HIGH SEA ADVENTURE in ONTARIO

Last spring's trip upon Lake Huron's Georgian Bay was a hellish thing. I have lived through a squall on the Bay in my little kayak. That was on a solo trip in May, up by the mouth of the French River some years ago. That was just another day in the life of a paddler to me. I've been solo paddling before the term came into vogue in Bill Mason's books, "the Path of the Paddle," etc. I never thought anything much of it, except that it cut down considerably on certain logistical problems encountered in group tripping.

That day of glory began with a becalmed Bay. Gentle swells cradled the GLSKA group and all were cheery. When one man commented that our trip home would probably be fun, I was a little cautious in my joy. I have learned not to take all waves with flippant contempt. Rather, I view every venture as a risk. Cold water, waves, food, friends and all can turn sour, and make a trip an ordeal.

I should have recognized the omen. It spat in my ear to get my attention. I looked back over my shoulder to see what was making that gentle pattering sound in the little swells. There it was, my rudder. I had some trouble with this great rollicking beast of mine, the Current Designs Expedition. Really, I should say that the boat was having trouble with me. I have under my belt some ... well, let's just say over twenty-some years of kayaking experience.

Much of that was in the company of National and Provincial Whitewater Team members. Under National and Provincial Coaches I learned a lot. It all peaked with my Ontario Wildwater Affiliation Certified Instructor's card. Some of that experience was (sh!) in little rivulets and marshes. I just love to paddle. It don' matter where. So, I guess you could say I should know the bow from the stern.

That look over my shoulder told me that I still have a lot to learn about the power of water and the weakness of manmade materials when Ma Nature decides to flex her mood just a little. I had installed a beautifully shaped custom blade in the stanchions of the rudder bracket. I had polished it to a shimmering finish that made it look like some Solingen sword. The edges were finished sharp as a sword. I showed a mechanic at a service station how the shock cord powers the rudder with a snap to the deployed position. Well, that's how I realized how sharp it was. It nearly pealed his facial hair, nose, lips and brows off! I'm proud to say, folks, that age has not affected my learning curve one bit. Every day I learn something new.

Back to the trip. That chromium-like beauty had done an excellent job. The boat would snap to a heeling position like a whale at those big marine shows. It would almost pivot like my ol' slalom scow. That is why I went to the scrap dealer, scrounged through piles of pig iron and rusty iron. I had to get a better response from that nineteen-footer. And I did. It's just that, well, I'm not an engineer. I never learned about stress risers and such. Actually, I thought those were part of the stairs in the house. Anyhow, looking back over my shoulder, I saw that saber of mine hanging off the port side like the Expedition wanted to make a left turn after signaling. I gave it a thought. Maybe my paddling skills would get a workout. Maybe I could remember them.

As we approached the island destination, the wind had come to a fair strength. It was blowing from starboard. With me wanting to sort of tack to the right, I did what came naturally. I just heeled the hull over onto its left side. Now, normally this should make that great pig of a cigar lumber over to the right. Especially with my normal flailing of six or seven supplemental strokes.

Uh Uh. Not this day. No. Instead, what happened was another lesson from ol' Ma Nature. That rudder stuck out to the side like a gang plank or a tail wing. It acted as a dagger board. It held me there, with Ma pushing the bow into the funnel of the islands' breezeway, and me trying my old pudding sticks in the deep six. I flailed away at the water. Then I just happened to feel Ma shake loose for a spell. The old Expedition ploughed around like a Toronto ferry boat heading in to the dock. I fell upon the beach like a piece of bacon in a pan. I joined the group in the sun.

Well, we had all that usual protocol stuff to execute. You know, talk about the weather. Talk about the water colour, temperature and depths. Talk about hatches. Talk about hulls. Talk about water trails. Talk about politics within the fraternity. Talk about the talk. Nobody talked about rudders!

Stuffed to the gills with gorp, slop and liquids, we finally shuffled toward the boats to scrunch the residuals of packages and such into the bowels of those slender, sensuous craft. Looking out to see the sea is what kayaking's all about, so that's what we did. From where we were, the water appeared just as we had slithered in on. Smooth, gently rippled in the lee of this island, it seemed that the trip home would be of an equal challenge. No problem for me, either. I could handle a downwind run in this hammock of water that lay before me. I determined that I would leave the rudder parked. I did not want any obtuse waves levering against my balance or shaking me left, right, or up and down. Not a problem. I had only used a rudder for the last two years or so, and my paddle skills were at a very high level. I stowed my emergency gear in the forward hatch. That included my "Sea Wings ." These are inflatable nylon bags that, when deployed, give an extra amount of stability and thereby, safety. By stowing my extra equipment and safety gear forward, I would give my boat a little more forward weight, thereby helping me to ride on the front of a wave a little better. In the conditions I saw before me, this was a good plan, as I anticipated an easy downwind trip on a relatively calm sea.

We launched in the way GLSKA usually does under easy conditions with splendid sunshine. One by one we fell into our boats and rekindled the conversation fires. Chatter covered the rippling ring of water against the hulls. One by one the group got drifting outwards and homeward. The easy breeze helped give that old feeling of relaxed drifting. The mind, in such conditions, drinks in the scene.

We were casually splitting our chatter into several groups. Not that the group was large, but none-the-less, we subdivided it. I have a habit of watching out for the laggers. This does not mean the persons on or near the shore are poor paddlers or anything. It's just a habit I cultivated over the years that one should not leave anyone to paddle alone if that person has come along to be with a group.

Before I knew it, I myself had lagged. I had let myself get into the funnel effect of the long reach between the island and the mainland. This has never been a problem before. I always seemed to get to a group easily enough. Here, in the middle of the two or three groups, I decided to do what comes naturally to me. I plunged my paddle into the water, and paced myself to catch the group ahead.

Increasing my stroke rate by increments, I noticed the waves were three footers and beautifully shaped for surfing. The Expedition began to coast and slide. That is a boat that surfs with delight. The steady rhythm of the song of the waves was programmed for my stroke. Ma Nature brushed on a snare drum with every cresting wave. I was in heaven. Stroke, glide. Stroke, slide.

Swooshing down the face of some of these waves was great. Some of them were blistering rides, where I braced off the stern, ruddering back and forth with my paddle, like an ant on a sand dune. These were superb waves.

The wind was now whirling above me, like a gull's favourite carnival ride. The whispering waves seemed to sing louder to try to outdo the melody. Even the waves themselves seemed to be feeling the spirit of rock and roll, as it picked up the cadence. The waves seemed to darken. The crests were whiter. The sun poured into the tiny bubbles and then burst with the warmth. Pearling is a term that originated in surfboarding, where the bow of the board goes underwater and continues to dive until the board is vertical or goes end over end. Soon I realized that my attempts to surf on the face of these steepening waves nearly got me pearling.

I had begun to do what I had spent so many years avoiding. My low brace was the only effective tool I had at my disposal. My sequence of bow sweeps did nothing to bring the Expedition onto a surfing plane that would be just a great ride. Instead, each schuss down the wave made a great pivot point at the base of the wave. There, the bow would stick in like a knife. The stern was slung around until I was sideways to toe wave. With a perfectly round section on the Expedition, this is a bad position to be in. You can easily tip to either side, and have to swim. This was not a place to try swimming.

I could look around sometimes as the crests swilled around me. The looks were actually more like glances. My neck swivelled like an owl. Where was the nearest boat? Ahead of me, the pack kept going. They seemed never to look back. I missed the company sorely now. I could use a couple of laughs. I could use a little hint that I was not the only one afraid. I could use some allies, because Ma was having a good go at me, and I was very uncomfortable.

Whenever I would see back toward shore, there was only an increasing gulf of waves. It made the group of two or three seem so far away. There was no turning back. I could see Hart, the trip leader, running with a couple of others. It was an eternity, there in the crush of waves. Each crest was now poised on the edge of a gigantic wall. The wall would roll up from behind and lever the stern to one side. Then, as it pushed on past me it would grab the bow, prying it to turn the other way. The formation was unlike anything I'd experienced. They were like refracting waves. Refracting waves are those that approach from different angles, and even different directions or fronts, perhaps reflected by objects, land, or winds. Here, they surged from this side, then from the other side.

In just this first fifteen minutes, I could feel myself losing. Indeed I was losing. There, in the middle of some hostile environment, I was losing my ability to power out of trouble. It always worked before. There in the middle of the long reach of Georgian Bay my boat refused to comply with my efforts to straighten it. It refused to hover there. I tried to hold onto the paddle as the Bay made itself into a bully. The big Expedition would broach against a wave. My low braces and back sweeps were tearing away at my triceps. I knew I had taken two hours or so to reach shore. I knew that the Bay was taking me. She and Ma Nature were giving me the sceneless route. I could only keep bracing as the broached boat repeatedly slammed broadside. Crests poured down upon the deck like a hydraulic in a river. Now I was glad for all the paddling I'd done. I was glad that I was a veteran of the Ottawa River, from which these waves seemed to have emigrated.

Now I could see Hart a little clearer. He was closer. I hollered as loud as I could. It was a call like I'd never made before in all my paddling career. He turned his head, so I knew he heard me. Hart said nothing. What could he say? Talk about hulls? Talk about aspect ratios? Talk about the conservation of rotational momentum? No, there was nothing to say.

Atop the crests, and crashing down their vertical faces, I observed the other paddlers with whom Hart had been paddling were heading off to another island. Or so it appeared. Later I found out that they too were paddling for their lives. I could only focus on each wave as though it was a new adversary, for indeed it was. Hart was getting ever closer.

Knowing full well that he could do nothing, I was still most happy to see him bobbing on the crests some twenty meters away. The distance shrank and shrank as the onslaught of wave after wave after wave pounded the sides of my boat. My arms were chilled by the gale force wind whipping the heat from me and scattering water upon me like a baptismal service that wouldn't stop. I hollered again. Hart could see that my usual cheery self was desperately scared to death. He fought his way nearer, and nearer. At a time like that, one certainly has a perspective of someone's paddling. He seemed almost as though he was just out for another easy go. That old Bluewater Huron was just right for this man and his weight. In these conditions, the equal distribution of volume, the relatively broadness of the hull seemed canoe-like. It was in its element. Forward or backward, that paddler and boat were ... how shall I say, fluid? Finally, his boat came along side.

Hart talked calmly in this tumult. Actually, it seems to me now that there was the ancient Biblical story of a man calmly talking to one of his companions. Yet there is a difference. Hart was not asking me to walk on the water. He said "Hold onto my boat. We'll raft up. Just relax."

I bellowed out "What?" He repeated "Relax." "I am," I replied. "Hold onto my boat," he said. My arms encompassed his cockpit rim, and I was shaking. The water was extremely cold, and though I wore a "Farmer John" wetsuit, it combined with my adrenaline to make me shudder. I was afraid I might lose my paddle, or break free from this floating island of hope. I maintained a very controlled calm.

Waves. They were everywhere. Mostly, though, they hunched up just behind us. I could hear them as one layer of foam slithered over and under another. The sound of the crests merged with the wind. The shoreline was very, very distant. Crowded around this man-boat, I was becoming very attached to the security. Here, in the middle of that great, wide channel of Georgian Bay, with no other souls around, the two meter walls of water seemed only to rise and fall, as though they were the lungs of the Bay. I suppose they are. They help break up pollution, mix the layers of water, and distribute flotsam. Flotsam. That's exactly how I felt. Yet, cleaving to that Huron and with the spectacle all around me, wild, unbridled and relentless, I began to relax.

Just when that happened, Hart prompted for another paddling stint. Wishing to just ride forever until our splinters of fibreglass washed into some calm inlet of the Bay, I reluctantly fumbled to secure my hold on the cold paddle shaft. Then we clashed and banged apart. You have to wait until there is room between the boats to swing your paddle. The Expedition seemed again like some maverick log that just wanted to roll broadside to the waves. It took a while to settle into the rhythm of the sea, surging as it was. Every time Hart got more than five or six meters away, I would just yell as loud as I could "HEY!" I didn't want to be left alone in this dark cauldron of fathomless cold. Hart would hear the bark and pivot his head and attempt what might be considered a back ferry. The Expedition just would not comply when I tried that. I was getting weaker.

Instead, the big boat keel-hauled every piece of black water it could. Running forward or hovering with backstrokes, it wallowed and sparked my fatiguing muscles into reflex strokes of sweep, back sweep, brace and lean. Forward and backwards my torso would go in the dance that went on forever.

The ordeal kept up with rafting and paddling or floundering, in my case. Eventually we came close enough to shore that I could actually see the rocks that shouted back at the waves. Their defiance roared, and the chaos around the rocks was foreboding. Hart broke into my thoughts. I was so happy to see the shore, and I kept looking for a beachhead and thinking "Where will we land, in all this chopped and boiling turmoil? Will we have to bail out into that stuff?"

I know the feeling of flesh on rock. My head has felt it, too. Whirlpools have pulled me from the surface and held me 'til I thought my ears would turn to gills. I have rolled in the soup and I have felt like just so much noodle-like stock in a boil. The river is something else. It is polite enough to throw you gently into some eddy. My friends and I have executed rescues in seven-foot waves. Here on the Bay at the headlands, water piled up on itself 'til it erupted in fury. Boats went one way and the paddles went another way. Swimmers could flow out into the vastness of the cold, black swells that went on forever. Then Hart broke radio silence, and said "We have to go 'round that point!" My heart and soul began to weep. The water would soon be salt water.

Off to my left, several hundred yards off, was a lone sailboat. Bouncing and cavorting in the heavy sea, it was under sail and power. I said to Hart that maybe we could wave them in, but he said "They have enough troubles of their own." Beyond the sailboat was another old ghost of the Bay. It had come back to finish me.

Looming high, like a great tower of cotton candy, a white cloud rose like a pillar, swelling and swelling with every stretch of altitude it cleared. The top seemed so heavy that it was beginning to lean. The lean was toward me. Georgian Bay has its own special squalls, but this was a biggy. Smoldering white, it looked like the exhaust of every snow-making machine in the Province had been super-charging the thing like some air-filled tennis court. Hart and I would be the projectiles, trounced and left in the swells to crash into the shore. I kept on twisting my neck to look at it. It vaporized half way up. Spindrift, I thought. Memories kept replaying my experience of the squall up on the French River delta on a solo trip in May. You will find that you will not forget riding out a Georgian Bay squall. For years it will come back to you. Always you will be looking for it. Once is enough. But here I was again.

Hart kept us well off the headland. We saw boats on shore, but no bodies. We saw neither upright walking nor sprawled upon the rock. Boiling shorelines revealed no bodies either. Our task was too important to allow ourselves the delusion of thinking of others at this point, anyway, so we kept bending the shafts. My body seemed fine now. It had settled into the agonies rather well. Probably the intensity of the situation throughout the drive toward shore and the takeout kept the body from crying "QUIT".

Once ashore, we found that all of our cohorts were relatively fine. Burned out as I was, ashore, I invited the other paddlers to throw around the football. Most declined, and none seemed to have the reserves I had. Perhaps that is because for me, terra firma was such a thing to celebrate.

Hart called it "The trip from hell." Appropriate, I suppose. Then he kept assessing it over and over. You could tell that a year later or more, he will still go over the events. Thank heavens before we left our lunch spot out there on that island, someone advised me to wear a wetsuit. I made it myself, over twenty years ago, with no pattern. It works. Boy, am I glad I had it on.

Yes, that is what a GLSKA memory can be. I've renewed my membership, and I'll be there when the rollers sing in the sun. I'll be there and I'll watch the water with a weathered eye. Keep your rudder in operative mode. But don't count on it!



COPYRIGHT DAVE MARTIN, ADVENTURE AGENT