1999
Cold Water Paddling - Close Call in Cold Water
From Wave~Length Paddling Magazine February/March 1995
by Steve Sims
Don Thompson was taking a stroll along the Gabriola Island coast road, enjoying the first rainfree day in weeks. It was December 28th and the northwester was doing a wonderful job of clearing the last vestiges of the rainclouds which so often settle down over the coast. The wind was about 10-15 knots and the seas were bouncing along at about 3 feet. Don looked out towards the Straits of Georgia. About 400 feet out, a bright yellow kayak was surfing along at a fast clip, the kayaker obviously having a fine old time.
"Wow, that sure looks like fun", Don thought to himself.
Suddenly the kayaker seemed to stop dead in the water, the bow of his boat angling slightly upwards, as if attempting to leave the water. Don was puzzled. The kayaker seemed to be using his paddle more in the manner of a tightrope walker. He continued to watch. Five minutes later the puzzlement turned to alarm as the kayak slowly veered sideways to the wave and capsized. Don didn't waste any time. He fled to the nearest house and dialed 911.
I can't express my thanks to Don enough. Because that guy on the tightrope was me. What had started out as an exhilarating winter paddle had suddenly become a kayaker's worst nightmare: immersion in a fast moving sea.
The day had started out well enough. I awoke to a crisp, clear day. The weather report called for a brisk northwester with one metre seas. I live in Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, a great location if you are into sea kayaking. There are some great little trips right on our doorstep, lots of little island nooks and crannies to explore, a never ending source of fascination for the curious kayaker. I lashed the boat, a 16 foot Necky Narpa, to the car rack and set off for my launch area by the yacht club.
After a 15 minute paddle I arrived at the home of Dag Goering and Maria Coffey on Protection Island. They have a beautiful little house on the water, facing Newcastle Island. Although enthusiastic kayakers, (their Jungle to Ice expedition in 1992 resulted in a real gem of a book: A Boat in our Baggage...an absolute must read for the adventurous kayaker) they seemed a bit shagged out from all the Christmas festivities and weren't up to a paddle.
I slid back into the yak and paddled out to Snake Island, a distance of two miles. The seas, as predicted, were about 2 feet, with the occasional whitecap. A classic Northwester. After a quick visit with the island's resident seal colony and a brisk stroll around the islet I paused to munch on my Mars bar. Before slipping back into the boat I decided to relieve myself of the two cups of coffee I had drank while visiting Dag and Maria, not an easy task when thickly swaddled in a neoprene Farmer John, "Tailor made in Canada for Canadian waters." It was an old suit, but I felt snug and warm in it. In my rubber blubber I felt a certain kinship with the seals bobbing about in the waters around me.
At about 2:15, I continued my paddle. My destination was Orlebar Point on Gabriola Island, just opposite the Entrance Island lighthouse, a distance of 3 nautical miles. It's a trip that I have made many times. In a northwester it is a delightful and exhilarating paddle. The Narpa, a rotomoulded plastic, handles superbly in such conditions. It really proved itself a couple of years ago during a 7 hour crossing from Sechelt to Piper's Lagoon in a stormy southeaster, and it has served me well on a number of long distance hauls out on the west coast of Vancouver Island. All went well for about 15 minutes. I was surfing along at a fast clip, perpendicular to the waves, keeping my eyes out for any confusions in the wave pattern.
I spotted a gathering of logs to my starboard, and steered a course away from them. I didn't fancy being stoved in by one of them. As the swells hoisted and then lowered me, I suddenly became aware that a log had appeared underneath my bow. It arrived ever so gently. It didn't even announce its arrival with a knock. And it seemed determined to stay put. "Hmmmm, this is an interesting situation", I pondered. "Ah well, I'll just undock myself from it and continue on my merry way."
The next five minutes turned out to be one of the trickiest episodes I've ever been involved in. My bow seemed to be bolted to the darn thing. It was a cut log, about 8 feet long with a diameter of about 20-24 inches. My boat now resembled a child's crude attempt at an airplane, the log forming the wings. And it's upward tilt seemed to suggest an attempt to take off. The novelty of the situation soon wore off however, and I realized that my leavetaking of the log was going to be no easy matter. Not only was I stuck fast, with a following sea trying to push me further onto it, I was also in a very unstable and tricky position, and it was all I could do to keep the yak from tipping. My efforts were to no avail and eventually I found myself parallel to the wave.
And then the inevitable happened. The kayak was hit sideways by a wave that confounded my attempts to brace and, almost as if in slow motion, the boat began to roll. The horizon slid off to the left and I wound up upside down in the water.
Well, this was as good a time as any, I supposed, to attempt an eskimo roll. I levered my paddle sideways through the water, with one end deep in the water below my head, the other end thrusting to the surface, pulling sideways to swing myself and the boat back to the surface. As I pushed my left hip up against the side of the cockpit, I could feel myself turning. I really felt that I was going to make it. And then the surface end of my paddle struck something, and my swing through the water was stopped dead. That bloody log! easing my spray skirt, I exited the kayak and surfaced.
The first thing I saw was the end of the log, intent on playing the role of battering ram upon my astonished face. I gulped air and ducked, resurfacing a short distance away, to see my boat and the log heading off down the Strait.
Although I was wearing a wet suit and a flotation jacket I figured that my best bet would be to stay with the boat. After swimming five minutes or so I managed to grab the kayak, no easy feat in a sea that was growing more and more turbulent as we neared the channel between Entrance Island and Orlebar Point. My paddle was still attached to the boat with a length of shock cord.
Whenever I go off on a trip, I try to include at least one self-rescue practice. I enjoy solo paddling and feel that it is essential that I be able to look after myself. But my re-entry procedures had always been carried out in calm water and in the summer months. Here I was, in a turbulent sea. But the practices had made the procedure almost automatic.
After righting the boat, I managed to get it perpendicular to the wave action and began my self-rescue. This involves slipping one of the paddle blades into an etherfoam sandwich [paddlefloat, Ed.] that I had stored behind my seat in a nylon bag. Next, I jammed the other paddle blade into the webbing behind the kayak's cockpit and prepared to hoist myself out of the water and onto the stern of the boat. I had been in the water for about 10 minutes by now and my hands and feet were quite numb. It was at this point that I began to wish that I had not left my neoprene gloves in the car.
However, without too much difficulty I found that I was able to hoist myself out of the water. What a relief to find myself lying belly down along the stern of the boat. All I had to do now was to insert my feet into the cockpit and slide my legs in, swivelling as I did so to re-establish myself as a right-side up paddler. Alas, I was not far enough along the stern, and as I bent my knees to allow my foot to enter the cockpit, my left hamstring was seized by an excruciating cramp. What a time to be hit with a charley horse!
Unable to do anything about it while in that position, I reluctantly found myself sliding back into the water, this time on the other side of the kayak. Again treading water, I kneaded my tortured thigh as best I could. Once the cramp was unknotted, I made my way around the prow and resumed my position on the port side. Phew, I was starting to feel pooped.
At least I was still relatively warm, despite the numbness in my extremities. I decided to relax, get my breath back and take stock of my position and situation before psyching myself up for another attempt at re-entry.
I reckoned I still had the strength to make one more re-entry attempt. The wetsuit had extended my survival time. Without it I couldn't have lasted more than ten minutes in those frigid waters. I also had the option of using the sling, a nylon loop that fits over the paddle and can be used as a stirrup to facilitate an easier re-entry. In the top pocket of my jacket were three flares. I knew that if I wasn't back in the boat within 10 minutes that I would be brightening the late afternoon sky with them. It was now about 3:30 p.m. and I had been in the water for approximately 20 minutes.
Over to my right I saw a bright red cone shaped object. It went zooming steadily by at a rate of 6 knots or so. It was the marker buoy that is positioned about 200 feet from Entrance Island. Beyond it I could see the lighthouse. And I realised that the buoy was stationary, and in fact, it was I who was floating rapidly down the current. I realised that a swim for shore was out of the question, and that if I didn't soon regain control of my boat, I would be swept way out into the Georgia Strait. Time was running out.
It was then that I noticed two figures in red suits at Entrance Island lowering the Zodiac boat with the winch. What a wave of relief flowed through me as I realised that a rescue was imminent. In no time at all, the Zodiac was pulled up beside me, and I was hoisted out of the chilly waters. A couple of minutes later another boat pulled up. It was the rescue boat from Nanaimo, some six miles away. I had been spotted and a mayday had been issued.
Within five minutes I was on shore on Gabriola Island. Although my jaws were chattering like a set of frenzied castanets I didn't feel too bad. I was met by my friend, Ike McKay, who had been alerted. After a twenty minute soak in a warm bath, followed by a couple of rums, I felt much recovered and grateful that I was still alive. [Note: alcohol is not recommended for victims of hypothermia- ed.]
Later in the evening I met Don Thompson, the person who had placed the 911 call and I expressed my gratitude to him and also for the quick responses of the lighthouse keepers, Larry and Robert Douglas and the speedy responses of Ian Herrington and Don Croutch in the Nanaimo rescue boat. Without them, I doubt that you would be reading this testimony today.
What I learned:
