Up the Creek

December 2001 - January 2002

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
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by Lyn Hancock

I am lucky to live a few steps from the protected waters of Nanoose Bay. My two kayaks wait where the edge of the lawn meets the edge of the sea. At high tide, I have only to walk out of my kitchen and, within seconds, launch my yellow Storm over the shallow sheen of transparent water that can stretch for 300 metres into the bay. At low tide, I must carry, drag or wheel my craft over the pebbled beach and abundant oyster beds that separate me from the sea.

Whether I have a few minutes or a month, whatever the season or time of day, I have a variety of paddling destinations. Two of the shortest have their humorous side, though I hasten to add that both occurred in my early days of kayaking, before I had any formal lessons, and yes, there are lessons to be learned, especially by me. A bumbling beginner, I can always laugh at myself, at least afterwards.

It was one of those serenely beautiful winter days when the sea was glass, the snow-capped peaks of the Coast Mountains in front and the Vancouver Island Mountains behind were etched clearly against a perfect blue sky and then again in the motionless mirror below. "Let's go kayaking," I said spontaneously to my partner, Barry Campbell, "to the bird sanctuary at the head of the bay." It was so calm we could test our new gear, I said, new cameras, new deck bags, new rainwear. It seemed so warm and sunny, we decided to leave our wet suits behind.

Within minutes we were skimming into the middle of the bay in Barry's double kayak-over clouds of creamy jellyfish, through rafts of wintering seabirds, past pop-up seals and around the blue-barrelled oyster farms. There were so many photos to take, so many images to remember, and the day so idyllic that I scarcely had time to zip closed my waterproof camera bag for one picture before zipping it open for another.

"Let's go up the creek," I said enthusiastically to my partner behind, "we may find some spawned-out salmon."

"It's not wide enough, there's a current and no room to turn around," Barry protested.

"Then we can back out," I retorted with the faith-and ignorance-of a true neophyte. I chose to forget that creeks and kayaks don't necessarily go straight and parallel.

Not wanting to be seen as a male wimp, (he told me afterwards), Barry set aside caution and steered into the skinny, twisting creek. Almost immediately, the fast outpouring current swept us backwards towards the bay and then slammed us sideways into the bank. I raised my paddle to ward off a tangle of sweepers. Then, without thinking of the consequences, I grabbed hold of the branches that suddenly wrapped themselves around me.

Lyn after her immersion experience. Photo Barry Campbell

Meanwhile, Barry watched speechless as the inevitable happened. A true gentleman, he is not used to barking orders such as "Duck down" or "Let go of the sweepers" or "Let the kayak reverse naturally", especially to a woman. Caught amid a medley of limbs that acted as a pivot point, the kayak rolled sideways into a full turn, and we both found ourselves upside down in the creek, underwater. I hadn't yet learned a wet exit, but I managed to perform one in the surging current which whipped off one of my rubber boots and sent anything not tied down or inside a deck bag-this was everything but a pump-into the bay and out to sea, never to be seen again.

Somehow we righted the kayak, swam it to shore in the icy water, and while I hopped about, uselessly bare-footed on the pebbles, Barry gallantly pumped out the water and politely invited me back into his boat. This was not easy, considering the swirling current in the creek.

It was a long, cold and difficult journey home, as a suddenly erupting southeast gale whipped up the whitecaps and slammed into us head-on as we entered the bay. Every paddle stroke forward sent us two paddle strokes backwards. We left home on a lake, we returned on an angry ocean. Chastened, embarrassed, frozen, and sodden from head to bootless foot, I crawled out of the kayak, fell onto the beach but nevertheless insisted that my heroic and patient steersman take my picture. It seemed so ridiculous, we both laughed
.
"I'm sorry, it was my fault," apologized Barry as for the rest of the afternoon as we arrested hypothermia and toasted our survival over a bottle of wine in the gardenhot tub. I'm not sure what the funny side was, but we set aside our uninsured losses and thanked the universe for our lives-and our laughter.

© Lyn Hancock is a freelance writer living in Lantzville, BC.