Pushing Boundaries - 2022

 Building Confidence in the Boat

I have found that the best way to build comfort in adverse conditions is to put myself into them, preferably in a controlled environment, until they become normalized. The mind swirls with thoughts of "what ifs," from "What if I capsize?" to "What if I get separated from my boat?" to "How long would a rescue take in these conditions?" All are good thoughts to have for self-preservation, but as I have spent more time in the boat, I have noticed that each time I face a new challenge, my heart races, my body tenses, I grip the paddle a little tighter—then, over time, I start to find rhythm and relaxation.

Up to this point, I had always pushed myself within the confines of highly controlled environments with medical support on hand, whether for rowing, 10K running races, cycling events, or a half-Ironman. In these events, you can always stop and likely find support in a matter of minutes. But when you are out on the ocean, self-sufficiency is paramount. External support and rescue are options, but will likely take much longer.

2022 started with a few day trips—nothing I would call intense, but I enjoyed the planning aspect with many new local places to explore. Wanting to continue building my skills, I went back to what I knew and signed up for the Level 3 course with Blue Dog in the Broken Group Islands off Vancouver Island. It was a repeat of Level 2 material with an added emphasis on leadership and rolling, a skill I did not yet possess. It was a good refresher of skills—reentry in moderate conditions, weather and sea state interpretation—but I left with a conditional pass, having not demonstrated the roll. I was disappointed but knew it was a vital skill for what I wanted to pursue and I had cemented many other skills. I was connected with the South Island Whitewater Club, and after a few lake sessions in the fall, I was able to perform a roll—though only with a 50% success rate, like flipping a coin.

Feeling more confident in my abilities later in the year, I wanted to attempt the Victoria Circle Route—a 20km loop involving Esquimalt Harbour, Victoria Harbour, and Portage Inlet, with a 1km portage to finish (or in my case skip, as I was getting a dropoff at the start). I checked the weather, tides, and radio protocols for the harbour and set off on my own.

"King's Harbour Master, this is, uh, Yellow Kayak, transiting out from Thetis Cove. Over."
A few seconds passed. "Yellow Kayak, this is KHM. Copy transit from Thetis Cove. Over."

Great. That was easy. Now I had to go—they were expecting me.

Paddling out towards Juan de Fuca Strait, following the designated harbour flow pattern, everything seemed fine. As I approached the light, the waves were building—maybe only about a foot. I decided it was a good time to stow my phone away in a dry bag, though I still had my waterproof VHF radio on my life jacket. Great! I'll keep going. One-foot waves were quickly replaced by three-foot waves as I bobbed up and down, passing Fisgard Lighthouse.

"Huh, so this is what 25 knots of wind feels like," I thought, feeling manageable while pushing my bow straight into the wind and waves. Not wanting to retreat, retrace my steps, and admit defeat to the harbour master, I knew if I pointed a bit offshore so I could ride the waves straight downwind toward the Victoria harbour entrance while avoiding quartering waves (waves that hit from the rear and side). I continued out and noticed that by now, the waves had grown to a steady 4–5 feet, and my hands and body were decidedly tense.

Regardless of the harbour I intended to reach, I knew I had to turn the boat to face downwind. I saw what appeared to be a gap between big swells and cranked the boat around using some bracing strokes as the waves hit my broadside. Feeling the boat turn and pick up speed as the first swell passed underneath me and the wind pushed me toward Ogden Point Breakwater, my mind was made up—I knew where I was going. Checking over my shoulder before every swell and placing many precautionary brace strokes—paddling repeatedly on one side and dragging the flat blade across the water for stability—I wondered what the people storm-watching off Saxe Point thought, or if they could even see me, just a hundred meters offshore.

Passing Macaulay Point and entering Victoria harbour, I felt the swell die off quickly. The tension was replaced by a deep breath and a grin.

"Man, that was so cool," I thought—but I also understood it had been pretty reckless. In the end, it was probably only about 3km of downwind rough water. I realized that if I wanted to push myself, I needed to go out with other experienced people. I also decided that from that point on, I would always write down the conditions of the day to better understand what to expect in different sea states.

On review, it had been a gale warning, with 27-knot south westerly reported at Race Rocks lighthouse. The wind was against a strong ebbing tide, creating steep, cresting waves. I decided to call off the loop attempt due to time constraints and got picked up at the Admirals Road bridge, having completed ¾ of the loop—content with the day's lessons.

"How was it?" Emma asked, as I took off my drysuit.

"Great! Pretty big, but manageable."