[Paddlewise] My Side of Solander - part 2

(part 2)

I had paddled around the Brooks, off Cape Cook and Clerke in much larger
hydraulics, but had never encountered currents like the strong northwest
set playing out among the reefs and breaking groundswell near Solander.
These were the same shallows that can throw up seas reaching 20 meters
or much more in winter. The same seas where various hurricane-force
storms had taken out chunks of the west coast fishing fleet in the past,
drowning men in the spray, even while wearing state-of-the-art ocean
exposure suits. I was half-glad to be so preoccupied with staying
upright, lest my mind drift to family – where those kinds of thoughts
would mitigate against continuation.

I did keep experiencing the very uncomfortable thought of a capsize. If
I had needed to wet exit after a failed roll or two, I’d be wholly
resigned to a few attempts at a non-paddlefloat assisted
re-entry-and-roll. I had a hard time imagining pulling one off in stuff
that was hairy enough to knock me down. With conditions worsened off
Solander and building whitecaps, drifting out to a safer re-entry zone
wouldn’t have been an option. Only good paddling form, alertness and
maintenance of relaxed hips would get me safely to the outside of
Solander.

The treeless form of Solander juts out suddenly, rising desolate,
unique, and utterly compelling. A strange shiver had run up the back of
my spine, as I recounted the mission before me. I’d seen aerial pictures
of the exposed side, taken by Michael Blades. There was a reef-fringed
area off the northern tip that indicated a conspicuous open-ended surge
channel with a possible deeper-water suck-hole behind the break-off rock
formations – pieces of the island’s bulwark eroded by eons of restless
seas. I had wanted to run this ocean-sucking saltwater gauntlet in my
silent, unladen and responsive craft, hopefully successful at adding a
very personal feather in a very private cap. While the possibility of
screwing up on the inside of Solander was generally unconscionable,
screwing up on the outside didn’t bear imagining.

As I applied a careful metered-out paddling style with the approach to
the near-rock clapotis looming ahead, including counting wave sets,
periods, and rebound rates, I went through the possible back-up
scenarios still available to me not previously considered. I had an
inflatable cushion seat with a pocket. I could use that as a
paddlefloat. And in extremis, my PFD could always be rustled into a new
role as a paddlefloat – wrapped on the end of the paddle as a makeshift
paddlefloat. Swimming to safety was not an option, nor was getting
ashore a viable proposal.

It was difficult to see the surge channel -- though freely open at both
ends from what could be observed -- above the rebounding action and
spray. With a last glance at the retrograde horizon astern, I took a
deep breath and poked into the machination feared by so many mariners –
the reefs n’ rocks of Solander. What was the draw? Why put oneself at
such risk? It goes beyond the surface thrill and adrenaline rush. With
Solander, it was simply the sequential moments where each single instant
you are totally one with your kayak, fully alive, fully attentive, fully
realized. They are moments that define themselves by the use of refined
reflex skills, accommodation to the greater force of nature, and mastery
over one's own inner environment.

Funnily enough, it was all over far too fast. I simply started to surf
through the gap in a southerly direction after choking back some
residual fear, using the energy of a recoiling wave as a propulsive aid.
Insufficient force caused the kayak to slip back into the suck-hole
trough. In anticipation, and against the usual advice not to deploy a
rudder, I had left it down proactively. The next wave broke fiercely
against Solander, then reflected back through the surge zone. In an
explosive shower of stern-crashing surf, I was hurled forward and clear
– popping out like a proverbial bar of Ivory. The deep-draft rudder,
necessary for this successful maneuver with a Nordkapp’s Fishform hull,
provided the directional control. It was as exhilarating as it gets. Any
broach would have been disastrous. The 3-meter swell would have been
enough to break a kayak up off those reefs. I finished off with a
well-placed across-the-deck bow rudder, then high-tailed it out of
there.

I pulled far enough back from the island to gain some perspective, and
to change focus to the simple magnificence of the rugged island. It was
still challenging paddling in unnerving, undulating seas, but the sun
had broken out and all was well. The wind had picked up quickly too --
as it always does off Brooks. I eagerly paddled toward the protected
side, with its refuge in the high-sided lee, where the chart indicated a
deep bay. Solander Island’s uniqueness, like that of Triangle Island
further north, distinguishes itself with steep, grassy slopes devoid of
all trees. In the case of Solander, the slopes and rock-faced cliffs
rise to a conical rocky peak (that continually witnesses the loss of
Environment Canada’s wind speed indicator).

Once around and into the relative protection of the deep bay, I could
start to concentrate on viewing the marvelous herbaceous vegetation
vagaries, where patches of salmonberry also grew. The quantity of bird
life was overwhelming. Leachs Storm Petrels abounded, with Cassin
Auklets adding to the globally significant colonies found nesting and
aloft. Tufted Puffins and Glaucous-winged gulls added to the joyful,
soprano-like cacophony. Pelagic Cormorants, resident to the point of
containing almost 2 percent of the continent's population on Solander,
were worthy of longer inspection and possible landing for photographic
purposes. A small population of sea lions provided tenor and base.
However, the island is off-limits, being protected as a sanctuary. With
the swell dropping and rising dramatically enough to prevent good
exposure settings or even a second morning whiz into a cockpit sponge,
and a gale building, I needed to make the 1.5- kilometer crossing back
to Brooks and head for camp.

Seas had built significantly, with wind-waves adding to a difficult
return. Wind whistled through the ventilation slots in my helmet. By the
time I cleared Cape Cook, I was seriously cramping up due to
confinement, and hungry, and needing to pee. There is an altogether
lovely waterfall falling to the inner rocky shores just past the cape,
but landing is conditional. I narrowly missed a huge boomer breaking in
the middle of the small bay fronting the waterfall. I had approached the
first point of the “U” shaped entrance at an angle rather that parallel
to the shore. This allows a diagonal run up and over any suddenly
approaching break of a point, so as to avoid being dashed on the
foreshore in a parallel broach. Once clear, I hadn’t expected the
middle-ground boomer. Somewhat overwhelmed with the day, I decided to go
for the landing. It was one of those high-risk landings, notched down in
terms of the fear factor, due to the relative risks faced previously
that morning.

The Norkapp’s hull hit with a grinding thud reminiscent of a fall of a
car rack. The next wave lifted me high enough over the razor-sharp rocks
that I clamored out. Half swimming, half crawling, I yanked the kayak up
away from the surge. Deep gouges ran the length with every motion to
higher ground. Once high enough, I balanced just enough to gain access
to the contents in the hatches. As I glanced into the cockpit, I noticed
that the hull had been holed. It looked like a slow-leaker, but I was
really annoyed. In preparation for the trip, I had recommissioned the
kayak after adding two epoxy impregnated 6oz layers to the inner hull,
on top of the already heavy expedition lay-up. Once over the shock of
that, I was relieved to be immersed with otherworldly landscape and
resting on solid ground. I sat on pebble recesses, enjoying the
waterfall spectacle and serene peace that comes from successful
negotiation ashore and a sense of individual accomplishment.

Admittedly still frazzled for a time, it took some reflection to regain
composure. It was an odd predicament: stay, and watch the sea state grow
worse while friends grew more concerned, or leave immediately all tense
and cramped, and mentally not back in the saddle. A compromise was
reached, which allowed enough tide to eventually permit ready egress off
the rocks. The paddle back was intense along a fully exposed lee shore.
Even with the rudder, edging, sweeps, some zigzagging was required to
negotiate back to camp by late afternoon. Conditions were not really
suitable for paddling, but it is amazing how superb and confident one
feels under blue skies and heavy sunshine, bouncing over the waves
despite the physical exhaustion.

I landed through the surf, dragged the kayak a couple of meters up the
warm beach sand, and promptly fell to my face  -- overwhelmed with
dizziness. Doug and Tom, typically non-pulsed with such a performance,
must have been genuinely concerned as they came over immediately. They
indeed had been worried, and were contemplating their options. “Oh men
of little faith,” I muttered. I told them I was fine, but that the boat
had suffered some damage. “Well, that’s normal Douglas,” was the retort.

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

Post-Script 2002

Doug, Tom and I did a few more paddles together, but eventually I
returned to solo paddling, while the other fellows continue to this day
to paddle summer trips together. Doug went on to head the CRCA westcoast
contingent of the new CRCA sea kayaking program in Canada, and write a
cool book called "Sea Kayaker's Savvy Paddler" which documents many of
the things the three of us learn't together, and Doug on his own. I have
fond memories of the adventures and company we endured, and Dou'g
predilection to safe, responsible paddling.

Doug Lloyd

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