Mothership Meanderings: Kayaks to the Rescue

February-March 2005

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

It was one of those perfect stretches of calm summer weather which we dream about all winter long. We had completely lucked out and we knew it. The winds had settled, so we’d made a run up Johnstone Strait in flat calm. Turning in at Havannah Channel as usual, we refueled at Minstrel Island, and then steered out across Knight Inlet, awestruck by the seeming infinity of receding blue up the longest inlet of the mainland coast.

We were heading out to the islands fringing Queen Charlotte Strait’s southeastern edge—the outmost edges of the Broughton Archipelago. Hidden among these outer islands is our favorite anchoring spot, a place I won’t name but you may well guess if you know the surroundings. The precise location isn’t crucial anyway, since the whole area is scattered with gorgeous islets. Here you paddle past weathered rocky shores worn smooth by glaciers, the vegetation on the windward side like hair blown back from balding foreheads, shaped by strong winds, waves and rain.

Frankly, the area can be a bit of a nail- biter for power and sailboaters, and you have to steer well off from the rocky jumble. But what’s fearsome for big boaters is a joy for paddlers, and we could hardly wait to launch our kayaks as we passed countless narrows and shallows among the clustering islets which awaited our explorations.

Queen Charlotte Strait was a millpond that day, gloriously flat, drawing our eyes to where it merged with the sky. We soon slipped among well-remembered bluff faces shining out from under evergreen topnots. Entering the stillness of the beloved anchorage was like coming home. It had been four years since we’d last been here, and memories of past trips surfaced as my eyes swept the familiar shapes of the enclosing islands.

As soon as we had anchored, we dropped the kayaks into the water, geared up, and paddled off to penetrate the many intricate channels of the place. In the sunlit glare we were blissfully warm and carefree. No distance to make, nowhere else we wanted to be, nothing we needed... time seemed to stand still.

We paddled out toward the open Strait, through a chain of near bald islets, the furthest fingers of the continent’s drowning edges.

And then we heard a deep, resonant sound—a huge, echoing breath. A whale! I had my waterproof binoculars around my neck and scanned the Strait. There it was, a cloud of spray, a black silhouette, a long arching back, a small fin—a humpback whale. We watched as it went, three breaths and down. Minutes passed, then three breaths and down. Minutes. Then three breaths and down.

Finally, the whale passed behind a distant island and we sat, smiling at one another, commenting on our good fortune. We paddled on, pausing frequently for Laurie to line up photographs and me to scan around with my binocs, bringing the distant birds and staring seal eyes close without disturbing them.

Then I heard an odd noise and noticed a small runabout on the far shoreline, with someone yanking away again and again at the outboard engine. Another person stood onshore, holding the bowline to keep the boat in among the rocks.

I studied them through my binocs and was relieved to see a second, smaller outboard perched alongside the bigger engine. While it would be better to get the big one going, at least they had an auxiliary. They’d be ok. I lowered my binocs and picked up my paddle again.

outboard perched alongside the bigger engine. While it would be better to get the big one going, at least they had an auxiliary. They’d be ok. I lowered my binocs and picked up my paddle again.

Retracing our route, it wasn’t long before I could again see the small boat, still at shore, the man still flailing away at the engine.

The Songhee is a 95’ mothership.

I stopped paddling and beckoned to Laurie with my binoculars. She drifted up to me and took them, focusing. We discussed the situation and agreed they appeared to be in some distress. So we paddled over, the images resolving to that of an exhausted fellow dripping with sweat and a woman onshore looking worried and irritated.

It turned out they had boated across the Strait from Alder Bay for a day of fishing. But then the main engine conked out and wouldn’t start. And then they found their auxiliary wouldn’t start either, so they’d tried to row, but they’d broken an oar. And here they were.

They were in trouble. They had no radio, they couldn’t paddle the runabout with the remaining oar, and the tide was rising where they perched among the rocks. It was also glaringly clear that we were in charge of the rescue.

We assured them we’d find a way to help, and paddled off briskly towards our boat, discussing what we should do: up-anchor and tow them back across the Strait? Radio for assistance? But as we re-entered the anchorage, we found a new neighbor in our paradise, a wooden, World War II vintage, ex-navy vessel—the Songhee—busily unloading kayaks from the top deck. And what caught our eyes immediately was the launch tied alongside.

Drifting to a stop beside the big boat, we hailed and some of the crew appeared. Hearing the problem, the crew conferred and quickly agreed to take it in hand. Gearing up, they clambered aboard the launch, fired up the big outboard, and with a wave, zoomed off. Feeling relieved of responsibility, we returned to our boat.

We later saw the Songhee crew return, towing the small boat behind them, and the next day as we paddled by, we checked in to learn they had radioed Tom Sewid of Village Island Tours to transport the couple and their disabled boat back across the Strait that day.

And that’s it. Nothing tragic, thank goodness, just one more installment of ‘kayaks to the rescue’. But it illustrates the risks of relying on engines. They’re great when they work, but a problem when they don’t.

Perhaps the kayakers from the Songhee would have eventually stumbled upon the distressed couple, but perhaps not. The two could have had a long, uncomfortable wait. And with no overnight clothes, food or emergency supplies aboard, and the possibility of deteriorating weather and rising tides, things could have become much worse for them.

Mind you, paddlers shouldn’t be too smug, for if conditions worsen or someone gets hurt, a power boat can look awfully nice coming to the rescue. And the Songhee crew certainly did relieve us of a big burden that day. Thanks to them and the kayak operator aboard, Spirit of the West Adventures.