Home in the Tides
(Set in Tofino, Vancouver Island, Canada)
Based on a true story / Inspired by real client experiences
I moved to Tofino with nothing but a film camera and a wish to outrun the sharp, endless glow of Toronto. Eli found me on Long Beach at dawn, soaking wet, chasing bioluminescence like it was something I could keep. He is the kind of quiet that doesn’t need words—forester, tide-watcher, hands calloused from cedar and rope, who remembers my coffee order before I do.
We built a dream in the fog: a small place where I could hang my negatives to dry by the window, where he could rest after long days patrolling the coast, where the Pacific wind wouldn’t feel like a stranger. We saved slow, bought a tiny plot overlooking the water, and let ourselves believe forever could be this gentle.
Then the world narrowed to numbers and deadlines.
Local builders quoted us staggering sums, with construction timelines stretching past the winter storms. Permits, materials, labour—everything stacked against us, sharp and unkind.
We broke over it that night, rain slamming against the windows of my rented camper.
“I left everything for this,” I said, my voice thin, packing my camera gear without looking at him. “Not for a plot of land we can never build on.”
Eli’s jaw tightened, the way he does when he’s trying not to break. “I’m not failing you on purpose,” he said, quiet enough to hurt. “I just can’t build the life you deserve, not this way.”
“You’re not even trying to see how much this is killing me.”
The silence that followed was heavier than the ocean. Three days of not speaking, of sleeping on opposite sides of the small space, of looking at the empty land and wondering if we’d loved too loudly, too soon. I was ready to drive back to the city before the sun came up.
He found me at dusk, rain in his hair, holding a tablet like it was a lifeline.
I almost turned away. Then he showed me the space.
It arrived days later, factory-built in full, no chaotic on-site assembly, no dust, no noise tearing through the coastal quiet. When the wings unfolded, I stopped breathing. This was not a temporary shed. This was a real turnkey home, ready the moment it settled into the grass.
The premium steel structure stood firm against Tofino’s unforgiving winds, wrapped in high-performance insulation that held warmth like a secret. It came fully equipped, every detail finished, every space liveable—no hidden costs, no last-minute errands, no half-empty rooms waiting to be fixed.
“This is not settling,” he said, stepping close, his hand brushing my cheek. “This is choosing us, right now.”
I cried into his jacket, and he held me while the fog rolled in.
Mornings now, I develop film by the wide windows, watching the ocean shift blue and grey. Evenings, we unfold both wings and make dinner slow, his head on my shoulder while the wind howls outside, warm and safe within these walls. We still argue over burnt toast and tangled camera cables, but we no longer fight for a future. We live it.
This house did not just give us a place to stay.
It gave us back to each other.
