[Paddlewise] Man in Motion, Man in the Ocean

The following is a recent quick entry from my log. As with log entries,
they are of a personal nature, unedited for PW -- but may have some info
on recent gear purchases.

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

Man in Motion, Man in the Ocean  -  May 2002       Doug Lloyd

The roller-coaster ride with recent health issues had abated, along with
some real graft healing, to allow a cautious sortie out to the Gulf
Islands. Seeking solitude and calm water where abundant marine traffic
en route would negate the need to call the Coast Guard if trouble
developed, Rum Island seemed a likely candidate. With a lot of new gear
to test and a continuing fight with dizziness, arrhythmia’s, and
poststreptococcal irregularities after my battle with flesh-eating
disease, the wind and waves of the West Coast would have to wait.

I had prepared with three weeks of power-walking, hill-climbing, hiking,
and weight-lifting -- while weaning off Beta-blockers and anti-anxiety
sedatives. A forearm blow-out performing forty-pound One-Arm Dumbbell
Rows the day before the trip wasn’t a good omen, but pain is relative. I
needed relief from mental anguish, and nothing was going to stop me from
an overnighter.

I spent an industrious two nights fabricating new safety gear and making
some additions to my Nordkapp. These were not easy tasks, especially
given my usually poor evening health status -- not to mention all the
effort to find camping gear stored away since my last trip (to Lesquiti
Island), and going over check-lists.

My new Mustang inflatable “Air-Force” jacket had no accommodation for
survival gear. Both the Mustang unit and the Sospenders Coast guard
models come with belt pouches according to their respective websites, so
the notion has received official merit. I bought a new NorthWater
fanny-pack towline and removed the rope, then rolled it back closed with
my Sea Seat contained within the Velcro pouch. I then thread the webbing
belt of the vest through the three belt loops of the pouch, centering it
on the back of the vest. I also thread the webbing belt on the right
side through a sunglass holder, and on the left side, a survival pouch
containing flares, mirror, whistle, fire-starter, flashlight, strobe,
mini space-blanket, etc. My knife clipped to one of the front
toggle-ties. I was commando- ready.

I was able to shape the base piece for my new Spirit Sail on the top of
the front deck, almost an arm’s length away, which allows full paddle
range and minimal interference. The British heavy lay-up shouldn’t have
any problems handling the torque of the sail in heavier winds, when I’m
ready.

Leaving Roberts Bay around 3:30, I was encouraged by the stranger who
offered to help carry my heavy kayak down the cement stairway onto the
sand. Another older couple on shore walking had delayed me by half an
hour, as we talked about kayaking, life, illness, etc. The older lady
had a recreational kayak, and had also observed a number of kayaks over
the years get into trouble leaving the bay. They waved as I pushed off,
happy for me. I was elated to be on the water again, headed for my first
overnighter – and first real time in my kayak since the previous year.

I wasn’t the same person I knew only 6 months earlier; I was but a mere
shadow. Nevertheless, I was overwhelmed with the immediate sense of
oneness and bond with the kayak – the way she turned, the secondary
stability on leaning, the low deck gliding past the dark green water,
and the feeling of floating through molecules of water parted by the
fine bow.

Maintaining a 4-knot cruising speed did place some strain on the already
hurting forearm, but I was too excited to care. With the marine traffic
lanes crossed, I plowed into the tidal current off the tip of Forrest
Island. Once around, I played with the sail, practicing mounting it, and
rolling it back up. There was no wind for any sea trials. I noticed the
birds singing joyfully along the shoreline. Normally, that would not
have been much of a highlight. Off the southern tip, I surprised what
looked like a couple of wet Raccoons fishing about in a tidal pond. They
were not happy with me, as I didn’t solicit them before snapping a few
embarrassing pictures.

I then powered down to Mandarte, interval training until the forearm
couldn’t take it anymore. I slowed the pace a bit until I hit the end of
Sidney Island, overlooking the San Juan Islands. I thought of some of my
American friends, regretful that I missed their informal club gathering
the previous weekend due to poorer health and insurance concerns. I
paddled out to the international marker buoy. It was as dead flat calm
as I’d ever seen it. A light mist-like rain fell.

Setting my sites off the southern tip of Gouch Island, it turned into a
long slog to reach Isl-De-Lis Provincial Marine Park. I arrived, my leg
severely cramped, and having overdone it, but not before surprising a
whole family of otters. I was quick with the camera once again. Passing
freighters and cruise ships sent swell crashing ashore. I landed on the
rocky side, as opposed to the gravel and sand isthmus that connects the
two islands. I was a real delight to seal-land up onto the lava rock
foreshore. This more rugged location put me directly below the campsite,
negating a long gear-haul from the usual landing spot. I had the whole
island to myself. Appropriately, someone had left a bottle of Rum with
just a bit left.

The rain intensified as I set up camp. It was a muggy rain, though I
kept cramped, soar appendages well covered. I must have sat for an hour
or more after dinner, just watching the sun slowly go down behind the
moving cloud patches. The whole west side of San Juan Island turned
bright orange, in direct contrast to the sodden gray surroundings, just
as the sun finally set. A rainbow appeared for a short time. I was again
amazed at the sense of rest and relaxation that swept over me. A feeling
of optomism – something foreign for the last two months. I could have
easily died or lost my leg in hospital, but there I was, alive,
breathing deeply, appreciating the small things in life and the simple
reality of existence.

It was a long night of pain and hurt, arrhythmia’s and panic attacks
trying to overtake me yet again. I succumbed to sleeping pills all too
easily, being a hard habit to break after a 5-month regime. I awoke
early in order to take advantage of calmer conditions before things
picked up. My new wrist-mounted knot-meter registered 10-knots with the
barometer showing a flat trend in pressure. Temperature measured 14
degrees C. What a nice piece of gear that should aid in the appreciation
of safe parameters for the new sail rig.

I headed for Domville Island, then passed Gouch and made a
fast-as-lighting run for Sidney. I could feel myself starting to
“crash”, and it was time to get back to the van and home. My leg was
really cramping up. It just isn’t limber as it used to be due to the
amount of material debrided, and graft adhesion. By the time I pulled
back into Roberts Bay, the sun made a showing. I was encouraged to try a
couple of rolls.

Perhaps that was a poor idea. I completed four successful onside rolls,
then one extended Pawlata. I then pushed it, and tried an offside roll.
With the new PFD vest, there was a fair bit of difference floating to
the surface. My layback was impeded with the new modified arrangement in
the fanny pack resting on the rear coaming. I managed to get part way up
4 times, but succumbed to air loss and dizziness. I was simply
tuckered-out. I bailed quickly. It was weird not having the immediacy of
foam floatation. The coaming and deck seemed so high out of the water,
or I guess I just sank lower than expected. I released the bowline and
swam for a few minutes with the rope between my teeth, but I tired in
the cold water.

While swimming was easier from the streamlined profile of the uninflated
vest. I still didn’t want to take the chance of blacking out. I was too
tired and cramped to reenter-and-roll, and the paddlefloat rescue and
Sea-Seat didn’t appeal to me with the forearm injury. So, I pulled the
tab and the vest self-inflated in second. I bobbed on the surface, my
head far out of the water. I made a mental note to pick up two re-arm
kits, and try pulling the cord while still inverted at the lake
sometime, just like the Back-Up device one can buy. I then tried placing
my face in the water, but the 35 pounds of buoyancy simply spun me back
around, face-up. Swimming was rather perturbed performing a front crawl,
but a modified back-stroke worked very well -- though I did swim off
course once or twice -- which required a keener orientation to swim
straighter for shore. The 5-minute swim turned into 10 minutes as they
always do, then 15 minutes. The 3-mil Farmer-John was good enough, but
the drytop leaked about two liters of water. The Chota standard wetsuit
boots filled with water, and one kept coming part way off – unable to
cinch around my calf, which lost about 1/5 of its size due to surgery.

An old fellow rowed out to offer assistance, but I assured him I was
okay, “Just testing gear, sir!” I was determined to make shore. It was
great workout…and a great reality check. It was obviously going to be a
while before I’d be able to head out in to rough seas again. Last May I
was off the Oregon coast and Columbia River Bar, rolling so many times
I’d lost count. In 2002, I was no where near on top of my game, and I
knew it. I also knew my love for sport hadn’t died. Land-based
activities would have to prevail. My new dry suit and rougher seas will
still be there next season, and with some determination, so will I.


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