Dear Paddlewisers,
The following is a excerpt from my personal log book. I share it not to be
flammed, after all, this is
The whole thing started a few days prior to my encounter with the Fisheries
vessel. Reports filtered in through the media about an abandoned sailboat,
set adrift by youthful thieves near the West Coast Trail on Vancouver
Island. With charts pulled out, the Carmanah shoreline looked hopeful as a
catch-all. Driving up early in the morning, I arrived at Port San Juan, and
paddled out due west. The expensive sailboat was soon located near Cullite
Cove, untouched by salvagers."Yes, I'm first on the scene, it's all mine!"
This was adventure!
I had rope and caribeaners on the rear deck, and a full tool kit buried in
the hatch. The electronic equipment in the cabin alone, was worth thousands
upon thousands of dollars.
Unfortunately, the pitiful boat lay in behind a heavy reef break. Stainless
rigging was everywhere. Every few seconds, the boat would be hurled up
inside the curl at the base of the wave-cut, sandstone cliff -- where the
biggest swell would reach. I tried to seal-land further away, rather than
get tangled up. In the confused foam-zone, I rather easily cracked the
supposedly "indestructible" hull of my British Nordkapp. Chewing gum was
used to plug the crack, which was leaking under my thighs. I might live for
adventure, but I didn't want to *die* for adventure, so headed home dejected.
Returning a few days later, in a hurry, without a wet-suit, at the last
minute after phoning in to work where it was slow, and with an extremely
narrow window for weather, I met the said patrol vessel just outside of
Port San Juan at Owen Point. The skipper was livid. It was howling already.
He said five fisherman had just been lost in Brooks Bay, and the tail end
of a deep low was headed this way. After convincing the Officer on deck of
my superior skill and competency, and the fact that I knew how much time I
had and the fact they wouldn't need to come search for my body, the Captain
gunned the engines. No longer protected in the vessel's lee (where I had
relaxed and was able to snap a picture), the sudden surge of waves and wind
caused a partial capsize. Doing a one sided roll, sans camera in water,
must not have looked very competent to the bemused deck hands. "Thanks guys
for your concern, have a nice day!"
A little more nervous this second time out with such poor weather due, and
not really feeling up to the conditions nor psyched as a few days ago, I
managed to relocated the previous site. I paced frantically back and forth
on the water looking for the sailboat, trying to see shore ward on top of
each three and a half meter swell. "Dag-Nabbed-It! It's gone". Salvagers
must have grabbed it yesterday at low tide." Though tired and frustrated,
landing for an emergency bivouac was way too risky. How did I ever think
any landing would have ever been possible, had the sailboat even been found?
I started the long slog back. Near Camper Bay, the temporary,
"impervious-to-water" duct tape peeled away from the kayak's hull. Even
with all my bravado, the growing four meter swell dwarfed my ego. There was
absolutely *no way* I would attempt landing in the narrow confines of
Camper Bay, my predetermined escape route. Cold water started to fill the
cockpit. My Nordkapp was loosing stability fast, or is that supposed to be
the paddler was unable to maintain adequate equilibrium. Well, whatever.
The thick British fiberpile Javilin suit covering my legs didn't do much to
prevent "knockn'knee-woosy wobbln' syndrome" as panic set in. It's not
something gentlemen sea kayakers talk about in public, certainly not in the
company of fellow enthusiasts of narrow boats or the people who sell them.
And it's the worst thing that can happen in a narrow kayak in choppy
conditions -- let alone with a cockpit full of cold water in really rough
conditions.
By the time the tops of the swells had started to tear off in long sheets
of white spray, it was time to "pray in the spray". Swells were racing in
over submerged boomers at 15 to 20 knots. My drop-knee lean for dealing
with the broach inducing seas would not work with the boat half full of
salt water. Rebounding waves threatened every movement with capsize. At
that point, I hated my "tippy" British boat. "Hey Neptune, you bar
tending today?. Good, give me a Klepper Aerius II, 35" beam, air
sponson-gunwale stabilizers please...not on the rocks".
Revelation finally came. I turned to face the waves, and headed out to
safer water, purchasing some precious pumping time. "Okay Doug, let's see,
paddle loom over back of neck, scull for support with one arm, pump rear
deck Henderson bilge with other arm." On flat water, Derek Hutchison had
made it look so easy. "Hey Hutchy, nice circus act. Sorry, but I don't have
time for clowning around right now. Forget this". It was impossible to turn
one's torso backwards, try to retain stability, and pump from the rear. I
vowed to remount the pump to the front deck if I ever made it home. After
another short prayer (one of Derek Hutchinson's better pieces of rescue
advice), another revelation: it consisted of three or four strokes forward,
then a wide forward sweep to correct course, then three quick pumps on the
rear deck bilge. Three pumps were the limit, at which point capsize was
imminent. That kept enough water out and permitted the necessary strokes
to keep off the lee shore. The hurricane remnants were moving in fast.
Taking my mind off the weather, I mused and then really wondered how the
BCU's Manufacturers Association standards could allow such a ridiculous
location as putting a bilge pump on the rear deck.
By the time I rounded Owen Point into Port San Juan, the muscles down the
back of my pumping arm were severely cramped, as were the muscles of my
other arm from sweeping continually. I had a rudder, but had been unable to
deploy it due to the cheap rope lines binding between the mount and rudder
blade. I vowed to replace the lines with steel cables. Too sore and
exhausted to head for the safer landing at the San Juan Bridge, I rode the
explosive dumping surf over the Gordon River Bar.
Somewhat incapacitated, rolling the water-logged boat was impossible.
Ripped clean out of even the Nordkapp's small cockpit in the non spilling
surf, the gravel filled kayak slid out of my hands, back into the dumping
breakers as I stood in waist deep water. I vowed to rig up a bow painter
line, accessible from the deck, allowing a just beached kayaker to grab the
line and run for higher ground with vessel in tow. Retrieving the kayak
from dumping surf is a joke. The kayak bolted over top of me, mowing me
down, then rolled over again. The VCP rudder dislodged from its minimalist
retainer, and was snapped off its mount. "Come on guys, rudders need a
decent park feature built into their mounts!"
I sat there dumbfounded in the bitter breeze. It is truly amazing how cold
one can get in our BC waters. With spirits dampened and enthusiasm watered
down, I wasn't seasick. No, just sick of the sea and me. I knew my logic
got slippery when wet, but I had really done it this time -- "Stupid,
stupid, stupid man!" With kayak retrieved, the big Ford LTD heater on full
blast, I was finally homeward bound from my "miss" adventure. Passing
Jordan River, still shivering, the seas were streaked white. Passing East
Sooke Basin, brilliant blasts of lightning were pummelling the dark outer
straights beyond. Its surface was confused beyond belief, its undercurrents
colliding, churning. An allegory of the current status of my soul. Victoria
was frighteningly windy, with branches down everywhere, but sunny.
Arriving at my bachelor pad, I was finally beyond pummelling myself
anymore. My days of adventure kayaking, where *adventure* was an end in
itself, would simply have to end. Maybe the future was sunnier. I vowed to
change my attitude toward poor risk management, and make some immediate
wholesale changes to the
kayak.
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