Convergence

August-September 2003

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

Mount Baker looms over land and sea in Orca Pass.Martin Johansen photo.

Over the decades, my sea kayak has had the privilege to wend its way through the myriad passages of the Canadian Gulf Islands, but I still look forward to making a crossing to the US San Juan archipelago whenever possible. I can be over there in two hours, safely self-propelled in the same kayak I've had for all these enjoyable years.

Fully recovered from the aftermath of a bad bout with flesh-eating disease, I anticipated a relatively troublefree crossing of Haro Strait from my home waters of southern Vancouver Island to the San Juan Islands. These sometimes misty emerald islands are a magical place of rushing tides and abundant wildlife where I am always swept away for a time of reflection, renewal, and reconnection with the natural world.

Launching, I immediately took aim at Little D'Arcy Island, visible to the east just behind D'Arcy Island. At a four knot pace it didn't take long to arrive. Onshore, I was taking time to shake off a nagging sciatic pain when the full, expansive view finally registered: the Olympics rose to the south, the Cascades, Mt. Baker and Mt. Rainier to the east, and the Coast range to the north. Formed out of glacial-outwash material, the sea bluffs of the Saanich Peninsula (my departure point) lay directly behind me to the west, and behind that the rising spine of Vancouver Island.

I looked again toward San Juan Island, formed by the tectonic collision of oceanic and continental plates and sculpted to present perfection by a number of ice ages and the erosion of time. The islands are actually older than the mainland itself, pieces of an ancient continent. What force of fate, what act of providence placed me here in the Pacific Northwest, in a prime paddling corner of the universe, surrounded by such awesome splendour?

Combined with daily thermal winds, even near spring tides can really churn up sections of the Salish Sea. With a later-than anticipated afternoon crossing before me, I secured my deck gear, straightened out the rear-deck hydration pack, and finessed into a breathable drytop to augment the Farmer-John. Relaunching, I glissaded over schools of small silvery fish darting back and forth in uncanny, orchestrated unity.

A dull roar in the distance reminded me that cold, nutrient-rich waters rise from the saline depths of the North Pacific Ocean, upwelling and inflowing through the entrance of Juan de Fuca Strait where they converge in Haro Strait to meet the more persistant fresh-water river output from the Fraser River flowing into Orca Pass. Lush green waters loaded with oxygen and surface sunlight raced past my hull. Below me was an unseen estuarine venue teeming with biological activity from the bottom of the food chain upward.

I pulled on my paddle, digging the blades deeply near the bow and fully backward in order to paddle through the rapidly varying tidal currents, meeting the turbulence head-on, while propelling the kayak forward in synchronized spurts of momentum. An expected north or south current axis often does not correspond with actual current direction along some parts of the western edge of Haro Strait, where large-scale back eddies, dynamic conditions, and island geometry create navigational challenges for slow-moving craft.

The roar grew louder - a symphonic delight to any paddler who possesses a strong roll, a seaworthy craft, and serious thrill issues. Gas bubbles entrapped in the energetic eddy-cores pulled downward in the swirling, vertical currents. Here, in the narrowing topography of Haro Strait, in the center of Orca Pass, where depths reach over 500 feet, immense water masses are exchanged and mixed. It is precisely here where the whales like to swim and feed on migrating schools of salmon. It is here where I often see orca. The sky leadened quickly with weary clouds scudding overhead. Taking aim north of the entrance to Mosquito Channel, I adjusted my ferry-angle to form a wider arc in the freshening breeze. As I crossed the international boundary there was no evidence of freighter movement. I kept my waterproof VHF radio handy, ready to call Vessel Traffic Services if necessary. Notching up to four and a half knots and the final hull speed of my heavily reinforced kayak, I was unable to hold course near the end of the hour-long crossing from the D'Arcys. I relinquished and was blown downwind and down current into Open Bay, formed between the two southern lobes of Henry Island. My two liters of drinking water were sucked dry inside of 60 minutes.

Formerly preoccupied with navigational tasks, I now noticed a couple of Zodiacs closing in. Suddenly, emerging from the darkly hued waves, a large orca leapt clear of the surface at the entrance to Mosquito Pass, a few hundred meters to my starboard bow. I grabbed for my camera in the front day-hatch. The Pentax WR90 flashed, but I'd forgotten film. 'Argh!' Another splash broke the surface tension, scattering bright sea-spray followed by another powerful implosion of whale and water. A pod of maybe five whales turned southward, heading back down the outer shores of the western flanks of San Juan Island, their silhouetted fins diving in unison. It had been a fantastic welcoming committee.

I slowed the pace, following the flood tide northward flow as it pushed us towards US Customs in Roche Harbor. As I climbed onto the meter-high dock, the Customs official frowned and dead-panned, "We're on special Yellow Alert this weekend; no kayakers from Canada are allowed into the San Juan Islands". I stood, dripping wet, dumbfounded. He then smiled, "Just kidding!"

After gaining my clearance number, I seal-launched off the dock, submerging to torso depth before the kayak's buoyancy reasserted itself. I shot forward toward the north side of the island where I eventually met up with American friends.

The next day three of us headed out to look for orca along the west side. Just before launching, eagles flew high above, with one, then eventually two, trying their luck at attacking a small seabird, which kept submerging to avoid the sweeping danger.

We beat into a fresh breeze, passing granite bluffs, seals, and seabirds. Savannah sparrows and other songbirds stretched their wings and made merriment in the tree branches overhead (290 different species of birds use the surrounding habitat for breeding and nesting). Along the west side, colourful, sun-splashed wildflowers sprouted on grassy knolls. I was the fortunate one to see a small red fox scurrying off as I silently rounded a corner. Everywhere, amid the ever-changing hues of sky and sea, the environment throbbed with life.

There are three southern resident pods (J, K, and L), genetically isolated and numbering close to 80 members. They usually inhabit these waters from May to September. Transients can also be found plying these waters at any time of the year, though they feed primarily on other marine mammals such as seals, sea lions and porpoises. We finally met up with members of J pod down near Lime Kiln Lighthouse, heading southward past Whale Watch Beach. After a suitable performance for the literal armada of whale watching craft and aircraft overhead, they turned northward toward us. A very new, young calf became visible in the procession as the dominant male's jetblack fin, tall, jagged and intimidating, passed by only a couple of boat lengths away. The three of us were transfixed, following behind the lead 10-ton predator at what we thought was a respectful distance, driven to keep pace by following seas.

I accidentally got too close, my trajectory converging with that of the whales on the shoreward side when they suddenly surfaced again. A friendly volunteer from the Whale Museum's Soundwatch program met us later with proper advice. Kayakers should remain seaward of the creatures, and at a minimum distance of 100 yards - that's the length of a football field! I'd been under- informed on that point and I felt terribly guilty. Orca populations have declined in recent years, challenged by the unknown effects of ambient acoustics, toxic contaminants, a loss of genetic diversity, diminished food supply, the increasing regional footprint of humanity, and perhaps even intrusions such as ours.

I headed back home the next morning, catching a fast-track, early morning ebb that shot out of Spieden Channel, past Battleship Island, then veered southward clean down a somewhat truculent Haro Strait, moody with morning wind. But the convergence in these waterways had become mostly a cerebral and heartfelt one by that point. Deep thoughts mixed, mingled and gained momentum.

In all my years of paddling I had never felt such a strong tide of conviction about the interdependence of all life. We all come from the same cosmic current of matter that formed the early stars and planets. All life is made from the same energy, and all life is organically interconnected, absorbing this energy and daily sustenance from the biota that surrounds it. Whether by chance evolutionary mechanics or purposeful Intelligent Design or some other cosmological force, life surges forward in the flow of time and matter; but the sustainability and diversity of life in the oceans and upon its shores - as well as our own - depends entirely on our collective responsibility.

© Doug Lloyd is a Victoria paddler and writer who enjoys exploring the waters of the Pacific Northwest.

Editor's Note: Another Canadian kayaker who paddled from the Gulf Islands to the San Juans this spring was arrested in Friday Harbor when he went to register with US Customs. It took him two days to reach Friday Harbor after finding the Roche Harbor Customs entry office closed. He was subsequently searched for drugs and questioned about terrorism connections, then fined $250 and deported. The lesson learned is that if the Roche Harbor office is closed, be sure to call Customs who say they'll come to clear you.