Around Cape Scott on a Surfboard

• Posted on July 24, 2008 at 8:51 PM

Around Cape Scott on a Surfboard

Monday, July 14, 2008, at the Scotia Bay RV and Campground just outside of Port Hardy, I step onto my loaded stand-up paddle board at 6:00 p.m. Immediately, I lose my balance and fall into the knee-high frigid water. This is not a good sign. It´s only day one of what is supposed to be a five-day expedition around Cape Scott to San Josef Bay (about 100 km.) and I´m not only running late… I´m barely floating.

I can see and hear Bud, the campground host, chuckling at my fall which causes me even more frustration. I´ve just had a conversation with him where he cast formidable doubt upon my expedition hopes. The conversation ended with him asking me dubiously, “You ever been out there, son?” “No,” I dumbly replied, then quickly countered with, “This ain´t my first picnic, Bud,” to which he only shook his head.

I manage to cast off all doubt (what choice do I have if I´m going to continue?) and Bud´s chuckling and I step again onto the loaded board, this time more cautiously, straightening out my knees slowly as if doing a squat under weight, feeling the tenuous equilibrium seep into my center. Then, I take my first stroke…

Friday, July 25, 2008, I´m up at dawn and struggling to motivate myself against the biting wind to get out of my sleeping bag. It´s been blowing all night, meaning chop and swell. I snap a couple sunrise shots of Experimental Bight from the tent and glance at my watch: 5:35. Slack tide is at 8:17. This much I know. I´ve even dreamt about it during the fitful sleep. I must round Cape Scott at slack tide. I´ve been warned of the consequences if I don´t—confused currents leading in myriad directions all at once.

The cold water bites my hands as I balance the board from behind, pushing down on the stern to avoid the surf crashing over the deck. A slight pause between sets and on the water at 7:45, paddling hard from the get go. 15 minutes later than I´d hoped. I bend down and twist my torso into every stroke, maximizing its length and force. 8:10 and I´m finally here—the crucial point in the journey—the northwestern tip of Vancouver Island. I spot the lighthouse out of the corner of my eye but am unable to even stare at it for a second lest I lose my balance. The swell is bigger now and more erratic and each big wave contains multiple little waves. I am paddling through a moving mogul field, squatting and slightly lifting my upwave edge as a wave approaches, then extending my knees at the top and leveling the board for a hard stroke before the drop. I paddle much more frequently on the left side, away from the oncoming swell and more stable. Occasionally, when I yaw too much to the right, I have to paddle on the right which is much more awkward. I must keep my momentum going or I am merely flotsam, floating on the sea´s capriciousness. I don´t even allow myself to look at the rocky reef on shore. That´s not where I want to go. I play my usual kelp slalom game knowing that catching one of these green pythons now could mean getting crushed against the rocks. I glance at the lighthouse again and I have to turn my head back to do so. Yes, I am making progress!

Then I spot the sea lions, more than I´ve ever seen before and they are wailing, moaning, howling. The swell is crashing against rocks and kelp offshore through which I am threading, spitting up white froth like boiling bile upon impact, and dolphins are surfing down the terrible chaos between the sea lions as if to say, “what the hell are you scared of? This is the rhythm we play to, man.” I´m too distracted by the scene and the thought and a booming diagonal wave knocks me off balance and I´m off, down… below. I stroke up hard with my one free hand, the other grasping the paddle and grab the board, my lifeboat—which has no leash in order to avoid catching kelp. I hoist myself onto it in a sitting position. I take some sweep strokes on the left and align myself perpendicular to the oncoming swell and I flip my feet beneath me, squat, brace, take my first short stabilizing strokes until I finally stand again, twist and dig in. I´m coming around the bend now. The wildly bobbing compass arrow is now moving between south and west instead of north and west. I smile as I feel the tail wind whip me up toward Guise Bay.

In the afternoon, after six hours of exposed paddling from Guise Bay, I am paddling up the San Josef River, the calmest, clearest waters I´ve been on for the past five days. I come around the corner and spot a river otter family. I´ve only just seen two sea otters in the bay. I stop paddling and stand there on my board, thoroughly exhausted, hardly able to enjoy this newest wildlife spectacle. There have been so many in the past five days. The bravest of the bunch swims underwater right underneath my board and almost touches my stationary paddle with his nose before swimming away.

I decide to turn around and go back downstream about a kilometer to a bend in the river where I noticed a dirt road coming down. I´ve seen no signs of anyone else on the river nor a sign for the Heritage Campground where I´m supposed to meet my girlfriend. I´ve been shouting “hello” over and over in vain since I passed the road. I arrive back to it and beach the board and remind myself of whether the tide is ebbing or flooding so as to know whether I need to drag the board further up the beach, naturally on tide time now.

Stiff and sore, I waddle my way up the road still in my full-body 3.2 mil. wetsuit, capilene balaclava, and full-brim hat. The welts under my armpits and behind my knees burn every time I move my legs and arms. I come to a ramshackle shed surrounded by rusty trucks and tractors and incongruously enveloped by neatly trimmed bushes and freshly-cut grass in what appears to be a campground. “Hello,” I bellow three more times and wait in dead silence. Doug DesJarlais, a monster of a man with a graying beard and long greasy brown hair appears in faded jeans and a plaid wool work shirt. “I didn´t hear ya; I was cuttin´some boards up,” he exclaims. I confirm that this is indeed the Heritage Campgound before there is an awkward silence where I wonder what´s going to happen next. “Do want some water? I got some really good water from Holberg?” I accept.

"You must be Doug?" I ask.

"The one and only," he replies. And he´s not lying either. I´ve never met anyone quite like Doug, a gregarious hermit with a kind heart, iron fists, and big blue eyes highlighted by cherubic cheeks--a rugged Santa Claus with an uncertain edge, like he´d just skinned one of his reindeer and eaten the hind leg for a snack.

I tell him that I know him from the Wild Coast guidebook and mention that, "You got some good press, you know. ´Unique north island hospitality´ it says."

"Yeah...? Send your daughters, hah hah hah. There´s wood there for ya´... by donation"

I´m now quite content that my girlfriend didn´t get here first.

I follow Doug, who is now very cordially getting me set up with a wheelbarrow to haul my stuff from his boarded-up warehouse--this must be the "hostel" that the guidebook mentions he´s working on; the guidebook was written three years ago. I´ve explained to him that I´m supposed to meet my girlfriend here, that she will be driving my truck to pick me up. As we exit back into the sunny afternoon I squint as my eyes adjust and look up the entrance road. I think that I see a green Nissan pick-up headed toward me and then I know it´s what I see. I drop the wheelbarrow and begin jumping and waving ecstatically. It´s 3:30 p.m. The solo part of my adventure has just ended. I´ve never been so happy to see my truck before.