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The Perfect Norm

by Doug Lloyd

Have you ever had a perfect little paddle? You know three or four-hour session of pure perfection; a short sojourn with synchronicity -- one easily congruent with your skills yet ultimately, well under threshold norms. Well, I had one such paddle this weekend. Yes, the 'jock of shock' actually had an exhilarating time without a ferocious gale and death defying antics. May I share?

Whiffin Spit to Pedder Bay - "Taming the sea-monster within."

The early forecast called for sun with occasional cloud cover, with westerly winds to twenty knots, rising to 30 knots in the late afternoon – normal conditions for Juan de Fuca Strait. 20 knots is a little on the tame side, though sanity demanded a paddle sometime over the weekend (bad back or not). In the end, I chose to spend my day off, away from the computer and paddling, so to spend time with family and relatives instead - trying to be a good husband, father and uncle. Responsibilities met, I was finally permitted to go paddling, and was dropped off late in Sooke at 5:30 PM.

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The wind was picking up -- cool and biting on my bare arms left exposed by my thin, sleeveless nylon summer paddling jacket. A cotton "tank-top" and 3-mil Farmer John provided a compromised first line of defense. Air temperature was 20 degrees Centigrade; seawater was 13 degrees. I wore low-cut Aquasocks and inner cotton comfort socks; I needed the delicate foot control for fine butterfly-rudder-control "buffering". I carried a full complement first-aid kit and flares, water bladder on rear deck, spare paddle, two paddle floats, 50 foot-line throw bag per CG reg's, VHF radio and cell phone with a high output battery, sailing dingy hat, and my bombproof glass-shaft and nylon-bladed "Nordkapp" paddle. I tethered the paddle, but nothing else.

I usually paddle out here in the shoulder seasons or winter, when it's blowing 35 to 40 knots. I'm usually fighting it the whole time, out on the edge, sometimes running out to Race Rocks risking life and limb. If I ever die at sea, it will be out here in the rough winter weather with a dislocated shoulder or something, when you can hear "The Great Race" from a mile or two away. A number of my wife's relatives and their friends have died out hear fishing. It can hit fifty knots with no warning. But today, its blowing 22 knots with a small craft warning crackling on the marine radio. I wave good-by to the family - my wife pushing me off - my float plan in her head. I tell the children I'll be there for story time.

A one-foot chop scurries up against the 1,000-m gravel bar of the Spit that extends into Sooke Inlet and provides a natural protection for Sooke Harbour. The flood tide is well underway, so I don't need to concern myself with an ebb current-weather conflict flowing out the narrow channel. I make a beeline for the first exposed point near the abandoned Alyard Farm orchard land - near Company Point. Seas are breaking near the point, indicating the kind of conditions to be found once committed to the eastward run down the 3 mile exposed coast of East Sooke Park section. There is little in the way of landing spots. Once around the point, the sea becomes boisterous. A number of inexperienced paddlers get into trouble down this piece of coast now-and-again, beguiled by the calmer conditions associated with seas prior to clearing these small headlands.

I find distressing signs of construction and encroachment. I paddle under a high log bridge, deep into a surge channel and grotto, where I make a few adjustments, out of the wind and two-foot seas. Nearing Possession Point, swell from the open Pacific that has crept down the Strait around Cape Flattery combines with a three-foot moderate sea, breaking over shoals and rebounding against steep cliffs. The water breaking over my shoulder is cold, but refreshing. I purposely paddle directly over as many boomers as possible, broaching sideways on steeply breaking wave trains. I find a rhythm, a syntax, in the patterns of noise and confusion. Nature speaks. It says it's playtime. That it is allowed. It is okay to play hard. I let out as many "Yahoos!" as I deem appropriate. I grin. I smile. I sing. Such deep delight.

My stiff-tracking Nordkapp is not meant for this kind of rock garden play though, so I cheat by using my rudder for full steering, rather than merely as a course-correction tracking device. I need the paddle for constant bracing -- high and low. I go on to do 500 such braces in the next three hours. The rudder allows this, such that a minimum of forward propulsion eventually effects a turn. Around some of these headlands, the confused seas interface dramatically with overfalls from the tide, extending to the competent paddler some exhilarating rides and technical paddling action. In higher winds, one would be too busy fighting off the lee shore cliffs to even bother with this kind of play. The conditions today are conducive to superb paddle play. I am awash in a joy that knows no bounds, sensing a new vitality racing unchecked through my veins at the proposition of this less dangerous venue actually giving me such an intense experience.

I can hear the full brunt of the local waves and swell lashing at the outside of Secretary (Donaldson) Island 500-meters away as I decide whether to head around into Iron Bay (offering protection from the westerlies). I know where I'm headed though. I get knocked over crossing, but come back up with a "1/3" roll. I surf as many waves on the west side of Secretary, as time allows. The sun slowly sets. I take a few steep curlers sideways, experimenting with the rudder up and conversely down, to see if it makes the kayak trip-up any more or less. The narrow Nordkapp is so easy to keep perpendicular with a bit of bracing and leaning that it is difficult to be objective. (I normally run with the rudder up, but wanted to do a trip with full rudder dependency for experimental reasons and better back-saving allowance). I head the 1000-meters back to shore, toward O'Brien Pt. There are no whale-watchers this Friday evening, and no hikers. Just me and the sea; included are birds, seals, otters and fish.

The cliffs off East Sooke Park are cast in a dramatic light, then fade to a velvety darkness as the sun settles on the horizon. I love this section of our local windswept coast. It is within easy reach of town, yet one can experience a more exposed coastline without resorting to long-distance driving. The profusion of aquatic marine life apparent is remarkable - seastars, chitons, gooseneck barnacles, mussels and blood stars all call out for witness. Oyster Catchers hide amongst the dark rocks. Borne along by the flooding tide, I pass Cabin Point and the unnamed island where I might sometimes take refuge. A number of fish-shaped petroglyphs are located high above the tide-line on the islet.

The wind starts to really kick-up. The entire landmass of the BC interior has been heating up all day, creating the intensifying on-shore breeze. The land knows it will soon cool, and in a last-gasp attempt to draw in cool ocean air, seas intensify significantly. As I push toward Beechey Head, the low angle of the sun on the horizon catches each racing mane, dramatically highlighting the bright whitecaps and providing ample bass-relief of shoreline details. The deck of my kayak glows with an unmistakable yellow intensity. Everything is cast in dramatic light. Seas churn and boil in cauldrons of bewitched brew, where aquamarine effervescence appears deep and mysterious.

Hundreds of small silver fish jump out into the air, as if to catch the dying rays of sun. The high wind blows the tops off big wavelets that lap upward from overfalls and other tidal movements. It's amusing to watch the wind catch the fish, though. Strong currents whip me around the corner of Beechey Head. Eddylines and big whorls interact with wind-waves, and I'm surprised at the amount of paddle-play required to keep upright and drive forward. Once around, seas and wind are fully astern. I love the way my Nordkapp surfs these waves, tracking back straight with the rudder. Its hard work however, and I sometimes wonder about the expended energy of all this rudder-play.

At Alldridge Point two petroglyphs are etched into the exposed rock of the reef. The simplistic form of a "sea monster" is readily apparent on one of the apparitions. Local T'Soke First People's legend suggests that a monster was eating all the salmon in ancient times, and a shaman was called in to turn the creature into a harmless stone, where it now rests. I consider the tale in my mind, and it leads me to some deep, personal thoughts.

I commit to the one-plus nautical mile crossing over to West Bedford Island. I sense the freedom we have as kayakers surging through me in a new way. The tide floods almost straight across, for a free ride with the following seas. I encounter "interesting" seas off the outsides of West and South Bedford Islands. I shout at the wilder, rebounding, colliding, breaking seas, that spark with tidal turgidity, asking the sea if that's the best it can do to try and upset my stability. In an inattentive moment a few minutes later, I do a half-roll shooting out from Whirl Bay. I then take a big wave over a submerged rock. I grind the hull fiercely on the barnacle-covered rocks, and catch my rudder blade sideways (plastic, plastic, plastic!). I'm glad for my tough stainless steel haul-up lines and the hulls plastic keel strip. My back begins to burn with pain, but I don't care: I have a two-hour appointment with a massage therapist the next day.

Rounding Christopher Point, I pass an experimental wind generator. It is fairly ponderous, but only emits its loud hum when winds are substantial. I forego Race Rocks, two nautical miles to my southeast. My back is bad, and I have bedtime stories to perform soon. I head into Eemdyk Pass, and land on DND federal military property for a snack, to fix my rudder (a genuine emergency, eh?), and call my spouse for later pickup. Calling range is poor, as the cell phone roams for a carrier. I get one call to home after climbing the military property and holding the phone above my head while it dials. I only hear my message machine above the din of wind, and state "Pedder Bay, 8:45 please". I need to leave. No more commando camping on Canadian "commando" territory. The current whistles me through the pass.

Bentinck Island lays to starboard. It used to have a quarantine station standing on its shores. Lepers walked their "green mile" here before succumbing to death-by-disease. From the late 1800's to the late 1950's, a quarantine station also housed immigrants bound for Canadian ports, who were thought to have been carrying disease. During World War I, upwards of 80,000 Chinese had the pleasure of alighting to this little island gem. They probably had a different view of it.

I round the corner at Edye Pt., leaving astern "The Island of the Living Dead" and all the warning billboards that proclaim arms-testing dangers, and head northwest into Pedder Bay, home of the world famous Pearson's College of the Pacific. Last time I was out here, staff were rescuing a bunch of students on small multihulls.

I beat hard into an outpouring breeze, passing the no-man's land of William Head Penitentiary to starboard. I figure my spouse will have gotten the message eventually, and so as not to make her think she got the wrong take-out, I paddle hard and fast. The five-plus-knot speed I paddle burns at my lower back with pain. I push my lumbar region hard against the cockpit coaming to stabilize my hyper-mobalized back, while chanting a Haida war-canoe beat and rocking the kayak forward and back to aid propulsion. I had to stretch my calf muscles to keep toes in contact with the cross brace.

I finally see the red van and my little family. It's 9:00 PM, the sun barely visible, the clouds turning that wonderful orange then mauve colour. We are home in time for stories, hugs and kisses. I wake up the next day, stretch in my bed, and induce an excruciating charlie horse in my right calf muscle. I am unable to walk for two hours, after waiting the four long minutes for the charlie horse to reduce. I limp into the massage therapist's office, hand on my sore back. She asks nonchalantly just how many treatment areas I expect her to cover, given her fee structure. I groan with kayak related pain. Well, some things never change.

BC'in Ya
Doug Lloyd


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