My Father Is the Ocean.
Flying in.
Before Victoria, there were the Cascades. A volcano breaking through the clouds, the whole Pacific Northwest laid out beneath the window. Window seat. The story started before I landed.
The City.
Victoria keeps its history in stone. The Parliament stands at the edge of the Inner Harbour, its copper domes turned green by a century of sea air, while the boats below rock as if they have been doing it forever.
I came for the light. I didn’t know I was coming for a story.
One dome. Two lifetimes.
Francis Rattenbury was twenty-five when he won the commission. By 1898 the dome was finished: copper sheeting over stone, designed to age. A hundred and twenty-eight years of Pacific rain turned it green.
Colour above. Memory below.
The Lekwungen people fished and traded here for thousands of years before the harbour got its English name. Now a carved Songhees canoe is tied up among the fibreglass: the oldest story on the water, holding its place.
The Breakwater.
It runs out into the Pacific like a sentence that doesn’t want to end. At its tip stands a small white light tower. Every evening people walk out along it to watch the sun go down behind the hills across the water.
The Stranger.
A tweed hat with a red feather, a walking stick, a phone held up to the horizon. He was photographing the CSL ship out past the breakwater. When I showed him the picture I had made of him, he leaned in and smiled, and asked what every curious stranger asks.
“What do you do? And where are you from?”
His subject. My subject.
The CSL ship, tied up at the pier as the sky burned down behind it. Deck lights on, the light tower blinking red across the water.
Half a world. Suddenly neighbours.
I told him I was from Raipur, a city in central India. His whole face changed.
“My father was born in Calcutta.”
Of everyone on that breakwater, the man I had stopped to photograph carried a piece of India in his family.
Light. Patience. Noticing.
Born in England, he comes back to Victoria often. He has spent his life making documentaries and photographing the world, so we spoke the same language. Two people with cameras, comparing notes on the sky.
Everything at once.
Birds cross oceans they have never seen, guided by something older than memory, to find a place that feels like life. They don’t ask why. They just go.
Most of us are the same. We are mostly where we didn’t take birth. Somewhere between the leaving and the landing, the ocean became the only constant.
All of it. One sky.
And every single drop of the ocean.
“My father is the ocean.”
It was his father’s death anniversary. He looked out at the water for a moment, and then he said it, quietly. His hand found the name without looking.
Grief, it turns out, can laugh.
We walked out toward the lighthouse, to a bench he had installed in his father’s memory. Ewen B. ‘Pip’ Graham. Calcutta 1930, Victoria 2007. He rested his hand on his father’s name and laughed, as if the evening belonged to both of them.
Some places let you feel everything at once. Some people do too.
I came to Victoria to photograph a sunset. I left with a stranger’s father, a city in India, and an ocean big enough to hold them both. For Mr. Alfrin, and for Pip.
The Ocean.
ਮੇਰਾ ਰੋਣ ਦਾ ਚਿੱਤ ਕਰਦਾ ਏmeːɾaː ɾoːɳ d̪aː t͡ʃɪtː kəɾd̪aː eː
ਕੁਝ ਹੋਣ ਦਾ ਚਿੱਤ ਪਿਆ ਕਰਦਾ ਏkʊ́d͡ʒ ɦoːɳ d̪aː t͡ʃɪtː pɪaː kəɾd̪aː eː
ਮੈਂ ਸਮੁੰਦਰ ਲਹਿਰਾਂ ਤੋ ਅੱਕ ਗਯਾ ਏmɛ̃ː səmʊnd̪əɾ lɛ́ɾãː t̪oː əkː gəjaː eː
ਜ਼ਰਾ ਮੇਰਾ ਸੌਣ ਦਾ ਦਿਲ ਪਿਆ ਕਰਦਾ ਏzəɾaː meːɾaː sɔːɳ d̪aː d̪ɪl pɪaː kəɾd̪aː eː
ਕਿਸ਼ਤੀਆਂ ਦੀ ਉਡੀਕ ਅੱਖਾਂ ਨੂੰ ਜਗਾਉਂਦੀ ਏkɪʃt̪iːãː d̪iː ʊɖiːk əkʰːãː nũː d͡ʒəgaːũd̪iː eː
ਧੂਪ ਛਾਂ ਦਾ ਖੇਡ ਖੇਂਡਾਂਦੀ ਏt̪ùːp t͡ʃʰãː d̪aː kʰeːɖ kʰẽːɖãːd̪iː eː
ਜਹਾਜ਼ ਛੱਡ ਵੀ ਦੇਵਾਂ ਪਰ ਛੱਡ ਨਹੀਂ ਹੁੰਦਾd͡ʒəɦaːz t͡ʃʰəɖː ʋiː d̪eːʋãː pəɾ t͡ʃʰəɖː nə́ĩː ɦʊnd̪aː
ਲਹਿਰਾਂ ਦੀ ਸੈਰ ਮੁੜ ਮੁੜ ਜਗਾਉਂਦੀ ਏlɛ́ɾãː d̪iː sɛːɾ mʊɽ mʊɽ d͡ʒəgaːũd̪iː eː
ਬੁਲਬੁਲੇ ਤਰਦੇ ਨੇ ਮੇਰੇ ਦਿਲ ਦੇ ਦਰਿਆ ਅੰਦਰbʊlbʊleː t̪əɾd̪eː neː meːɾeː d̪ɪl d̪eː d̪əɾɪaː ənd̪əɾ
ਸਾਜਨ ਤਰਦਾ ਏ ਇਸੀ ਸਵੱਭਾ ਅੰਦਰsaːd͡ʒən t̪əɾd̪aː eː ɪsiː səʋə́bːaː ənd̪əɾ
ਕੀ ਹੈ ਕੀ ਹੋਣਾ ਕੀ ਪਤਾ ਕਿਊ ਕਰਨਾ ਏkiː ɦɛː kiː ɦoːɳaː kiː pət̪aː kɪuː kəɾnaː eː
ਜਵਾਬ ਨਹੀਂ ਲੱਭਣਾ ਕਿਸੀ ਸਵਾਲ ਅੰਦਰd͡ʒəʋaːb nə́ĩː lə́bːəɳaː kɪsiː səʋaːl ənd̪əɾ
— PreetJyot