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We made good progress during our first week on the water. We were only about six days’ paddle from Port Hardy at the northern tip of Vancouver Island, and Dent Rapids, where the whole of the Sound is channeled through a rocky gap of only a few yards, hadn’t been as tricky as it could have been. We timed our arrival there to coincide with slack water, and we drifted easily through Dent in flat calm water—no sign of its infamous whirlpools and tortuous currents. Our drift brought us to the community of Big Bay, where float planes and boats are the only way in and out of this roadless settlement.
After a week on the water, our skin and our clothes were crusted with sun-dried salt. We all took hot showers, and it was delicious to feel clean and comfortable again. This moment of satisfaction was quickly shattered when Adi discovered a small pressure sore on his backside, the result of a tiny pebble that he had found in his kayak seat that evening. He’d unknowingly sat on it all day. Depending on the depth of the damage to his skin, we knew it could have serious consequences for the trip ahead.
It was a stark reminder of the diligence required when one’s body is deprived by paralysis of tactile sensations. Even a rough trouser seat seam can be enough to damage the skin, lead to a pressure sore and require medical attention. And our journey from here would, after Vancouver Island, become more remote with no space for error or avoidable risk.
After some tough decisions, and a kind offer from Kerry, Big Bay’s baker, Adi decided to take some time out and meet us a few days later. Kerry took Adi under her wing and gave him a home to recover in while the rest of us paddled on. It was sad saying goodbye, even temporarily, as we paddled north toward Johnstone Strait.
Our days fell into a routine, the rhythms dictated by nature. The early risers would entice the rest of us from our bivi bags with hot chocolate and steaming porridge laced with chocolate chips. Half-asleep bodies would stumble among the log jams, gathering scattered equipment and stuffing it into dry bags. Breaking camp became a quiet morning routine and one of the rare opportunities while traveling in our group of nine to sense the solitude of the woods and waterways.
Our comings and goings were ruled by the time of high tide. We had learned the hard way that trying to carry heavily laden kayaks across the wet sand, mud and boulders during a low tide was both difficult and risky. Bound by the tidal rhythms, our days on the water expanded into encompassing upward of 12 hours of paddling. That was quickly followed by 12 hours of exhaustion and deep sleep.
There were days when I felt fantastic, feeling the connection of my body, boat and paddle, cutting through the water with ease. I found that “peak state” I’d read about in outdoor books and magazines. Despite my lack of sensation or contact with the kayak via my hips, knees and feet, the subtle movements of the kayak were transferred to my shoulders, and I could read the sea and feel the rhythm of the waves tuning into the sensations in my upper body.
There were days when I ached, when the next headland seemed to take an eternity of wind-battered struggle to reach; when negotiating a safe landing and making camp just all seemed like too much effort. I think we all felt that way. On the good days, the sun would shine brighter, the views would be more spectacular, the wind would be calmer, and a passing fisherman would give us a bundle of Coho salmon to cook on a crackling log fire. On the tough days, the sea would chop, the sky would be blanketed in clouds, the seaweed would be extra thick, and we would eat a paste of soggy couscous stirred up with a mix of dried carrots and spices.
Speed was an issue with nine paddlers. Naturally some had a higher cadence and an appetite for speed. Near the back of the pack in our heavy double kayak, Suresh and I would watch the “snakes” disappear toward the horizon while the “walruses” at the back plodded along. At times it was difficult to communicate, and friction would rise between the Snakes and the Walruses, but always we found each other, camped together and accepted our different styles and speeds.
With time and routine, we were becoming accustomed to each other’s ways and nuances. Alan was a morning person, Suresh was an evening person, and Pete seemed to manage to be both. Fran and I enjoyed cooking. Tony liked drawing shapes in the sand with a stick. Alan and Susi liked to have the map. Mark liked to catch and clean fish. Adi liked to fix things. Alan liked to take photos. Pete liked to make fires. Suresh liked to look after everybody.
We adapted to each other and were sensitive to each other’s needs. “You OK?” Alan or Tony would ask me in the morning. “Anything to take down to the kayak?” I would prepare my carefully packed pile of color-coded dry bags ready for one of them to carry to my kayak and jigsaw into my kayak hatch. Everyone developed an eye for what needed doing and put themselves there—retrieving breakfast from the bear stash, packing food and stoves, maintaining the kayaks—whatever the task, someone was there.
It took us a few weeks to navigate into this mutually supportive team state, and of course it wasn’t without its irritations and difficulties. It was often too easy to be critical of our performance, of how many hours it had taken us to get on or off the water, but there were moments when I smiled inside, watching the way the team had reached a slick efficiency of launching or landing.
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FINDING THE RHYTHM