When ‘good’ weather means ‘bad’ weather: Meet the storm-watchers of Vancouver Island

In the darkness, all you can hear is the roar. A steady, droning hum, like a downpour of rain. Occasionally, a gentle whoosh swells before settling back into the one-note symphony. Snug in a chair, a cup of coffee cradled in my hand, I listen, staring into the black as the sound, unceasingly, beats on.

By degrees of gray, the source of the roar reveals itself outside: a restless sea, frothing against a rocky shore and framed by spindly trees. Out in the bay, dappled water plays tricks with the eye—was that a fin just now? Or just a piece of driftwood—while along the shore, agitated waves heave over miniature mountain ranges of rock. A monochromatic world of hard, pewter sky and slippery, silver sea, cut through by a single kintsugi crack of golden sun.

I could watch it for hours. Yet this is barely the overture. It’s the warm-up.

It’s December, and I’ve come to Tofino on Vancouver Island for storm-watching season. Every winter from November through March, the west coast of this 285-mile-long island off the coast of British Columbia gets pummeled by storms surging off the Pacific.

Fueled by weather systems like the Pineapple Express (an atmospheric river originating near Hawaii that brings moisture-laden low-pressure systems to North America’s West Coast) and the Aleutian Low (a storm-generating low-pressure center near the Aleutian Islands).

And seaside towns like Tofino and neighboring Ucluelet have front-row seats.

Admiring storms takes many different forms, from pursuing tornados to watching bad weather from the comfort of indoors—it’s what Icelanders call ‘gluggaveður’ or window weather. But why travel great distances to remote places like this for a storm?

Readers may be familiar with storm-watching through its more adrenaline-charged cousin: Storm-chasing. But storm-watching is a bit of a homegrown phenomenon in the Pacific Northwest, where gray, drizzly winters invite idle weather-watching. From Oregon up along the coast of British Columbia, massive, saturated storms clash against the craggy coast with its towering headlands and monolithic sea stacks in unbridled displays.

My first time to Vancouver Island a few years ago, I got a taste of that fury. On a sunny afternoon walk at South Chesterman Beach on the west coast, an offshore bank of sooty clouds crept in, turning the bright, clear day dark. Gusts blasted us back to the shelter of the forest, whipping at our faces. We retreated to the car with pink cheeks, ringing ears, and the biggest grins.

Now I’m back, hoping for more. For my winter storm hideaway, I’m hunkering down at the Wickaninnish Inn.

Perched on a rocky spit, just feet from the water’s edge, this by-the-sea bolthole—affectionately known as the Wick—was born to be a storm-watching sanctuary, with ocean-or-beach-facing windows in all rooms. Storm-watching is such an integral part of the hotel’s essence that the Canadian Tourism Commission named it a Canadian Signature Experience—as Canadian as poutine, hockey, and maple syrup.

It was the Wick, and owner Charles McDiarmid, who first put Vancouver Island on the map for storm-watching. Charles grew up in awe of the island’s tempests, spending his childhood taking trips to a nearby, off-grid family cabin on the coast.

“We would look out the window and watch Mother Nature perform,” Charles reminisces over cocktails one evening. “We always hoped there would be a big storm.”

Thinking there might be other thrill-watchers like them, Charles and his family created the Wick with storm-watching in mind, making the most of its splash-zone setting. As storms roll in, guests can don one of the sturdy, neon-orange rain kits for walks on the beach in the driving rain and wind—a West Coast facial, Charles calls it—or watch the storm rage from the safe harbor of their fire-warmed room, curled in a chair, reading a book, sipping wine.

“On a stormy day, it’s nice to sit there and do a puzzle,” Charles says, recounting how one of the first wintertime journalists to stay with them just read books and drank Scotch.

I take a page from his book. After a spot of tide-pooling, I return to my room, draw a bath in a soaking tub next to a giant window, and pour a glass of wine. Sinking into the warm water, I watch waves erupt outside. Periodically, I wrap myself in a robe and step out on the chilly balcony, steam rising from my body. It’s all very hygge.

Letting the drama of the landscape wash over me, I’m reminded of the famous painting by Caspar David Friedrich, ‘Wanderer above the Sea of Fog,’ depicting a man gazing over a mist-shrouded sea of mountains. Like him, I’m a mere witness to something greater, which offers a touch of insight into why I’m here.

Admiring storms takes many different forms, from pursuing tornados to watching bad weather from the comfort of indoors—it’s what Icelanders call ‘gluggaveður’ or window weather. But why travel great distances to remote places like this for a storm? Why are we drawn to seeing nature at its most terrible?

There’s something magnetic about this primal place, lessons about endurance, slowing down, and ‘This too shall pass’ to be gleaned from ancient Sitka spruces and storm-battered shores. I feel charged, invigorated, rinsed clean.

Humans have tried every which way to explain bad weather’s hold on us, from philosophical schools of thought seeking the ‘sublime’ to scientific research. With storm-watching, the answer lies partially in the scintillating, voyeuristic thrill of witnessing nature’s raw power while safe indoors. “Watching extreme weather is about witnessing something awe-inspiring and forceful… even ‘wild’,” says Dr. Simon Dickinson, who researches sense-making in hazardous conditions at the University of Plymouth in England.

“Some people are inevitably drawn to watching bad weather because they hope or expect to see damage, destruction or catastrophe, such as trees being uprooted, waves causing erosion, or tornadoes leaving physical scars across a landscape,” he tells me. “It’s this opportunity to witness something we can’t see often, something perhaps we feel like we shouldn’t be watching and something, if it really came to it, we’d be totally helpless and feeble in the full face of.”

Instead of chasing twisters across open plains or worrying about flooding during a hurricane, you’re protected. While towns like Tofino may occasionally experience power outages or downed trees, the area is prepared for big storms—the risk is low while the rush is high, although beach walkers are urged to note the tide tables and be wary of big waves and hazards like driftwood.

“Watching storms from the safety of inside undoubtedly gives a chance to witness something like what we’ve seen on the big screen,” Dr. Dickinson tells me, “even if we don’t have the skills or cowboy persona of those we see in the movies.”

But some may be drawn to storms because they provide comfort. The roar of a Pacific storm generates pink noise, an ambient, waterfall-like background sound said to help with sleep and anxiety. Listening to the sound of Tofino’s storms can have a calming, restorative effect.

“Storms can be relaxing for people too,” says Dr. Dickinson. “That feeling of being inside, and weather rolling in can evoke feelings of serenity and calm.”

During my days at the Wick, I find I like a balance of both: Rest and adventure. I fall asleep to the soporific sound of waves. I spend hours on my balcony, watching clouds slink by, waves unfurl, and surfers bob about like otters. In between beach walks and weather-watching, we strike out into town. We tuck into fresh-baked bread and hearty soup at the Common Loaf Bake Shop bakery and restaurant run by activist Maureen Fraser, who participated in the War of the Woods protests and blockades of the 1980s and 1990s to halt old-growth clear-cutting in Clayoquot Sound.

We stroll past quaint cafés, art galleries, and restaurants, with incredible views of the wilderness, islands and valleys of Clayoquot Sound in the backdrop. Tofino doesn’t hibernate during the winter. Locals and visitors wrap up in waterproof outers and warm undergarments (there is no bad weather, only bad clothing) for hikes and jaunts along driftwood-strewn beaches and old-growth forests. You can take a surf lesson—Tofino is Canada’s unofficial surf capital—or use the Pacific for post-sauna cold plunges.

But I always find myself pulled back to the view; constantly changing, I don’t want to miss a single shift of light or cresting wave. There’s something magnetic about this primal place, lessons about endurance, slowing down, and ‘This too shall pass’ to be gleaned from ancient Sitka spruces and storm-battered shores. I feel charged, invigorated, rinsed clean.

Come check-out time, it almost hurts to wrench my eyes away. I got some good action, but I know there’s a bigger storm out there. I’ll have to come back. In the meantime, I tide myself over with watching the Wick’s live feed of Chesterman Beach. Even after dark, when the screen is black, just for the roar.

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