forgotten how fun it is to spend pretty money. 

For lunch we happened upon the Penny Farthing Tavern (above) on Oak Bay Road, a tudor-themed building in the heart of the village, and a great choice. I had some of the best fish and chips ever and Russel had a tuna poke that was to die for, with fresh edamame and a delicious dressing. We also discovered Fat Tug IPA from locally owned Driftwood Brewery, thanks to the friendly bartender who gave us a taste of it after asking if we were okay with extreme hoppiness. Yes please! We strolled home to the marina quite full, and quite happy with our choice of home base. 

Joni had mentioned the Night Market happening in Oak Bay Village that night, so we took a lie-down break and headed back over to the village about 5pm to check it out. The village looked even more welcoming, with dozens of booths set up all up and down the main street, selling everything from candles to small batch whiskies to fresh morel mushrooms—I bought a whole pint box for $12! The sun was still high in the sky, being June in British Columbia, but it still had a festive night time air, with music being played in a couple of locations and tables set all over the courtyard of the Cork and Bottle, with unique wines and spirits to taste. 

We met a couple with a brewery in Victoria and exchanged some IPA appreciation. After we tasted and raved about their new lower alcohol IPA, a dank brew by the name of Kush-tastic, the boss-lady gave us a gift card to use at their brewery. 

The next morning we were on the city bus crossing over to Victoria proper, which looked pretty overwhelming—I was not prepared for it to be such a big city! I was reminded of San Francisco, especially in the downtown business district where we got off the bus. Of course, we had to see the big tourist sights, so we walked a few long city blocks to the waterfront on the inner harbor—the docks were bustling with activity, jammed with international racing vessels fresh off a big regatta. 

The Government Building had a big Welcome sign written in flowers across the front gardens, and the Empress Hotel (Pictured, above) sat in her regal glory just across the busy multi-lane avenue. We walked into the Empress to check it out; the dining rooms are all gorgeous, but we didn’t have any appetite so we kept walking. 

Needing a destination, we headed up Government Street toward the renowned Munro’s Books (above). I recognized a few stores, like Lululemon and of course, Starbucks, but most shops seemed to be one-off or maybe Canadian chain stores. All in all, it felt very European, but also familiar, in an odd way. Munro’s Books was charming and bright and rather cramped, jammed as it is with brilliant things to admire, not to mention a million books on every subject, including a huge selection of Canadiana, which I loved browsing through. 

Back out in the sunshine, we decided to visit Chinatown, just a few blocks farther uptown. We walked through Fan-Tan Alley, ate purple yam pastries at a cute cafe, admired all the curios and gorgeous fabrics in the shop windows, and perused the historic alleyways and avenues with their fascinating architecture. Having wandered a block past the last street sign decorated with Chinese designs, we turned back toward the waterfront. 

And where should we find our hungry and thirsty selves? Right across the street from Herald Street Brew Works, the very place whose owners we’d met the previous nice, that we knew made great beer and served pizza—and we had a discount card, too. We slaked our thirst, filled our tummies, bought a couple cans for another day, and soon got back on the bus, riding towards Fisherman’s Wharf, right where we’d be dining the next night with friends Joni and Glen. 

We quickly checked out Fisherman’s Wharf, a sweet family theme park of a place that felt all-too-familiar and touristy, before heading back to Oak Bay on the return bus. The stop in Oak Bay was at Windsor Park, home of the free scented garden—the flowers and herbs were a treat for the senses. Back at the boat we collapsed. We’d logged over 5 miles and were wiped out; at every stop that day we’d seen the cheery double-decker red British buses that do hop-on-hop-off tours, which might have been an easier, if pricier way to go. Next time we visit, maybe we’ll do that. 

 In case you wonder, we didn’t go to Butchart Gardens while we were in Oak Bay, we took the long way around the peninsula from bay to island to bay, in order to visit the famed gardens by boat. They are located next to an inlet that lets sailors moor and dock and enter through the back gate, so at this writing, that final visual delight is yet to occur. 

Author Jennifer Silva Redmond with Empress Hotel in background

Our final night was spent at the gorgeous harbor-side apartment of Joni and Glen, who wined and dined us in splendor. We toasted with champagne, had a delicious spread of hummus dips and crackers, then a dinner of Thai fish curry served over jasmine rice with baby bok choy, with a crisp white wine; the fresh seafood with Asian flavors made it the perfect “Victorian” dish. All this, while cruise ships docked and disgorged passengers seven floors below us, seaplanes (mainly from mainland Vancouver) zoomed past the windows, and the city sparkled and glimmered in the golden light of the setting sun. 

Interior of the Penny Farthing

A BIRTHDAY TO REMEMBER BEFORE THE WORLD TURNED A FOUL ORANGE

The student, faculty string ensemble from the Escuela de Arte Benny More in Cienfuegos, Cuba play for U.S. tour goers.  It was an honor to be at the school among the students, faculty, artists, art work and music.

On my birthday—one of those markers that sneaks up on you and then lingers—I found myself stepping off a tour bus in Cienfuegos, Cuba, along with twenty fellow travelers and a pair of patient guides who had mastered the art of moving a small crowd through a large country without ever seeming hurried. The bus sighed as it came to rest, doors folding open, and we spilled out into the warm, slightly salted air of a coastal city that carries itself with quiet dignity. 

There was nothing ceremonial about the stop. No banners, no speeches, no sense that anything had been arranged for our benefit beyond the courtesy of being allowed in. 

Ahead stood a low, practical building—the Escuela de Arte Benny Moré, though at that moment I did not yet know the name I would later struggle to recall. It looked less like an institution than a place where work happened every day, the kind of place where talent is shaped rather than displayed. 

Inside, the air shifted. The light softened. Hallways filled with red, white and blue clad students of all ages, opened into rooms where the walls carried the marks of many hands—paintings, studies, attempts, corrections. This was not a gallery. It was a living workshop. 

Somewhere deeper in the building, music was already in motion. We were guided into a modest room, the kind that in another life might have been a classroom or meeting space. A handful of chairs, music stands set without ceremony, a piano waiting quietly at the back. 

And there they were: a small string ensemble, students and instructors together, already poised in that half-second of stillness before sound begins. No announcement. No introduction. Just the lift of a bow. And then—music. It was not polished for an audience, which is to say it was real. The kind of playing that carries both discipline and hunger. A violin leaned into a phrase as if testing its edges. The upright bass grounded the room with a steady, human pulse. The piano threaded through it all, less a soloist than a quiet conspirator. You could hear instruction inside the performance, and performance inside the instruction—the two inseparable. 

We sat in a loose semicircle, travelers who had expected to observe and instead found ourselves listening. Really listening. Even our group, not known for silence, seemed to understand that this was not something to interrupt with commentary or cameras. It was a gift offered without fuss, and accepted the same way. I remember thinking—not in words, but in the way a thought settles—that this was among the best birthday celebrations I've received outside of family. No one in that room knew it was El Jefe's birthday. No one needed to. The moment didn’t belong to me; that was precisely why it felt like it did. 

When the final note dissolved, there was a pause—not the polite pause before applause, but the natural one that follows something complete. Then we clapped, of course, because we are who we are. The players smiled, a little shyly, as if surprised by the reaction to something that, for them, was simply part of the day’s work. 

We filed back out the way we had come, returning to the bus, to the road, to the rest of the itinerary that would soon blur with the others. But that room in Cienfuegos has held its shape in memory longer than most places I have deliberately tried to remember. Years later, the name of the school slipped away before returning again, as names do. The music, however, never left. Sadly, as the world has turned a foul orange, I wonder if the school has endured. I'm sad to follow up.