There are places in a city that quietly wait for you. Not because they are hidden, but because you keep telling yourself, “It’s close. I can go anytime.” And somehow “anytime” slowly turns into one year.

That was exactly our relationship with the Toronto Aquarium.

Ironically, visiting places like this was one of the main reasons we came to Toronto in the first place. You imagine yourself exploring museums, galleries, lakesides, hidden cafés, bookstores, strange corners of the city, and of course, giant underwater tunnels full of sharks swimming above your head. At the same time, you pretend to be calm and sophisticated.

But real life has a very rude habit of interrupting imagination.

There is always work. Emails. Rent. Groceries. Laundry. Weather. Suddenly, you realize you have been living ten minutes away from an aquarium for months and still have not gone inside.

So finally, we did it.

And honestly? I think my imagination arrived there years before I did.

I do not know how to swim. Not even a little. Which makes my lifelong obsession with oceans, whales, sea monsters, and giant mysterious creatures slightly suspicious.

Still, not knowing how to swim has never stopped me from doing questionable things.

For example, late last winter, I somehow ended up walking across the frozen lake like a character with absolutely no survival instinct. I do not recommend this activity to anyone, by the way. But imagination is dangerous when combined with curiosity.

The strange thing is, I can no longer control these thoughts and fantasies even if I try. Years ago, I attempted to suppress them and behave like a normal adult. Terrible decision. It only made everything worse.

Now I accept that my brain operates like an overfunded fantasy studio.

Please try walking in my shoes for a moment.

Imagine you are crossing a frozen lake, minding your business, when suddenly an orca appears from nowhere beneath the ice to say hello. Or maybe a whale pulls you underwater because it is bored and wants someone to talk to. Or a dragon emerges for absolutely no reason except dramatic timing.

This kind of thing happens to me constantly.

At this point, I have stopped resisting.

Honestly, life becomes far more tolerable when you allow imagination to decorate reality a little. My dreams brought me to this neighbourhood in the first place. Every morning, I wake up and stare at the lake like a confused sailor from a nineteenth-century novel.

Sometimes I feel like I am trapped inside Moby-Dick, hunting some impossible creature across dark waters. Other days, I become the exhausted fisherman from The Old Man and the Sea, quietly wrestling with something larger than myself. Occasionally, usually after a nightmare, I imagine myself drowning dramatically while sad cinematic music plays in the background.

And sometimes?

Sometimes I am simply a peaceful wanderer holding a coffee near the harbour.

But imagination, unfortunately, requires fuel.

You cannot spend your whole life staring at Lake Ontario, hoping a whale appears out of respect for your creativity. At some point, you need visuals. Evidence. Something closer to the world living inside your head.

So my imagination finally convinced me to walk ten minutes and enter the underwater kingdom known as Ripley's Aquarium of Canada.

The moment we stepped inside, the city disappeared.

Everything became dark blue and strangely dreamlike. People moved slowly through glowing tunnels like sleepwalkers. Honestly, the aquarium did not feel like a tourist attraction. It felt more like entering the subconscious mind of someone who had fallen asleep while watching nature documentaries.

And everywhere around me were others trapped in their own imaginations, too.

Children pressing their faces against the glass.

Adults pretending they were only there for the kids while secretly taking 400 photos of jellyfish.

Couples walking silently beneath sharks like they were underwater astronauts.

Even I, a man fully incapable of surviving in a swimming pool, somehow felt connected to the rhythm of the ocean.

The sharks were surprisingly calm. Years of documentaries had convinced me they would look terrifying, judgmental, maybe even slightly political. Instead, they glided through the water with the confidence of creatures who know they are beautiful.

The jellyfish completely stole the show.

I swear they moved like elegant women at an expensive wedding party, floating through music only they could hear. Absolute swagger. Zero stress. Probably better emotional stability than the rest of us.

Then came the turtle.

This giant creature destroyed every stereotype about turtles being slow and lazy. It passed other fish with the energy of someone late for a meeting downtown.

And then there was the stingray.

One of them genuinely looked like it was smiling at me. Maybe I had fully lost my mind by then. Maybe aquariums do that to people.

I was standing there, emotionally bonding with a smiling fish, when suddenly a child nearby screamed:

“NEMO! NEMO IS HERE!”

And honestly, that was the perfect moment.

Because the aquarium does something rare, it permits adults to become children again for a little while.

For kids, of course, it is magical. They learn about oceans, ecosystems, strange creatures, and the beauty of nature. But adults secretly need places like this too. Places that interrupt routine. Places that remind us the world is still enormous, mysterious, and full of things we barely understand.

You walk in expecting fish.

You leave thinking about imagination.

You bring your imagination to life.

If you enjoy QAF Narrative, please consider sharing it with friends, colleagues, or anyone who may appreciate thoughtful writing on Toronto’s Harbourfront, culture, and city life.

I always welcome feedback, ideas, and conversations with readers. If you have any questions, suggestions, or requests, please feel free to contact me at:

[email protected]

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