West Coast Stories

"You introduced us to sea kayaking.  That was a truly unforgettable experience!
We had a couple trips to the Broken Group Islands with your company, and it was so nice!
Here is a short movie about these trips".

Andrew and Katherine

Below video used during the 2010 Olympics:

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.

Deafening & Delightful Sounds of Silence

by Pete McMartin
Source: 2008 Vancouver Sun article

At exactly the moment a circuit caught fire and the lights went out in Vancouver, we waded out into waist-deep water to the shuttle boat and strapped our kayaks onto its roof. We were going to the Broken Group Islands in Pacific Rim National Park. We would be there four days. Gary, the captain, who once made his living as a fisherman when you could make a living as a fisherman, gunned the big twin Honda outboards, the boat reared and we leaned against the acceleration as we headed south into Barkley Sound. The boat slapped up and down in the swells. It was cold and the water was grey. Everyone retreated to the cabin, but I stood on the stern deck out in the open, a precaution against a personal weakness for violent hair-trigger seasickness. Marine fog shrouded the line of little islands before us on the horizon and the dark spine of mountains to the east.

The trip was Terry's idea. Terry is a friend. He likes planning annual adventures that are semi-hazardous and meant to take us out of ourselves. Once, we tried to climb a 14,000-foot mountain in California, and in the thin air at 12,500 feet I began to totter like a 90-year-old. It was agreed I looked pretty awful. I stumbled happily back to camp. The one guy who did make 14,000 feet collapsed on the way down. We covered him with blankets, fed and hydrated him and sat around him while we watched him shiver. Another time, Terry suggested to a buddy and me that we all try mountain biking, except it was on a real mountain and on an advanced trail, and on the way down I hit a tree stump and flew into the bushes and my buddy launched over his handlebars and broke three fingers and an ankle. Terry came up behind us slowly, wondering why we had gone down the trail so fast. We should have killed him then, but Terry is too likable to be mad at for long, and the fact that he works from the proposition that there is much to see in the world and we should see it before we end up drooling in an old-age home endears him to us.

This time he had really taken us out of ourselves. We had asked for it. Terry had never been in a kayak in his life. After a half hour, the islands came into view. They were so many and huddled so closely together you could not tell where one ended and another began. They were all carpeted in dense green forest and skirted with rock. The smaller islands were domed and covered with a bristle of cedar and hemlock, looking like the scalp of somebody in a comic strip who had just been frightened out of his wits. Gary dropped us off in a little sheltered bay with an oyster-shell beach. We unloaded. When he left and the roar of his outboards faded, we heard something we had not heard in years. It was a silence devoid of anything human. In the shelter of the islands, the wind had died and the water had gone to glass and there wasn't even the lap of waves.

It was so quiet I turned to my wife and said, "Shhh, listen."

She said, "To what?" "To nothing," I said.

There were nine of us, including our two guides: J.F., short for Jean Francois, who was good-looking, Quebecois and endearingly earnest; and Silka, a pretty blonde with eyes like headlights. Her eyelashes were as lush as a seal's, and there was debate among the females in our group whether they were real or if Silka had packed mascara for the trip. Silka was from White Rock and wanted to start her own guiding company one day. J.F. had guided around the world, including the Arctic, where he once had to out-paddle a polar bear that had thought of him as dinner. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the islands, including -- to the delight of Terry and I -- the weight of a grey whale's testicle. (Think compact car.) J.F. had a dimple in his chin as deep as a pothole and an accent that years on the West Coast had barely softened. He pronounced "Thank you" as "T'ank you." When we kayaked, J.F. would take the lead -- "Guys, please stay togedder, t'ank you!" -- while Silka, with smiling patience, herded us along in the back. By trip's end, they had so endeared themselves to us we lavished them with big tips.

In the mornings after breakfast, we would pack our kayaks and set out. J.F. would lead us through the maze of islands and we would glide along the shores, mesmerized by the scenery and the propeller-like strokes of our own paddling. The air was salty, but different than the salt air we smell here; it was clean and sweet and smelled of the wind. Sometimes, you would glide along on water as flat as a mirror, and sometimes, inexplicably, the water would swell gently upward like the breast of a woman sighing in her sleep. Once, on the far side of a big island exposed to the open ocean, the wind came up and -- whee! -- we surfed through whitecaps that slid over the bows of our kayaks. In the sun and out in the middle of the channels, the water was an aqueous jade, and in the shade of the trees near the shore it turned a dark topaz. In the shallows, you could look down into the clear water and see oysters as big as bread plates. It was as close to an Eden as I have ever come. There was no sense of it being a wounded landscape yet, no clearcuts (though the islands had been logged years ago), not a single human structure save the outhouses in the few campgrounds and none of that mental stock-taking one finds oneself engaging in when calculating the depredations against the flora and fauna; how many birds gone? How fractured the ecosystem? The life here just seemed too abundant for that. Seals, bald eagles, veils of shore birds and rising gulls, porpoises, the slow slide of grey and humpback whales feeding, aspic-like jellyfish floating on the tide, moon snails bigger than a man's hand in the bays, mussels and barnacles and starfish encrusting the rocks, lime green anemones in the tidal pools and forests of kelp swaying in the shallows -- everything seemed to be in its place, though we knew, probably, that was impossible.

Every couple hours, J.F. would stop on an island for what he called his "surprises," and we would clamber ashore and hike to a 2,000-year-old cedar tree as thick as a silo, or visit an island that once held an eight-bedroom hotel built by a seal hunter, or clamber up another island with sides so steep it had been colonized by natives millennia ago as a fortress so they could roll logs down on their enemies trying to scale its sides. We visited lagoons with the remains of 1,000-year-old stone fish traps and an island that once was home to an escaped pet monkey that survived by eating campers' food, and another island where a hermit named Salal Joe had lived in the park until his death in 1980. The only thing that remained of his presence was a cordoned-off area of stunted fruit trees. He had put in an orchard there.

"Who," Terry said, wondering, shaking his head, "would be crazy enough to build an orchard out here?" They were all gone now from the islands -- the sealer and his hotel, the natives in their fortress and those working their fish traps, the loggers, the monkey, Salal Joe. This year, J.F. said, the Americans had stopped coming, and the Europeans, too, largely, and that had been cause for concern. Maybe it was the high price of gas and air travel. Who could tell? Even while the company he worked for had been busy, he said, the number of kayakers and boaters coming to the islands had fallen for the sixth straight year. It was, I thought, inexplicable, given the beauty of the place. But for the few small groups of kayakers we saw, we had the islands largely to ourselves.

In Vancouver, there had been a fire in a circuit and the city sat moaning in the dark, but here, in the islands, where the landscape had been scoured of man's presence, where we could see nothing, not a single light, we sat in the dark, too, except for our campfire and the canopy of stars overhead.

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. That’s 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 family’s 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 government’s plan to buy out many small-boat fishermen. The government’s 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 hand—to 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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