[Paddlewise] Deck the Hulls

>From my Log:

Well, it was supposed to be a nice Christmas-time paddle through the inner
harbour, and maybe out to the breakwater, to view Christmas lights along the
way with a few good men (and lady or too) followed by hot Rum and Egg Nog at
the local pub. I'd gotten my e-mail invite from Gordin (aka Captain
Christmas). It was a bit of a rush home to chow down, find all my night
gear, refresh illumination devices, and lash my boat down to the racks after
hauling the heavy gal from the back forty -- where she'd been resting
hull-up since my hand injury.

OTW time was to be 8:00, so I suspected my goose was cooked by about 7:45.
Winds were picking up fast at that point -- obviously the trip had been
called off. I hit the windshield-washer and wipers to better see the inky
sea surface of the supposedly sheltered waters in front of the rowing club
dock. The fluid barely hit the glass, being blow perpendicularly away from
the window. Perhaps I should turn on the VHF radio I thought to myself:
"Gale warning upgraded to storm warning for Georgia Strait," intoned the
lacklustre voice behind the waterproof speaker. Oh. That would spill out
into Juan de Fuca a bit.

"I get it, the yokes on me." In my haste. I'd suited up at home,
provisioning my family with some Friday-night hilarity as they watched me
for the first time (for them) twist and writhe into my drysuit. So there I
was, at the dock finally, all dressed up and nowhere to go. Well, not
nowhere. The open waters of Juan de Fuca perhaps? It had hit 65mph the day
before, according to Mr. Stephan Davis who always e-mails me at work with
such gory details and the sometimes sad fact we were both stuck in our
respective offices.

Another gust ripped through the parking lot, lifting the Thule
air-deflector off the roof whereupon is slapped back down again. Okay, you
know it's too stormy to paddle when pressurised washer fluid won't hit the
windshield and your boat is lifting out of it's cradle.

I left a message at Gordin's: "Um, guess the trips off. I'll be heading out
though." I drove out to Esquimalt Lagoon, passing "street lights, even stop
lights..." The tide was out, leaving most of the logs and driftwood on the
beach for a change. I watched the seas roll in for a while, trying to keep
my heart from beating as fast as a strobe light, as the wind whipped the
vehicle. After deep breathing for 10 minutes, I opened the door -- or at
least tried too. I had too push really hard. It was cold standing there.
Without a heavier upper fleece layer beneath, I'd be chilled in the gnarly,
dark surf. It would have been a full-moonish night of good visibility if not
for the clouds and sprinkling rain. Enough suffused light did shine to
highlight seething seas as far as the eye could gaze. I'd not brought a
surf helmet, and only an LED headlamp.

Okay, you know it's too stormy to paddle when you step out of your vehicle
and the door slams shut on its own and you can't anticipate any effective,
safe way to remove your kayak, alone, off the wind-blasted roof-racks. Heave
ho, ho ho ho.

I headed home, ramped up the fleece garb, grabbed the heavier neo hood. My
wife ran to the door, "Honey, it sounds vicious out there, don't forget your
helmet and headlamp!" Opps, almost forgot. I then decided to launch from
Witty's Lagoon to the west, which was sheltered enough to get out, then I'd
turn south into the teeth of the rambunctious seas, reported at 6-feet off
Trial Island with gusts to 47 knots.

A swing to the SW was due anytime. I figured it would swing fast, leaving me
a little unsure about an effective course strategy. The hairpin road down to
the beach along the twisty country road was covered in a lovely holiday
profusion of evergreen bows and coniferous debris. Safely distinguishing the
road from the roadbank was difficult.

Okay, you know its too stormy to paddle when your wife starts handing you
gear and the pavement of the road-less-traveled is hard to see through the
blowdowns.

The sign at the parking lot indicated there was no parking after sunset --
how could I forget, the police had chased me away from there years ago while
I was still a courting my fiancie. I drove out to Taylor's Beach, but the
same restriction applied. On to Wier's Beach, near the William Head
Penitentiary. Darn, not a good place for night moves. There was more debris
and more Christmas lights swaying in the trees of the county homes by the
sea. Quietly, I unloaded my Nordkapp, seemingly heavier than I remember. I
beeped the van, arming the alarm, and pulled the kayak over the logs at the
end of the road.

A quick perusal by headlamp revealed a resplendent Yuletide profusion of
decoration. A thick layer, up to a meter in depth in places and composed of
the most finely shredded seaweed I'd ever seen, squished beneath my booties.
Nature had rolled out the carpet for me. Frosted highlights glistened off
the breaking surf. I plopped into the tight confines of the cockpit, pushed
off the soft sand and kelp, and rode out through the tumbling waters.

The last break is always the most anticipated in a night breakout. Will you
clear it or will it break on your deck or in your face. You can't see, so
you can't tell. It broke on the deck, then in my face, covering the kayak in
a layer of tinsel-like decoration. I wondered if that would count for
Gordin's planed prize for the most decorated kayak. Once clear, I raced away
from the surf zone, not wanting any surprises. I'd noted log and stump
debris to port (just prior to exiting with the headlamp on) -- not something
I wanted to tangle up in at night time.

I turned backward to take a bearing. Although faint so far from shore, I
could just make out the pulsating back-and-forth glow of the van's
mirror-mounted LED alarm-light. A large house to the west was light up,
well...like a Christmas tree. I turned south, breathing deeply. The feeling
of freedom, the mystical reality of being on the water again, and the
magical dynamic of night paddling -- further heightened by rough water --
lent a distinct joy deep within my spirit. Despite the wind and waves and
rushing sounds and driven waters pounding the rocky shoreline of Metchosin,
a quiet serenity engulfed me.

A steep wave jolted me back to vigilance. I had to keep my wits about me,
boat and paddler rising and dipping through dark swells. The monochromatic
horizon was indistinct from the sea below and the steely darkness above. For
a moment, just a fleeting moment, the vast scope of time and space condensed
in my heart. We humans think in terms of the passing of day and night, of
seasons, decades, lifetimes, and perhaps a few generations at best (if at
all when one considers how we treat our environment). Think like the sea.
Think like the rocks. Think in geological time. Cosmic time. I couldn't for
very long, just enough for grace to be restored.

Winds were shifting significantly, as I had rather suspected they would. I'd
had a fairly easy run down to Taylor's Beach, but knew I'd have a fight to
get back, which was actually my bliss -- the challenging component of the
night. I could feel the weight of it clawing heavily on my back. A huge
cloud above, imminent, moving, gaining momentum...a squall was a coming. I
figured I'd better get the boat turned around into the wind while I still
could. My Nordkapp can be a real pig in a stiff blow to head back up into
the wind. When it hit, the sky went really dark. It was sometime between
10:00 and 10:30pm. I didn't have a watch on. I couldn't make out the surface
of the sea at all. The rain came on like gangbusters, pelting at my thick
drysuit material. Nose-to-the-deck paddling. Lights off. Up and over the
waves. Rain bouncing off the deck into my face. Snot emanating from within
snorting sinuses.

The Christmas lights of the odd seashore house started to flicker or go out;
no, maybe they were flashing on and off. Actually, it was just the swell --
the homes receding behind the walls of dark water. I'd been getting worried,
as I needed some reference to find my way back to shore. Breathing harder
through my mouth, I got into a nice rhythm, with just enough anxiety to get
a soft-core adrenaline buzz -- a wholesome chemical dependency from my
perspective. I rounded into the bay finally, lining up with the flashing
LEDs of my vehicle. It was just like landing a plane, taking into account
the
side drift from wind, etc.

I slowly pulled toward shore, listening intently for the first line of
breakers. The first rise of that first wave is always the most fun during
night paddling return. Without warning, the stern lifts in the
jet-blackness, you lean forward, dig in the paddle, and if your lucky, get a
clean, long, straight ride to shore.

Well, a few zig-zags notwithstanding, it was awesome to
"touch-down" again on sandy soil. As I alighted, large, wet snowflakes
appeared in the driven rain. "Whoa, is it ever wet!" My hands were cold as
ice through the neo gloves. I quietly loaded the boat not wanting to raise
suspicion of something nefarious occurring so close to the jail, despite my
roguish milieu. I turned one last time to the choppy seas: "and to all a
good night." A really good night, of paddling.

Raw Data: Race Rocks (closest recording station) December 5th, 2003

06 12:00am PST              W 36
05 11:00pm PST              W 33
05 10:00pm PST              W 39G45
05 09:00pm PST             SW 23G29
05 08:00pm PST             SE 28G33
05 07:00pm PST              E 35G40
05 06:00pm PST              E 36G41
05 05:00pm PST              E 26G33
05 04:00pm PST              E 17

Doug Lloyd
Victoria BC
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