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The kayaking is part of Metta Eco-Experience’s “Into the Night” tour. The company is run by Greg and Meriel Rushton—another couple. There’s gotta be something in the water here... and in fact, there is: bioluminescence. Apparently, the narrows are full of tiny organisms that emit light, creating a gentle glow that, when night falls, becomes visible to the naked eye.

I’ll soon see for myself. While the last bits of daylight fade from the sky, our tour group of about 15 (us and three—you guessed it—couples) stands in a circle near the push-off point as Greg and Meriel give us a dry-land paddling lesson. We’re each also given a red light to clip on to our lifejackets.

As we hoist our two-seater kayaks from a small storage tent and carry them toward the shore, Greg points out that each one has two sticks carefully woven into the bungee straps. “I tell kids these are magic wands,” he announces. I use the cover of darkness to roll my eyes. Once we’re all bobbing around near the shore, you can really only see the dots of red from our lights—I can barely make out the shape of the person sitting directly in front of me in the kayak.

Luckily, that blurry shape is as needlessly competitive as I am: we’re right behind Greg, our paddles slicing through the black water as we leave the others trailing behind. Meriel is at the back, acting as caboose for our bizarre floating train. In the distance, we can see the bright lights of a ferry coming into the narrows as it returns from Saltery Bay, south of Powell River. It’s not close enough to cause us alarm, but it still looks freakishly massive from our dinky little kayaks.

“If we paddled in front of that ferry, could it see our lights?” I call to Greg. “Nope!” he replies jubilantly.

As we get farther and farther from shore, the seascape actually becomes brighter. My eyes have fully adjusted now, and a full moon is causing all the little islets to cast shadows on the ocean. Greg stops in one of those shadows, and we wait with him as the other, slower (not that that matters) kayakers catch up to us.

I’m absentmindedly resting my paddle in the water when I first notice it. It looks like little white sparks are dancing off the blade. I plunge my whole hand in and swirl it around: sure enough, tiny flecks of light appear and disappear with my movement. I whip out the “magic wand”— a.k.a., the stick—and drag it through the water. The flickering lights trail softly behind.

As a person who grew up in B.C., I often feel like I’ve been sadly desensitized to the beauty of West Coast nature. But this is one of the most awesome things I’ve ever seen. The bioluminescence isn’t bright or spectacular, like fireworks; it’s subtle and enchanting in a way that requires you to stop what you are doing and simply stare.

For the rest of the journey, I am an effectively useless paddler, taking advantage of my backseat position to do little else but wave my magic wand (which has very quickly become a prized possession). My deep focus over one side of the kayak forces my partner to lean in the opposite direction and counteract the weight. I try to take photos and videos, and end up with nothing but pitchblack rectangles and some crisp audio of myself breathing.

It’s dark, it’s cold, and I’m with a bunch of people I barely know, but this is the most engaged (pun very intended) that I’ve ever felt with nature. The bioluminescence is quiet and miraculous and undeniably romantic. It’s a romance that I’m perfectly happy to indulge in by myself, though I’ll certainly drag my partner through an insufferable slideshow of pointless photos later.

I’m in no rush to go home, but now I have two life-altering experiences to share with my family and friends once I get there.