Blackie Spit

Blackie Spit is a shoreline that still feels like something the city forgot to ruin: a narrow sandy spit, tidal flats and scrub that funnel gulls, sandpipers and migrating shorebirds into plain view. A wide gravel path skirts marsh and beach for roughly five kilometres, dotted with benches, picnic clearings and a sheltered rotunda for rainy days. Locals treat it like Sunday ritual—dog walkers coaxing labradors into the surf, parents launching paddleboards, photographers staking out the low light for sunsets. It’s family-friendly without being kitschy: flush toilets, a couple of parking lots, and enough beach to spread a blanket without overhearing the neighbour. Weekends fill up; early mornings and late afternoons feel quietly communal. Blackie Spit’s talent is simple: it stitches suburban neighbourhoods to the Salish Sea, a natural classroom for birdwatchers and a backyard for new immigrants celebrating with picnics. It’s not a destination for nightlife or luxury—just honest coast, noise of gulls instead of music, and a place where the tide sets the schedule.