(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 *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. 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