[Paddlewise] Mermaids in the Mist (Part 2)

Mermaid in the Mist   (part 2)  - Doug Lloyd

The bottom end of Lasqueti was a stark contrast to the lushness along
its west coast. Cliffs rose dramatically from the depths, devoid of
vegetation, with obvious mute witness to the whims of wilder
winter-winds. Conditions were getting bouncy as I slipped into Squitty
Bay, the only safe moorage along this segment. The opening closes-out to
sailing vessels in really high wind/wave conditions, leaving mariners to
unhappily run for shelter farther away. A sailor relaxing onboard by the
wharf sternly advised against drinking any water from any of the
surrounding area, especially the well water. I had enough of my own to
see me through. We talked about the recent seal attack and what would
trigger a seal to harass kayakers off Texada Island the past summer.

Before crossing Bull Passage, I had sensed coming cold rain -- so landed
in a narrow bay and donned my drytop. The neck seal tugged at my throat
-- the price paid for heat retention and full protection. The confluence
of narrow passages, currents, corner and funnel winds -- all in the
context of quickly changing water depths -- creates some interesting
crossing hazards.  I hadn't done any rough water paddling in the summer
season, so knew I'd lost my edge, so was extra cautious. I was glad to
eventually leave the crossing behind, pulling into Home Bay on Jedediah.

Even in the rain, I knew I had arrived at a paddlers paradise.
Overlooking Sabine Channel and Texada Island, the once private bay (and
entire island) belonged to a homestead couple. It was now a marine park.
The forlorn farmhouse, off limits to paddlers as a historical site,
overlooked the long lagoon. I had the entire terraced landing to myself,
the threat of rain having washed away the fair-weather crowd. Pitching
my tent under the big trees kept some of the rain at bay, but was offset
by the larger drops forming on branches then crashing tentward.
Breakfast had fueled me the whole day, but dinner was quickly overdue.

After setting up the propane burner, I searched frantically for a
lighter or matches. Apparently, they had been forgotten. I opened up the
emergency back-pocket survival kit off my PFD. All the flints,
tinder-starter, waterproofed matches, etc.,
were water damaged. Must have been the wild Oregon surf last spring.
Plan "B" was cold cereal. No way was that sporting. I phoned home to
check cell phone reception in case of a medical emergency. Once I had
acquired and confirmed communication potential, I hung up. Then came the
big gulp as I pulled out a flare gun, loaded it, and shot it a couple of
inches away from the gas burner trying to let the gas ignite as the
phosphorus shot by. The flare failed to ignite the propane as it sped by
and then skipped across the lagoon. This was definitely a wet-weather
maneuver. A second flare was launched into the fire pit. It rebounded
off the metal grate, deflecting in pieces, into the lagoon. As each
piece sunk, the water boiled and steamed, glowing in eerie unison as the
segregated chunks descended below providing a new phenomena: man-made
bioluminescence. A third flare finally embedded itself in the ash of the
fire pit, allowing the necessary few seconds to bring the burner over to
the spitting ember, enabling ignition.

After monitoring Channel 16 to ensure no false emergency calls went out
via one of the many tugs passing by in the shipping channels, I was able
to eat guilt free. Well, as guilt-free as an idiot can possibly be. Keen
survival skills? Not. It  was a long night of pounding rain, swaying
tree tops, crashing waves, and constant harassment. Sheep, possible
descendants from the Spaniards (their ship-board sheep, that is) roamed
freely over the island, as did a wild horse named Will. One or more of
them played with tin cans all night long -- garbage left by other
boaters and kayakers. The animals ignored my pleas to shut up. Paradise
lost perhaps, was my grumpy response. REM was achieved sometime, as
evidenced by dreams of Mermaids and Sirens.

Everything went into the hatches wet the next morning. Breakfast was
cold. The rain diluted my condensed milk on its own. I was a little
negatively psyched, wondering how difficult it was going to be pushing
out of the bay directly into the teeth of the Sou' Easter. I had slept
in, trying to avoid the worst. Winds were reported running at 40-knots.
Tides would be with me for the run North, up the east side. That was
positive. With the second big gulp of the trip, I built up steam and
charged out. Once out to the point, it was difficult turing to port and
keeping balance abeam to the seas and clapotis. Large, full sweep
strokes with a sculling aspect did the trick. With heavily running seas
from the stern, the choice of using my deep-draft rudder wasn't even a
debate. The Nordkapp tore along, retaining perpendicularly until enough
of a lee had been achieved to warrant yanking the rudder up and relying
on edging and renewing skill development. Rudder dependency is an
epidemic sickness.

Nearing Boot Point, I was running low on fuel. Unusually wet and cold, I
was a little annoyed. I wrapped myself in and under the last item to be
placed in the kayak once ashore, that being the tent's ground sheet. It
kept my bagel and cheese from getting damp, and provided further heat
retention. Still shivering, I had to keep moving to generate heat. The
afternoon forecast was getting weird. Another small, intense, fast
moving low was due to swing winds out of the west, along with heavy rain
and high-gust squalls, then swing to strong northwesterlies and clear up
by evening. It sounded like a fight was brewing up off the northern tip
of Lasqueti. Bring it on, I told my self. Strong westerlies were my
specialty. As the rain intensified, the effect was to flatten the
boisterous seas. Huge, heavy raindrops bounced of the deck, striking the
underbrim of my rain hat, where they ran back down my forehead, dripping
of my nose. Wow, I was part of nature's hydrology cycle. The drytop arms
filled quickly with rain water, trapped by the wrist seals. The fabric
had delaminated, allowing ready penetration. At least I knew why I was
so cold and wet.









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