The quintessential setting for a fine romance

Huge storms kick up large waves and buckets of mist. Photo credit: Rob Melnychuk

There are few things I find more romantic than a good storm. Set the scene in a cozy room overlooking some rugged coast; add wind whipping through ancient trees and wild waves crashing outside big windows; throw in a hearth with a glowing fire and a foghorn's haunting tone sounding through the night.

INFO: The Wickaninnish Inn, Osprey Lane at Chesterman Beach, P.O. Box 250, Tofino, British Columbia, Canada V0R 2Z0; tel., (250) 725-3100, fax, (250) 725-3110; toll-free reservations (U.S. and Canada), 800-333-4604 Rates: Two-night weekend stay, Fri-Sun $340 CA per person plus tax, double occupancy. Note: Rates include air transportation on North Vancouver Air from Vancouver International Airport to Tofino Airport and transfers between Tofino Airport and The Wickaninnish Inn.

If that's not the quintessential setting for snuggling and sweet words, I don't know what is.

There's only one flaw in my idyllic reverie -- finding a place that offers the perfect combination of environmental ingredients and creature comforts. Especially as most seaside resorts have a silly habit of closing down during storm season.

Most, but not all. If you pine for wild weather to fuel a fine romance, take heart. On the far shore of British Columbia's Vancouver Island lies a sybaritic hideaway overlooking Chesterman Bay where tempests are the stuff of legend.

Surrounded by a coastal old-growth rainforest and isolated on a mile-long stretch of sand, The Wickaninnish Inn is staffed by folk who long to share the secrets of their slice of divine real estate. When the sun shines, this place is pure heaven. When a storm blows, in my judgment, it's even better.

Our odyssey began with a brochure proclaiming ``Storm Watch Weekends'' and assuring a luxurious environment plus exquisite cuisine and the drama of a coastal winter gale. I had my doubts. Sunshine dogs my Los Angeles heels wherever I go. But the thought of spending a few days swathed in a cocoon of misty fog and rain was too tempting to resist. On a weekend last January, we flew into Vancouver International Airport. Sure enough, in the city known for its deluges and downpours, the sun was shining.

A shuttle whisked us to the high-tech Esso Avitat Terminal where we boarded one of North Vancouver Air's eight-seater Piper Chieftains for the hour flight to Vancouver Island. On takeoff, the pilot's voice announced we might encounter a bit of turbulence as a front was beginning to blow in.

I peered out the plane's tiny window and thought, ``Not a chance.'' The snow-capped mountains ringing Vancouver like gigantic guardians were literally glowing with radiant sunbeams.

The Pointe Restaurant: Where all is ever calm. Photo credit: Rob Melnychuk

Unfortunately, it wasn't much better when we reached the inn. Perched on a rocky promontory, the sprawling fir and cedar structure gleamed gold in the afternoon sun; the cobalt blue sea glittered like a sequin gown; a wispy cloud that couldn't possibly hold more moisture than a sun shower straggled across the horizon. All things considered, the sky didn't look promising.

But two clues that gales must hammer the pretty crescent beach regularly offered hope: a wind-swept spruce grew stoically out of solid bedrock beneath our balcony like some oversize bonsai tree, and two bright yellow rain slickers hung in the closet.

With nary a raindrop in sight, we decided to explore a corner of the Pacific Rim National Park Reserve. South Beach Trail is known for its dramatic secluded beaches. Just the spot to launch our romantic interlude. A narrow trail wound through the dense Sitka spruce forest. Elevated boardwalks kept our feet from crushing delicate moss that clung to fallen logs and floated on brackish puddles. Huge eagle nests seemed precariously balanced in gnarled branches high overhead.

At South Beach, tumbling surf polished piles of mottled gray pebbles, and advisories noted that storm waves can sweep up the sandy beach without warning. The wavelets, lapping lazily along the shore, didn't seem to be much of a threat, but at the beach headland we got our first glimpse of how intense the local sea could be. Breakers crashed through a double-rock arch and several surge channels with a roar that left no doubt why the place is called The Edge of the Silver Thunder.

Clutching a prize piece of driftwood that resembled an eagle's head, we returned to the inn for a leisurely soak in our deep tub, where thoughtfully provided aromatherapy crystals transformed the water into a revitalizing froth. From picture windows, we watched the sun sink slowly into the sea. The sky was streaked with vivid shades of apricot and indigo. An on-shore wind was buffeting the spruce tree; a dusky shadow hung low on the horizon. My heart leaped, for a storm was moving in.

The best spot to watch the show turned out to be the inn's Pointe Restaurant. Suspended between surf and sky on the craggy bluff that juts out into the bay, its almost wrap-around floor-to-ceiling glass wall provides 240 degrees of rugged coastline view. The wind had picked up force and waves were crashing all around.

With appetites primed by our afternoon hike, we shared a meal of Pacific Northwest specialties. Alder-smoked Tofino salmon, roasted oysters and a bowl of tiny gooseneck barnacles steamed in garlic, wine and herbs began our feast. Braised venison shanks with wild mushroom saute followed, along with halibut and scallops poached in thyme broth. A crisp tarragon potato strudel provided the starch.

As we sipped the last drops of a fine white wine from British Columbia's under-appreciated Okanagan Valley, the storm hit full force. Rain lashed against the glass. Thunder rolled, while lightning cut across the night sky. It seemed a good time to turn our focus to more private pursuits. We ordered dessert to go.

Just as the fire in our brass and glass hearth leaped into a dancing blaze, the after-dinner sweets arrived. Sun-dried cherry ice cream laced with ribbons of port sorbet proved just the right amount of chill for this icy night. Fragile hazelnut praline cookies and two sipping goblets of Ontario's splendid ice wine completed the metaphor.

As candles flickered on the hearth's thick wooden mantle, a far-off foghorn sounded its warning call. Outside, the tempest raged. Inside, our snug nest was toasty warm and the essence of romance.

We awoke at dawn -- really -- to the sound of fat raindrops splattering the windows. Thick mists hung over the sea. Gargantuan rollers were breaking on the beach. Whitecaps covered the ocean as far as the eye could see -- the perfect time to go beachcombing!

Chesterman strand was deserted. A huge log had washed up on shore during the night. We clambered along its immense trunk and posed for pictures in the massive roots. We splashed through the surf and peered into tidepools. We tried digging for clams, but the wily critters eluded our probing fingers. Finally, slicker pockets bulging with shell treasures, we headed back.

Torrents of water pouring off the inn's roof coursed musically through exotic Japanese rain chains. There was no indication that the storm would let up in the slightest. Paradise, I thought, and a perfect excuse to crawl back under our fluffy down duvet.

(Edythe Preet is a free-lance writer in Los Angeles, California.)
© 1998, Edythe Preet. Distributed by Los Angeles Times Syndicate.