散文《山海迴響》｜Mountain Echoes

散文《山海迴響》
文／泰華
2026年夏，寫於加拿大西海岸

第一部分　與海相識

我已記不得這是第幾次，把那艘小艇推進海裡。

船離開岸邊，水面恢復平靜，彷彿什麼也沒有發生。只有船頭劃開一道細細的波紋，向遠方舒展。海風吹來，夾著淡淡的鹹意。我迎著海風，向海灣深處划去。
一年四季，我都從這裡出發。春天的新綠、夏天的暖陽、秋天的微涼、冬天的雪山；晴天、細雨，潮起、潮落，都成了這段航程的一部分。新鮮與好奇，也在一次次出航中，化作熟悉與親近。

群山映入眼前，島嶼散落海面。大海並非一望無際，而是在群山與島嶼間舒展。雨水滋養著岸邊的森林，層層綠意一路延伸到海邊。小艇穿行其間，四周只剩槳聲。
沿岸分布著一棟棟臨海而建的房屋，有的現代簡潔，有的保留著西海岸木屋的風格。許多房屋前都有伸向海面的私人碼頭，露臺上擺著幾張休閒椅。有人端著咖啡，有人捧著書，也有人望著海，坐了很久。

船從岸邊划過，偶爾有人朝我揮手，我也笑著回應。我們彼此素不相識，也從未說過一句話，卻一點也不覺得陌生。

他們世代依海而居，熟悉海風，也熟悉潮汐，是這片海的兒女。而划著小艇的我，不知不覺也成了他們眼中海的一部分。海沒有介紹我們，卻讓我們彼此認出了對方。

晴朗的日子，海面平靜如鏡。群山、森林、藍天白雲，都映在水裡。小艇行於海上，也行於天空。微風吹過，海面泛起波紋，山、水與天空的倒影隨之蕩漾。

陽光灑落，是一天中最動人的時刻。每划下一槳，都像從海裡舀起一勺陽光。槳葉帶起晶瑩的水珠，在陽光下閃耀，又落回海裡。我一時竟分不清，飛濺的是海水，還是陽光。遠處的波光碎成無數跳動的光點，在海面不停閃爍。

有時，我會停下船槳，任小艇隨波漂流，把手放進海水裡。

冬天，海水冰涼刺骨，寒意順著指尖漫上手臂；夏天，它依然清涼，帶著大海特有的清冽。起初，我總會很快把手縮回來；後來，我試著多停留一會兒。海水漫過手掌，從指縫間流過。冰冷漸漸退去，只剩細膩柔滑的觸感。水流滑過掌心，沒有聲音，只讓人捨不得把手收回來。

直到那時，我才真正認識這片海。
它有遼闊，也有溫柔。
它托著小艇，也托住了我的掌心。

船繼續向前，船槳起落，波紋向遠方散去。我常覺得，槳聲是我說的話；波紋，是大海寫下的回信。沒有一句語言，卻彼此明白。

從那以後，出海已不只是看風景。我學著傾聽海風、潮汐、船槳劃開海面的聲音，也傾聽自己的心。

原來，真正安靜下來的，並不是大海。
而是自己的心。

第二部分　生命的風景

這裡，是加拿大西海岸一處寧靜的海灣。

真正吸引我的，不只是山海，還有生活在這片海上的生命。每次出海，都會遇見不同的牠們。

冬天，是海豹最常出現的季節。海灣裡有兩處海豹聚集的地方。遠遠望去，只像幾塊黑色的礁石。等小艇慢慢靠近，才發現那些黑影，原來是一隻隻海豹。

有一次，我看見六隻海豹躺在岩石上曬太陽。五隻睡得很沉，只有一隻始終抬著頭，不時望向四周，像一位放哨的衛兵。直到我的小艇划近，牠最先發現了我，其他海豹也陸續醒來，一隻接著一隻滑入海中，只留下幾圈漣漪，在墨綠色的海面散開。

整個冬天，在那兩處岩石附近，我大約見過二十多隻海豹。牠們有的全身烏黑，有的灰白相間，各有神情，也各有警覺。

另一群令我難忘的，是海獅。

有一次，我遇見七隻海獅。牠們時而浮出水面，時而潛入水中，在海裡快速穿梭，彼此追逐。我沒有刻意靠近，只順著自己的航向划行；不知不覺，小艇與牠們已近在咫尺。

我清楚聽見牠們浮出水面換氣時粗重的喘息，也聽見鼻孔噴氣的聲音，像一聲聲急促的噴嚏，在寧靜的海面格外清晰。當牠們猛然發現我的小艇時，幾乎同時發出響亮的叫聲，隨即四散游開。那叫聲掠過海面，在群山間久久迴響。

海裡的小魚，也常帶來驚喜。有一次，一條銀白色的小魚忽然躍出水面，又連續躍起兩次，在陽光下畫出三道晶亮的弧線，轉眼便消失在海裡。短短幾秒，卻讓人久久難忘。

岸邊常有巨大的漂木。有的還連著盤根錯節的樹根，有的只剩光滑的樹幹，也有些仍帶著翠綠的枝葉，彷彿剛離開森林，又開始另一段旅程。

漂木上常停著海鷗，有時一隻，有時數隻，高低錯落地站著。遠遠望去，竟讓我想起中國古代宮殿屋脊上的脊獸，靜靜守望著山海，也守望著歲月。

山坡上，偶爾還能看見被山火燒焦的大樹。漆黑的樹幹依然挺立；有些樹木早已失去樹皮，只剩灰白的樹身，默默站在風雨之中。

它們雖然失去了生命，卻依然挺立。

海豹、海獅、海鳥、小魚、漂木、枯樹……都以自己的方式，留在這片山海。

後來我才明白，生命並不只有一種模樣。

第三部分　山海晚霞裡歸航

一年又一年，這片山海總以不同的模樣迎接我。

夏天的清晨，海面常被濃霧籠罩。遠處的群山若隱若現，彷彿一幅尚未完成的水墨畫。小艇穿行其中，世界變得格外安靜，耳邊只剩槳葉劃開水面的聲音。眼前的一切忽遠忽近，讓人分不清，自己究竟是在海上，還是在畫裡。

冬天，遠方的群山披上白雪。

獅子峰雄踞天際，雙姐妹峰靜靜相伴。陽光照在雪峰上，潔白而明亮；海面倒映著山影，天地上下，相互輝映。熟悉的山，因四季而變；熟悉的海，也因光影有了不同的神情。

我最喜歡的，是傍晚回航的時刻。

夕陽緩緩落向海平線，天上一道金光，水裡也一道金光。遠山、森林、小艇，都浸在溫暖的餘暉裡。船槳輕輕落下，又慢慢抬起，彷彿不願驚動這片寧靜。
那一刻，我常想起古人泛舟江上的情景。

千百年前，有人臨水而歌，有人把酒問月，有人寄情山水，也有人在江湖之間尋找人生的答案。古人早已遠去，山水依舊；而今天的我，也只是天地間一位平凡的過客，在同一片山海之間，靜靜划過。

返航時，岸邊愈來愈近。

我知道，旅程終將結束；可山還在，海還在，潮汐日復一日地來去。那些風景、生命、風聲與浪聲，早已留在心裡。

第四部分　山海迴響

我漸漸明白，山海給人的，不只是壯麗的景色。

它教人耐心，教人謙卑，也教人學會傾聽——傾聽風，傾聽浪，傾聽萬物，也傾聽自己的心。

船靠岸了。

我回頭望向那片熟悉的海。

它依然平靜，彷彿什麼都沒有發生。

而我知道，每一趟航程，都在心裡留下山海的迴響。

每一次回來的我，已然不同。

English Version 英文版（Gemini 翻译）

Mountain Echoes
By Taihua
Written on the West Coast of Canada, Summer 2026

Part One: Meeting the Sea

I can no longer remember how many times I have pushed my little kayak into the water.

As the boat leaves the shore, the surface of the sea grows still again, as if nothing has happened. Only a slender wake trails behind the bow, stretching quietly into the distance. A breeze carries the faint scent of salt as I paddle toward the heart of the bay.

Season after season, I begin my journey from this very place. The fresh green of spring, the warmth of summer, the coolness of autumn, the snow-covered mountains of winter; sunny skies, gentle rain, rising tides, and falling tides have all become part of the voyage. What was once wonder and curiosity has, over countless departures, grown into familiarity and quiet affection.

Mountains rise before me, while islands lie scattered across the sea. Here, the ocean is not an endless expanse. Instead, it unfolds gracefully among forested shores and rugged islands. Rain nourishes the coastal woods, where layers of green descend gently to the water’s edge. As my kayak glides between them, the sound of the paddle is all that remains.

Along the shoreline stand homes facing the sea. Some are modern and understated, while others preserve the timeless character of traditional West Coast wooden houses. Many have private docks extending into the water, with a few chairs resting quietly on their decks. Someone sips coffee. Someone reads a book. Someone simply gazes at the sea for a very long time.

As I paddle past, people occasionally wave to me, and I wave back with a smile. We have never met, nor exchanged a single word, yet there is nothing unfamiliar between us.

They have lived by these waters for generations. They know the sea breeze as well as the rhythm of the tides; they are children of this coast. And somehow, the man paddling a small kayak has quietly become part of the seascape in their eyes. The sea never introduced us, yet it allowed us to recognize one another.

On clear days, the water becomes a mirror. Mountains, forests, blue sky, and drifting clouds are reflected upon its surface. My kayak seems to travel not only across the sea, but also through the sky itself. When the breeze stirs the water, the reflections of mountains, sea, and heaven begin to ripple together.

Sunlight on the water is the most beautiful moment of the day. With every stroke of the paddle, it feels as though I am scooping up a ladleful of sunlight from the sea. Tiny droplets rise from the blade, glitter in the light, and fall softly back into the water. For a fleeting moment, I cannot tell whether it is seawater that is splashing—or sunlight itself. In the distance, scattered reflections dance endlessly across the waves.

Sometimes I stop paddling altogether and let the kayak drift with the tide. I lower my hand into the sea.

In winter, the water is piercingly cold, and the chill climbs from my fingertips up my arm. Even in summer, it remains refreshingly cool, carrying the unmistakable purity of the ocean. At first, I would quickly pull my hand away. Later, I learned to leave it there a little longer. The water flows gently across my palm and through my fingers.

Gradually, the cold fades, leaving only a silky, delicate touch. The current glides silently over my hand, making it difficult to pull away.

Only then did I truly come to know this sea.

It is vast, yet gentle.

It carries not only my kayak, but also the palm of my hand.

The journey continues. The paddle rises and falls, and ripples spread quietly toward the horizon. I often feel that the sound of my paddle is what I say to the sea, while the ripples are the sea’s reply. No words are spoken, yet we understand one another completely.

From that day on, going out to sea was no longer simply about admiring the scenery. I learned to listen—to the wind, the tides, the sound of the paddle cutting through the water, and, above all, to my own heart.

Only then did I realize that it was not the sea that had become still.

It was my own heart.

Part Two: The Landscape of Life

This is a quiet bay on the West Coast of Canada.

What draws me back again and again is not only the mountains and the sea, but also the lives that belong to these waters. Every journey brings a different encounter.

Winter is the season when seals appear most often. There are two rocky places in the bay where they like to gather. From a distance, they look no different from dark rocks rising above the tide. Only as my kayak drifts closer do I realize that those silent shapes are, in fact, seals.

One day, I found six seals basking in the sun upon a rocky outcrop. Five slept soundly, while one remained awake, its head held high, quietly watching in every direction like a lone sentry. When my kayak drew near, it was the first to notice me. One by one, the others awoke and slipped gracefully into the sea, leaving behind only widening rings that slowly dissolved across the deep green water.

Over the course of that winter, I saw more than twenty seals around those two rocky resting places. Some were jet black, while others wore coats of silver-gray. Each carried its own expression, its own quiet alertness, and its own way of belonging to the sea.

Another unforgettable encounter was with a group of sea lions.

One day, I came upon seven of them. They surfaced and disappeared in quick succession, weaving effortlessly through the water as they chased one another in playful pursuit. I made no attempt to approach them, simply following my own course. Before I realized it, my kayak and the sea lions were only a few steps apart.

I could clearly hear their heavy breathing each time they surfaced for air, followed by the sharp burst of air from their nostrils, sounding almost like a series of sudden sneezes that echoed across the quiet bay. The moment they noticed my kayak, they let out loud calls almost in unison before scattering swiftly in every direction. Their voices skimmed across the water and lingered among the surrounding mountains.

The sea has its smaller surprises as well.

Once, a tiny silver fish suddenly leapt from the water. Then it leapt twice more, tracing three bright arcs in the sunlight before disappearing beneath the surface. The entire moment lasted only a few seconds, yet it has remained in my memory ever since.

Along the shoreline lie enormous drift logs. Some still carry tangled roots, as though they had only recently been torn from the forest. Others have been worn smooth by wind and waves, while a few still bear fresh green branches, as if they had merely begun another journey after leaving the woods behind.

Seagulls often perch upon these drifting giants. Sometimes there is only one, sometimes several, standing at different heights along the weathered trunks. Seen from afar, they remind me of the small mythical guardian creatures that stand along the ridges of ancient Chinese palace roofs, silently watching over the mountains, the sea, and the passing years.

On the hillsides stand trees blackened by wildfire. Their charred trunks remain upright against the wind. Nearby are others that have long since lost their bark, leaving only pale gray columns quietly enduring the changing seasons.

Though life has left them, they still stand.

Seals, sea lions, seabirds, little fish, driftwood, and weathered trees—each remains in these mountains and waters in its own way.

Only later did I come to understand that life does not exist in just one form.

Part Three: Homeward Through the Evening Glow

Year after year, these mountains and this sea greet me in ever-changing ways.

On summer mornings, the bay is often wrapped in thick mist. The distant mountains emerge and disappear, like an unfinished ink painting waiting for its final brushstrokes. As my kayak slips quietly through the fog, the world falls into a profound silence. Only the gentle sound of the paddle breaking the water remains. Everything before me drifts between clarity and obscurity, and for a moment I can no longer tell whether I am traveling upon the sea or moving through a painting.

In winter, the distant mountains wear a mantle of snow.

The Lions stand majestically against the sky, while the Twin Sisters rest quietly beside them. Sunlight bathes the snowy peaks in brilliant white, and their reflections shimmer upon the sea below. The familiar mountains change with the seasons, and the familiar sea reveals a different face with every shift of light.

My favorite time of all is the journey home at sunset.

The sun slowly sinks toward the horizon, laying a ribbon of gold across both sky and sea. Mountains, forests, and my little kayak are all bathed in the warm glow of evening. The paddle enters the water softly and rises again with equal gentleness, as though unwilling to disturb the stillness around me.

At moments like these, I often think of those who once drifted along rivers and lakes in ancient times.

For thousands of years, people have stood by the water to sing, raised their cups to the moon, entrusted their hearts to mountains and rivers, or searched for the meaning of life upon the waterways of the world. Those travelers are long gone, yet the landscapes remain. Today, I too am only an ordinary passerby beneath the same sky, quietly crossing these mountains and these waters.

As I return, the shoreline slowly comes into view.

I know every voyage must come to an end. Yet the mountains remain, the sea remains, and the tides continue their endless rhythm, day after day. The landscapes, the living creatures, the wind, and the sound of the waves have long since found their place within my heart.


Part Four: Mountain Echoes

Gradually, I came to understand that the mountains and the sea offer far more than magnificent scenery.

They teach patience. They teach humility. They teach us how to listen—to the wind, to the waves, to every living thing, and ultimately, to our own hearts.

At last, my kayak reaches the shore.

I turn for one final look at the familiar sea.

It lies as calm as ever, as though nothing at all has happened.

Yet I know that every journey has left its own echo within me—an echo born of these mountains and this sea.

And each time I return, I am no longer quite the same person.