On Vancouver Island, on the way home from the West coast, we were stopped dead in our tracks by a bald eagle taking off from the middle of the road. If you've ever seen a bald eagle, you know that they are gargantuan birds, with beautiful black and white markings.
It must have been resting on the side of the road. It spread its giant wings wide, lifted itself off of the pavement, caught a gust of wind, and flew up into the wet sky.
We'd just come from French Beach, famous for its man-made driftwood forts. It's also a beach filled with perfect skipping rocks. (The water is far from perfect, though. If you wanted to skip, you had to throw your rock nearly parallel to the shore, between waves.)
