Colin and I had a brief consultation; it was a no brainer. It was disturbing watching our friends hurry to break camp and get on the water. They didn’t have time to bother with breakfast or coffee. Colin and I handed out Clif Bars from our stash and shared out our coffee and helped haul stuff to the boats. All the while the wind was slowly but steadily building and a stiff chop was beginning to form on the open water.

I well knew the crossing these guys were facing. About eight miles of open water with no protection whatsoever. It was the kind of crossing I liked to make with a clear forecast for the day. They would be paddling dead into building seas and wind and if it got bad quicker than predicted, would have a very wild ride turning everybody around and being shooshed back to the Bunsbys... best case. But they were committed. We waved good-bye and wished good luck standing on the beach and climbed up on the rock lookouts to mark their progress through our binoculars.

We were concerned for our friends and we talked a lot about the decision to go. I did very little kayaking on impulse anymore, gauging my decision to leave the beach against a body of objective criteria formed from years of open coastal paddling. Sure, sometimes a desire to get somewhere for some reason nudged those guidelines a little but-not-very-often. Safe kayaking was, in the end I figured, a matter of odds. You did what you could to train and outfit yourself to effectively deal with conditions you anticipated, while at the same time you were heads up to avoid putting yourself in highly dangerous situations to begin with. Paddling a remote and rugged open coast would provide it’s share of dicey opportunities. Hopefully our skills, good equipment and common sense would help us safely deal. There was just no good sense in tempting fate.

The crossing from the Bunsbys to Spring that day, for example, had red flags all over it. Not only did it look like a grind to be pushing into the teeth of building wind and sea for three hours, but what if those hurricane force winds arrived ahead of schedule? That was a factor whose proximate time frame was way too close for comfort. We could already feel the presence of the system in our immediate vicinity.

"I could feel the wind gathering itself as it bounced right over the little island and slammed into my boat."

In defense of our friend’s decision, they figured they could probably make it and no doubt that was true. The odds were definitely in their favor. But I’m thinking that is the wrong frame of reference for responsible ocean kayaking. The threat of extremely dangerous marine conditions like Storm and Hurricane, even Gale Force winds in assessing a three hour committed paddling route should trigger a quick veto from the get go.

While we readied for the storm I went out to try and catch enough fish to last us for several days. I got into the Kokatat dry suit and slipped off the beach in a stiff chop in the narrow channel between our island and a neighboring one. I paddled out into the semi-protected leeward side of the islands, a deep, rocky bay with kelp beds along the edge. I looked for bull kelp instead of giant kelp because it had a big bulb at the end instead of ribbons. I could slip the bulb under my deck line to hold the boat still enough to fly fish. Not only that but we found greenling preferred the giant kelp and caught more ling in the bull variety.

I could feel the wind gathering itself as it bounced right over the little island and slammed into my boat. Anchored broadside to the wind it was extremely difficult to keep my balance. I was able to pick up just enough fish to get us by for a couple of days but my nerves were on edge by the time I was finished.

Sitting around a little fire in the shelter of a rock wall that night with the wind zipping overhead, we finally heard Zack on the radio saying things were good and that they’d made it to safety. In fact, they had decided to keep on going and were snug in a B&B in Kyuquot! We felt better knowing that everyone was okay, even if it had been a tough, harrowing paddle. Meanwhile we buttoned up our camp and settled in for the show.

Our tents were pitched at the ridge top of the little island in the direct path of the blow. As the hours passed and the velocity of the wind increased, we returned to our tents for the ultimate anchoring with all available guy lines, stakes, rocks and logs. While I was doing this it occurred to me that we might be better off in a more sheltered spot, several of which were available now that our friends had left. Then I remembered back when I lived in Oregon and would drive the kids out to the coast in winter when big storms were rolling in. Hiking out to the tip of Cape Falcon, a long, tall, glorious cape, we’d pitch our huge North Face, North Star tent right at cliff edge. We could feel the crash of the sea against the rock and the sound of waves booming below. The bigger the better we liked it and we trusted our tent to withstand the worst weather possible.

I smiled to myself as I strung out a guy line and anchored it under a log... always looking for that edge. The storm rose to it’s peak late that afternoon and sustained its fury throughout the night. We got little sleep. My tent this time (a North Face Expedition 36) bent and dipped, flexed and puffed but rode out the storm undamaged. I had to admit that at one point it occurred to me that maybe pitching smack in the path of this thing was not a sensible idea. Colin developed food poisoning in the middle of the night and when a pole on his tent finally gave up the ghost in the wee hours of the morning, he got up not knowing whether to throw up or deal.

Morning was a sea of raging white horses. Very gradually the tempest subsided. It was a long couple of days for Colin as he recovered from the bug. We took it easy and waited for a window to scoot over to Spring or perhaps Thornton or Grassy just beyond. It rained and blew for three more days as the seas begrudgingly regained its composure. We made one exploratory launch with the idea of finding another camp a little further to the mainland if we couldn’t make a reasonable crossing. It was still too lumpy for comfort and we found a sweet little bay with a good camp site, deep freshwater catchments and a tall rock spire to climb and spy out the crossing.

We settled into pounding rain that night. I was happy to be on yet another little island in a fine rainstorm. Beside the tent, my water bag was gradually refilling as it dripped through our Katadyn gravity filter. Deep in the second book of an engaging trilogy with a hearty ale between my legs, dinner out of the way and teeth brushed, I listened to the rat-a-tat of rain on taut nylon and felt about as cozy as a dog by a roaring fire. I was content to sit out the weather for another couple of days if need be. It really all depended on our best paddling window within about a three day period. We decided to wait till morning to make a decision.

We awoke to blustery winds and ragged showers. Forecast was for worsening weather later that day then crappy for the next couple. I could hear the crunch of clam shells coming my way from down the beach where Colin was camped. I peeked outside the tent to see if it was a bear. Nope, it was Colin, coming to talk practical.

He was for getting out while the getting was fair, while I was feeling pretty good with holing up, reading and exploring around the interesting island when the rain slacked off. Colin pointed out the worsening weather prediction and how that might mean another three or more days here. He had a loose commitment to be back before then; his wife was expecting him to baby sit their daughter Luna while she attended a workshop.

We had always tried to reach consensus on decisions. I was feeling lazy, feeling the increasing pull of inertia from a long stint on the water and on the beach, but I agreed to climb the rocky bluff at the end of the island with the chart and the glasses and have a good look at conditions along our route.

I could see it was snotty out off the coast between us and the pass between McLean and Spring islands, but it was a steady kind of snotty that I didn’t think would be a problem. There were plenty of reefs, but from the map it was obvious there was a main channel through the middle and maybe even a back route closer to shore. I trundled back to camp thinking tomorrow was Monday and the opening game of Monday Night Football. I was ready for some football and I told Colin sure let’s go.

It was a surprising paddle with unusual seas. Swell was about four or five feet and the refraction of waves from the rocky coast made for sudden and unusual waves. The sun peeked in and out and a light mist made the scene primordially northwest looking. The water had a glassy oily sheen in the half light under a layer of sea fog and mist and it was fantastic looking. Once we reached the reefs and tucked inside we reached a dead end. Sitting together and studying the reef strewn, wave thundering channel in front of us, it took some psyching up to try and thread our way through it.

We made it out though with our hearts pumping adrenaline like crazy, only to have to thread our way back through another reef to make the shortcut inside McLean. Probably the one thing I will remember most about this particular expedition was those damned reefs!

In a moment of some kind of justice, I was taking the last few licks through a narrow slot into Clannick Cove and protected waters once and for all. Thinking I was home free, I lapsed my attention a bit. Suddenly a wave broke over me dousing me like a winning coach and a bucket of Gatorade. I came up spluttering but upright and laughing. It was never over till it was over.

We paddled through Kyuquot and up the long inlet to the take out at Fair Harbour, past some native fishing boats and a fish farm that reminded me of a Goldfinger operation in a James Bond flick; a very long day on the water. In a fitting end to a long wilderness tour when we arrived in Zeballos in the rain, we pulled into Masons Motor lodge and ordered up steak dinners to take back to the cabin to sit in front of the telly and catch the season opener. Colin was feeling better and happy to be getting home in time to meet his obligations. It was another excellent visit to paddling Valhalla.

Sponsor list (a big thank you from Colin and myself to everyone that helped make this trip possible!): Seattle Sports, BC Ferries, Costa del Mar, Seahorse, Maxima, Cortland Line, Essential Gear, Therm-A-Rest, Humminbird, Wilderness Systems, Lowrance, MEC, Tibor, Scott, Evergreen Pacific, Heritage Press, Coastal Waters Recreation, Princeton Tec, Smartwool, Briko, Aquapac, Primex/Deluge Sail, Hennessey Hammocks, Navarro, Tyee, Surf to Summit, Lowrance, Navionic, MEC, Costa del Mar, HighGear, Aquabound, UCO, Tom Johnson, LUNA pipes.