Vancouver Island Drones vs. The Pacific Ocean Falling From the Sky
When the rain’s coming down sideways for the third week straight, even Gizmo gives up on flying and settles in for a bit of wish-fulfillment. Nothing like watching other people enjoy blue skies while the Island tries to merge with the Pacific.
I don’t know if we’re in an atmospheric river, an atmospheric waterfall, or whatever new name they’ve invented this year, but it has been biblically pouring rain on Vancouver Island since the end of summer. It hasn’t let up. It hasn’t even taken a lunch break. The sky has basically been dumping a full season’s worth of water on us every single day, and my DJI Air 3S has now entered its window-watching era.
That’s what it looked like this morning—Gizmo (yes, the drone finally has a name) standing on the ledge, legs out, props up, staring through the raindrops like a dog that desperately wants to go outside but knows it’ll be miserable the second it does. If drones had facial expressions, Gizmo would have been giving me the same look Blake gives me when I tell him we can’t go to the playground because everything’s soaked.
When the rain hasn’t stopped since August, even Gizmo starts daydreaming about warm beaches and dry skies. Stuck inside with a map, a mug of “Hot Oil,” and nothing but atmospheric rivers outside the window, it’s officially vacation-fantasy season on Vancouver Island.
And that’s the thing about flying here. We always pretend we can just wait out the weather, but waiting out Vancouver Island rain is like waiting for a toddler to “calm down on their own.” You’re going to be there a while. Every time the rain slows down, the wind picks up. Every time the wind relaxes, the fog rolls in. You start questioning whether the idea of “flying conditions” is even real or just something people in Alberta made up.
Honestly, you get used to it. You tune your batteries, make another coffee, glance out the window every fifteen minutes, and hope for a six-minute break in the sky where you can squeeze a flight in before the next wave hits. This time of year, that’s all you get—a few stolen minutes, and then the Pacific comes crashing down again.
The good news is the payoff is coming. January and February here are some of the clearest, crispest flying months you get all year. Perfect light, perfect air, gorgeous visibility. When that hits, the Air 3S is getting launched out the door so fast it won’t even remember its rainy little existential crisis by the window.
Until then, we’re just trying to stay dry like the rest of the Island.
