[Paddlewise] The Perfect Norm

Long Post Warning

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.

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

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





***************************************************************************
PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - All postings copyright the author and not
to be reproduced outside PaddleWise without author's permission
Submissions:     PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net
Subscriptions:   PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net
Website:         http://www.paddlewise.net/
***************************************************************************