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On Sale Now!
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Safety - December 2010
by Ray Wirth |
As a kayak guide, I am accustomed to looking out for other paddlers. Although I am trained and equipped to assist kayakers who get into trouble, I had never given much thought to the prospect of assisting other boaters. This summer while paddling the waters of Downeast Maine it became quite clear that the rescue routines that work well among kayakers don’t necessarily work well for other boaters in distress.
My partner Leslie and I had landed our tandem kayak on Halifax Island following a meandering 8-mile paddle out of Kelly Point in Jonesport, Maine. We set up our tent and hiked up the high western knoll. We then embarked on a four-mile paddle along a triangular route to Pulpit Rock, a tall rock ledge to the southwest, and to The Brothers, a pair of treeless, windswept islands to the southeast. As we paddled out toward Pulpit Rock, conditions were less than ideal.
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| The upturned hull of the peapod, as it was being towed by the TOXDOCS. (photo credit: Ingrid McMenamin) |
The wind, which had intensified through the afternoon, was blowing at 15 knots out of the southwest, three-foot swells were coming in from the south, and the tide was moving out from the northeast, which led to steep-sided confused seas. We pushed upwind to Pulpit Rock and then paused in its lee to reconsider. In August, a year earlier, I had paddled into the split between the two halves of Pulpit Rock and observed razorbill auks on the cliffs. We had hoped to do the same on this trip, but now the size of the swells made paddling inside Pulpit Rock unthinkable. Paddling out to The Brothers with the seas at our beam the entire time didn’t entice us either.
We pulled on additional clothing and set out on the one-mile return trip to Halifax. We rode the swells north and east, allowing the wind to push us around the island, and then paddled back upwind to return to our campsite. It was about 4:00 p.m. as we neared the beach below our tent. We were surprised to see a man and a woman walking the island’s rocky shoreline. Halifax Island is fairly remote and not frequented by day trippers, so seeing this couple was surprising, especially given the windy conditions and the late hour. When we reached the shore we saw their 13.5-foot peapod, a wooden rowing and sailing dinghy. The peapod is a classic design with a reputation for seaworthiness. Still, I was surprised to see that small boat on this offshore island. We greeted the pair and learned they had sailed from Roque Bluffs, about 2.5 nautical miles to the north. Tom and Rita (not their real names) looked to be in their fifties or sixties and were dressed only in light cotton pants and shirts. They said they were from southern Maine and had been sailing their peapod for many years.
Leslie excused herself to go to the tent and change out of her wet polypro. Tom and Rita headed down the beach to launch their boat for their return trip to Roque Bluffs. I sat near the tent and watched as they slid the peapod off the gravelly beach. The wind pushed their boat against the rocks on the west side of the small cove. Tom was working the oars but the wind made it difficult to get the boat unpinned from the shore. Once he had moved the peapod off the rocks, Tom put down the oars and stood up to step the mast. He was having difficulty getting the mast into place, and the boat drifted farther offshore to the north of the island, getting increasingly bounced around by the waves. After he had stepped the mast, Tom stood to pull the sail up and he seemed to topple over. I squinted at what was now a sea of whitecaps in the area surrounding the boat. They had drifted far enough from shore that I couldn’t see whether he was still in the boat. A few moments later, I saw him stand again. And then I saw him fall again, but this time it wasn’t just the figure of a man that toppled. The entire boat flipped over and rested in the water, hull up.
By now, the peapod was more than 100 yards offshore. I was unable to see the two swimmers but I could make out the white hull amidst the waves. “Dammit,” I said. “They just capsized,” I called to Leslie. “We need to go out there.” I scrambled to pull my VHF radio from the pocket of my life jacket. Scanning the water and still not quite believing what I had just witnessed, I pressed the PTT (press to talk) button on the left side of the radio. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. We have a sailboat capsized 100 yards north of Halifax Island. Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. We have two people in the water and need help.”
The sky had become overcast. The wind was whipping out of the southwest. (A later check of weather archives showed wind gusts peaked at around 4:00 p.m. and reached 22 knots). The afternoon sun was dwindling toward evening. The air temperature was dropping. The water temperature, as is typical for the waters of eastern Maine, even in August, was 54 degrees. We had sighted only a few other boats on our eight-mile paddle from Jonesport, and none since arriving on the island.
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The Coast Guard RBS as seen from the motor yacht, TOXDOCS.
(photo credit: Ingrid McMenamin) |
The radio was silent. There was no response. I repeated my Channel 16 distress call as I pulled on my skirt and PFD. Then we hurriedly carried our tandem kayak 20 yards down the steep beach, all the while keeping our eyes on the capsized peapod. Leslie and I normally paddle single kayaks. Probably more than 99 percent of our paddling experience has been in singles, but we had chosen a tandem for this particular trip because Leslie had strained her shoulder during rolling practice just a week before. The fiberglass Double Shot manufactured by Point 65 N is 20 feet long with a maximum beam of 26 inches. It is on the nimble, responsive side among tandems. The waterline beam just aft of the rear cockpit is only 18 inches, giving it a somewhat tippy feel in rough water, at least for the paddler in the stern.
During our sprint out to the capsized sailboat, return transmissions from the Coast Guard repeating my message and calling all boats to assist began to come over my radio. The peapod was upright but totally swamped and being tossed violently by the waves. Tom was holding on to the submerged stern of the boat. Rita was holding the side of the boat. Her life jacket was only halfway on. The sail was spread out in the water. A life jacket floated nearby.
“We’re here to help you,” I said. “We made a call to the Coast Guard.” “My shoe, can you get my shoe?” Rita asked, pointing downwind. Our tandem was plunging in the waves. It took our combined skill to stay close enough to communicate with Tom and Rita, yet not so close as to have our kayak thrown on top of their boat, their sail, or on top of them. We turned the tandem around and Leslie picked up an orange Type II PFD that floated in the water. She passed it to Tom with her outstretched paddle. We maneuvered farther downwind to pick up a small orange prescription bottle and a large black rucksack. Leslie pulled the rucksack aboard, on top of her spray skirt. Picking up those items gave us a moment to think and decide, no, we were not going to pick up Rita’s shoe. The two people in the water could not be counted on to act rationally. Tom seemed calmer, embarrassed maybe, taking it in stride. Rita seemed to be colder, more distraught. She spoke slowly and with an accent, and seemed slow to understand what we were saying.
As a sea-kayak guide, I regularly practice various forms of rescues and, in the course of a typical summer, perform a hand-ful of real-life T-rescues of clients who have capsized. I take pride in being able to get swimming paddlers quickly back in their boats. However, this situation was different. We were out in conditions as rough as any I had performed a rescue in. More importantly, there were no kayaks to get Tom and Rita back into. There was no overturned kayak to raft up against to stabilize myself. Our unloaded tandem was sitting high in the water and that would make it difficult to pull a swimmer up onto the deck. But our tandem already felt unstable in the steep waves and the situation would be far worse for all of us if the tandem also capsized. In these waters, the time before severe hypothermia sets in is a matter of minutes, not hours. I felt certain Leslie and I would not be able to make any headway if we tried to tow Tom and Rita at the same time. We didn’t know how long they would have the strength to hold on in those jostling seas.
The Coast Guard station in Jonesport was just seven miles away and calls had gone out to other boats but there was no guarantee assistance would reach us in the next ten minutes or even within the next thirty. These were the factors that whirled through my mind. We didn’t have much to offer, but it seemed imperative that we take action rather than wait. “We can tow you into shore, one at a time,” I said. Tom said that Rita should go first. Rita seemed doubtful, unwilling to give up her grasp on the submerged peapod. Leslie asked for her name and repeated our plan. “Grab ahold of our stern,” I instructed, as we backed the tandem in toward her. It was with great trepidation that she let go of the peapod and reached for our boat. Having no primeter grab lines on the tandem, I reached back and grabbed the slack rudder deployment line. “Hold this,” I said. As we pulled toward shore with Rita in tow, I looked back toward Tom, who was now sitting inside the swamped boat. “Don’t let go. We’ll be back in as soon as we get Rita ashore,” I said. “We’re coming back for you. We’ll be back in five minutes.”
My mind was in overdrive. Despite the fact that we were two strong paddlers paddling for all we were worth, the boat moved with agonizing slowness toward shore. Rather than heading broadside to the wind, we took a diagonal route southeast toward a rocky cove. We spoke to Rita, encouraging her to hold on and to kick her legs if she could. She replied that she wasn’t sure if she could hold on much longer.
Various transmissions between the Coast Guard and another responding boat came over the radio. The Coast Guard repeatedly asked me for a GPS position, making me wonder whether they were confused about our location. I took my right hand off the paddle and removed the VHF radio from the upper left pocket on my PFD. “I can’t give you a GPS position,” I insisted. “The location is 100 yards north of the knob on Halifax Island. There are two people in the water.” I repeated the description and then turned my attention to paddling the kayak back to the shore.
Leslie and I willed the shore closer. We willed Tom to hold on. We willed Rita to hold on. We willed the Coast Guard boat to arrive. The seas were rough enough that I couldn’t turn around enough to see Tom. I was filled with a foreboding sense that too much time had passed. All we could do was paddle. Hard. After what seemed like 15 minutes (but on later reflection may have been half that), we got the tandem close enough to the shore that Rita could stand in the chest-deep water and Leslie could get out of the kayak. Rita was very weak; Leslie supported her and they walked together up across the seaweed zone and onto the rocks. We were both very worried about Tom. I told Leslie that I would paddle out to Tom and that she should stay and help Rita. Before leaving the cove, I repeated the location of the capsize on Channel 16, ”100 yards north of the knob on Halifax Island.” I also stated that we had taken one of the two swimmers ashore.
I backed the tandem out of the cove and swung the bow to the northwest and began to paddle toward the site of the capsize. To my horror, I could no longer see Tom or any sign of his boat, just an empty sea of whitecaps. As I might have guessed, the unloaded bow of the tandem was high in the air and it was all I could do to keep it from swinging straight downwind. Between not seeing him and not being able to keep the tandem pointed across the wind, it didn’t seem wise to paddle out any farther. “Leslie, I can’t see him. Can you see him?” I called to shore, hoping her vantage point of a few feet up on the rocks would enable her to spot him. Initially she said yes and pointed to the south, but within moments, realized what she had seen was only a lobster buoy.
I quickly paddled ashore and Leslie got back in the front cockpit. “Is Rita OK?” I asked. “She’s very cold,” Leslie said. “I told her to take off her wet clothes and lie down on the warm granite,” she added. We were both very worried about Tom. We paddled at full speed out to the site of the capsize, scanning the surrounding waters as we did. We passed the site and reached a spot maybe 150 yards from shore. Just then, a Coast Guard RBS (Response Boat, Small) from Jonesport and the TOXDOCS, a yacht that had anchored for the night at Roque Island, converged in front of us. The coxswain later told me the RBS can do 46 knots. It appeared they were using all of that as they moved between Double Shot Island and Roque Island and sped onto the site. Abruptly, the RBS cut engine and coasted to a stop 75 yards to the northeast. And then, suddenly, miraculously, Tom was being pulled from the water and being assisted across the deck. Immensely relieved, Leslie and I once again turned the tandem toward shore. A couple of minutes later we were back on the beach.
Leslie went to get a blanket from the tent and we both moved over the rocks to the place we had taken Rita ashore. We helped Rita to her feet and down to the small cove. Her legs and arms were blue with cold. She was weak and unsteady. She moved and spoke very slowly. The Coast Guard RBS put out a small raft that they had borrowed from the TOXDOCS with two dry-suited guardsmen aboard. The wind was strong enough that on the first couple of attempts the raft was blown downwind of the cove. Once the raft was in the cove, the thick beds of seaweed on the rocks interfered with the guardsmen’s footing and delayed the landing even further. We helped Rita take a seat in the raft and placed the black rucksack in the raft along with her. The two guardsmen got in the raft as well, and then the raft was quickly pulled out to the RBS. Once the three of them were aboard, the RBS sped off on its return trip to Jonesport. The TOXDOCS trolled back and forth, first to locate and then to refloat the peapod, which took several attempts.
The winds calmed down. The sun came back out. Leslie and I watched somewhat numbly from our campsite as what had been a scene of frantic activity eased to quiet.
Lessons Learned
Once in the water, Tom and Rita were being pushed by tidal current farther offshore. If we had not been there to make the VHF call, they almost certainly would not have been able to make it to shore, any shore. Their ability to swim was severely hampered by the cold
water. When we reached them, they had only been in the water for an estimated seven minutes. The combined effects of the 54-degree water, the adrenaline and shock from the capsize, and the heart conditions both had (that we were not yet aware of) already seemed to have taken away from their ability to function, communicate, and reason at an optimum level. Time until loss of consciousness in waters at those temperatures is about one hour. Their loose-fitting Type II horse-collar style PFDs would not have adequately supported them after a loss of consciousness.
The RBS, coxswained that afternoon by Daniel Heitzer of the Jonesport, Maine Coast Guard, returned to the rescue scene. I paddled out to the RBS and learned that Tom and Rita had been taken to the hospital for treatment and would be OK. The RBS crewmen handed me the blanket Leslie had given Rita. They also asked for details of the accident so they could complete a report.
Tom and Rita both spent a couple of days in the hospital but were doing well when we last spoke. The pill bottle Leslie had picked up and placed in her life jacket was Tom’s nitroglycerin for his heart. In a phone conversation several weeks later, the Coast Guard described the condition of both as having been hypothermic, with Rita’s condition described as severely hypothermic. Tom and Rita telephoned us several days afterward to thank us. They said that they were doing well, but that doctors reported Rita had suffered a heart attack during the episode.
Their peapod had been returned to them, as had a missing oar, which a friend of one of the hospital nurses had found washed up on a beach. They plan to continue rowing and sailing their peapod, but will do so with more caution. They said they would purchase better life jackets and wear them.
Leslie and I feel great appreciation to the Coast Guard rescue team for their rapid response. Their ability to respond with a fast boat in such as short time late on a Saturday afternoon was impressive and reassuring. The proximity to the Coast Guard base in Jonesport was a huge factor in the rescue. If the distance to the Coast Guard had been 37 miles instead of seven, the story may not have ended as well as it did. According to Coast Guard records, the RBS was on the scene 16 minutes after receiving my transmission. We are thankful that we only had to initiate the rescue and that they were there to complete it.
My training and practice as a kayak guide has focused on rescuing capsized kayakers. There has been relatively little attention to rescuing swimmers. I had recently practiced both roles of a swimmer rescue (in which a swimmer climbs onto the stern deck of a kayak) but I had never done so in rough water. While you might practice all kinds of rescues in all kinds of kayaks (tandems too) in all kinds of conditions, being adept at techniques in one kayak does not always transfer to another kayak. In a single kayak, I am confident of my ability to maneuver in rough water, to edge my boat, to execute bracing and sculling strokes, and, if need be, to roll upright after a capsize. These skills do not automatically transfer to a tandem, when edging and weight shifts and bracing need to be done in conjunction with corresponding movements of another paddler.
In 12 years as a guide, I have only once or twice used a VHF for anything more than weather updates. I was reminded that I should periodically review and rehearse delivery of emergency information. In my rush to assist the capsized boaters, I did not communicate the full details of the situation. Since I could not provide GPS coordinates, I should have made reference to other islands and landmarks in the area, and this might have made the rescue go more smoothly. The Coast Guard requests the following information in emergency situations: 1) Position (Description of location, including GPS coordinates if possible). 2) People (How many people in need of help). 3) Nature of Distress. 4) Description of boat. 5) Life jackets (Are those in danger wearing them?). (See http://www.uscg.mil/d11/dr/CallingTheCG.asp for more information)
Troubleshoot accessibility and location of marine radio. I habitually keep my submersible VHF in my upper left-hand PFD pocket. It was difficult to get the VHF in and out of the pocket when in rough seas. Additionally, I found that while in the pocket, when the VHF was turned up loud enough to hear transmissions, the static between transmissions interfered with my ability to hear Leslie, Tom and Rita. If the radio had been tethered to my PFD rather than inside the pocket, managing the volume control would have been easier.
The lack of an immediate response to a Channel 16 distress call does not mean there will not be a response. Other vessels in the area upon hearing a Mayday call are supposed to wait for a reply from the U.S. Coast Guard and if there is none, make a Mayday relay call. My first transmissions may not have gone out because of my position on the island. A follow-up conversation with the Coast Guard revealed that my original transmission may have gone out but my position on the island or the limitations of my radio may have prevented me from hearing the return transmission. At the time, I assumed it was because no one was listening or that we were out of range, and this made us feel that we might solely be responsible for completing the rescue. In another situation, it might have been better to climb to a higher area or paddle offshore in order to establish communication. VHF transmissions are “line of sight.”
A Coast Guard communications specialist stated that the Maine coast, with its many islands, peninsulas and inlets is particularly problematic for VHF communications. Sending and receiving transmissions from the low position of a kayak, he added, is even more so. Having a second marine radio would have allowed us to consider having one of us stay ashore to coordinate communications with the Coast Guard.
I think our decision to proceed on to the site of the capsize was the right one, but if we had received an immediate response from the Coast Guard, including their anticipated arrival time, it would have had huge implications for our own response. For example, we might have decided to stay with both swimmers rather than tow Rita to shore.
It is impossible to bring every piece of gear on every trip. For this particular trip, we had packed for overnight camping and brought plenty of food and clothing. We had a VHF, flares, signal mirror, rope, binoculars, first-aid kit, bilge pump, paddle floats, repair kit, rescue knife and other safety items. But with a very favorable weather forecast and weight and space issues, we also omitted a few items that we frequently bring on trips, including a GPS, rescue stirrup, and wetsuits.
A GPS would have helped clarify our location for the Coast Guard, especially if there were more than one Halifax Island in the region. It also would have allowed us to give the exact location of capsize in case Tom was not immediately located and they needed to establish a search grid.
A rescue stirrup might have been used to help the swimmers up onto the deck of the tandem. The wetsuits would have given us more security and confidence as we completed the rescue. In retrospect, we should have brought wetsuits with us on this trip—the water temperature warranted wearing them—we should have put them on when the wind began to pick up that afternoon. We had paddling jackets and plenty of polypro and fleece, but we were not dressed for immersion.
Time becomes distorted in times of emergency. What time did the capsize take place? How long since we had left Tom? Knowing the exact time of these events would have helped us make good decisions as the rescue unfolded. Knowing exactly how long they were in the water might have helped us better gauge the extent of their hypothermia. Knowing what time we left Tom might have been important to calculating how far he might have drifted when we went back to search for him. I was wearing a watch, but either I did not check it or did not commit the times of different events to memory. A grease pencil on my chart pack would have allowed me to record the time on the chart case or deck.
When we first arrived on the rescue scene and Rita asked us to retrieve her shoe and the rucksack, it threw us aback. People under stress may think in ways inappropriate to the situation. Rita reacted to the loss of her shoe as she would in normal circumstances. Rescuers are also under some degree of stress and may fall back on familiar patterns, in this case being helpful by retrieving the shoe. Practicing rescues, even to the extent of practicing dialogue with the person in the role of swimmer, will help reinforce the proper course of action—taking charge. Tom and Rita were not in a position to make good decisions on their own behalf. We needed to take control of the rescue and to command them to follow our instructions.
Getting a swimmer to dry land does not necessarily complete their rescue or mean they no longer need care. We knew this beforehand, but this event served as a potent reminder. Rita was clearly hypothermic and needed attention. The decision to leave her alone on shore in order to go out and retrieve Tom was not an easy one. It would have been even more difficult had we known she was in a state of cardiac distress, but it was imperative that we head out to rescue Tom.
Swimming (or any physical movement) in the water increases circulation and makes the body cool more quickly. While towing her ashore, we urged Rita to kick her legs. To the extent that she was able to comply, this made it possible for us to return for her husband slightly sooner, but may have aggravated her hypothermia. The decision to ask Rita to kick, like many others that day, was fraught with trade-offs.
In the rush to act, don’t forget to think and to analyze. I knew the tide and the wind were both moving in a northeasterly direction. I incorrectly assumed Tom and the capsized peapod had moved in that direction. He had, however, drifted northwest, in a tidal eddy in the area to the north of Halifax Island. If the Coast Guard had not arrived and found Tom as we began our search for him, we may have wasted valuable time searching in the wrong direction.
Don’t leave victims alone at the scene of a capsize except as a very last resort. I knew this, intellectually, at least. My guide training taught me to never leave a person alone on the water, never mind in the water. The decision to leave Tom alone was difficult. It is the decision that I still think about. It could have been a tragic one. The truth is we weren’t sure we could save them both—and thought to begin by saving one of them. At best, our decision was a simple form of triage. We did not know how long it would take for help to arrive. We did know that we could not get both of them ashore together in a reasonable amount of time. We did not know how long they could survive in water that cold. 
Ray Wirth is a Registered Maine Sea Kayak Guide and owner of a kayak shop in Belfast, ME. He also teaches English at a small high school in midcoast Maine. He writes about paddling in his blog, Waterlines, at www.touringkayaks.com/blog2/.
Reflections From the Bow
by Leslie Gregory
Things happened fast on that blustery afternoon. I had been watching from inside the tent as Tom and Rita drifted off the shore in their sailboat. Ray had made a comment about the size of their open boat, the size of the swells, the fact that they were clothed in cotton and not wearing life jackets. His comment raised my concern, and while I shivered out of my wet clothes into my dry set, I glanced out periodically. I was just snuggling in between the sleeping bags when I heard Ray’s uncharacteristic curse. We had to move quickly so I immediately headed out of the tent without putting my wet clothes back on. Ray and I dragged the kayak back down the shore and got aboard.
On the way out, Ray and I tried to come up with a plan. We had not yet heard back from the Coast Guard over the VHF and didn’t really know what we’d find when we got to the couple’s boat. Knowing the importance of having a lead person take charge in an emergency situation, I told Ray I’d do whatever he thought best. When we got to the sailboat, Tom asked us to retrieve his bag. He didn’t say it was a canvas zipper tote with 20 pounds of drinking water in it! Ray wisely tried to discourage me from picking up the bag, but I felt bound to Tom’s request. There might have been something important in the bag. Pulling it onboard destabilized our boat a bit and put a heavy and awkward load on my spray deck. The prescription bottle he wanted us to retrieve seemed important, and frankly, if I had been able to reach Rita’s other shoe (we grabbed one), I would have, because I knew we would need her to walk on seaweed and rocks when we got her to shore. Soon after we approached the couple I asked them for their names. I felt that calling them by name would help focus the commands we gave them. When we were in the thralls of the rescue and trying not to let our kayak smash into Tom and Rita or their boat, I was all too aware that we could capsize and could quickly find ourselves in a life-threatening situation. I wanted to help them but I didn’t want them to tip our boat. I knew that when people are in danger in the water, they will grab whatever they can to hold on to, and I realized that between that unpredictability and the weather conditions, we had put ourselves in danger.
I felt a panic rising as we paddled to shore, fearing that Rita was letting go of the stern of our kayak. I kept telling Ray to call to her and make sure she was still there. I think Ray’s calling her by name allowed her to stay with us mentally and physically. Once we got Rita ashore it was difficult for her to walk with her bare feet. She seemed out of it to me. She was disoriented and barely moving. I knew the sun-bathed rocks were almost hot to the touch and that lying on them would warm her, but Rita was kind of shocked when I suggested she take off her wet clothes. I think I should have helped her remove the wet cotton, insist she lie down on the hot granite and give her my polar fleece; at that time the situation for Tom seemed dire, so I left Rita onshore to fend for herself. When I told her we were going back out to get Tom, she gave me a blank look and said, “Oh, is he still out with the boat?” She didn’t seem very concerned, and I thought that odd, not realizing then that her lack of emotional response was a symptom of her disorientation.
Lots of things go through one’s head in an emergency. I chastised myself for not grabbing the polar fleece blanket when I ran out of the tent, although I had thought of it. It seemed like the blanket would quickly become wet and therefore ineffective. I know I was concerned about getting my dry set of fleece clothing wet, but I pushed the distractions from my head.
After Tom had been rescued by the Coast Guard, Ray and I returned to shore and I immediately ran to the tent for the blanket. We ran down the loose rocky shore, slipping on steep banks of large rounded gravel. To my dismay, Rita was still in her wet clothes. I wrapped the blanket around her, hugged her and told her the Coast Guard had Tom. “Oh,” she replied vaguely, “that’s good.” Again I thought her response inappropriate to the seriousness of the situation, so I gave her the unsolicited lecture about wearing life vests and cotton being the enemy of boaters, along with comments about how lucky they were to be alive. I could see in her eyes that she was beginning to realize the seriousness of the situation she had been in. She thanked me and Ray as we bundled her into the Coast Guard inflatable, my blanket still with her.
In retrospect, Ray or I might have said something to Tom and Rita as they first left the shore, offering to help seat the mast or suggest they put their life jackets on. Perhaps we should have convinced them that they’d be better off staying ashore until conditions improved. Boaters tend to be independent people and pride themselves on having adequate equipment and skill to take care of themselves. We don’t want to insult or trouble people out boating, but I think a word of caution, though unsolicited, would at least have eased our minds as observers. Ray and I knew the conditions were rough out there, and it may have been better to risk being perceived as pushy or interfering than to let our concerns go unvoiced.
I think the key learning experience for me was to try and anticipate emergencies, and not endanger other people you become reliant upon to save you. Ray and I did a lot of talking the next day and decided that we should have been wearing our wetsuits at least on the trip to Pulpit Rock. That became even more evident when the conditions had worsened. Two weeks later when we set out for a 3-mile crossing to Petit Manan Island, we were both wearing our wetsuits.
Being on the water is a joy and a responsibility. This experience reinforced that weather and wind conditions can change quickly, and it’s our job to anticipate those conditions and be prepared.
Leslie Gregory grew up canoeing in Northern Maine with her dad. She has been kayaking for five years and paddles the rivers, lakes and bays of midcoast Maine year-round. As a literacy and multimedia specialist, she has worked with the Island Institute to promote stewardship of coastal communities through education and technology.
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