“You see those striations? Every whale’s tail is unique,” says the chirpy tour guide, her hair a mass of tightly wound, blond dreadlocks. “We’ve been very lucky to spend such a long time with this fair lady.”

I switch off my ringer, jam my phone to the bottom of my purse, and rejoin the group. Scanning the stark horizon, I just catch a glimpse of its fluted tail as the lone humpback whale, the star of the last twenty minutes, heads out to deeper water. Show’s over. The sea is slate, devoid of life. I missed it all talking to my bloody manager below deck. I may be here on business, but this was supposed to be my fun day, the reason I’d convinced hubby to come along. And where was he? Waiting for me in a café by the harbour. He opted for a pastry and the National Post to the North Pacific wind and waves.

A young girl in a black and white polka-dot raincoat stands on the lowest guardrail and hoists herself up so the top rail is clamped under her armpits. I notice her chipped peach nail polish, her dimpled chin, her eyes the colour of summer leaves. She has feathery brown hair, which is currently whipped up into a funnel cloud above her head and she beams a toothless, exhilarated smile out at the great expanse of sea and sky.

She is perfect.

Beside her, the girl’s mother wears a stylish knit cape and knee-high Hunter rubber boots, worn exclusively by Instagram-able mothers who jump in picturesque rain puddles and take their adorable daughters whale watching. The mother leans in, nuzzling her daughter’s cheek, and the giggle that bubbles up injects me with distilled envy, bringing on a mild seasickness, until I must turn away.

I pace the upper deck to rid the feeling, keeping my distance, but my eyes can’t stop wandering back to the perfect little girl - now she’s skipping, now spinning, now singing - and the nausea won’t pass. I descend to the warmth and calm of the main cabin until the ship does an about-face and heads back to port. Finally, we’re on the homestretch, only a mile from shore. Pastel coloured shops dot the harbour front, pinks and yellows, and the lavender of Easter eggs. My husband sits eating a scone in one of those blurred pink dots. I long for our arrival, to see the deck hands heaving on thick ropes, coiling them around the steel dock cleats, cradling the ship securely against the pier.

Once back on terra firma, my husband and I will stroll the boardwalk sipping lattes. I know how it will go. He’ll say casually, Where to next, hon? We have no place to be, no schedule. No need to hurry back to the hotel to accommodate a child’s naptime. We are not tethered in any way.

I will try my best not to mention the green-eyed girl. I always have the best intentions. Just leave her behind, spinning with the whales in their black skies.