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I was getting pretty frustrated with him. He just kept paddling out and away from land. As we neared Green Point, Chris was well out into the wind-tortured entrance to Bellingham Channel. I sprinted toward him to herd him back toward shore. I was about 50 feet from him when he capsized. “Damn! I should have kept a closer eye on him,” I silently cursed myself. “I should have been more forceful.” My anger at him and at myself was replaced by common sense once it registered what a potential disaster we had ourselves in. As Tolle had written, I didn’t have time to fool around and make this into a problem. I realized I had to keep a cool head and act quickly or we both were in for deep trouble. I went to work to try and get Chris back aboard the kayak. I tried to get his boat emptied using the T-rescue method, but the wind and waves made it impossible to lift the bow without risking capsizing myself. After several attempts, I just rolled his boat upright. The cockpit had a lot of water in it, but the bulkheaded compartments kept the kayak afloat. I coached Chris through the steps to get him back into the boat. He had practiced reentry techniques, but in spite of my instructions, he was unfocussed and moving slowly. I had to resort to the more assertive, firm drill-sergeant-like technique. “Chris! If you don’t do what I’m telling you, you are going to die!” That got his attention, and he inched his way onto the stern deck of his boat, slid his feet and legs into the cockpit and twisted himself into the sitting position. All the time I was holding tight to the coaming of his cockpit with one hand and hanging onto my paddle with the other. Once he was back in his boat, our next task was to get the water out of the cockpit. We needed to do this quickly because we were steadily drifting farther from shore. I kept assuring Chris that we were OK. I emptied one of our water bottles and instructed Chris to bail as fast as he could, while I pumped. Some waves lapped into the cockpit, but working together we made good progress. As I pumped, I scanned the horizon. A lot of Chris’s equipment, including the paddle he had been using, was floating away, scattered by the wind and confused sea. Once we had his kayak mostly emptied of water, we tugged his spray deck back on. I pulled my spare take-apart paddle from my aft deck, assembled it and gave it to Chris. We attempted to head back toward shore. By now Chris was pretty cold. He was wearing a paddling anorak over layers of insulating synthetic pile. That had kept him warm while he was sealed in the cockpit, but after he capsized and bailed out, he was almost fully exposed to the effects of the cold water. Chris was stiff and unsteady, and his paddle strokes were weak and tentative. I stayed close to him. I could see from the look on his face that he was pretty shaken by his dip in the winter waters of Puget Sound. “Chris,” I urged him, “you have to paddle strong.” I went out ahead of him to shelter him from the wind and set a pace for him. I kept an eye on him by looking over my shoulder. He soon was upside down again. “Hang on to your paddle!” I shouted as his head popped to the surface. I wished he had a paddle leash. We were being driven even farther offshore by the powerful winds. We went through the same rescue routine once again. This time Chris was less disoriented and didn’t require as much coaching from me. Once he was back aboard, we bailed. We’d lost the bailing bottle—it was bent on joining the other lost equipment in a migration toward the northwest. I wanted to keep Chris moving to fend off hypothermia, so I dumped my water bottle and got him busy with bailing. My pumping arm was getting sore. It was beginning to be a dire situation. |
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