All three involved water. The first was August, 1994 while body surfing in Acapulco. The second was April, 2003 while body surfing (again) in Cancun, and the third was August, 2005 while sea kayaking off the coast of British Columbia.
Truthfully, I don’t think there was much risk of dying in that last example, but in the first two there was a real possibility of drowning. The reason why the sea kayaking example sticks in my mind so forcefully was because of the extended nature of the terror.
In the first two examples I quickly came to the realization that I was probably about to die, but each situation only lasted moments, and I barely had time to say “OhFuckOhShitOhFuckOhShitOhFuckOhShit” before the adrenaline kicked into high gear and I was able to escape the waves and drag my saturated ass up the beach, bathing suit around my knees, to vomit out a stomach full of sea water all over the sand.
The sea kayaking debacle was different, as the OhFuckOhShit moment stretched on for 45 long minutes. It turns out that even when you’re really busy trying hard not to die, your mind can dwell on some pretty weird shit.
Anyway, let me tell you how I got into this mess in the first place.
My parents used to have an awesome place in Hyacinth Bay on Quadra Island, and I would take the wife and kids there for three weeks every summer and spend many an hour in my sea kayak, which is a small and speedy Necky Zoar Sport. We also have a Necky two-seater which I call the “marriage-saver,” because although my wife is very fit she cannot hope to keep up with me in a separate boat, and I cannot bear to wait for anyone.
My attitude about kayaking is similar to that of running, cycling, skiing, or, well, just about everything athletic I do. That attitude is: it’s time to kick some ass. I carefully plan routes in advance, set schedules and deadlines, and paddle like my ass is on fire to cover as much area as possible in the amount of time I have before my wife starts to feel like I’ve abandoned her with the kids.
I awoke at 6:00am, gulped a large mug of weapons-grade coffee, inhaled breakfast, and was in the water by 6:30. The bay was quiet and I was making good time. My goal was to head out past the Breton Islands group, across the Hoskyn Channel, then up around the east side of Read Island for a ways then turn around to retrace my route and be back home around 10:30am.
Because Hyacinth is protected from northern winds, however, it took until I was past Breton and into the Hoskyn Channel before realizing that it was seriously freakin’ stormy out that morning. Since I was paddling with the wind instead of freaking me out I had the ride of my life.
There was a constant stream of three foot swells that were taking me exactly where I wanted to go: the southern tip of Read Island. I paddled like crazy and the waves carried me along at an exhilarating pace. I never considered the fact that I was going to have to come back head first into them.
After about 15 minutes of adventure on par with waist deep powder, I cornered Read and was in calm waters once again. I paddled up the east side a ways, stopped to eat, drink and pee, then turned around to head back.
When I came back around the tip of Read and got out into the channel again I realized that I was in a nasty situation. There was also the fact that I had already been paddling hard for two-and-half hours.
As I headed west across the channel to the Bretons I was sideswiped by the sudden appearance of the now much larger waves I rode in, and nearly capsized. I instantly realized that I needed to turn headlong into the waves so as not to be broadsided, even though this direction was 90 degrees off the one I needed to be heading to return home. I kept paddling straight towards the waves for a few moments then realized just how uncool the situation was.
The waves had grown to at least four feet, and they were heading down the channel straight at me at a high rate of speed. Somehow I’d been rapidly pulled away from the coast of Read Island and I was just in it. There was no going back to Read, there was just paddle straight ahead or flip.
This, of course, was easier said than done.
My 14 foot craft was tiny compared to these waves, and there was a rhythm to them that I couldn’t seem to figure out. The front end of my boat was submarining under the water and I was getting punched hard in the chest and face with each wave every few seconds. It had been less than a minute since realizing that I was in deep aquatic shit, and I started to panic.
My paddling became more spastic, my heart rate spiked, my breathing became erratic, and I kind of started to cry.
This carried on for another 30 seconds or so and I knew that I was going to capsize at any moment and then I’d be screwed because there was no getting back in the boat in this kind of weather.
Then I reached deep down somewhere; maybe that place where all the undigested meat sits, and found courage, or something.
“Don’t panic!” I yelled aloud to myself. “Just fucking deal with it.”
In the movies, it’s always the retard that panics who dies shortly thereafter. Losing my shit was not going to help the situation, so I endeavoured to keep close tabs on my excrement. I had to figure these waves out.
I can’t quite recall what the rhythm was, but it was funky. I had to learn how to pause at just the right moment, then paddle hard for several seconds, then pause again. I still had a continual stream of waves come across the bow to hit me in the chest, but the boat was staying stable and I was making headway. If I didn’t have a spray skirt to keep water out I’d have already been in the water.
That’s what I did for the next 30 minutes. I could try to craft some descriptive sentences about muscular fatigue, but let’s just say my arms were getting really fucking tired.
It was an unpleasant half hour. I was not going in the direction I needed to go, but had figured out a plan: I would continue to head straight into the waves until I got north of big Breton, then do a quick turnaround and ride the waves back to beach on Breton and get some rest, then paddle the rest of the way home.
Although tired I knew I was making progress and my plan seemed doable. I’d figured out the waves and although I wasn’t having fun, I assumed it was all going to be OK.
Then nature decided to ass-fuck me yet again.
I was heading north towards Village Bay, yet once I got close to it I left the shelter of the southern end of Read and the current that was screaming down the Hoskyn Channel started to pound into the starboard rear of my kayak and flop it every which way.
I had to paddle hard to stay straight into the waves, yet the flowing current was causing the ass end of my boat to sway about like a… fuck it. I’m tired of coming up with analogies.
I came close to capsizing again a few times, started to panic again, started to cry again.
“Come on!” I yelled at the sky. “Not fair, man. Not fucking fair at all.” I had come to realize that whichever god controls the weather was seriously pissed at me, and thoughts of His divine vengeance got me thinking on Old Testament verses, like that one from the Book of You Are So Fucking Fucked:
Fear me, for I am the Lord, and I will fuck your shit up.
Oh, I was fearing Him all right. I was fearing fudging my shorts too.
Dick.
By the way, did you notice how I switched from poly to monotheism up there? Just trying to cover all my bases.
I don’t know how I stayed upright, but I did. I managed to adapt my paddle and rudder work again and just kept heading north, although it was significantly more challenging than before. After another 15 minutes of this shit I snatched a quick look over my shoulder to determine that I was in a good enough position to turn it around and head to big Breton.
It was going to be tricky, but I timed it right, pushed hard on my port rudder pedal while paddling forcefully starboard. I got the boat turned just in time before the next wave slammed into the stern and picked me up. I paddled for all I was worth to keep up with the waves and had another five minute kick-ass thrill ride at high speed towards my island destination.
I made it to big Breton, beached, climbed out, and kissed the sand. It had been a brutal experience, where I could not allow my concentration to break for a single moment. I was vibrating, and probably crying again too.
I rested for about 15 minutes but realized that I was going to be behind schedule for getting home and was almost as fearful about catching hell from my wife for going out longer than I had said (she worries so). I returned to my boat and began to head back, but the waves had become so intense I could not go by the direct route as I had on the way out. I essentially had to do the same thing as crossing Hoskyn: drive north into the waves – this time into Open Bay – and then double back, round the corner, and finally head into calmer waters inside Hyacinth.
The waves heading into Open Bay were much smaller than what I’d just experienced, yet still big. The day before these waves would have scared the shit out of me, but now I was almost blasé about it. If I could handle what was out in Hoskyn then this was going to be no problem.
And it got me thinking. If there is a God who actually does things like fuck with weather maybe He does it just to test us and hopefully make us stronger. I realized that the experience made me feel better able to deal with panic situations, and I recalled another one of those Old Testament verses; this one from The Book of Just Shut the Fuck Up and Do What I Tell You:
Quit being such a fucking pansy.
I made it back home less than half an hour behind schedule, but being that I could be seen from the house for the last 20 minutes I knew I wouldn’t be in shit.
I’m going to be in shit when my wife reads this though. She asked me about the storm when I got home and told her it was no big deal.
Realistically, I wasn’t in danger of dying. The water was cold, but it wasn’t North-Atlantic-Titantic-Leo-DiCaprio-You-Have-Five-Minutes-To-Kiss-Your-Frozen-Ass-Goodbye kind of cold. I was wearing a life jacket and the boat has two large water tight compartments, so even if it capsized it would stay afloat. I could have held onto the boat and eventually washed ashore on Cortez Island.
Still, at the time I didn’t think of that, I just thought if the boat flipped I was well and truly boned.
But I survived to tell the boring tale, which I am now finished.