It was around 4:00 in the afternoon, a clear day with the vivid panorama of Vancouver framed by its majestic mountains. I was washing dishes, the mundane task anchoring me in an ordinary moment—until a small disk-shaped craft suddenly drew my attention. It zipped down over Crown Mountain, moving in a smooth, curvilinear sweep that felt almost deliberate. Then it hovered thoughtfully over southern Vancouver, exactly within the center of my view. There was no sound, no exhaust, only the eerie grace of a vessel both technologically crafted and somehow possessed of a thoughtful intelligence.
Despite the craft being about two miles from my window, an inexplicable chill crept over me: it felt as if this silent visitor wasn’t just passing through but was directly aware of me, watching and choosing its movements with a style no machine could mimic.
Before I could even call out to my family, the small saucer surged forth, darting down the Fraser Valley at incredible speed. In less than a minute, from the moment it emerged to the instant it vanished, it covered roughly thirty miles—a silent streak against the blue sky.
I was twelve years old then, grounded in my beliefs and untouched by any haze of drugs or dreams. At the time, I reasoned perhaps it was a secret American aircraft, but no craft like it has ever crossed my path since. This fleeting encounter, a silent dance of mystery and technology, lingers still. I wonder if others in Delta or nearby areas glimpsed this enigmatic visitor that day, or if I was alone in witnessing the impossible.