Do Memories Lose Their Meaning?

John Lennon wrote a song that appeared on Rubber Soul in December of my birth year of 1965, and it is said McCartney helped to write it too. The lyrics go,

“There are places I’ll remember

All my life

Though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone, and some remain.”

On this evening while scrolling through the photo archives and it is becoming late, my eyes are burning and the files are badly organized so to find one image requires the determination and fortitude the likes no one has seen, especially at the raggedy end of a long day. The images I was attempting to locate were for a completely different post idea that I won’t spoil here. However, during the search through one file folder to the next miss-or-unnamed file folder I came across a black and white shot I took in the way back time before digital cameras were in my kayak bags. When I looked at the picture a song, that song by the Beatles began playing in my head. Coincidence? Those place have their memories and this picture was taken on a trip to a place that I have been before, with other lovers and friends I still can recall.

This picture of my friend Micheal looking for his lunch on a patch of crushed shells only available at low tide on a cloudy day during a week, which only gave us one afternoon break, short that it was with sunshine. Just enough time to lay wet gear out on rocks to dry before the next set of rain fronts waddled in towards the Broken Group Islands. It is one of those places to paddle on the west coast that if you time it just right can be as intimate an experience as stepping back in time. I have been there and encountered no one else. I suppose kayaking in the shoulder seasons comes with the risks of tumultuous weather but doing so does have the advantage of offering a certain amount of wilderness privacy. Only those who like cold windy rainy days that continue on end will pull out of Toquart Bay and into Barkley Sound.

I have been here before and paddled out of the bay passing the Stopper Islands, and then that short hop to Lyall Pt. to the traditional first night stop over on Hand Island. Here I have weathered the heavy rains and the wind that pulled the campfire smoke out from one end of our tarp a-frame shelter only to draw it back in the other side, smoking us all out into the pouring rain. Hand Island is where I spent the first night with a good friend on a buddy trip. On that one we decided not to paddle in but instead rode the steamer. A legendary cargo vessel, the Francis Barkley down the narrow Alberni Inlet into the fog, eventually arriving in the Sound. The first night on that trip was on Hand where I forgot to make my dinner. Later insisting at the photo shop back home that they missed developing a roll of my film. The truth was I was too stoned to hit the shutter button that evening and only thought I took that roll of film.The one shot I have of that night was of Jon sitting with his coffee mug and headphones on listening to Ben Harper as the setting sun illuminated him. Jon makes every memory of the Broken Group Islands bittersweet for me now in these years after his passing. Do memories lose their meaning? My memories of that trip with Jon are marked with joyful moments on and off the water. From a wild afternoon testing our open water skills in rough seas outside the comforts of the calm waterways nestled inside the group of islands, and were rewarded for our efforts with the sighting of a whale breaching. A day paddle from our base camp on Willis Island where we found tidal sea caves to play in. The dinner time conversations that were about being out there and the appreciation of it all. Discussing the balance between being so far removed from the daily distractions that allowed both of us to speak truths and confessions that only the quiet of nature could inspire. And then there is the loss. A sudden absence and the death of any potential of ever doing that again with him that shadows those memories.

I remember events from these numerous trips to the Sound with different combinations of friends that were great fun and then there are the memories that gather in the corner of my mind clouding everything. I admit to allowing some of the negative events, and bad outcomes to colour my impressions of a trip even if it was mostly positive. In 2006, I was in a foursome on a paddle adventure week in early April of that year. We had to go back early due to some bad planning, but during those days and nights in the islands we had an unfortunate encounter with another camper that cast a dark shade over the entire excursion. I forget about the amazingly unusual summer conditions appearing on the coast that week.The good food we made, the stars at night, the last blink of the sun falling on the uninterrupted horizon. I remember animosity and whiny notes pinned to our tent complaining about us. I am only brought back from the brink of my gloomy recollections when I come across a photo of me in my kayak in clear water with a background that could easily be mistaken as tropical. That trip sucked! Our group dynamic was wobbly, a turf war with a camper who packed a few bags with unrealistic expectations to a public park, and two of our group forcing an early retreat back to civilization and dry clothing.

I have a memory of an undercurrent of frustration paddling on another outing when we got lost on our would-be last day when we should have been heading back to Toquart, but instead found ourselves facing the open expanse of Imperial Eagle Channel and the entrance to the Alberni Inlet. With compass and charts (pre-hand held GPS) we still managed to become completely turned around. On that afternoon with every island looking the same when we argued location and direction we were given an unsuspected treat of seeing creatures that rarely if ever come to shore. Blue Sail Jellyfish only found off-shore in open ocean had been blown in on mass by the previous day’s storm. As we paddled around Jarvis Island we became surrounded by thousands of them. Sadly the conditions and tides would force the colony onto the beaches to dry out in the out going tides and become food for the inter tidal zone eco-system. Such is the cycle of life my friends!

An hour later now pointed in the homeward direction with Hand Island in sight we encountered a less friendly group on the water. It was herring season. Millions of the fish come into the Sound each year to spawn the next generations. The water is milky with fertilization in coves and bays and that stuff sticks to your kayak as well that it does to the rocks seaweed and eel grass in which the eggs have been laid. With the herring comes the hungry. Inadvertently we had paddled between the fish and the sea lions. The lions roared. They have heads the size of beach balls filled with teeth and terrible breath. They are related to bears! I know that they could use a minty mouth wash because I was close enough to smell the exhale. Four or five jumped up only a few feet in front of our bows forcing us to back paddle in quick retreat fearing they might land on the boats capsizing us. I was later assured that a sea lion would not kill me but I might, if finding myself in the water with them be crushed in between them and most likely drown. They leapt all around, angrily wanting us to leave seeing us as competition. They adeptly separated my group leaving me bobbing in my small kayak alone near the some rocks, camera at the ready because after all as threatening as it was, it could be the one time opportunity to get a really up close shot of a raging sea lion. One of my friends still recalls the echoing thump heard throughout the Sound of my Pentax hitting the inside of my open cockpit as I tossed it frantically needing both hands on the paddle to reverse from a team of lions who had driven the smallest from the herd, that being me and were coming to finish me off.

It was later that night, after a day of accepting the navigational blundering, and took it as a sign to sit back, relax, explore a little bit more and be chased by scary beasts that the campfire smoked us out of the tarp shelter. Returning to my tent coughing I light my stove and accidentally melted a four-inch hole in the door flap. That memory does not lose its meaning! But that returns us to the question.

“And these memories lose there meaning

When I think of love as something new.”

Do memories lose their meaning. To answer that I would have to say a resounding no. I say this because with each day the next line of the song refreshed their meaning. Each day an old memory becomes something new. We see them with fresher minds eyes as time passes. They do change. Memories fade and are twisted with life events that come in the years in between and with age soften the rougher edges. Old tensions fade and are renewed with the communal knowledge shared within the people who experienced them. In the end, we should just be grateful for the times we had out there in the wilds. Seeing the things no one we know back home gets to see, or feel, or hear. Memories are the love I see as something new, especially while searching the photo archives.

Dreadlocked and Desolated!

Of the two consecutive summers that I paddled solo in and around Desolation Sound there was one commonality. A night of well spent tucked in and cozy on Kinghorn Island at the mouth of the Sound in the intersection with the Strait of Georgia. Well, to be honest there was two common themes during those trips by kayak into the dark noisy heart of motor boat heaven, or hell depending on your perspective. The second being my early forties experimentation with my hair.

On a cool fall evening I had my friend, a hair dresser and fellow kayaker come to my house and while I sat distracted with a snowboarder video game Jon back-combed my curly hair, tugging and pulling then adding Knottyboy Dread wax in copious amounts that went far beyond the products suggested use to my now twisted and intentionally damaged hair. The time it took for me to snowboard from the top of the un-named mountain to the finish line in the un-named city, which to me resembled Hong Kong was about 30 minutes. To fully dress my hair required two and a half descents. He stood back, not knowing if he had actually done it right having never been asked to dreadlock anyone before and told me to go look in the bathroom mirror. I did and I looked like a demented sun or alarmed hedgehog. Each six inch spike was sticking straight up in the air. I eased then down gently and then tried to get the sticky waxy feeling off my hands. That proved easier than the next few weeks destroying perfectly fine pillow cases that once soaked with Knottyboy were tossed out.

I am fully aware of my cultural appropriation but at the time rightly or wrongly I enjoyed my new look. At least I kept them in good shape and even disobeyed the code of never washing your dreadlocks for fear of being outcast by the more bedraggled hippie types who seemed to think they were white Rastafarian. I, on the other hand just wanted to do something outside of the box with my hair, while I still had some.

In 2008 and ’09 I decided to break free of the group paddles and go it alone for once. The two excursions to Desolation Sound were extremely different experiences in the way the weather directed my vague paddle itinerary and in the people I encountered. One year one, I met, or more to the point had my little campsite on a little island invaded by a four woman group who accepted that I was there first but also made it damn clear that my presence was not going to interfere with their loud early morning bickering or demands that I act as unpaid kayak guide. A subject of another early morning argument within their clan. I did agree to leading them up the shores to Prideaux Haven to a hidden lagoon famous for its warm waters and only accessible by small craft such as kayaks. The Haven is a large bay hosting a summertime parking lot for heavy motor craft, mostly coming up from Vancouver. The stunning backdrop of the abrupt coastal mountains and morning mists are worth it, even if the noise of generators, and DVD players blasting out the Lord of the Rings soundtrack that echoes around the bay so that no one misses any of Golum’s lines. The hiss of meat on BBQ’s and the staggering thumps of inebriated boaters as they thrash around the deck in search of another gin and tonic was out of range once inside the enclosed lagoon. I sat, eating my lunch feeling much like the hired help, though not a compliment or penny was offered all day until they decided after a swim that it was time to head back.

On my second year the first night was spend a place called Tenedos Bay, or as I renamed it, ‘dogshit camp’ after landing my kayak in a St. Bernard sized mound at the waters edge. I opted to not stay on the same island as the first time because as I neared the campsite I saw that it had now been fully occupied by nudists. I am no prude but I felt there might be too much oversharing while I attempted to enjoy my hopefully peaceful morning coffee. Tenedos was a disappointment from the first dog poo squish to the winds picking up and not falling away as previously predicted. My ambitious plans to circumnavigate both East and West Redonda Islands with a stay in Toba Inlet were looking to be thwarted. The next morning I made breakfast which turned into a collaboration with the two Jerry’s and their wives out for a few days of canoeing. Jerry number one I discovered while flipping pancakes in a pan too small to accommodate the task had a keen knowledge of the Sound and told me of an island with only one camp spot. It was first come first camps and if I got there in time I would have a sheltered bay and lots of exploring possibilities that didn’t require hardships going headlong into high winds. He showed my on the chart which route to take and as soon as I was on the water I raced there. I got it! About three hours later a lone kayaker rounded the corner of the bay. I watched him stop, look over to my tent, then to his deck map, and then turned away to supposedly set up at the more populated camp I had passed, and made note of just in case.

The dreadlocks were holding up fine as adequate kayaker hair. I had tested them out on the wild west coast of Vancouver Island on a ten-day trip with friends the previous fall and the fresh wax held off the sea spray quite well but they did have a tendency to attract sand. Tucked under my kayaking hat I did give off the west coast kayak hippie vibe. Once the waxy stage eased up they were easy care outdoors locks.

A few days more and a few more adventures, and misadventures I arrived at my now traditional final night on Kinghorn Island. It is virtually impenetrable from all sides with the exception of a tiny gravel beach that gives access to the single hole-in-the-wall campsite. Room enough for one tent in a grotto. Who does not want to spend time in their own grotto? Rock walls covered in miniature primeval ferns, dense forest and a huge fallen tree blocking the only obvious entrance in or out. The only neighbour that I had was a pesky raccoon who became my all-night adversary as he tried several times to break into my food stores and even pulled the cockpit cover from my boat.

I had launched from Squirrel Cove on Cortes Island on the second outing and it was a short morning paddle to get back in time for the ferry that was notoriously off-schedule. The first year I came from a little boat launch site and my final morning was in an ever menacing storm whipping the waves up and giving my a chance to knock the rust off my technical skills. I had been passed by a motoring sailboat seeking refuge and when I again met him he was concerned for me. I laughed.

“It was fun but there was no where to stop for a coffee.” I said.

He then handed my down his thermos and offered me a to his mind a well-deserved hot cup before I paddled to shore to load my gear and change into clean dry clothes on the side of what I thought to be a quiet ill-used road. The two ladies on their way to church got to see bare kayaker bum. I am sure they prayed for me later on. God save that poor dirty hippie fellow and what on earth did he do to his hair?

But on this second journey, the morning destination was closer, and the seas would remain calm. My raccoon companion had given up and gone in search of easier shopping. I ate, and took pictures from my perch in my hidden location joyfully away from the world. I sipped the last drops of red wine I carried in a Nalgene bottle. The red was bruised, tossed, heated, cooled and tortured but on that last evening on the sheltered beach with a line of migrating ducks motoring by, the wine was fine. I realized for the first time on either trip that I was not hearing the sounds of boaters cruising loudly up the strait and into the Sound. Perhaps they knew I needed some quiet, perhaps they knew I had invaded their turf, but didn’t mind. Perhaps there was noise but I had become so accustomed that it was no longer registering in my senses. Just the sounds of nature, birds chirping, crows crowing, waves lapping, wind hushing in the tree branches and the shouts and swords clashing in the battle for Helm’s Deep all blending into one.

Man’s Best Friend.

I am a cat guy. Don’t judge! We are out there among you and maybe you think of us differently somehow. Less manly, perhaps. But in my experience living with cats takes more inner fortitude and self-awareness than living with dogs. Cats are worthy adversaries to your territory. They don’t jump around lavishing love and undying affection for you. With cats you got to earn it and even then I feel at times my cats give me what they feel they have to give not so much as what they want to give. Basically, I live rent free in their house and when I am gone for the weekend or for the day at work (to buy them cat food) I am somehow a loser for not bring back a mouse. After all, if I am gone that long I must be out hunting, right? I love dogs, don’t get me wrong and if my lifestyle, residence and work life allowed for a doggy companion I would engage the combo of pet ownership of being a cat/dog guy. I also assume that would confuse the dog singular guys as to where I land as a man. That said, I do like the company of dogs and they draw to me when I am out and about. Maybe they know my secret unrequited desire to be their buddy, and to have a dog buddy of my own. They throw me a bone so to speak by approaching me with waging tails and hints at getting ears scratched allowing me a moment of dog ownership fantasy. I have been the daycare for the dogs of friends on occasion and during one awkward time with someone I knew was incapacitated I took on her small dog for a short time. He was a strange combination of chihuahua and pointy-nosed Micronesian fruit bat, named Bandit. Due to the nature of the farm where I live and the circumstances beyond the mentioned above do not allow me to have a dog. My landlord told me upon moving in that I could do just about anything on the property except have a dog. So on the day I was walking the elderly Bandit up the road he drove by me in his truck, stopped, reversed and confronted me.

“I know, I know, no dogs but…”

“That is not a dog, Dave.” and with that he drove off. Bandit peed.

Late spring heat, smooth ocean swells, and clear blue skies were the gateway to a Vancouver Island kayak adventure week travelling up the inside route of Clayoquot Sound with the desirable destination of Hot Springs Cove and a couple day relaxing in warm pools of sulfur water smelling of rotten eggs. Yep, sounds inviting, and once the odours are acclimatized in your senses the heat of the water emanating from a rocky cleft in the form of a shower beating the knots out of sore paddling muscles is a dream come true out there in the wilds. From the spout the water continues downward filling stepped pools all the way down to where at higher tides sea water blasts against the rocks and cools you from above.

A friend, a novice paddler with a boat filled with enthusiasm that more than made up for his lack of outdoors experience listened to my instructions just outside the minor surf waves rolling steadily to the beach that would be our first stop for the week. We bobbed slowly up and down on the swells that rose and burst on the sands of Vargas Island. The plan was for me to go in first, pull my kayak up and then wade into the sea to catch his bow line and pull him ashore as it was difficult for him to get in and out of the kayak. It seemed doable for him but as it turned out while I was maneuvering to the shore on my own wave, he was attempting to beat me to it. I saw his bow heading right for my head so I rolled and he missed me by inches only to be tumbled in the sandy wave landing us both soaking wet and with swamped kayaks. No harm done but a lesson for him to listen carefully next time. The tide was going out so within minutes our kayaks were marooned and partly sunken in the wet sand. The late afternoon sun dried us as we set camp for the night ahead and he searched haplessly for his missing water bag that was being used a ballast in his cockpit. Now sunk or being tossed on the sea bottom towards Japan. The saddest thing I ever saw was him early the next morning touring the water’s edge just in case he caught sight of it. Sometimes you just have to let go.

While we were preparing dinner a fellow in hip waders carrying a tackle box and fishing rod passed with his dog and stopped to chat. I had met him on a previous stop on Vargas the year before and he recognized me. For those in the kayaking know will know this fellow with a trimmed grey beard and a Kiwi accent. John Dowd. He is the man most would say is responsible for the up-swell in interest in recreational sea kayaking that has lasted to this day. Based simply on the name of the magazine he founded and edited, Sea Kayaker Magazine. The publication was the first of its kind and would go on to inspire a plethora of outdoor magazines. He brought kayaking to the forefront and literally wrote the book on long distance kayak touring. Those were the old days, and though he still wrote books and articles today he was off for a spot of fishing from the rocks on the far end of the beach and commented laughingly at our poor landing technique. I couldn’t argue. We failed to land in stuff that was a mere ripple in his terms. The year earlier as my group hunkered down waiting out bad weather on a beach on the adjacent Flores Island we watched someone in a pale blue kayak rocking it in heavy seas. That was John the day before we met him the first time out for a little paddle before dinner in conditions well above our skill level. He was on that initial introduction and again the second time we encountered each other to be self-effacing, well humoured and down to earth. He was retired and going fishing with his dog companion, Lolita.

It is not our famous kayaking celebrity that I want to talk about, but instead I direct your attention to Lolita pictured here.

When John returned, sans fish he wished us a good night and walked up the shore to his modest small footprint home with its precious views and victory garden in back. Lolita, ignoring his calls stayed with us in camp. My first though was she was hoping for treats and table scraps, but no. There was not a sound or a whimper from her and she sat outside of our eating area, watching. She had more honourable intentions. Lolita it was later explained to me by John would pick a camper at random from week to week during the busy season which brought tour groups, adventure training camps and wayward travelers such as ourselves to his seaside sandy front yard and cedar lodge abode. Lolita would then stick like glue to that camper. Perhaps sensing vulnerability and would stand guard, even during the night until relenting, reluctantly to her master’s insistent calls to come home. In the early morning hours she would return and lay down at the door of my tent. Now, at this point I am taking it personally as my buddy on this trip is slightly physically compromised and if the island’s wolf population chased him down, well he would be the dog’s dinner so to speak.

So why me and not him? I am fast on my feet, situational aware of my surroundings and current conditions. At the same rate I could not argue with my new friend and rent-a-dog as having the willing friendship of a dog pleased my heart. Overnight the forecast took a sudden alarming turn to high winds and occasional pounding heavy rains that woke me from my sleep and that instantly changed the way the beach looked by the next morning. A canal formed between the rising tide and our camp like an inland river of sea mixed with rain water. The winds moved the sands hard against submerged logs and long buried treasures such as urchin shells became exposed.

After our not so graceful arrival I decided the obvious choice was to wait it out. The original forecast was for clear sailing so a rest day in tents, and venturing out on foot to explore the ever changing landscape around us was in store. Seldom do we get the chance to stop and smell the roses, now was our opportunity to really take in a place where we found ourselves.

Lolita was there, she was there when we easily replaced the lost water bag by collecting rain off the tarp filling all our pots and pans. She was there at my side when we hiked a short distance into the rain forest until she barked several times at seemingly nothing, but we took it as a warning and dutifully turned back to camp with her at the lead. She was there when I scrambled up the rocks to get a better composition with my camera. Bark! Get down from there! Bark! Oh, my God he’s stupid! Bark!

A single rest day became two and by the third day of the storm it was clear that the Hot Springs would have to keep for another time. The Vargas beach week was challenging. It was a week of tarps being flapped day and night making nerves jangle somewhat. Sand in the coffee, sand in the stew sand in the air. Nursing an inexperienced person through roughing it in cold wet conditions and finding ways to pass the time with and without each other’s company. Occasional sunshine to dry everything out in time to soak it all over again. On our last evening in camp, knowing whether it was blustery or not we could still make for the township of Tofino and home without encountering the full blast of Mother Nature by taking the sheltered route behind the island we started plans for dinner. John strolled by this time with a catch in hand and invited us to his house for some tapas and drinks after dark. We enthusiastically took up the offer to leave our windswept encampment for a few hours of not being wind blown, and dug through our bags for the cleanest, driest and least sticky clothing to wear for dinner.

The house stood in a small space of waterfront but hosted three levels. If you imaging a spiral staircase that has been enlarged to accommodate a kitchen/living area, a bedroom and an office. The main level was where we sat and enjoyed everything coming from a tiny galley kitchen and a wood stove. At the end of the meal he asked us if we liked scotch. He was going to do a recycling run that day but the weather changed his mind so he had not resupplied, however was able to offer us the last drops of the bottle which made for a couple of fingers for each of us. The glasses were paired with hot from the wood oven chocolate chip cookies! You might think that the discussion would have centered on his career and what got us to his beach in the first place, that being kayaks. As I recall that evening I only remember asking his opinion on the best padding for a kayak seat. After that, the dinner conversation roamed from the Blues, to politics, the environment, and then at one point he looked at my friend squarely, and asked if he knew anything about computers.

“Do I look that nerdy?” my friend sighed.

“yes, ” I said.

Off they went upstairs to decipher the current issues John was having with his computer, while I sat chatting with his wife Bea about the challenges of cooking in that tiny space and growing vegetables. Lolita was at my feet the entire evening. Their cat was perched on the back of the sofa glaring hatefully at the other dog in the house, the squirrely Jack Russel terrier who didn’t seem to enjoy island life as much as Lolita, other than the occasional pleasures gained by terrorizing the local sandpiper population, sending them to flight at any opportunity.

We said our goodnight’s and made our way back to camp battling the dark because in our haste to go inside we forgot to bring headlamps.The high tide making the route an obstacle course of crawling over the jumble of beached logs and over rocks with the aid of a spotlight that John proudly produced from his workshop that gave off the light of the sun to guide our way to our tenty homestead. Of course, Lolita stuck with me.

“Lolita! Come! Lolita! Never mind.”

The next morning saw us on our way off the Vargas beach in a light rain shower but far calmer seas. There were hints the weather would break later that day. The beach was transformed from the way it appeared the day we washed ashore except for the one constant of my stay. Lolita sitting in the sand watching us paddle out in the small surf. She then raced to the rocks as we shouted goodbyes over the noise of the waves and John waved to us from his perch on the rocks with his pole, and my faithful guardian.

Bark!

Why am I Not Kayaking?

William Butler Yeats wrote in his poem Easter 1916,

-To long a sacrifice can make a stone of the heart.

-O when may it suffice?

It has been too long not actively kayaking and my heart is turning to granite. With every month that my kayak languishes on its backyard rack and only getting wet when it rains is affecting my viewpoint on the world, my day to day moods and at a deeper level, a sense of self that is burdened by the reasons why I am not kayaking more. It has been a slow progression to the place I find myself and my perspective. In the early 2000’s three friends and I made several paddling trips to the west coast of Vancouver Island. These were carefree days when for some chance of fate we all had the time in our schedules, and the money to allow for the time away. These trips spanning a week at a time with the weekends as bookends culminating in a rush home on the Sunday afternoon from far flung launch spots adjacent to long winding rutted logging roads.

Barkley Sound, Clayoquot Sound, Nuchatlitz archipelago where we slept on sandy beaches, camped in old growth forests, listened all night to the rising and falling of thundering surf, and one memorable night sleeping in my tent propped up against all my gear to stop me from rolling downhill at a thirty-degree angle. These adventures were birthed from beer inspired evenings planning locations and destinations using old fashioned guide books before the internet with all the speculations of what we might find. It always ended up being a bit of a free-for-all once we landed on the first islet to camp. Agendas tossed into the sea and the tensions grew within the group as a way to making the exploration of any area more immediate. If we don’t go there tomorrow and see that rock on that island we may never get the chance to do that ever again! We saw the rock, we tempted the gods by kayaking too close to cliffs as open ocean pushed rolling swells to shore without consideration of our fragility.We definitely made a black bear mad one day by paddling too near its rocky home and interrupted its lunch. We defied the incoming tides that threatened our camp. We saw whales, and we were humbled on more than one occasion. Our gang of sandy, sea salted miscreants managed to stay alive, paddle, eat well, sleep even better, and argue often, but only because we were trying to squeeze in a lifetime of experiences in our kayaks before it was gone. Did we know something internal and unspoken back then?

Hammock camping at its best.

Flash forward to present day through people moving away, family life, relationships and relationship issues, financial considerations, and what I have come to believe is the most intrusive factor to the kayaker life, having the time!

In the summer of 2021 a week after the blistering effects of a new form of climate crisis symptom, what was being called a ‘heat dome’ drove day and night time temperatures as high as 50 degrees Celsius, or 122 Fahrenheit. Myself and two of the gang made an impromptu escape for a heat wave over-nighter to a small island near our home on Salt Spring Island. It had been fifteen years since any of us pitched a tent together other than a few random evening paddles, this was the first camp situation and the signs of time were apparent.

Moving the kayaks down to a perfect low tide launch pad.

I will dispense with vulgar descriptions of the aches and pains and early morning old-man noises that murmured from my tent in particular as we woke from a late night of eating and drinking, more than I had in a while. The sun crept in to our shaded breakfast nook under the trees with our view of the Southern Gulf Island and glittering sea. The sun now an enemy to enjoyment.The early morning coolness gave way rapidly to the heat of the day. We were red from the day before and patches of sunscreen failure could be noticed and I felt over sensitive to the heat from having to endure a restaurant kitchen shift during the heat dome. We were grayer around the edges. Lines of time and too much time in the outdoors showing on our faces. Time. It gets to us all eventually. We took our time that morning. There was no imperative to leave early, to see that rock before time prevents it. In the old days we felt that imperative to get moving with agreements to get on the water in the early morning to avoid the afternoon winds that would make the next leg difficult. With two distinct factions in our group, the get going, and the get going sooner or later. Lets say we saw some wind, and were humbled by having our skill sets tested.

With age comes calm. The three of us took a slower pace when it came to packing the boats on the patch of seaweed and crushed shells that connected the island to a smaller outcropping at low tide. It was the sun that got us off our backsides, not the desire to rush around. The previous day felt like two days as after establishing camp we paddled around exploring where we live in a place we should never take for granted. Settling on a beach for a late lunch and only arriving back at the island campsite at sunset.

Years ago we could make a plan and had little to no impediments to carrying that plan to fruition. Ironically, now that we are older, in our fifties it is harder to scratch out time to do even the shortest of excursion. I know the factors that have interrupted my paddling career and lifestyle. I put the blame squarely on my own shoulders. I allowed outside and personal challenges to my kayaking to happen. I took on jobs that were physically demanding leaving less energy on the weekends to drive the inspiration to load the boat on the top of the car and head to the water. All excuses, and we all have excuses for not doing something. I did manage somehow to find the time and energy to train for the Yukon River Quest. (disclaimer, I was 50 then and full of beans) juggling a mentally, and physically demanding job at the time and a very new relationship with someone in which being together meant a ferry and some driving. So why have I not sat in the confines of my kayak’s cockpit since that hot weekend in 2021? Well, in 2022 I was simply overworked during a severe staffing shortage as aftermath of the pandemic years, but there were free weekends to dig deep and get out there, even if just for a few hours at sunset. Excuses, man!

Band of salty, sandy sea brothers.

This is the year when I sacrifice not my time in nature, not my time enjoying that sensation that endeared me to kayaking in the first place on a rainy evening with friends when I was pushed from the dock paddle in hand and felt like I was floating, because I was. Too long have I sacrificed to the whims of others, to the constraints of the workplace. Before my heart hardens completely it has been enough time to suffice. I must go kayaking! No excuses.