Mothership Meanderings: Rude Awakening

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 Alan Wilson

When Laurie and I got together six years ago, she had a small sailboat and I had a touring kayak. We both preferred our own mode of transport so there was quite a bit of competitive jockeying when it came to our precious time-off.

Incidentally, her boat was called Caia, pronounced 'kai-ya', and I was always threatening to stick a 'k' on the end of it so I could at least say we were Caiak-ing.

The start of a most memorable holiday. Photo: Alan Wilson

Although I grew up with sailboats, I came to prefer the simplicity of paddling. And this feeling increased during our first few holidays on the boat when we suffered storms, dragged anchors, and lost sleep worrying about nearby rocks. "We'd have none of this," I would tell her, "if we were camping." That always went down well.

For her part, Laurie grew up in a boating family-her father had been the commodore of a yacht club-and she had spent every holiday away on the boat. As a result, she much preferred sleeping on the water to camping.

When I finally did convince her to go off with me on a multi-day paddling trip (after weeks of telling her how great it was), our car broke down. Worse yet, it was Sunday and we had a heck of a time getting it repaired. I remember staring despondently out the tow truck's rear window as we roared down the highway, trailed by a kayak pointing skyward like a missile.

This would never have happened if we'd been boating, she said. See how dependent paddlers are on their cars, she said. After most of the day in the shop, and many dollars later, we finally made it to the kayak rental place where we'd reserved a kayak for Laurie. We quickly stuffed a mountain of gear into our boats and paddled madly to reach our destination island just at sunset.

I thought the worst was over. What else could happen? Now for a holiday. But the next morning, as I bent over, my back went into spasms and I crumpled to the ground.

After the initial shock and pain such as I'd never felt before (and visions of a medivac helicopter), I decided I wasn't going to give up just yet. To my surprise, found gentle paddling was possible and, with periods of time immersed in the cold sea water over the next few days, I managed to actually endure the ordeal and we had some nice excursions. Unfortunately, couldn't carry a darn thing without my back going out, so Laurie schlepped all our gear for the next several days. Which didn't improve her attitude to kayak camping.

After a series of such misadventures, alternating between sailing and paddling trips, we finally opted to end the conflict by selling both boats and buying instead an old fishboat and a couple of small day kayaks.

This has proven an excellent solution, allowing us to paddle and 'boat' at the same time, although, I must say, I'm still nostalgic for the days when I would land on an isolated beach, break out my gear, and set up a cozy little camp under the evergreens.

In the stillness of paddling you see patterns that might have inspired ancient artists. Photo: Alan Wilson

Anchoring a big boat can also be a real pain, especially in heavy winds when it's hard to sleep, knowing the anchor could drag at any time. In those midnight hours of howling wind and beating rain, I still crave the safety and quiet of a tent on the soft forest floor.

On the other hand, I can remember all too well some very unpleasant tenting experiences, water pooling around my thermarest, wind threatening to collapse the tent... cold, wet, shivering. Oh, for a warm, dry bunk at such times!

What did they call it in Psych 101? 'Cognitive Dissonance'. The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Wherever you are, it's not where you want to be. Oh, the vagaries of the human mind.

For those unfamiliar with anchoring a boat, there's more to it than meets the eye. You've got to find a suitably sheltered bay, with suitable anchoring depths. You've got to know what the tides are doing. How far will it drop or rise? How much water do you have under you now? Which direction is the wind likely come from? Are there any rocks or other hazards shown on the chart? Are there any other vessels anchored nearby which could swing onto you, or you onto them? What's the bottom like- mud to provide good holding, seaweed on which your anchor may slide, rock to grab and not let go of it when you want to leave? And all of this, often with less time and less certainty than you'd like, one of you at the wheel while the other is up at the bow, trying to communicate back and forth with ambiguous hand signals and, more often than not, colourful language.

You drop the anchor and pay out the line... how much line? That depends on the weather. More for windy conditions, more if the tide is rising, less if it's falling. And then you sit back and watch your boat ranging around on this long leash, threatening to play tag with the other boats. Definitely more of an art than a science.

And there are always unforseen factors. I remember one time when we were in a remote spot all to ourselves. We'd anchored in a pleasant little embayment just off a gravel beach. The chart showed a log dump in the area, but it certainly looked inactive. It was a gem of a spot and we went for a lovely paddle, marvelling in the still waters and the amazing reflections. The patterns reminded me of the symmetry of First Nations carving. Wherever I looked, all I could see were horizontal totem pole-like shapes along the water's edge. After snapping off most of a roll of film, we returned to the boat for a tasty meal and a quiet night.

The next morning I rose before dawn, as is my habit, and sat down with my journal to write about the events of the day before. The water that morning had a pond-like stillness which added a dreamy quality to our surroundings. I started speculating on the origins of native art, rhapsodizing about nature, and thinking all was right with the world. (Never do that!)

Just then I heard the deep grinding sounds of engines in the distance. Big engines. I looked aft and saw some very odd-looking lights through the pre-dawn gloom, and they were coming in our direction.

I stared in disbelief as a behemoth appeared out of the dark-a large, motorized landing barge complete with logging trucks. "You'd better get up here," I called anxiously down to my sleeping partner, who quickly emerged, rumpled and sleep-dazed. We were soon on the radio to the captain of the barge. "It's okay," came the crackly reply, "I'll just steer around you."

An unexpected visitor in the predawn hours. Photo: Alan Wilson

So we stood, dumbfounded, as this enormous vessel, ablaze with lights and twirling radar arms on its multi-storey superstructure, manoeuvered close beside us and nosed into the beach directly in front, its propwash surging around us like a tidal pass at full flood.

The thought came to both of us at once that its great propellers were churning away very near where we had set our anchor. And with our boat straining back on the line and listing with the force of the wash, we threatened to break free at any minute. This would send us careening wildly onto the nearby rocky reef.

We watched as the barge dropped its ramp and one of the big trucks vainly tried to drive off. Clearly the tide wasn't quite right, and despite the huge ship racing its engine like a tug pushing a log boom ahead of it, the tide would have to rise some before this was going to suceed.

Meanwhile we were in an untenable situation, our old boat straining and creaking, struggling in the chaos of whitewater. This would never happen to a kayak camper, I wanted to say, but didn't (which shows I'm learning something).

Fortunately the day was dawning. Unfortunately it was foggy and we could just see ghostly shapes of the far shore through the surreal translucence. But it looked like the fog might dissipate soon, so we made the decision, started up our engine and I went up on the foredeck to the anchor winch.

The line began to wind painfully onto the drum and we moved forward against the flow, drawing toward where our anchor lay lodged in the muddy bottom, taking in the excess line.

And then a chill went through me. I realized that as our line rose off the bottom prior to the anchor breaking free, it would come even closer to the propellers of the craft in front of us. If it fouled the props...? I had a vision of our boat being violently wrenched forward and pulled down by the force of the powerful engines.

I stopped the winch, gripped by indecision. We were now hal the distance we had been from the stern of the vessel. The water was literally frothing around us.

I turned back to Laurie in the wheelhouse. We shrugged at one another. It seemed like there was nothing to be done but carry on. I turned the winch handle and the line began reeling in again, even more slowly.

Inch by inch we advanced toward the stern of the craft. I stood transfixed by the possibility of approaching doom, thinking this would be an absurd way to die.

At the very last moment, and to our immense relief, the anchor did indeed pull free, and we were able to back away with just enough control to miss the reef.

We laugh about it now, looking back. That's the way it is-if you survive these things, you laugh. Strangely, it's the near misses that stick in your mind more vividly than all the easy anchorings and beautiful calm nights. But I guess there's no adventure in that.