The wave hissed across my deck but my kayak bobbed up like a seal taking air, and the wave lost its grip. I'd launched, with Ocean River staffers from Cattle Point, headed to Discovery Island. Unending rollers marched across the Juan de Fuca mobilized by the strident southerly and I imagined each wave intent on spanking me. I almost wished I'd stayed on shore, but that thought slipped away as the next wave streamed from my deck and I re-focused on the trip.
We'd buddied up for the crossing, but my buddy found it difficult to stay with me. My kayak's tendency to windcock was unleashed in this wind. If I'd given my boat her head she'd have gone south to Gonzalez Point, but our course was East, to the sheltering kelp in the lee of the Chain Islands, en route for Rudlin Bay.
We were a pod of seven kayaks, and though none of us dove like Orcas, the cold Pacific slapped us about, angry it couldn't control us. The wind shrilled in sympathy and, as we paddled between the reef markers of Mayor's Channel, it tugged my hair and pulled my paddle.
We regrouped in the lee of Great Chain Island and watched a seal's onshore antics. We were relieved to see another being in this watery waste and, as we rose and fell on a carpet of kelp, our silence became a communion. The seal watched us too, but his fathomless eyes pitied us as awkward aliens in his world. I looked across the water to the suppertime homes of the city, and wondered why we were here.
Kayak means a hunter's boat, and although we weren't hunters, we were searchers. Young adventurers in our pod, cocksure of their prowess, challenged the water, screamed defiance to the wind and surfed the foam topped swells. Others silently dipped their paddles, cocooned by wind and waves, coddled by the warmth of the sun, focused on their world, within our pod, yet within themselves. Yet all would speak of communing with a seal, of the power of the wind and the waves, of the clear light of moon and stars, of sharing a campsite on a wild island anchored near their city.
As we moved into Plumper Passage, I knew if I'd been sailing the wind would have whistled in my rigging. I watched the frisky whitecaps and braced against their efforts to roll me. I thought I had their measure, until the shallows near Virtue Rock, when the waves, barrelling over the shallows, jumped as though they'd entered a vaulting competition. They gave me nervous moments but my craft proved seaworthy. It was an age away from my first crude kayak of plywood and canvas which had showed the ribs of its ancient Greenland cousins, but it was not light and responsive. I'm sure the ancient Innu would have marvelled at the technological magic which replicates the craft of our dreams in cloth.
We changed course. The water was furrowed with breakers marshalled by the strong southerly and a flooding tide, so attempts to broadside us into a broach, were tiresome not dangerous. The muscles in my right arm burned as I'd swept almost exclusively on the right to maintain the heading. Despite wearing miracle fabrics, I was wet with salt and sweat and my hands were thick from constant cold immersion. I'd be glad to land.
Discovery came slowly into focus. Commodore Point was necklaced with froth and spume and the trees grew from the horizon into towering splendour. The wind blasted with fresh breath, determined to disrupt our trip, for it knew we'd escape behind the Point. The evening sun sparkled on the white waves as though chuckling at our elemental encounter.
My craft sideslipped into yet another watery trough but edged closer to Discovery. The waves, impotent against the shore, recoiled angrily and confused the wind-driven swells. I saw kelp ahead and imagined a soft surging carpet, but instead floundered on a writhing, twisting bed, which curled round my paddle as though the sea had whelped serpents. I inched across it towards the safer sheen of Rudlin Bay.
I gave mute thanks as the beach finally crunched under my hull. The wind barely rocked the arbutus, ruffled the grass or rippled the water on this side of the bay. The dense firs of Commodore Point sheltered the landing. I pulled my kayak above the tide line and changed clothes. I'd barely warmed them when I saw an erected tarp and heard the furnace roar of a propane stove.
I'd planned to eat sandwiches and paddle back to Cattle Point, but the crossing had taken most of the evening and, as the wind had refused to heed the forecaster's predictions; I'd be spending the night on Discovery.
I smelled the sizzle of mushrooms and saw the cook add eggplant to the frypan.
"Forget cold supper, there's plenty for everyone," he invited.
After supper we circled the candle lantern as though it was our campfire, and pooled our conversations. We'd shed the cares of our world but spiced our get away with adventure and peace, solitude and companionship, and a desire for simplicity. The stars and moon, unsullied by city lights, sparkled on the ocean and cast black shadows among the trees. Cold damp slithered across the grass like an unwelcome snake, and fleeces, which were never grown on sheep, were passed around. Those unprepared to spend the night (that included me) were swamped with extra clothes, and the offer of bivvy sacks. I felt like an unexpected pauper, but grew too cold to refuse and slept among the others beneath a nylon tarp under a jewel studded sky.
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