The next day is calm, and we easily make our way down to a beach on the south end of Porcher Island, where we camp for the night.The next morning, I awaken to the thumping of the rain fly against the side of the tent. Wind sends surges of raindrops hammering against the roof. I pull on my fleece and rain gear before unzipping the vestibule and stepping out. The wind whips across the water, turning it a frothy white. I stand for a moment, feeling the cold raindrops pelt onto my cheeks, then I duck my head down and wander over to the others.

They are serving up mochas, huddled underneath a tarp in the shelter of a boulder that stands twice my height. A pot of cold, charcoal-scented oatmeal sits neglected beside the stove, for which Buffy takes the blame. We pull out the chart of Banks Island, which we should reach in a few days.
We discuss whether to paddle the outside of Banks Island, or to go with the safer inland channel. There are no bays to offer protection from wind, swell and fog, and no beaches for a soft surf along the entire 35 nautical miles of the western shoreline, which is exposed to the constant pounding of surf. Numerous boomers here lurk beneath the surface, making navigation both difficult and dangerous. This is not a mountain climb, in which some members can head for the top while others wait back at camp. The only way that we will paddle the outside of Banks is if everyone agrees that we can pull it off safely. Kris is adamant that we can make it down the outside, while Buffy and Jody are unsure whether the possible consequences are worth the risks this early in the trip. Without coming to a resolution about Banks Island, we put the debate aside for a while.