As mentioned in Part One, it took three close encounters of the thought
provoking kind to secure a modicum of sea sense, while simultaneously
ensuring that the seaworthiness of my sea kayak and equipment was at an
acceptable level. Note that I have logged thousands of nautical miles over
the years, most without incident. I'm only highlighting three trips where I
feel there are some interesting lessons that meet Jackie's mandate on
Paddlewise to provide discussion on the topic of things like risk
management. The three stories paraphrased from my logbook illustrate (I
feel), one of the most important aspects of sea kayaking, namely, the
ability to actualize reconciliation between one's level of tolerable
perceived risk with one's level of actual risk. For myself, it took more
than a decade, and I still have not perhaps fully arrived. After my Storm
Island rescue in early April this year, I've taken the whole summer off
paddling to reevaluate and regroup.
From my Log:
On a late August weekend in 1990, I paddled west out of Winter Harbor near the northwest tip of Vancouver Island. The scene at the entrance to Quatsino Sound was suffused with a strange surrealism. The juxtaposition between the unbearably hot and sultry confines of the Harbor immediately astern and that of the cold, splintering spray shooting high above the gaunt base of Kains Island lighthouse just ahead was suggestive of the incongruities that still needed to be worked out within my own deep sub-conscious.
A well established "Lee Trough" was generating very strong North Westerlies. I had seven days to reach Cape Scott and attempt to navigate the treacherous stretch of seaway between Vancouver Island and the Scott Islands, my goal. During the intervening years after being blown of the Brooks (Part Two), I attempted to attach much more importance to three-dimensional planning skills. I really wanted to break my pattern of misadventure, but I also wished to keep the important antecedents of adventure which included some uncertainty of outcome -- and the chance to shape that outcome through the application of competent technical and safety skills. And, I had also promised my aging Mother (Official Keeper of The Float Plan) to avoid dangerously strong winds and unmanageable tidal streams. The long range forecast was for continued North West winds.
If there is one defining factor to recommend this challenging coastline, it would have to be the unspoiled nature of the as-of-yet unlogged terrain. The rape and pillage of the rest of Vancouver Island's timber resources is an international disgrace. Guide books also suggest this portion of the coast would quicken the pulse of even the most jaded seafarer. The surf at Raft Cove turned out to be not as terrible as my feeble mind had imagined. The cabin located on the south side of the Macjack River ranks, in my mind, as one of the Top Ten places to spend an evening on the West Coast of Canada, well, at least if it wasn't for the big bear that rubs his fur on the cabin's corner all night, just in front of the latrine. The two hour evening paddle up the river amongst the fire-burnt forrest, has to rate as a most spooky experience.
The next day, the weather radio quit working. Surveying the seascape, something had changed with respect to the strong North Westerly flow. Waiting until about noon, no improvement was evident. Cool fog moved rapidly in from the South. Even though the NW headwinds had abated, atmospheric visibility was now in jeopardy and no updated forecast was available. I stupidly left the beach (thinking San Josef Bay would be a preferable layover while waiting out what appeared to be a developing Sou'Easter, as the bay had awesome world class surfing, a road out, and no bully-bear!) The bay was just around the corner, a few hours, but would nicely set me up for the push to Cape Scott. Marginal conditions perhaps, but I really thought they were easily manageable for my skill-set and strength.
That's how it always starts...conditions are not the best. You push on. Sure. You reach the limits of feasibility. Then comes the close call. And then vows of "never again!" Well, the South East stratus surge picked up and created cross waves to the existing swell pattern. Though the kayak was jostled close to shore by the increasing wind, I didn't worry because no dangerous headlands appeared on the chart. Cape Palmerston showed itself as an obtuse element only. But, by misinterpreting the topographical information in front of me, I did not anticipate the rebound effect of the Cape's long bluffs. I had wholly misjudged the actual danger. The resultant chaotic surface, including the superimposed south wave pattern, created confused seas in surprisingly short order.
"Should I turn back, should I go on?" I knew the Nordkapp had safely carried me through far worse, but conditions were deteriorating every minute. (I still can't believe how fast it changed!) I wanted to push further out from the cliffs, but the wind and waves conspired to keep me in close. Then it happened, the wave from Hell. The kayak pirouetted on a significant clapotis wave, leaving me sculling in thin air. Dropping down, the spray-skirt popped off. The kayak filled with water immediately.
My first reaction was my typical one, complete anger. Good spay-decks were a rarity in Victoria. My cheap VCP supplied skirt lost its coating the first year I bought the kayak. I had then ordered a custom neoprene one with a entry zipper, but the zipper leaked terribly. I then ordered another custom neoprene unit with minimal seams, but the bunched up rim seal edge leaked terribly too, so I had picked up a new, heavy duty nylon VCP skirt for the trip. Unfortunately it had no "give" to it with the small Nordkapp cockpit circumference. And to think, I had been assured that the small cockpit was superior to all North American cockpits, which were supposedly so big that waves just rip skirts right off. Well, the bottom line is that if one pushes the limits, the ocean will find any weakness in the equipment used. And, if prudence isn't exercised, the sea will soon teach its hard lesson of respect.
Within seconds, my face tingled with pain from the intense apprehension. This was definitely over-arousal, with the possibility of a non-recoverable outcome. The vigilance required to keep the boat away from the cliffs, paddle into the wind, pump the boat out with my remounted-to-the-front-deck, Henderson pump, and do the spray skirt back up while trying to maintain equilibrium in seas that were almost impossible to begin with, was immense. Only by performing the necessary actions during the irregular, triangular lulls of each wave trough in the unique wave pattern, was success possible. The ten minutes to regain control seemed like a lifetime. Once complete, I let out an incredible yell of victory at sea. Without that pump remount from its old location abaft cockpit (Part One), I may have died. I vowed to mount the less popular Henderson foot pump which would be more hands-free effective, if a split foot control for the rudder could be found (Seaward now have one which I have installed). It is important to understand that if I had bailed, my paddlefloat would have been useless so close in to the cliffs and reefs.
Finally rounding Cape Palmerston, the scene in San Joseph Bay was amusing. Almost the entire fishing fleet was anchored, stabilizers deployed one-and-all, waiting out the weather. The ghostly white apparition passing them by had few words, for once, save a request for weather info -- which I had kind of figured out by then. After crashing ashore in the surf, I stayed put for a bit -- so much for the recreational surfing. Once things settled down a bit, it took a few more days of difficult paddling to reach Cape Scott. I vowed to add a knee-tube under the front deck for better knee brace control, and add an accessible watertight hatch for a weather radio, accessories,etc. Dealing with on-water needs and sore groin muscles from splayed legs has been too disturbing with the current stock set-up. On one memorable late night, a Buffalo search plane flew very low and slow. I wondered if its wing-housed search lights, eerily lighting up the beach, would ever find their rescuee. (I found out later a fish boat had sunk that night). I also wondered who would ever rescue me from myself?
By the time I had finished spinning around in the tricky currents and actually arrived at Cape Scott, the rain was blowing horizontally. I couldn't even look towards the location of the Scott Islands without the stinging rain hurting my eyes and face. "Forget any offshore excursions, Doug!" The crossing to the island wasn't going to happen. After awhile the beach wasn't absorbing the rain rapidly enough, so sleeping arrangements were rather wet. The tent had taken forever to erect in the monumental downpour, its interior as wet as its exterior. The fly fluttered incessantly all night, but I didn't want in the woods with branches flying everywhere. Then shoulder pain returned. I knew in an instant I could never be a long range expedition paddler. I cried. My few other thoughts were of the Danish pioneers who had been overwhelmed in their attempts to settle this forbidding, ocean-edge world, where the only observable constant has always been change.
But a change had occurred deep within me. I knew at that point that the art of understanding the sea would take a lifetime, and that in the learning process, I would have to start to understanding myself too. With some further evaluative reflection on the paddle back to Winter Harbor, I realized I would need much more sensitivity to that still, small voice that gives one the ability to sense the sea's changing moods and help one act accordingly. I would require a more willing, humble, patient and mature heart. I would also have to stop my externalization of fault, and face facts square on. I returned to Victoria a lot less troubled. A chance to get married and settle down and hopefully have children awaited me, and I was soon hitched and shackled. Perhaps it was a bit of a second choice, but probably a prudent and safe one. Of course, marriage is a different kind of deep trouble!
End
Thank you for reading!
BC'in Ya
Doug Lloyd
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