[Paddlewise] BC's Perfect Storm

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

----------------

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

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

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

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

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

----------------

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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