Eel Grass Part I

I found a small patch of eel grass the other day. Tender, resilient little ribbons of life quietly anchoring themselves where few notice. The eel grass wasn’t out in some pristine bay, tucked in postcards or nature reserve maps. It was right there – at the head of the Tahsis Inlet, beside rusting iron and green copper wire, just below the bones of what used to be a sawmill.

The kind of place you’d walk past without noticing them, sidestepping the crumbled concrete and jagged metals.

The kind of place both industry forward and environmentalists might say is ruined.

Locals don’t harvest oysters here anymore. The industrial chemicals leach into the inlet they say, ruining the meat. Perhaps contributing to algae blooms in the summer, staining the water in colours other than dark blue-green. The ghosts of industry hovering in the murk – in broken foundations and chemical memory.

And yet. Eel grass.

Small, stubborn little blades, like nothing ever happened. Or maybe like everything happened, and they’re growing anyway.

I crouched there and stared at it for some time wondering, had it always been here, surviving in secret? Or had it returned, slowly reclaiming the edges, curling back into the wounds.

It wasn’t lush or sprawling, just a small patch. Not loud, blooming, or outwardly noteworthy. But crucial – a little underwater nursery of the coast. Holding sediment, nurturing salmon fry, keeping shorelines from unraveling. It’s what helps the ocean hold itself together.

Maybe that’s what drew me in.

Maybe I want to be eel grass. Something small and essential. Rooted, even in contaminated ground. Quietly repairing what was damaged. Existing where no one thought life should return. A mantra for Jagged Peak Village perhaps. If eel grass can thrive despite the changes, then maybe so can we.