A severe wind-warning was issued for Sunday, December 15, 2002. What started out as a calm morning, soon tuned ominous. Hurricane force winds were realized on both straits by afternoon. Wind tore apart the military hangers at Comox. Power outages kept hydro crews running. Huge swell battered the outer coast. With a new battery backup/surge protector hooked up to my new computer, and a fresh, acceptable headlamp finally secured to my surf helmet, I figured it was time to get wet. Well, not so fast. I needed to wait for night time. I needed to wait for darkness... I had U2 cranked as I pulled the van up to the log jam, "Oh great ocean, oh great sea, run to the ocean, run to the sea..." Buffeted by the powerful gusts, I pushed the door open. I changed into my drysuit, trying to protect myself from the piercing wind as it kept trying to slam the driver's door shut on me, where I was trying to gain a wind-break. I didn't want to catch a pre-paddle chill. Finally, I was sealed with gloves, heavy-duty drysuit and a full titanium-lined wet-suit hood. I buried the keys in the sand, lest I loose my kayak, and therefore my keys, to the powerful and seemingly godforsaken sea that night. I didn't bother looking around for hazards. And no busy-bodies attempted to discourage me like they would have during the daytime. There wasn't anybody around. Probably all warm in their homes, wrapping Christmas gifts like good normal people. I flicked on the headlamp, noting log jetsam in the surge. Without hesitation, I jumped in the tight cockpit, more slithering in than jumping, then secured the spray skirt and pushed out immediately -- no time to think about things -- catching a well time return-surge. Wham! Slapped silly by a wave, I didn't even see it coming. Gulp. My trusty, heavy Nordkapp piled up over the crests. Darn, I couldn't see a thing. After all that fussing over powerful headlamps, the spray simply reflected all the light back into my eyes, blinding me from any semblance of visibility. Fine then! I turned the darned thing off. Night vision returned, and grace with poise was again extant. It became very difficult to maintain any kind of reference. Everything was by feel. The experience was a totally tactile one. None of my expectations were being met in terms of technical solutions, but more than I thought would happen in terms of the "Zen" aspects indeed happened. The gusts blew me alongshore, faster than I could be realized at first. It wasn't a true lee shore, but it was a "work-hard-and-you-can-survive-it-if capsized" arrangement. The diver's hood was so watertight, that my primary perception tool (other than sight), namely hearing, was fully negated by the thick neoprene. I couldn't tell I was being blow backwards at such a fast rate. Normally there is an associated level of howling wind whistling by one's ears that one becomes accustomed to, so to judge velocity and force. It just wasn't occurring in a discernable format. Only by observing occasional lights along the shoreline could I tell how much ground I was loosing. Given the multi-tasking of trying to remain upright, course-correct, anticipate shoaling dumpers, and avoiding log debris -- it was extremely difficult to maintain constant alertness with the shoreline. It took a while, but I did develop a rhythm. In future, I'd place a glow stick on my front bow, which would give quicker reference when the bow started to lift up over on oncoming large wave set -- I think. Surfing following seas was odd too, as the waves would suddenly pick the boat up, hurl you forward but, all before realizing what was going on. Gusts made it difficult to panic-brace in following seas, as the wind would try to gain leverage on the extended paddle blade. It was a battle to prioritize what hazard one was trying to avoid. A Greenland stick might have been more beneficial. I developed a serious headache from all the tension. However,I was experienced and smart enough to place myself on the water at the end of the full-fury with low current-rates, so when it settled down a bit, I had more opportunity to play. Sculling was totally weird. To windward I'd lean, only to be blasted in the face by breaking waves that couldn't be seen approaching. It worked out best to hold one's breath while sculling, in anticipation of a briny face-washing. Rolling the light on was a real treat. Hanging upside down, in total liquid darkness and murky, storm-tossed water with a beam of light outlining the inverted deck was an otherworldly experience. I was elated that my dizziness and arrhythmia from the flesh-easting episode of my life seemed to be over. I rolled with abandon in the swollen seas, seemingly more at ease in the stable position upside-down, than right-side up -- where I'd be dealing with the darkness and onslaught of invisible waves. I certainly didn't need to worry about other boaters on the water. But I will add an LED to the headlamp's top-helmet strap, for better 360 visibility by others boaters. Eventually, I managed my way back to shore and the security of my vehicle. I bailed-out short of the beach-proper in order to deal with log debris. The headlamp was invaluable here, with just the right amount of candlepower. Being able to adjust it up or down proved useful too of course. I swam back out into the extensive surf-surge zone, enjoying the sucker-punch of sudden breaking waves. I played for awhile like a big kid, ducking under the waves and logs, howling at the fuzzy outline of the increasingly, but just barely visible moon. What madness, what non-conformity, what fun. I floated for a few minutes, thinking about my life and my years of solo paddling in all kinds of weather; about all the times I've been caught on the water at dark, crossing river bars in virtual darkness, paddling tide rips at night, and making my way to offshore islands at night by compass and dead reckoning. This sport of sea kayaking offers so many different venues for enjoyment and challenge. Put butt in kayak and go. My life has been richer for it, my experiences life affirming and the rapture joyous at times. The other paddlers I've met over the years have almost always never been jerks -- good people with big hearts. And perhaps storm-paddling at night isn't everybody's idea of fun or safety. I certainly was nervous enough and no one spoke to me at work the next day, other than to say "Idiot!" Perhaps I am. Maybe "intense" better describes me. And after my little sortie, I feel certainly ready to better embrace the darkness of whatever may come in my life. There was a clarity out there on the water, in the darkness at night in heavy sea-air conditions, an enlightenment of personal discovery and overcoming fears. A different kind of visibility. Doug Lloyd Victoria BC ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ "Whatever can be said at all can be said clearly and whatever cannot be said clearly should not be said at all." Ludwig Wittgenstein ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ *************************************************************************** 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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