West Coast Stories
Pacific Rim Paradise
by Matt Jackson
Sea fog was still
raking its fingers across the mountains surrounding Toquart Bay
as we pushed off from our launch site, kayak noses pointed like
compass needles toward the first island, a half-mile off shore.
It was almost noon, and the water was silk-smooth. With every
stroke of my paddle I could feel a tangible serenity spreading
through me, but for one gnawing question: How does a paddler
compel a 1,000-pound sea lion to get off his kayak after it's
used it as a haul-out rock?
I had heard the story from one of our guides. "You don't
want to get too close to sea lions because you never know what
they're going to do," Robert warned me. "Those particular
paddlers had to be rescued after the sea lion tipped their kayak
over." Yes, paddlers may be enamored of these charismatic
sea creatures, but apparently the feeling is not always reciprocated.
I guess when several hundred pounds of barking blubber is concerned,
it pays to keep your distance.
There were 10 of us in the group, from places as far away as
Scotland, the Netherlands, and Switzerland. This was the first
day of a four-day trip into the heart of the Broken Group Islands,
a shattered jigsaw puzzle of rocky islands and islets that sits
adrift between Bamfield and Ucluelet on the west coast of Canada's
Vancouver Island. The Broken Group are part of the Pacific Rim
National Park, which is perhaps best known for the West Coast
Trail, a multi-day backpacking trail that runs along the coastline
south of Bamfield. Long Beach is the most famous surfing beach
in Canada and is located just north of Ucluelet. The Broken
Group are something of a paddling mecca, so kayakers shouldn't
expect to find complete solitude. I counted two dozen kayaks
departing from Toquart Bay as we were preparing to leave. Still,
that shouldn't dissuade paddlers from visiting, for there is
nothing else quite like it on the West Coast.
There are dozens of narrow passages and tidal lagoons to explore
where bat stars and sea cucumbers, purple urchins and teal-coloured
anemones congregate. We found a sunflower star the size of a
large frying pan, with 21 arms and thousands of tiny tentacles,
propelling itself at warp speed (for a sea star) across the ocean
floor. Tallina, one of our guides, spotted a giant moon snail
oozing along in four feet of water. After trying to extricate
it with her paddle for our viewing pleasure, she succeeded first
in demonstrating the effective use of her holy-crap strap. The
holy-crap stap is reserved for those occasions when you find
yourself suddenly upside down in the water, staring at the back
end of a moon snail trying to make its escape.
We pitched camp at Dodd Island late that first afternoon, and
when we rose on our second day the sea fog had returned, blanketing
the campsite. We launched mid-morning, and as we slid between
Walsh and Chalk Islands, pin-drop silence embraced us. We approached
the Tiny Group, a medley of islets arranged like broken pieces
of a plate dropped on the floor, and it was only then that the
shriek of an eaglet cut through the mesmeric calm. The mist
parted, and at the top of a large tree we could see the nest,
the eaglet staring down at us.
For the rest of the morning we zig zagged through a series of
narrow passageways adjacent to Jarvis Island and into Jaques
Lagoon. At low tide the lagoon is a potpourri of sea life, but
it was high tide when we arrived, so we contented ourselves with
exploring a large fish trap that the Nuu-chah-nulth people used
for centuries. West Coast natives erected these traps in the
intertidal zone and chased fish into them during the high tide.
When the tide dropped, the fish were stranded.
We didn't have to worry about trapping our dinner because our
guides had brought fresh seafood from the Ucluelet fish market.
When we returned to camp we feasted on sir-fried prawns and
Asian Noodle Salad. Our tummies appeased, we set off on a hike
around the perimeter of Dodd Island; short detours inland produced
some fine old-growth specimens, primarily Sitka spruce and western
red cedar. We finally reached a small rocky spit and watched
as the last vestiges of sun disappeared behind the coastal mountains.
The next day it was time to explore some of the outer islands,
so we squeezed between Turtle and Turret Islands and crossed
Coaster Channel. We found some "culturally modified"
trees at Gilbert Island, which is just fancy talk for cedar trees
that have had bark stripped off and planks cut from their trunks.
West Coast natives used cedar trees for everything. They cut
planks from the trees to build longhouses, and they used bark
and roots to weave blankets and clothing. From the largest cedars
were carved gargantuan dugout canoes-some more than 40 feet long-that
were used for hunting whales in nearby Barkley Sound.
Gilbert Island is where we saw our first sea lion. As we discreetly
followed it around a corner, a loud chorus of barking echoed
across the water, and we knew that we weren't far from the outer
rim. Hundreds of the ornery creatures lolled in the surf or
basked on the rocks.
We stopped for lunch at Dicebox Island, which was once the site
of a Nuu-chah-nulth village and also is a fine place for exploring
tide pools. We spent nearly two hours poking around the outer
edge of the island and basking in the sun. We then packed up
and paddled back across Coaster Channel, skirting the edge of
Turret, Trickett and Lovett Islands before heading out onto open
water. The wind had picked up, and so had the swells. They
were midsized at most, but large enough to offer some excitement
after an otherwise relaxing day. As we paddled, the waves would
lift the tail ends of our kayaks, rolling down the length of
the boats before slipping out from under the front ends. The
front ends would then drop into the water with a sploosh! It
was like being a slow-motion bronc rider at a western rodeo.
As it was our final night, we gathered some driftwood and built
a small fire. Tallina brought some bananas, which she parted
with a knife, stuffing each of them with marshmallows and squares
of chocolate before placing them on the hot embers to bake.
There is nothing quite like a beach fire on the last night of
a trip, and the chocolate-marshmallow banana splits only made
it more memorable.
There was even a final surprise. Everybody had gone to bed except
for the three of us, and we were dousing the last embers of our
fire when we noticed a strange phenomenon that Robert had mentioned
earlier in the trip. Every time we touched the water, it would
light up with brilliant green phosphorescence. We dropped a
rock in, and tiny green waves would radiate out from its center.
We would skip a rock, and little green ping marks would flash
across the surface. We would spook a fish, and a green lightning
bolt would streak through the shallows.
After we'd entertained ourselves for many long minutes, I finally
said good night to my colleagues and retreated back toward my
tent. They weren't far behind. As I slipped my boots off, a
sudden and bizarre idea struck me. I stopped what I was doing
and listened carefully. I waited for all the tent zippers to
stop zipping, and for the sleeping bags to stop rustling. They
I quietly slipped from my tent and tiptoed back down to the water
to take a pee.
Matt Jackson is
a freelance writer, photographer, and a very infrequent public
urinator who lives in Canmore, Alberta.
Paddling
the Secrets of Coastal Islands
Kayaks bridge the
way to nature's hidden gems in Barkley Sound.
The water, this
quiet morning, is as smooth as glass. Two sounds break the stillness:
The swish of a kayak paddle and the screaming of a bald eagle,
drying out her feathers after three days of wind and rain.
In mid stroke, I feel something looking at me. No more than six
feet away are two round black eyes, just above the water line.
It's a young harp seal, curious about this intrusion. He blinks,
and disappears head-over-flippers in a bed of bull kelp.
We're paddling
in the Broken Group, 100 small islands and big rocks scattered
like so many pebbles in the middle of Barkley Sound, sandwiched
between Loudon Channel and Imperial Eagle Channel. Both channels
are open to the Pacific, with strong swells and high winds that
come out of nowhere. That's why we hitched a ride by Zodiac into
these sheltered islands with names like Turtle Island and Onion
Island, and the Tiny Group.
Being sheltered
doesn't mean these islands will suffer fools. The Thiepval Channel
still holds a sunken ship, the MMCS Thiepval, that went to the
bottom on a calm day in 1930 when it hit an uncharted rock.
At least one island
has ancient ruins from villages that were occupied some 6,000
years ago. On another one, the captain of a whaling ship once
built his own hotel.
The islands are
deserted now, returned to their original inhabitants - bald eagles
and pelagic cormorants, harbour seals and sea lions, sea otters
and grey whales. And maybe a few ghosts.
We round the tip
of an island and see, halfway down its length, a massive ruined
tree trunk jutting over the water, weathered and grey.
"Ill show you something you'd never expect to see out here,"
says my fellow-paddler, Tracy Morben.
She points to the base of the ruined tree trunk. It's a human
face, carved who-knows-when by some unknown artist.
Tracy knows the secrets of the Broken Chain better than most
people. She has spent years guiding and teaching kayaking in
Pacific Rim National Park, and has seen the best and the worst
of the ocean. "The weather changes so fast. Big waves appear
suddenly, from a storm you can't even see coming. You need to
know the tides, because in a few hours they can completely change
the terrain".
We coast past rocky
outcrops with sleek brown sea lions dozing in the sun. A few
of them sleep on their backs, black flippers extended above the
water to catch the warmth. Other islands, in the lee of the prevailing
winds, are covered with Sitka spruce and cedar.
Moss-hung, fern-choked, they have white sand beaches and shallow,
sheltered bays with purple and orange starfish clearly visible
on the bottom. We stop for lunch on a white sand beach, and Tracy
hauls a small feast out of her kayak's storage space and sets
it out on a giant log.
Crows check the log for scraps, a long legged water bird paces
in the shallows, gulls swoop low. In such a place, body and brain
begin to relax. Still, there are rules here, cautionary tales,
things to remember.
Don't wear jeans
in a kayak - if you capsize, they'll weigh you down. Keep your
lifejacket zipped at all times. If you happen to get blindsided
by a wave and capsize, don't panic. "Pull the sprayskirt
cord and you will pop out right away," Tracy says. "Normally,
I'll have you back in your kayak inside of three minutes".
That's a comforting thought, considering that even a few minutes
in this water can cause hypothermia. Don't worry about it - just
be aware. One more thing: Paddle with a buddy. Only an expert
kayaker or somebody with a death wish paddles alone in these
waters.
It's a big ocean and it eats what it catches
Eye
to Eye with the Friendlies
Moving encounter
with a pair of whales is wet and wonderful.
We're halfway across
Barkley Sound in a rubber boat when the whales show up. Two of
them. The Friendlies, Brian Congdon calls them. He owns this
Zodiac, and during many years on the water he has seen a lot
of whales.
Although this isn't a whale watch trip-we're on our way back
to Ucluelet from a day of kayaking-there's something different
going on here, and he cuts the motor.
The Friendlies are apparently fascinated by the Zodiac, and they
play with us like two kids playing with a new toy, nuzzling the
boat with their massive jaws, rolling over, swimming underneath
and surfacing suddenly on the other side. Spraying great fountains
of water into the air. Again and again, showers cover the boat.
"Supposed to be lucky, whale spit," somebody says.
Lucky maybe, but it smells bad, like a swamp in a heat wave.
The Friendlies are grey whales. Unlike the black and white Orcas,
which are all identified within their specific pods by distinctive
markings, the grays are mottled and nameless. But the Friendlies
are easy to tell apart, one being crusted with yellow barnacles,
the other with two great gashes on his back, sore-looking wounds
that must be the result of playing near a propeller. They're
too close and too big for my little camera, and I end up with
bizarre shots of blowholes and barnacles. It doesn't matter-no
camera could record what's happening here. Rolling over, they
present nose and flipper near enough so we can easily touch them.
I reach, and the dark skin beneath my hand is softer than I'd
have believed, like wet velvet.
The Friendlies
are a mystery. They could be travelers, part of the annual migration
of 26,000 greys that make the journey from Mexico to Alaska every
spring.
They're likely adult males, Congdon says. Maybe 35 feet long.
Maybe 30 tons. Certainly big enough and powerful enough to toss
us around, should they be so inclined, but we know they won't.
He drops a hydrographic microphone over the side, and soon we
hear rhythmic clicking sounds. "I'm convinced those are
directional signals," he says. Then from one of them comes
the strange musical call that is the language of whales. I'm
hanging half out of the boat, and as one great whale slides near
me I pass my hand over his flipper again. Is it possible these
animals like to be touched? That they sing to each other? That
they will prop up their sick or wounded baby for days, holding
it between two adults?
He rolls over on his right side, and for one amazing moment I'm
eye to eye with a wild whale. The huge jaws open - do whales
laugh? And once more the water fountains out of the blowhole.
They've been with us for an hour, and now they've had enough.
There's no dramatic gesture, no final breaching to wave goodbye,
but suddenly the water is quiet. And empty.
They've simply gone, and we'll never see them again. Not like
this, playful, gentle, dog-friendly. One of my fellow kayakers,
a young British exchange student, is moved almost to tears by
the encounter. "I never imagined this," she whispers.
"I'll never forget this." Neither will I.
A
sublime stillness on Fish Camp Row
By Erik
Enno Tamm
I live in an abandoned
fish camp at the end of a pier in the lonely harbour of Ucluelet
on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. In the early mornings,
seagulls drop clams on my roof, trying to break open the shells.
Harbour seals bark like neighbourhood dogs. Schools of herring
bubble to the glassy ocean surface forming thousands of little
ripples like rain falling on water.
Except for the seals and gulls, my mornings are a sublime stillness.
There was no salmon fishing this summer for the 1,800 people
in the village of Ucluelet. Almost the entire outer coast of
Vancouver Island was closed to commercial salmon trolling-the
first time in the 100-year history of the fishery.
Down the harbour sit five other idle or derelict fish packers
that form "Fish Camp Row". The camp buildings look
like huge aluminum corrugated boxes stacked on top of each other,
three or four storeys high. Each camp contains ice-making machines,
freezers, a two-storey icehouse, unloading stations, an office
and small apartments for the campmen. Thats where I live.
My grandfather moved to Ucluelet from Harbour Le Cou, Nfld. In
1938. He was one of a group of fishermen who founded the Ucluelet
Fishing Company and built this camp. For more than 30 years he,
and then my father, sold their daily catches of salmon to the
company. The profits were divvied up among the fishermen who
owned or sold fish to the company, and some was given to the
local fish hatchery in the harbour to ensure stable salmon runs
for the future. The company even gave me a small scholarship
to go to university. During the summer breaks, I returned to
fish with my father on our familys hook-and-line troller.
Then, in 1994, the company manager offered me the job of campman.
I ran the ice-making machines, filled the boats with tonnes of
salted ice and graded the catches of pink, coho, chinook, chum
and sockeye salmon when the 40-foot trollers would return from
a week at sea. The docks bustled with skippers and deckhands
whose personalities were as colourful as their nicknames: Snakebite,
The Lord, Jumbo, Mountain, Crazy, Captain Crunch, George the
Greek.
But that summer was my last working on the decks and docks of
B.C.s salmon industry. And three years later, in 1997,
closures and the federal government program to cut the small-boat
fleet turned Ucluelet into a ghostly harbour. No fish boats and
no fishing. My father retired, finally, at the age of 70.
When I finished university in 1996, a Ucluelet fisherman suggested
I come home to work with coastal communities that are challenging
the governments plan to buy out many small-boat fishermen.
The governments goal is to develop a more urban-based corporate
fishery. Almost half a billion dollars worth of all species of
fish is harvested annually off Ucluelet and other villages along
the B.C. coast but the portion taken by local residents is dwindling.
Back home again and looking for a place to stay, I inquired about
the vacant apartment in the fish camp. It was available and cheap,
so I moved in immediately. First, I discovered the sewage pump
was broken. Then the water line burst. For a month I showered
in a nearby motel and washed my dishes with bottled water.
Sure, winter storms rock the building on its old creosote-soaked
pilings. Southeasterly gales scream through my windows, leaving
a damp chill in my bones. My bedroom and kitchen have sprung
leaks. Everything is either rotting or rusting. The docks are
sinking. The gangway is teetering. Still, I continue to live
in this camp. The panoramic view and the eerie silence of summer
mornings are daily reminders of the task at handto ensure
that Ucluelet and other villages like it share in the bounty
harvested off their shores.
Erik Enno Tamm
is a writer and executive director of the Coastal Community Network,
an alliance of fishing and native communities on the B.C. coast.
Thanksgiving
in the Islands
by Ann Novak
A year ago my
teenage son and I were fortunate enough to go for a day trip
in Barkley Sound with Majestic Ocean Kayaking, based in Ucluelet,
B.C. My husband was subjected to a lot of kayak talk over the
winter. In the spring the three of us took lessons from Tracy
Morben, and by fall we owned a family fleet. When we heard that
Majestic was planning a Thanksgiving trip to the Broken Group
as their last tour of the season we knew it was a must do. The
party totaled ten; most of us were from Vancouver island. It
was the perfect holiday weekend, and a wonderful initiation into
kayak camping.
Everyday life was
far away. We had left Toquart Bay in the morning, and paddled
across smooth, sunlit waters to Benson island. on the ocean edge
of the Broken Group. There we set up camp on a sheltered beach,
by a mossy forest of old hemlock trees and giant ferns. After
sunset we sat around the campfire, talking, and roasting oysters
- the ultimate luxury. Our muscles felt good after a day of paddling,
and our bellies were content after a wonderful meal of fresh
prawns with black bean sauce, stir fried vegetables, and rice.
Occasionally a troller passed by. Across Coaster Channel we could
see the light at the end of Effingham Island. The only sound
was the rhythmic hush of the breaking waves.
There was a slight
phosphorescence in the water. The small waves breaking on shore
were sparked with silver, and the sand looked like fireworks
under our feet, echoing the clear, starry sky. Heading sleepily
towards our tent Peter and I saw somethiiig new to us; a glow-in-the-dark
sand flea. Perhaps it had been eating phosphorescent plankton.
When I closed my
eyes I could still feel the gentle rocking of the sea beneath
my kayak. I dozed off lulled by its rhythm. In the night I got
up and sat for a while on the empty beach, listening to the surf,
and a distant sea lion. Sky and water both looked like silver.
At dawn the sky
and sea were soft grey, and the water as smooth as a baby's skin.
A storm was forecast though, so we packed any overnight essentials
in our kayaks before setting out on our explorations. Our guides
had planned a day trip around the outermost islands of the Broken
Group.
During the night
I'd been bothered by tendonitis in my elbow, and I wondered if
I should spend the day in camp. That wasn't really such a bad
prospect, considering the beauty of Benson Island, but Tracy
wouldn't hear of me missing out on the day's fun. She arranged
for me to take it easy in the front of one of the doubles for
the day, and Tammy generously offered to paddle my single kayak.
I'm always amazed at the range of talents to be found in any
random group of people, and this group was no exception. Tracy
is qualified in advanced wilderness first aid, and we also had
a physiotherapist with us. There on the beach Brenda gave my
arm a massage to die for. After she'd worked her magic my elbow
felt better than ever before. I've had no problems paddling since,
and I was back in my own kayak the next day.
As we launched
our kayaks Peter provided a moment of comic relief earning the
title of wettest paddler of the weekend with his elegant demonstration
of how not to enter a kayak. Leaving our sheltered cove we paddled
out into the slow rollercoaster swells of the open ocean, The
din of sea lions grew loud as we entered the passage between
Wouwer and Batley Islands. We sat quietly off shore while about
a hundred huge, barking, snorting, sea lions watched us watching
them. A few flopped down the rocks and swam out to investigate
us, their inquisitive, bewhiskered faces popping up near our
kayaks. Others lay motionless on their backs in the water, flippers
sticking up into the air, cooling off.
The sea lions were
awesome, but we were made aware of their vulnerability when a
Zodiac arrived in the cove. The men on board ran ashore flapping
their arms and shouting, while the nearby sea lions fled into
the water. It seems that the tourists were scaring the sea lions
just to see them run. There is a definate downside to wilderness
tourism.
We paddled across
the protected waters towards Gilbert Island, our lunch stop.
I enjoyed being in the double kayak, and getting to know Stuart,
my paddling partner. We'd both lived in Ucluelet for years, and
knew each other by sight - now to my delight I discovered that
I really liked him, and wanted to know him better. This was one
of the pleasures of the trip; sociability combined with ample
opportunity for solitude. Our conversation flowed easily while
we paddled through scenery more beautiful than I could ever have
imagined.
After lunch a very
fine Scotch mist began to fall, but there was not yet even the
faintest wind. We paddled through the shallow kelp beds alongside
Effingham Island, past eagleµs nests high atop weathered
cedar spikes, past small groups of cormorants, and a solitary
heron, and rounded a point marked by a magnificent arch of stone.
Now the island rose more steeply from the water. Yet another
sea arch was up ahead, the surf crashing through it. Beyond the
arch Meares Bluff rose smooth and vertical from the sea, its
massive rock face pounded by the open ocean, and the winter storms.
Lichens dotted the bare stone. Stunted wind-pruned trees amid
a tangle of salal clung tenaciously to the cliff tops. The swells
surged and ebbed hypnotically. No shelter here, no possible place
to land a boat. The wind picked up, and the rain with it. The
world shrank to grey rolling water, towering grey rock, grey
sky. I felt very small and insignificant.
Rounding the curve
of Effingham island we left the exposed cliffs behind. Once again
we were in the shelter of myriad small and inviting islands.
We paddled easily through steady rain, back past Dicebox island,
and Wouwer island. At Bailey Island we paused to watch another
group of sea lions. Then we were out into the unbroken wind of
the open channel. We paddled close to shore to check out some
spectacular sea caves, and then headed across the channel to
Benson Island. The waves were large and confused enough to be
exciting, at least to a beginner like me. Through the rain I
could see our camp beckoning on the shore, and though I looked
forward to getting there I felt sad as we got close. Exhilarated,
I wanted it to go on just a little longer...
Warm and dry in
raingear and fleece we sipped hot drinks around a cheery fire
-thanks for the brandy Dave! - and our thoughts turned towards
dinner. As dusk approached the rain stopped and the wind died.
A rainbow appeared, soft at first, then glowing brighter, and
becoming double. Its perfect arch was mirrored in the water.
The sky around it glowed rosy pink with the setting sun.
A short trail from
our camp led to a grassy clearing where deer grazed. Apparently
there used to be a hotel on that spot, and boatloads of wealthy
tourists would come from Victoria for an elegant stay in a wilderness
paradise. OurThanksgiving feast had more than a touch of elegance
to it as well, and I found myself thinking of those old time
travellers. Tracy, after a full day of paddling, and seemingly
without effort, produced a feast of turkey, stuffing, gravy,
yams, mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, broccoli, and cranberry
sauce. All laid out on silver grey driftwood planks, complete
with a festive antique tablecloth. Candle light and an array
of wines added the final touch. Dessert was apple cake, with
a candle to celebrate Ross's birthday. To someone like myself,
used to backpacking, where the sensory pleasure of eating is
too often sacrificed to lightness and convenience, the meal was
a true wonder. Too full to move, we lazed around the fire telling
jokes (which won't be printed here) as the stars came out.
The morning dawned
sunny. I said my goodbyes to Benson Island. A last walk along
the deer paths, a last look around the grassy meadow. A small
perfect abalone shell as a souvenir. The blue water in Loudoun
Channel was like rolling glass, with no hint of yesterday's storm.
The wind and the tide were with us - home was approaching too
fast. No one wanted the weekend to end. We paused for mid-channel
snacks, then paddled on towards David Island for lunch. After
a morning in the open channel the narrow, single file passage
behind David Island was all the more beautiful by contrast. Here
the shallow water was crystal clear, unlike the churned up outer
waters of the sound. Bat stars, and anemones lined the bottom.
A decorator crab scuttled near a patch of eel grass. We passed
a point of rock where a fog-grey heron poised motionless. Moments
later it took off shrieking, the noise appalling from one so
graceful. A group of harbour seals dove off the rooks where they
were sunning themselves, and swam out to us, their heads bobbing
like corks as they popped up to take a look. On a boulder at
the waters edge we saw a weasel, its head darting from side to
side as it caught our scent. The intertidal rocks were a brilliant
tapestry of seaweeds, bright green, and rust coloured, and irrideseent;
blue mussels; purple and orange stars; pale green anemones; and
chalk white barnacles. A loon called in the distance, its liquid
voice echoing across the water.
As we left David
Island, Eric launched a surprise splash attack on Tracy. I'll
have to practice that trick splash she did with her rudder. It
might come in useful. The mother of a fourteen year old needs
to know things like that.
Paddling back to
Toquart Bay was like coming down from a mountain top. With each
stroke the human environment loomed closer, and the world seemed
less pure. We got back to Toquart Bay much too soon. The kayaks
were unpacked, belongings sorted out, vehicles loaded, and then
it was time for good-bye hugs to strangers who had become friends.
When asked if the Thanksgiving trip would become an annual event
Tracy replied, "It will if you make it." 1 know my
family will.
By
permission of the author the following is a copy of a story she
wrote for and appears
in the February/March (98) issue of Wave~Length
Paddling Magazine
I
WAS A TERRIBLE KAYAKER!
by Fay
Roth
I was a terrible
kayaker! I got stuck on rocks, couldn't navigate in reverse,
and worst of all, I wanted to paddle my kayak like it was a canoe.
My guide tutored me, humored me, and nagged at me, but she still
could not stop me from plunging my paddle deep into the water.
"We are heading
this way!"
I peered in the
direction of our guide's outstretched arm. Tracy Morben of Majestic
Ocean Kayaking, was pointing south toward a veil of white morning
mist hanging over the grey-green waters of Barkley Sound. Beyond,
was the clear blue sky and our destination, the Broken Group
Islands, part of the Pacific Rim National Park system on the
west coast of Vancouver Island.
We had chosen this
spot for our first family kayaking vacation because the waterways
inside the hundred or so islands are relatively calm and sheltered.
Even though thousands of paddlers visit the area every summer,
as a Park it remains undeveloped. The only buildings are the
wonderful solar powered composting outhouses in the eight designated
campsites and a warden's floathouse on the south side of Nettle
Island.
Before pushing
off from Toquart Bay on our four day tour, our group of seven
novices received extensive paddling and safety instructions from
Tracy. While my husband Brock and our eleven year old daughter
Jessie listened intently, I tuned it out. Being an avid sailor
and having canoed a couple of times, I believed kayaking would
be a snap. But after only moments on the water, I realized my
smugness was misguided. It was a lot harder than I thought!
By the time we
were through the Stopper Islands, my shoulders and biceps were
burning from pulling the fully loaded double kayak through the
choppy water and I still had to make the two kilometre sprint
across Loudoun Channel.
Tracy floated over.
"You have canoed before, haven't you?"
Thrilled that she
has noticed my technique, I answer confidently, "Yes, don't
worry about me."
This statement
always sends shivers down Tracy's spine. Placing the paddle in
the wrong position can mean very sore muscles, or even an unexpected
swim in the cold Pacific for a client. As a former marathon canoeing
champion and ski coach, she practices the detection and correction
method of instruction, identifying and then altering problems
by watching a paddler's body action.
"I especially
watch my clients on the first day", says Tracy. "This
is when I detect the dynamics of the group, and know how we will
progress on the tour. I continue to monitor techniques throughout.
If continued help is needed, I'm there."
According to Tracy,
I made the three most common mistakes.
1). I did not reach far enough forward with my paddle, therefore
I lost power in my stroke.
2. I pulled the paddle back past my hip, which can affect the
rudder and was a waste of my energy.
3. I paddled the kayak like a canoe which can make the kayak
unstable, especially in waves. (I might have wedged the paddle
under my kayak, tipping myself and my daughter over.)
Tracy explained
that the two paddling techniques are quite different. For a canoe,
the paddle stroke is deep and close to the boat, while in a kayak,
the paddle enters the water away from the boat, just below the
water's surface.
To rectify my problems,
the following day, Tracy went over the basics again. This time
I listened, and she also had me switch kayaks with Brock. I got
his lighter and more responsive single, leaving him with the
heavy double and Jessie, who was more of a passenger than a paddler.
Feeling suspended
in the water in the lightweight single, I paddled effortlessly
away from our first campsite on Hand Island, determined to do
it correctly... although often the scenery caused my concentration
to wane. Touring past Gibraltar and its neighboring islands,
we moved along islands covered with towering deep green fir and
hemlock trees and where time and wind have been at work, white
sandy beaches have been carved out of the grey rocky shores.
Across the water I could faintly hear Tracy reminding me to correct
my paddling, but I was too busy watching a raccoon snoop around
the water's edge.
Coming out of the
protected lagoon between Jarvis and Jacques Islands, we were
hit by strong head winds. Their fury whipped off my hat and pushed
me back in my seat. Instinctively, I braced my lower body on
the foot pedals and leaned into the wind. Keeping my arms low,
I reached forward, giving power to every stroke. As the islands
started to slowly go by, I realized I was making headway, although
there were times I felt as though I was rendered motionless by
the strength of the wind.
When we finally
glided into the tranquil bay at Willis Island, I saw a happy
Tracy beaming at me from the shore. Later, she explained there
could have been a number of reasons for the fine tuning of my
technique.
- the change from
a large double to a sleek single kayak
- the wind forcing
me to push harder, to reach forward and brace my lower body
- and not everyone
'gets it' on the first day!
A few days later,
we cruised back into Toquart Bay, and our tour of the Broken
Group was over. I was tired but elated, because I no longer felt
like a floating fool. While I admit I'm not a natural, I can
honestly say now, I'm not a terrible kayaker either.
Fay Roth is
an Alberta writer
Wave-Length
Paddling Magazine
Phone/Fax: 250/247-9789
RR#1 Site-17 C-49, Gabriola Island, BC Canada V0R 1X0
www.WaveLengthMagazine.com
SEA WORTHY
A beach-loving writer overcomes her fear of the ocean by learning
to kayak.
By Ann Hood
We arrive at our
camp to uninhabited Dodd Island in a steady rain. The nine of
us are in red suits, big puffy jumpsuits that make us look like
Michelin men. "It's a floatersuit," we were told as
we put them on and filed aboard the Zodiac. "It's a survival
suit." The work survival sends chills through me. I am about
to spend five days on an island off the coast of British Columbia
with a group of strangers, most of it in a sea kayak. This is
no Pulau Tiga: Last summer's TV show survivors performed their
various physical feats in tropical water; the average water temperature
here in Vancouver's Broken Islands is about 40 degrees F.
"How many
shades of gray do you see?" our guide, Tracy, asks us cheerfully.
She looks like a cross between the actress Kathy Baker and my
friend Julie. If you have to live on a deserted island, Tracy
and her assistant guide Blaine, are the people you want with
you. Forget Rich and Kelly. Tracy smokes a hundred pounds of
salmon herself so she can make us her signature dish of pasta
with smoked salmon: Blaine helps terrified first-time kayakers
relax (more on that later).
In the mist we
see the word Welcome spelled out in seashells along our beach.
We've been here less than five minutes and I've already spotted
one sea lion, a bald eagle, a mink, several crabs skittering
across the ocean floor, and more starfish than I've ever seen
in my life: bat stars, ochre stars, mottled stars, in red, blue,
violet, indigo, orange. Just as I begin to relax, Tracy says
enthusiastically, "let's kayak!" and my heart sinks.
I am gripped by a fear of tipping over and drowning in the Pacific
Ocean. I do not want to sea kayak; I'd be happy to sit on the
beach and count starfish. "That's what everyone thinks",
Blaine tells me. "But sea kayaks are very stable."
Made of fiberglass
and painted the colors of the Izod shirts I wore in the 70s,
our sea kayaks are lined up on the beach, waiting for us. Our
guides give us lessons in how to paddle and what to do if we
do tip, but I remain completely confused as I enter the water
and climb into the little red and mango kayak. Having never been
in a kayak in my life, this is the first I've heard about a rudder.
But there it is in the back of my kayak. I not only have to paddle
this thing, but I also have to steer it with foot pedals! I will
never make it out of here, I think.
As soon as I have
that thought, the rest of my group kayaked merrily away from
me. I take a deep breath and study my situation. First, I am
wearing more clothes made out of synthetic fibers than John Travolta
in Saturday Night Fever. This is because synthetic fibers dry
quickly. But for now I am very wet, because of the steady rain.
I also have on a paddle jacket and a life vest and a spray skirt,
which is a big black thing that fastens around my waist and then
attaches to the place in the kayak where I sit. In effect, it
keeps water out and me in. The yellow tab that sticks out of
it is what I have to pull when I fall into the ocean. Although
I know it's a good thing, it still adds to my fear, like the
Ghost of Christmas Past pointing me toward my demise.
Out of the fog Blaine appears, grinning. "Need some help?"
he asks me. I nod stiffly so as not to rock the boat. Carefully,
slowly, Blaine shows me the correct way to paddle. He takes me
into the safety of a cove. I start to relax, understanding that
Blaine's job is to help the kayaking challenged.
"Sweep the paddle more," he says. "Don't put it
in so deep
70% push and 30% pull." I try. I move forward,
then backward. I have a feeling that Blaine and I will be spending
a lot of time together.
The trip I am on
is well organized, we have lovely tents and gourmet meals. In
the morning, we even have French coffee with real cream in our
own mugs that we can take home. Life on the beach is good. But
we are not here to sit on the beach and drink coffee. It is time
to sea kayak again. This time I am put into a periwinkle blue
double with Tony, a 13-year-old who has been sea kayaking for
years. It is sunny, even warmish, and we are off to look at sea
lions.
In a double, the
person in the back steers by operating the pedals; both people
paddle. Tony and I have fun searching for kelp crabs amongst
the thick bull kelp. In the distance we hear the "Uh-huh,
Uh-huh," of lots of sea lions. 'That's the way' I sing in
my mind, letting the sea lions fill in the Uh-huh, Uh-huh. It
strikes me that I am actually having fun. "I love sea kayaking!"
I think. "I love Tony and seaweed and nature! I am a new
woman!"
Then I get the
bad news. I have to return to the small red and mango single
kayak after lunch. The sea lions, hundreds of them, are everywhere.
In the water. On the rocks. And I have to maneuver through them,
alone. Then Tracy takes me aside and says, "We reserve the
right to tow you if you can't keep up, okay?" She means
well. She has to make sure everyone in the group is happy. "Okay,"
I say, trying to hide my humiliation. I want to tell her that
I was actually good as part of a two-person team; that Tony and
I often led the group. But it's time to go.
Once again, the
group is paddling merrily away. But this time I am not exactly
alone. There are sea lions everywhere, saying Uh-huh, Uh-huh
with their fishy breath, diving underneath my kayak, sometimes
even blocking my path and staring at me. For fun, waves start
to wash over the front of the kayak, rocking it like a seesaw.
My predicament becomes all too clear: I am in the ocean in a
small piece of fiberglass surrounded by more than 20 one-ton
sea lions. And I do not like it one bit. Tracy appears out of
nowhere, takes one look at me, clips a rope to my kayak, and
starts to tow. "Already"" I manage to ask her
but with the sea lions barking, the waves crashing, and my heart
pounding in my ears, I can't hear her reply. Even though I eventually
paddle on my own again and manage to not be the slowest one in
the group, I know that if someone were to be voted off Dodd Island
tonight, it would be me.
Then, things change.
As Tracy told me on the very first day, "Learning to sea
kayak is almost too easy." I stick to the double kayak and,
with bright sunshine and warm weather for the next few days,
have the time of my life. We visit different islands every day
and get to learn about the people who used to inhabit them.
When we spot dozens of moon snail collars in the water -gray
circles with black centers-Tracy tells us to start looking for
moon snails with the big spiral shells. "Is that one?"
I shout. It is, and Tracy jumps out of her kayak and into the
water to retrieve it for us.
On the last day,
as I paddle, I start to fantasize about other kayaking trips.
Seeing the world this close-up has been an amazing adventure.
I am in a double kayak with Tracy and I manage to work up the
courage to ask how I'm doing. "You've got it down,"
she says. Our paddles cut the water like synchronized swimmers.
"Your stroke is right." Tonight there will be a final
campfire, with banana boats for dessert. The group will tell
jokes and stargaze. But for now, I am sea kayaking. "Oh,
yeah," Tracy says, "you can do it." The tribe
has spoken.
Ann Hood is
a freelance writer living in Providence, R.I.
More Good Reading
To
set the mood... or... bring along for those quiet times on your
trips.
KAYAKING IN THE BROKEN GROUP ISLANDS by JF Marleau
SEA KAYAKING , by John Dowd
ISLAND PADDLING, by Mary Ann Snowden
THE STARSHIP
AND THE CANOE, by
Kenneth Brower
WATCHING WHALES , by Fisheries and Oceans Canada
OUR ECOLOGICAL FOOTPRINT, by Mathis Wackernagel & William
Rees
KLEE WYCK, by Emily Carr
OUTDOOR LEADERSHIP. Technique, Common
Sense & Self Confidence, by John Graham.
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