PWAC Victoria: Frances Backhouse, Writing Sample

The Reading Room

Kayaking on the Wild Side

by Frances Backhouse ©

A first-hand account of an exhilarating week spent learning about surf and open-ocean paddling. Published in Pacific Coastal Inflight Magazine, Aug./Sept. 2002.

I've always loved watching the breakers on the wild, outer coast of Vancouver Island, the way they climb and climb, until gravity calls a halt to their skyward progress and the leading edge curls over and plunges down--a translucent green wall that disintegrates into churning, white lather and rushes headlong for the shore.

But the afternoon I found myself standing on Long Beach in a wetsuit and helmet, listening to Dan Lewis of Rainforest Kayak Adventures talk about the impact zone and spilling waves, those breakers took on a different look. As he discussed the importance of staying on the offshore side of your kayak when--not if--you dump, I realized I was about to become one with the scenery in the most fundamental way. Visions of being tumbled like driftwood in a winter storm filled my mind and I mentally reviewed the procedure for exiting an upside-down kayak.

Looking at the faces of my six fellow participants in this surf and open coast paddling course, it appeared I wasn't the only one feeling anxious. Dan's cure for that, when he finished the theoretical part of the lesson, was to lead us in a wild charge down the beach and straight into the waves. I emerged with my confidence boosted. Knowing I wouldn't go into shock on immediate contact with the cold, late-August water, I was ready to get into my kayak and try what Dan referred to as "playing in the soup."

Four hours later--wet, tired and elated--I rode one last roller into the shallows and climbed out of my boat. I had sand in my hair and saltwater in my ears, but, after fifteen years of sea kayaking, I had finally started to master the techniques of launching and landing in surf. These are essential skills for touring British Columbia's outer coast, where swells that have spent weeks rolling across the Pacific Ocean collide with the land.

The next morning we loaded our gear into our kayaks and headed out from Tofino, led by Dan and his partner, Bonny Glambeck. For the next five days, Clayoquot Sound would be our classroom. Despite grey skies, our spirits were high and we were all primed for adventure. By early afternoon, we had arrived at Ahous Bay on the far side of Vargas Island. We set up camp at one end of the long, crescent beach, which curved away to the north. Looking west there was nothing but a few smaller islands and a wide expanse of open ocean stretching towards Japan.

Over the week, Dan took us through chart reading, understanding the effects of tides and currents, navigating in fog, deciphering marine weather reports, trip planning and more. There was also plenty of surf to negotiate. Every landing and every launch was a practice session that helped us hone our new skills.

The first serious test of those skills came on our second afternoon at Vargas. Having awakened to heavy fog, we had spent an academic morning in camp soaking up some of Dan's vast knowledge of kayaking. The visibility improved only moderately as the day progressed, so we decided on an afternoon paddle that followed the shoreline to a lagoon at the other end of Ahous Bay. When we reached the entrance to the lagoon, we rafted up offshore and examined the obstacles that stood between us and the opening.

One massive rock was particularly daunting. Every wave that rolled in, crashed against it, then sucked down with a swirl of foam and kelp. We would have to keep to the right of this boomer, explained Dan, without veering too far over and getting pushed onto the rocky headland. We'll only go if everyone feels comfortable with trying, he added. We looked at one another and all nodded. Consensus reached, we watched intently as Dan ran the course. Within minutes he was on the shore, signalling for the next person to set off.

I was third in line. When my turn came, I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. I took several deep breaths to steady myself, then started paddling. All the way in I kept talking myself through the moves Dan had taught us: watch for the wave approaching from behind, back-paddle to reverse onto the face of the wave, wait for the crest to break beneath you, dash forward, watch for the next wave. What I felt was not fear, but extreme concentration. Slowly, tentatively, I maneuvered myself towards the land until finally, with dry mouth and pounding heart, I slipped into the calm waters of the estuary. Later, paddling upstream into the tranquil heart of the lagoon, I thought about how, without the proficiency I had gained over the past few days, this mysterious realm would have remained hidden to me.

The highlight of the trip came on the second-last day. We were on the far side of Blunden Island, with nothing but horizon to the west. Heaving swells and wind-induced chop were providing a good taste of outer coast conditions. Suddenly, our between-boat banter was interrupted by a cry of "grey whale to the right." I scanned the water and saw no sign of life. Then, only a few kayak-lengths away, a vapour plume shot into the air with a soft whoosh and a long, mottled back carved the surface before disappearing into the depths. For that sight alone, I was glad I'd braved the waves and started learning the ways of surf and open ocean.

Frances Backhouse
| Author Profile | More Writing Samples |

Last updated: July 12, 2005 http://www.islandnet.com/pwacvic/backho04.html