I recently made a discovery that made me stop. While exploring the Deep River near Rosburg, Washington, I stumbled upon a scene that felt like it had been waiting for me. Tied to the shore was a weathered vessel called the Ben Claire. The world around it was so quiet and still that I couldn’t help but pause.
As I stood there, I couldn’t quite place the origins of the boat’s distinctive design. Intrigued, I took this photo and later shared it online, hoping to uncover its history. After some digging and helpful responses, I discovered that the Ben Claire resembles the “blimps” used by the British Columbia Forest Service in the early 20th century. These weren’t airships but compact, rugged boats built for coastal patrols and forestry work. Measuring 32 to 35 feet long with a shallow draft of just under three feet, they were designed to easily navigate shallow waters. Their low, elongated profile and wheelhouse gave them their distinctive appearance, and their nickname came from a ranger’s quip that one looked like “a bloody great blimp.”
Introduced in the 1920s, these vessels were the first launches built specifically for assistant rangers. They were smaller than the larger ranger launches but more capable than simple runabouts. Blimps played a vital role in monitoring logging operations and patrolling the Canada-US border to prevent illegal log exports. Over the decades, about 11 of these original vessels were commissioned, with newer versions built as the older ones aged. They were part of a fleet of approximately 200 boats that served the BC Forest Service for over 50 years.
While I can’t confirm whether the Ben Claire was one of these storied boats, its design and weathered charm certainly suggest a similar past. I imagined it out on the water in its prime—catching the breeze, waves slapping against its sides, and perhaps playing a quiet but significant role in the industries and communities along the coast.
When I raised my camera to capture the scene, it wasn’t just about taking a photograph. It was about preserving that feeling—the stillness, the solitude, the sense of time standing still. I knew right away this would be a black-and-white image. Color would’ve felt like an interruption. The contrast, textures, and shadows told the story far better than words ever could.
Moments like this make me think about mindfulness. Life moves so fast, doesn’t it? But this was a reminder to slow down, breathe, and notice the small things—the way the water reflects the sky, the quiet beauty of something that has weathered so much yet still stands. It wasn’t just a boat tied to the shore; it reflected all the times I needed to pause and find my footing.
This photograph, which I’ve titled Moored in Silence, has become one of my favorites. Every time I look at it, I’m brought back to that day, that moment. And every time, it reminds me of the importance of embracing stillness—not as an escape, but as a way to reconnect with yourself and the world around you.
Whether you bring it into your home or workspace, this piece offers a gentle nudge to slow down and embrace stillness. Let Moored in Silence remind you that even in life’s stillest moments, stories linger, and peace awaits.
Further Explorations:
Listening to Silence: A King Tide Meditation in Black and White
Log Cabin, Olmstead Place State Park, Kittitas County, Washington
