| My
boat rises and falls on the swell, the water undulating like mercury
in the gray morning light. Every now and then, the others disappear
from view as I sink into a deep trough. The black nylon cover
on the seat has a damp, stiff, familiar feel and the paddle sits
comfortably in the callused crooks of my sun-baked thumbs as my
body twists from side to side propelling the boat forward. A rhinoceros
auklet—a small bird with a bulge on its beak that makes it look
like a wise old man with a set of spectacles resting on his nose—skitters
along the water’s surface as I approach it. We’re paddling a mile
offshore, to avoid the threat of boomers and shoals. As the hours
pass, we make our way ever closer to the south, to the protection
of the myriad rocks and islands at the south end of Price that
will dissipate the eight-foot swell into calm. |
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As the wind scours the water’s surface, I look back over my right
shoulder and notice a darkening on the western horizon. Still
an hour from the protection of the southern end of Price, I attempt
to pull more water past me with every stroke. Jody has seen it
too: "Let’s get going, that looks nasty." The white
lips of the waves slap the stern and rush beneath me. Wisps of
hair blow across my face and the whistling of the wind gets louder.
I forget about the dampness and my calluses, as I keep my eyes
fixed on the sheltering land to the south. Now and then, waves
exploding into millions of white shards on the shoreline 800 feet
to my left capture my attention. Wave after wave, larger and larger,
pushes underneath me, trying to pick me up and send me into the
frothy water and rocks. I am forced to paddle backwards now and
then to slow my kayak and avoid the shoreward momentum of the
seas.
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As I paddle hard, between wave sets I catch glimpses of the
other boats beside me. Robyn shouts from ahead, "Let’s
pick up the pace!" The waves stand even taller as we approach
the shallows between the rocks, shoals and tiny islands. I search
for a break in the crashing waves through which we can sneak
behind a shoal. From behind me, Kris shouts, "Head in behind
that rock!" Waves slosh over my spray deck and I taste
salt as they splash up into my face. Back paddle, paddle hard
forward, back paddle again as the boat rises up and leans down
the wave. Finally, I can feel my boat become steady as I glide
in behind a rock covered with rockweed and barnacles. Tucked
into the protection of the shoals, the ocean calms, and the
rise and fall become subtle. The wind pushes gently at our backs,
nudging us eastward past McGuiness Island and the other small
islands at the southern tip of Price.
Five weeks later, within
a day’s paddle of the Brooks Peninsula, Robyn’s forearms are
beginning to scream. Each of us has suffered through aching
backs, sore arms and cramping butt muscles, but nothing has
been as painful as this. In the last few miles of the paddle,
Kris and I both offer to tow her or switch her into the double,
but she firmly and persistently paddles on. Forearms are one
thing you cannot do without on a sea kayak trip. We land at
Restless Bight and wait a day for gales to blow over, a day
for Robyn’s arms to rest. To the south, the mountainous Brooks
Peninsula juts nine miles out from Vancouver Island. Fishermen
we met two weeks earlier told us stories of cats-paws swirling
out of the sky there and whipping water into the sky, capsizing
fishing boats.
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