>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 *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). 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