When I moved to San Juan Island, I was pretty nervous about finding community. My previous moves relied heavily on a church family that I was no longer a part of, and I had heard that “transplants” didn’t have an easy time infiltrating generations-old groups of islanders. Add in the nightmare of social distancing and I was fairly certain I’d never have a crew again.

The land became our community; we hiked and explored and beached and camped. The trees were our anchor, the familiar sound of the eagles and frogs our safety. Going on the same trails again and again felt like going to a friend’s house. With a 2-year-old and a 4-year-old to wrangle and a marriage quickly disintegrating, it was honestly enough for me. I felt grounded. I felt home.

The SJI Homeschool Adventure Club started out as more of a hope than an official organization. I figured I would put the calendar out there and go on these adventures with my kids, whether anyone showed up or not. I had heard the homeschoolers here were isolationists and not easy to corral. My expectations were zero, but I put together a calendar anyway and posted it on Facebook. And held my breath.

Our very first adventure was a tour with Rami at Amaro Farms, and I was stunned when 40 people showed up. FORTY. The next week, at South Beach, there were even more. I met three of my best friends that day — their kids are more cousins than friends to my own, now. Adventure Club is meeting this week for our fourth Valentine’s Party together. My daughter was wearing pull-ups at our first one, and now she’s painting her nails and rolling her eyes at me when I say 6-7.

What made us all instantly band together was that the island home that had grounded my family had done the exact same for these other families, too. They foraged the same berries and loved the same baby whales and imagined dragon eggs in the same caves. They had turned to the island itself when society shut down the same way we had. Our connections to this place forged the connection to each other.

Last week at Adventure Club, we were sitting on a driftwood log at San Juan County Park, passing around Quinn’s baby and watching the kids work together to carry giant sticks up the hill for a reason only they understood. We could hear one of them playing his whistle, the sweet sound echoing out across the water, where we suddenly saw something floating differently than the other driftwood and bull kelp. It only took a moment or two for us to suspect that this something had been alive at some point and was now on its final journey.

What followed was an almost three-hour saga of watching this mysterious something drift closer and further with the currents and tides. It became a group mission to figure out what this thing was — we were zooming in with phone cameras, the kids were trying to hit it with rocks to hear the sound and determine the density (one of our newbies has a shockingly good arm). By the time we were all absolutely mad with the curiosity of it, the tide finally did us a favor and delivered the mystery to shore.

Coincidentally, the Adventure Club meet-ups the three weeks prior to this one had been at The Whale Museum with Tracie Merrill, learning about salmon, cetaceans and, yes, pinnipeds. The kids had literally JUST put together a sea lion skeleton like a puzzle, from head to flipper. They collectively knew immediately what this was. We called the Stranding Network and got to stay and watch as the volunteer from the network (Mattias Handler) and the County Park ranger (John Young) pulled the animal out of the water and did assessments and later confirmed that yes, this was indeed a California Sea Lion.

I tell this story because it was a shared experience that really represents why this place matters so much to me. The land and the animals and the people and the sky and the weather and the energy of it all — none of it can be separated from the other. My relationships with nature strengthen my relationships with the people here and vice versa. We are all swimming each day in the love we have for each other, and this place and the creatures whose families lived here long before us, and it’s all tied together. It feels like this is how things are meant to be.

Sitting on the beach that day brought this idea of home into a very clear perspective for me. These connections are home. I feel immensely grateful to live in a place and with people who feel a similar pull toward that type of connection. And grateful for a sweet sea lion who let us share in part of his (yes, it was definitely a he; just ask our VERY loudly interested 7-year-olds) final moments physically on this earth. The network determined he was too far gone to collect and let him return to nature.

The vibrancy of life in these red-cheeked (from cold or excitement?) children next to the beautiful stillness of an animal who would soon be nourishing the ocean, continuing life for others, was not lost on us. These relationships will meet their end at some point down the road. The children will move on to other interests, other places. For now, this magical group of humans on this magical piece of land is life. And I relish in the luxury of living it.