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From: Doug Lloyd <dougl_at_islandnet.com>
subject: [Paddlewise] My Side of Solander
Date: Thu, 26 Sep 2002 07:08:26 -0700
This is kind of a long log entry, so I split it in two. Here is part
one. I didn't think of it as relevant (and it is a bit "kiss-and-tell
like"), but perhaps it may dovetail with some recent threads about
safety gear, communication gear, and risk management. This trip was a
number of years ago, now, so flameproof.  Doug(las)

---------------------------
[part one]
My Side of Solander

Dawn had broke with typical West Coast dinginess on the tail end of a
southeasterly regime. Lackluster perhaps, but the rain had ended and
northwesterly gales would dominate once again by afternoon. The three of
us, emerging from our tents in unison – were all eager to relieve
ourselves from the heavy spirits imbibed the night before. We all had a
little too much perhaps (unusual for me), and if it hadn’t been for
sever heartburn cutting the night short…well, we’d all have been downing
some Tylenol in unison that morning.

As it was, we seemed to be perpetually medicated on Motrin Ibuprofen
tablets. Tom was the oldest paddler amongst us and so was constantly
dipping into his Ziplocked supply of pharmaceuticals, trying to pull out
the little white 200mg ones with his dew-moist fingers. It had been a
fight against head winds all the way from Winter Harbour. While it had
looked like we would be doing the reverse as we anticipated heading back
into northwesterlies, I figured we would at least find some symmetry in
it! As it turned out our aching muscles and tendons would continue to
need treatment for inflammation.

The surf, already building – was and is a constant reality on North
Brooks. For some reason, a consensus itinerary was not discussed.
Perhaps there was meant to be a tacit agreement toward a short
day-paddle. We departed unladen, though having played off Cape Cook
several times myself in previous years, I loaded up with some gear and a
large water bladder buckled with Fastex clips to the inside hull for
added ballast.  I mentioned to the guys that there was a nice beach half
way along the outer length of the peninsula. It was a beach too far, I
was informed. We would poke out to Cook, then head back for a day of
rest and reconstitution, rather than risk getting stuck on a southerly
flank. After all, the long-range was for strong northwesterlies.

I was still somewhat annoyed. There were three of us: “never less than
three there should be.” It was the perfect number for at least a fairly
safe sortie out to Solander Island. I’d never made it out there on my
own previously. Gales and wild seas had made a circumnavigation window
troublesome on all but one occasion on a calm morning -- but one replete
with heavy fog. Winds usually blow hard by10:00 a.m. off the Brooks.
Whitecaps and growing swell interact with currents and reefs to confuse
matters even more. It can be either a marine hazard to avoid, or
conversely, one to affront with skill, dexterity, and determination.

As we pulled away from Cape Cook, I kept hoping for some indication that
a momentum had built, and an inevitable consequence would be a
circumnavigation. Gaining on the channel separating the Cape from
Solander, Doug was the first to cease paddling. “I don’t feel well.”
I’d guess I had half expected it right about there. The expression “I
don’t feel well” has to be the penultimate, graceful way to back down
from an escalating adventure. In this case, I gave Doug the benefit of
the doubt, as he did tend to suffer in such ways in open water/camp-food
conditions. Or whatever else one consumes within 24 hours of paddling.

I simply stated my intentions to continue onward, asking Tom to take one
last picture of me, with my camera, for "posterity’s sake.” Tom replied:
“Sure Douglas, why not.” They called me Douglas, to differentiate me
from Doug, for emergency situations where such clarification might be
important. Then I was informed rather bluntly that I was fully on my
own. If I failed to return to camp by late evening, no search effort
would be forthcoming, at least not from them. Didn’t they understand?
That’s why I hooked up with these guys after 15 years of solo paddling:
it was so I could take greater risks. “I mind as well just go back to
solo paddling.” I muttered to myself. As I donned my surf helmet, stowed
gear away, I turned back momentarily as the men slipped away into the
distant haze, just in time to see Tom give one final wave. I really felt
alone, yet strangely elated.

That elation didn’t last long. I soon realized how vulnerable I truly
was, as I mentally listed off my safety backup gear: I had no VHF radio,
my paddlefloat had been holed by a nail in workshop just prior to trip,
my Sea Seat valve had rotted out with no bucks to replace prior to trip,
and the three old Skyblazer flares carried, were salt-saturated many
times over. I was also wearing an old paddling jacket with no latex
seals, there was a busted ferrule on the spare paddle, and I hadn’t
replaced the contents of my survival pouch -- having left the old
contents at home. And, my two fuddy-duddy buddies had backed out.

The elation soon returned, however, as the realization dawned that I was
proceeding precisely without my usual plethora of backups -- and I was
still willing to venture forward, as opposed to moving forward to
greater risk because of all the gear. At some point the current
coincided jive with uneven topography below surface, creating a jumbled
interface on what had been a rather smooth veneer up to that point. It
grew much worse the closer I navigated to the back northwest side of
Solander. It was simply incredulous. I hadn’t even gotten near the outer
flanks yet, and already I was exasperated by the constant need to brace.
The pyramidal waves were only two-feet high, but tightly clustered in
expansive patterns, such that I'd never experienced anything like that
before. The elation dissipated rather rapidly -- once again. Before me
lay a gauntlet of reefs, with breaking seas from fairly deep-water
waves, often with little warning.






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