A multi-species community

These are a few of the larger intertidal critters from the aquarium, photographed in the course of a tank census:

Three different shells; from right to left, Nassa snail, Asian mud snail, and barnacle.

Barnacles usually live attached to rocks or other solid materials. When they break off, the base gets left behind and the barnacle dies. Occasionally, one detaches from the rock without breaking. This one has most of the base intact, so it is still alive and feeding. Look closely to see the pale tentacles at the mouth.

The Nassa shell, on the right, has several round holes drilled through it, the work of a carnivorous snail, such as a whelk. Once the hole penetrates the flesh, the whelk injects paralyzing and digestive enzymes, which dissolve the snail inside. Often, once the shell is vacant, I discover the tentacles of worms waving from these holes.

Rockweed isopod, about an inch long. The flash makes the red seaweed glow in neon reds. Under normal lights, it is a bit paler than the burgundy Turkish towel that the isopod is feeding on.

The second isopod. Look closely; on the back, it is carrying a small shelled animal, probably a limpet.

Head of a polychaete worm, out looking for a meal. They rarely leave the sand completely, and retract almost instantaneously at any disturbance..

One of the round algae-eating periwinkles, with an amphipod taking a short break.

At least four species of snails live in my tank: Nassas, mud snails, periwinkles, and the tiny lacunas; these last may be so small that even with a lens, I am hard put to determine whether they are snails or sand grains until they move. Their eggs often come home with me on blades of eelgrass.

Underside, through the glass, of a very small anemone. 

This anemone sat for weeks on a stone, and then went wandering about. It has now hidden itself. I have never seen that "petal" effect on the base before.

The youngest crab, raised in the tank from babyhood. 

And my new mascot, found in a thrift store. $0.50; I couldn't resist.

Rocky shore, with loons

... Following along in our attempted peregrination around the Lower Mainland shoreline ...

A week ago, before the bad weather hit us, we went looking for the "1000 steps" that Cicero had told me about. Starting at the Ocean Park mall, we explored the streets to the west and south. Most end in a few blocks at big houses built right on the bluff, occasionally at wild bush hiding muddy cliff faces, unclimbable except on all fours.

But at the end of 15A Avenue, there it was; a place that looked like a parking area, with prominent No Parking signs, a trail head, and a notice; "1001 STEPS". We found parking a block up the hill, and walked back.


It was a steep climb, but didn't live up to their advertising; there were only 236 steps in all. Enough, though.


(The lighting was strange; bright, dazzling sunlight, shining straight in and reflected off the water, but deep shade under the brow of the hill. My camera couldn't handle it very well, and Laurie's seems a little off. Even my old eyes protested.)

On the slope, the trees, a mixed bag, respond to the lop-sided exposure by twisting and angling themselves into the light and out of the wind.





Almost at the bottom. Below us, just the railroad track, a short scramble over tumbled rocks, and the shore. Not a beach.


Difficult walking. But quiet, so very quiet. Just the rustling of falling leaves, and the lapping of a retreating tide.

There were only two other people on this segment of coast, a man and a small boy. They walked ahead of us, almost to Kwomais Point (marked by a heron silhouetted against the water), then crossed the track into the bush.


After they had gone, we moved away from water's edge, and tried to work our way up to the heron and a bit beyond, to be able to get a clear photograph. He sat, unmoving, until we were almost there, then squawked once and left. Oh, well.



Laurie, at the Point, wishing for a heron.

As for other live things, this shore bears a different mix than the sandy areas to the north, and around the Point into the White Rock beach. The rocks were bare, well-scrubbed. There were few crabs, no dead crab shells, no sign of seagull feeding. A few white clamshells, sun-bleached. Barnacles, small ones, at the water line. No mussels. And none of those invasive batillaria mud snails. (Yay!) The few snails among the barnacles were smooth and dark, fatter and shorter than the batillaria.


At the high tide line, dead kelp wound itself around the bigger rocks. I don't remember seeing eelgrass, and there was no sea lettuce, which shows up on every other stretch of beach in the area. But in the cracks between some of the bigger rocks at the water's edge, I found a few small clumps of these, that I had never seen before.


Deep purple seaweed. Growing only in the deep shade in cracks between the rocks. I had to put the camera right into the crack and rely on the flash to show it up; to my sun-dazed eyes, this looked almost black. When the flash was too close, edges of the weed flared orange.

Back over the rocks, we climbed to the railroad track, under a fence, and through a bit of bush, making a shortcut to the steps. Up, all 236 of them, up the hill to the car -- my legs were aching -- and back to the mall for a bite at the deli. Where the proprietess told us of another set of steps, a shorter one, that would take us to the south side of the Point.

More on how we tried to find them yesterday, in the next post.

Oh, and the loons? Here they are, doing what loons do; diving as soon as you get anywhere near, coming up 'way over in the distance.

Remembering King Canute

Excursion to Serendip, Part II

(I continue reporting, back to front; I'm waiting for photos from Laurie's film camera for the first segment.)

The delta is flat land. Centuries of slow silting from meandering rivers, the Nicomekl and the Serpentine, have built fertile farm land and then continued with great underwater flats. It almost looks as if we could walk across from Boundary Bay to Mud Bay. At low tide, of course. Providing it stays put and doesn't come roaring back at us.

That's the high ground in Delta, where we live, over on the far side.

We crossed a foot-wide rivulet, and headed south and east. The sand is clean here, with few snails, as yet, a few patches of eelgrass, some sea lettuce. The occasional purplish clam shell lies open on the sand, remains of a seagull's lunch.

Something was odd about it, though; we're used to wave-like ripples of sand, the ones we find at White Rock or Crescent Beach. The sand here was rolling, more like a plowed field than a sandy beach.


A family had left their sandals behind and gone out to the edge of the water barefoot. Or maybe that was where the edge had been when they decided to go wading. It sure wasn't there now.

I think that's them in the distance.

We walked to the water's edge, saw nothing but more sand and more water, and turned back. The tide was starting to trickle up the furrows.

We came to a little depression, where warm water stood a couple of inches deep. While Laurie took sky photos, I looked for snails. And found these:


See that pale brown thing? It looks like a big serving spoonful of gelatin that has been rolled in the mud; at first, I thought they were jellyfish and nudged one with my toe. (I don't touch jellyfish with fingers; one never knows if they sting.) It seemed to be connected to the sand, so I rolled up a tissue and pushed at it and several others. They were easily moved around, even rolled up with the wet paper, but were firmly anchored to the sand at one end. Looking around, I could see several dozen in that stretch of water, from 2 to 4 inches long.

I took photos: Laurie came over and took a couple himself. Then we turned to head back to shore.
Oops! No longer possible. Between us and the shore was a broad stream, about ankle-deep. Fine for me, with my old sandals, but not for properly suede-booted Laurie. We backtracked. Fast. And faster. Too late; we were encircled.

Another party that is going to have to hurry.

Laurie started to take his boots off. After the first one, he had to back up; the water was nibbling at his toes.

We waded, through fast-running water. On the shore, we found a good rock close to the edge for Laurie to sit and put his boots back on; those shore-line rocks were sharp! He got one foot dry and the boot on, and the water had surrounded his rock. Off we went again, "Ow! Ow!" He dropped a sock in the water in his hurry.

While Laurie sat on a dry log and finally worked on that second boot, I looked back. The beach was gone; a scant two meters of damp rock remained to be covered.

Water, water, everywhere.

Back at home, I've been searching, through my books and on the web, for an explanation of those "jellies". Eugene Kozloff, in Seashore Life of Puget Sound, the Strait of Georgia, and the San Juan Archipelago, (and that's an unwieldy title for a book if there ever was one) gave me a clue: a sea slug, Melanochlamys diomedea, lays her eggs in an egg case just like that. Jelly, attached to the substrate at one end by a longish anchor thread.

The only problem is that diomedea's egg masses are less than an inch long. These were 3 and 4 times that.

And I've not been able to find anything else that matches. I have written an expert on sea slugs; hopefully, he'll be able to set me straight.

And I'm wondering; did those people ever find their sandals in time? Or are they going to be washed up on some Vancouver Island beach?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
See update, next post.

Ancient lumber, much weathered.

These are the last of our photos from Finn Slough. Until we go back for the next visit, at least.

Welcoming sign.

Texture and pattern on the old boardwalk.

Cedar shakes on old roofs.

A workshop, possibly still in use, at least for puttering around.

Newer wood, on a garbage and recycling shelter, enhanced by found materials. That's a softball in the V of the support.

A welcoming gate; made to stay open. Old, hand-milled boards.

Mobile homes, of a different sort

Living in a tidal community has unique challenges. Things don't stay put. Floors slant off in odd directions, according to the time of day and season of the year. Unanchored items, left on solid ground in the morning, may have just floated away by mid-afternoon. Even your house might up and leave in the spring, when tides run high: I have seen this happen.

In Finn Slough, the effect is multiplied by the narrowness of the waterway. Houses anchored side by side may tip in opposite directions. Walkways twist and gap. Steps down become steps up. Boats lie like logs on a beach, wherever the water left them.

Houses and sheds built on pilings stay at a permanent level, more or less horizontal. Only more or less, because over the years, currents have pulled and pushed at those pilings, yanked them out of plumb.

The blue shed is fairly recent and on pilings.

Detail of a shed up against the bank.Ancient pilings and sagging platforms.

One handy thing about living almost on the water; boats can be parked at your doorstep.

The little dock will float when the tide comes in. So will the boat.The Mermaid III. Unlikely to be putting to sea anytime soon, I think.

And one unhandy thing: you won't have a garden, unless you put it on a float. Or hang pots off your crowded deck.

Pansy, anchor, fishnets and raingear.