We paddled into the Goloi Islands and were soon rewarded for our efforts. As we ducked behind the islands to get a break from the wind and swells, two sea otters greeted us as they spy-hopped half-way out of the water for a better look at us. Once we showed ourselves to be no threat, they began to go about their business of diving for food, then swimming on their backs to dine at leisure. Admittedly we were not interested in a bite of their urchin lunch, but we were getting hungry for our own so we joined the otters in a floating lunch.

Joe describes what happened next: "We took a floating lunch here and I learned a valuable lesson in sea kayaking. While putting away the lunch, I let my kayak drift into some floating kelp. With the help of some small waves and the rising tide, I soon noticed my rudder was trapped under a few kelp strands and my stern was sinking as the tide rose. If not for the fast response from my friend, Bob, who cut me free from my trap, I would have had to make a wet exit from the boat, cut myself free and attempt my first wet re-entry with a loaded kayak. The old adage about safety in numbers was proven true again."

With an ever increasing wind moving in off the ocean and the swells getting bigger, we decided to look for an appropriate landing area to make camp. A few miles later, amid a narrow passage between rocks, we spotted an area that looked promising. We carefully counted the waves to avoid the biggest swells, made a cautious approach and landed amid some of the roughest surf we had ever seen while sea kayaking. The fact that both my legs were cramped from sitting all day didn't help. When the nose of my boat hit the sand beach, I tried to jump out quickly and grab the boat to haul it away from the waves. What actually happened looked like something out of a Jerry Lewis movie. I struggled to get out of the boat, nearly falling on my face. Then when I tried to drag the boat, my legs acted as if they were made of rubber. During the entire time the waves took great joy in pounding me. I swear I could hear them laughing. The camp was beautiful, with just enough room to set up a tent and cooking fly between large rock outcroppings.

The sky cleared later that evening. At long last Mt. Edgecumbe emerged from its' cloudy hiding place. Late that evening we experienced a magnificent sunset that was truly the crowning event to an exhilarating day of paddling.

The day of reckoning dawned. For the next 15 miles we would paddle along the Khaz Peninsula. With its ragged rocky shore-line carved by a million storms, there was no place to seek shelter from the wind and waves.

And it was rocking and rolling. The swells rolled deep and mighty. At first I was having fun riding up and down of the face of these wonderful swells, then I got a start. Joe was missing? Just a moment ago he had been several yards off to my left, but now he was gone. What happened? Then as quickly as he had disappeared he reappeared. Was he a hobbit with a magic ring? No, it was just that he was disappearing and reappearing amid the swells that peaked between us. For the next couple of hours we played hide and seek amid the swells, seeing how long we could disappear from each other.

Despite the fun we were having, there was one disconcerting aspect to this paddle. Lurking just under the surface were many boulders and rock outcroppings. The breakers they formed were causing us to paddle a mile to a mile and a half off shore. We constantly needed to scan up to a mile ahead of our position to be sure we kept clear of these walls of boat-devouring foam.

"Joe literally reached into the water and picked up two 8-pound salmon."

Just after lunch we were shaken to our souls by a huge monster of a breaking wave that was so close and so unexpected that neither of us could say anything coherent for several seconds. A boomer! The deadly combination of a large underwater rock and the power of an especially large swell. We frantically paddled out to sea for all we were worth to get away. We must have sprinted for 100 yards before letting up on our pace and relaxing.

Finally we neared the end of the Khaz peninsula and sought the shelter of Khaz Bay. According to the map, just past Khaz Point was a small entrance called Piehte Pass. Rounding the point all we saw were a sea of rocks and breakers as far as the eye could see. We had no choice but to stay outside. The marine charts called this area the Khaz Breakers; for the next five miles these white beasts kept us out to sea.

Finally we spotted an opening and slowly picked our way into Khaz Bay. Dog tired from miles of adrenaline-rush paddling, we spotted a cove that looked like it might have a place to call home for the night. Joe led the way in and nearly paid a heavy price. He was several boat lengths ahead of me as we neared the back of the cove. We were both tired, so we were only half-heartedly trying to surf the small waves that rolled past us. I thought I was far enough behind Joe for safety. Unfortunately I was wrong. I glanced at a wave coming from behind and took a couple half-hearted paddle strokes to catch it. Instead it caught me! The next thing I knew I was at the top of this rogue wave, bracing for all I was worth. I looked down to see Joe below me merrily paddling along, not realizing that I was about to land on top of him!

"Look out!" I screamed as I frantically back paddled. Joe looked over his shoulder at the wall of water, then up at me. His eyes grew wide and he tried to accelerate from the coming doom! Luckily I managed to break over the back of the wave and miss the collision. It was too close a call for both of us. The lesson learned: always let your buddy lead!

After two days amid the boomers and the swells, we headed for Ogden Passage, which cut in behind Herbert Graves Island. What a change in scenery! Instead of looking out over miles and miles of open ocean, we were now surrounded by trees, beach and kelp.

We made some impromptu plans for exploring that included a side trip into an estuary fed by a rather large stream. It was spawning time for the salmon in this stream. To be safe, we made a lot of noise as we paddled up to make our presence known to any bears in the area. When the going got too shallow, we got out of our kayaks and waded upstream to a small stair-stepped falls. The falls were full of salmon trying to make it to the spawning grounds. They would leap from the pool below and plop into the pool above, take a moment's rest then go for the next level. Joe literally reached into the water and picked up two 8-pound salmon. The biggest fish he had ever caught and he didn't need a fishing rod! (Too bad we couldn't keep them.)

Our next destination was the small town of Pelican, nestled deep within the waters of Lisianski Inlet. We had the option of two routes. The shorter and safer one was to turn up Lisianski Strait. The other, which would be much longer and more challenging, would be to go up round Yakobi Island then cut down Lisianski Inlet. (The Inlet and the Strait form an upside-down 'Y') The latter route would be made more difficult because we would need to paddle the entrance to Cross Sound. The waters of Cross Sound is the funnel by which Glacier Bay, Lynn Canal and Upper Chatham Straits are fed. The chaotic currents and rips of these treacherous waters are legendary to sailors throughout Alaska. Still, without hesitation, we decided on the longer route. The sea and weather conditions were favorable and we were feeling confidant in our abilities.

Yakobi Island marks the beginning of the West Chicagof-Yakobi Island Wilderness. Having gotten spoiled by our days paddling inside, we quickly realized that paddling this wilderness meant we would be back in the open ocean, even more exposed than before. Here the rocks and boomers lurked farther out to sea and at times we had to paddle up to two miles offshore to avoid the breakers!