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BC's Perfect Storm

by Doug Lloyd

The coast of BC was hit by the worst storm in four decades on Oct. 16, 1996. It was a "marine bomb" of the very worst kind -- coming on strong and without absolute warning in both its-earlier-than-expected arrival and more importantly, its brutal intensity. Local forecasts for BC waters indicated gale to storm force winds could be expected on the outer coast later in the day, so fortunately mariners were off the water for the most part. I elected to test the waters. More about that in a moment.

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I went to see the movie "The Perfect Storm". It wasn't the best movie I've ever seen, but for Holywood...well, what do you expect -- especially given that the book was a journalist's re-creation of a story who's focus (the crew) weren't alive to tell the tale of what really happened in this fanciful best selling book. And with the exception of a few poor animatronic scenes with the Captain, Billy Tyne (George Clooney) out on the stabilizer boom, offered a lot of technical merit for special effects. In fact, some of the scenes were so realistic and visceral, that I noticed a couple of patrons left the theater. I think someone on PW had some involvement with production (?).

I had a hard time holding back the tears at one point, not so much because of the doomed nature of the men, but more so because of the scenes of nature's raw, inspiring power so graphically displayed on screen. I'm not posting an irrelevant movie review here, so much as zeroing in on the marvelous structure of reality of our Earth, where planetary forces could produce such a confluence of conditions as to manifest something so malevolent as the storm by which the movie gets its name. The seas that were so realistically portrayed (with the exception of the leading front rogue wave encountered by the ill fated 'Andrea Gail' at the end) sent waves of awe that tingled my spine and left my heart in my mouth. I had to remember to take a breath now and again.

I could also identify with Captain Billy Thorten and the happenstance of kismet and hubris that placed him in the worst possible scenario imaginable. I was flooded by a wash of emotions, identifying with the men in the wheel house, who were so sure of themselves and their ability to make it through (cresting huge waves, big grins, unawares that it was going to get worse -- a lot worse), until forces conspired to make it rather obvious that they weren't going to overcome the present difficulty.

That brought another tear to my eye, remembering my own difficulties on the ill fated crossing from Indian Cove to the Storm Islands. I'll never forget the other strong paddler in our group who turned to me, eyes so full of vexation, who said, "I don't think this crossing was a very good idea". Like the crew aboard the sword fishing boat, the best time to turn back was long gone. In our case, we were lucky of course, as the gale lessened in intensity after 6 or 7 hours of desperate paddling (and self-mutalating mental abuse for our collective error) and the rescue resources were available.

I think the movie does a service by emphasizing the sheer stupidity of the "go fer it" mentality with out first "doing the math". It also vividly portrayed interesting aspects of oceanography, boat behavior (my father-in-law's brother was a tug boat worker for years, and recounts tales of trying to turn ocean-going tugs on huge wave faces, just like in the movie), the difficulties of search and rescue procedures, the almost unlimited response SAR specialists will go to at the risk of their own lives, and of course, the fact than man is truly humbled when confronted by an aspect of nature he is completely at the mercy of. I also underwent some more emotion at the end of the movie, not from the funeral eulogy, but when the camera panned the wall of names of those who had died fishing in the locality of the Great Banks -- 10,000 men since 1920. That's a lot of lives sacrificed to the cold depths.

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On the October day of the BC storm in question, we hadn't had any real big blows yet. We always get one sometime in the late fall to get things rolling for the storm season (10 to 15 per month through to April, with no real gradual change before the first one hits). I was in good shape back then, no degenerative back problems to frustrate rough water paddling. Little fear. No rescues. I was invincible, you know (yeah, right), paddling local waters with impunity. I knew it was going to be a "good blow" from the US television weather map I saw the night before, but couldn't figure out why Canadian broadcasts were downplayed. My boss would not give me time off work, telling me she was doing it for my good. I sat at work, thoroughly frustrated, as minute by minute the storm evolved into hurricane force winds. I really wanted to get down to the breakwater. One can launch in the lee of the mile long breakwater, then poke out into the full brunt of whatever hell is breaking loose, yet duck back in. No go. By the time I'd get off work, get my boat down to the water before dark, the best I could do was Esquimalt Lagoon, a mile or two long natural breakwater with a lagoon that drains at the southern end under a bridge.

The severe weather event built quickly through the day. A Gulf of Alaska low was to the extreme north, while a rapidly moving coastal low moved fast across inside and outside waters of BC with little warning (the explosive manner of these storms lends the name "marine bomb"). Pressure was dropping rapidly ( to 940 millibars if I remember). One of the extreme aspects of these lows is the strongest winds are just to the southeast of the low, usually just in front of the associated front - which means Victoria in this case. If I remember correctly, El Nino conditions had caused the remains of a very moist, tropical storm remnant from equatorial waters to make it all the way to the Oregon coast. Forecasters did not realize the significance and influence of this factor, which feed the storm instantly and intensely.

At the height of the storm, hurricane force winds buffeted waters at 200 kilometers per hour. Many reporting stations lost measurements when equipment simply blew off structures. At Cape Scott, 30 meter waves were being reported (10 feet shy of the the East Coast's Perfect Storm record of 100 feet). Victoria didn't get much below 110 km/h, with gusts well over 130km/h. None of us baby boomers had ever seen anything like that around here before. Waves and heaven-high spray soared over the hugh Oak Bay Marina parking lot. Finally, ignobly, "E" jetty gave away and 30 yachts broke loose, causing hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of damage, and many harrowing moments for Victoria's elite and lesser knows. Remember, Victoria is located on inside waters - were not used to this kind of punishment.

Tens of thousands were without electricity. Debris littered streets. Bricks flew off buildings (a normal day in the Gulf of Mexico cities :-) 50 mm of rain fell. The US Coast Guard rescued 2 Russians from a nine-metre sailboat caught in the storm off Washington State. Lighthouse keepers reported they thought the rain drops hitting their widows might shatter them (not literally). And at the University of Victoria, Professor Andrew Weaver was trying to give a lecture in darkness at a symposium about climate change and global warning.

I knew I'd have little on-water time with the remaining daylight, but I also knew this was the kind of storm I might never see again in my lifetime. My wife pleaded with me to stay home. I said this was what I had been waiting for, for most of my adult life. It was now or never -- I'd never be able to do this when I got older. She said she would rather see me actually drown, that stay up all night wondering if I was alive or dead. Minutes were ticking by. I said "whatever". We loaded up the kayak, I was fully dressed for action, PFD on, car seat pushed back for more room. I told her she had been a worry wart too long, along with my two little girls. If they could see me in those tumultuous seas, and see that I was competent out there, they wouldn't have to ever worry about me again. God, what I put my family through.

Arriving at the scene, it was disheartening. Seas ragged right over the lagoon neck t the south end. The entire beached reach was covered in logs, smashing and splintering, careening and colliding. Seas inundated right over to the other side of the lagoon. Roadblocks were up. Damn, light fading, all hope of bagging this one fading. Then I saw it. A huge log partially embedded in the sand. A flat top for seal launching. The sting on my face was almost unbearable. My wife only lasted a second helping me get the boat off the car, before retiring to the warmth of the running engine and comfort of the car's cabin. My children rubbed circular patterns in the fogging window panes of the car's doors. Everything turned to slow motion. I had a lot to lose. They had a lot to lose. Whatever I did, it would have to be done with extreme caution, deliberate movements, deep reserves of emotional strength to overcome the fear, and I might have to sacrifice my boat (I'm totally unafraid once in the water).

I snapped the under chin strap on my Wildwasser helmet. My gear felt tight; my PFD restricting my breathing. I couldn't loosen up. My heart pounded so hard, it felt like an effervescent tablet had been released into my blood stream. The timing would have to be just perfect. I needed a perfect wave, and a perfect widow through the maelstrom of logs out to cleaner seas. Six foot plus waves rolled in, steep and fast, their peaks ripped off in long sheets. The entire molten, corrugated sea surface looked like someone had poured a huge celestial bucket of whipped cream into the storm tossed tempest. I had seen and paddled many a storm on this coast for 16 years at that point, but never had I seen it in such a tantrum.

I waved to the little blue car in the background up on the road -- my progeny silently praying for me, I was sure; my wife calculating how much life insurance I had. Then it came. The rogue I wanted, clearing a path. Hesitation. Then commitment. Out, out to sea, flying over steep cresting breakers. Waves pummeling my chest, but only momentarily as the wind disintegrated them, diffusing each one into the air. Arms burning, inner thighs tense, everywhere noise, commotion, energy, coldness, and the feeling of the raw bite of flying spume on my grinning face. My Nordkapp bucked and reared fearsomely. I couldn't turn in this stuff. I was fully occupied staying upright, hands gripping the paddle shaft like eagle's talons during each briny blast, decks awash with hissing angry sea.

Moving further out to try and get less bottoming of waves, I realized it wasn't a matter of touching bottom. The seas seemed even more of a solid, churning white mass, steep waves just as steep as near shore. I stayed the course for 15 minutes, until all reserves were close to exhaustion. I needed energy to get back in. Time to run back in. Attempting to turn, the kayak lunged wildly broadside to the sea. My paddle catching every gust. Now I was finding this really grueling. I made the turn through sheer above average muscle ability, but this was hardly consummate seamanship. Enough of this Douglas! The Walter Mitty in me back at my government work desk enjoyed so immensely thoughts of doing this, but out here, now, in a dangerous, unforgiving situation, it was different.

It was getting dark fast. I peered into the blackness of the shoreline. Logs barely discernible. The bow plunged into each trough, surging back to the surface each time. Three or four half rolls. Muscles failing. Tolerance for risk waning. Time to call it quits. 20 minutes of glory. What more do you want Doug? Landing, that was going to be a problem. What did you think you were going to do? Where was your usual astute assessment prior to launching, your escape route? Time to bail. There, between those two huge logs. Good-bye friend, hope you survive. You're a tough boat -- a British heavy, now do your thing. Wet exit, leaning seaward. Kayak rips out from under me, driven shoreward. Log astern. Swim parallel. Spit and cough water. Ah, there's my fixed log, great navigation in the gathering blackness. Body seal-land, up, out; SAFE, Safe, safe.

Exhausted. Never to be repeated. My Nordkapp cartwheels over a log, deck stress fractures. Time for another rebuild anyway. I fall and slide on the logs. I grab the toggle, pulling it over my torso, flinging it up toward the road. My spouse comes running. You okay Doug? Yes Yvonne, I'm fine. Never missed a beat dear! Yeah, you don't look it! Did you see me sweetie? Yes, for a while. You disappeared out there. Thought you were gone. I was going to flag down someone for held. But honey, I told you not to do that, to stay in the car. But I'm your wife, dummy. I love you, don't do this again please, the girls are sick with worry. Yes dear, but you see, I did do it, right? You don't need to worry about me again, right? Is your insurance paid up, dear?

The big one is out of my system. It was my "Perfect Storm". I'm not the same person I was then. So brave, so bold I was. These days I'm happy just to paddle the inner harbor and not be in pain. Walter Mitty still fantasizes though -- now and again.

BC'in Ya (Sorry for long post - had a hard time sleeping tonight after the movie)
Doug Lloyd


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