Some of the more senior members of SISKA, that's senior in regards to experience and if truth be told age as well, headed out to pay a visit to old grumpy pants on Race Rocks; the sea lions not the keeper.
Members met at Pedder Bay just west of Victoria BC and after making our contributions to the Oak Bay Groups profit line (eight bucks per boat or $112 for the lot) our leader for the day, Dennis called us all together for the pre paddle pep talk.
"Argh, Don't be drown er I'll kills ya." Dennis is great at coming to the point. Somewhere in his discourse he conveyed the current speeds, time of the turn, wind and a brief weather report. "It's gona blow like el, ya swabs." And we were off into flat blue water with lots of bright morning light reflecting off the surface.
Dennis deployed captains fore and aft, port and starboard to make sure none of us strayed to far afield. With 14 paddlers that's easy to do.
Eventually we made our way out to the south end of Bentinck Island. This was the first critical point. With the current only an hour from it's max (3.9) we had to set up a careful ferry glide in order to hit the western tip of Race Rocks. The more prudent set up a range off the Olympic Mountains and with our bows heading almost south started the easterly ferry glide.
I've learned to be a lazy paddler. If I can get the water to do the work for me I will. It was nice to see lots of others doing the same thing. Still there was some who opted for a different tack.
After a low speed drift past the south side of the rocks we worked the back eddies up along the north side to the western end of the rocks then set up a long return ferry glide to Bentinck Island where we disembarked for lunch.
After lunch Dennis had a little rescue session planned for us. We got to have a real good look at the almost scratch less bottom of Dennis very fine Pygmy Arctic Tern. I even took a turn at rescuing one of the members who it turned out was homeless. All his possessions where stored in his cockpit. Imagine my surprise when I started pulling out all this gear. I dug down as far as a Czechoslovakian two stroke Tremblant but was afraid to go any further.
The rest of the trip was uneventful, the winds never came up, no one drowned and Dennis's inner pirate didn't kill anyone. We just quietly pulled back down the long gut into Pedder Bay and the marina. Afterward it was off for post paddle prater at the My Chosin Cafe watering hole were the accounts of storms and amazing near misses got bigger and bigger until there was a virtual gale blown inside the bar. Some one could have drown.
All of the above information has been fact checked by the S. Pallin Truth In Campaigning Corporation of Gnome Alaska.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
SISKA On Rum!!
Sunday September 14th: Twenty members and guest of the South Island Sea Kayak Association (SISKA) journeyed from Sidney to Rum Island – just short of the San Juan's.
I don't normally paddle with such large groups but after being bounced around the Irish Sea on my own I felt an urge to socialize. Two things stand out in my mind regarding Sundays trip.
First was the remarkable cohesion of the group, with the exception of myself everyone stayed together. Being the lazy paddler I am I opted to veer off to ferry glide across one of the current channels. I just could not help myself.
The other aspect of the trip was the speed. I didn't track the overall speed of the group but I know we were back an hour before the predicted return time and at least an hour and a half ahead of my guess.
These two things are significant. I have often been critical of club paddles that don't adhere to the basic tenant to stay together. It was good to see that; 'things', they are a changin.
Praise goes to Mike Jackson and Susan DuHammel the organizers for making this work.
I was also surprised by the depth of knowledge that people have of the Isle of Man. Two “young”, paddlers regaled me with their stories of visiting the Isle of Man to watch and ride the famous Motorcycle Time Trial course. As well as attending the races one use to visit the Isle to catch Tommy Dorsey and his big band at the opera house in Douglas, that's well over 60 years ago.
FREE AT LAST! FREE AT LAST!
Good news came my way yesterday. My friend and urologist Dr. Iain McAuley gave me the news – there was nothing on the scope. This means that after a seven month battle I am now cancer free.
The flip side of the news is that there remains a one in four chance of the cancer coming back; that's if I do nothing. If I continue with the BCG treatments I can greatly reduce those odds.
The hard part will be completing the treatments. Only 18% ever see the treatments through to the very end. Of the 82% that don't complete the treatments many are forced to quit after developing the TB side affects associated with BCG. Others pack it in fed up with the invasive and not very pleasant experience.
I've signed up and will resume the treatments in October. I'll have to see how far I can make it down this road.
Apologies to my good friend Martin.
The flip side of the news is that there remains a one in four chance of the cancer coming back; that's if I do nothing. If I continue with the BCG treatments I can greatly reduce those odds.
The hard part will be completing the treatments. Only 18% ever see the treatments through to the very end. Of the 82% that don't complete the treatments many are forced to quit after developing the TB side affects associated with BCG. Others pack it in fed up with the invasive and not very pleasant experience.
I've signed up and will resume the treatments in October. I'll have to see how far I can make it down this road.
Apologies to my good friend Martin.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Reflections
The Isle of Man is a remarkable island. The shoreline is varied and fascinating. Dotted with caves, colonies of birds, seals, beaches and charming towns all of which call out for exploration. It would be easy to spend an extended holiday here getting to know the secret places and wonderful people of the island.
If fortune should once again come my way and I should I be granted an opportunity to return to paddle this coast I'd start in Peel. Ideally I'd return with two or three companions and together we'd make our way to this port city on the west side of the island. At least a day would be given over to exploring the narrow streets, the history and the charm of the town.
Peel Castle sitting out there guarding the entrance to the town on St. Patrick's island is worthy of a days exploration.
From Peel I would head south to Port Erin. Along this coast I'd try to stay inshore to paddle the cIiffs that I had to pass by. Bradda Head would also come under closer scrutiny.
Already I feel a kinship with this town. It was here that I truly took control of my trip. Because of the weather I came ashore early and was able to spend at least a few hours getting to know the town. I'd look up the kayak shop owner Jenny and buy her lunch for the help and assistance she gave me. I'd also introduce my friends to the Grosvenor Hotel and it's friendly proprietors. Up town we could hop aboard the steam train for a ride. When we got back I'd look up the Manx Phone company and politely explain what I think of them.
Each town, Port Mary, Castletown, Douglas, Laxey and Ramsey would be on our itinerary to explore and discover. Just as important as the present habitats it would be grand to come ashore and examine any number of the forts that dot the Manx coast line. There is no doubt that Manx men where warriors, the proof is in the ruins of forts that lookout from almost every head land.
But of course we'd have to experience the ultimate Manx custom – racing down narrow lanes lined with stone walls in some car of uncertain quality and reliability. Just about any little old grandmother should be able to provide that experience as they all race home seemingly afraid the eggs will go bad or the milk will spoil if they don't get home as fast as possible.
Ultimately for a kayaker the attraction to the island is the Caff of Man and those headlands where tide races form. Here's where the devil may care thrill seeker in us would come to the fore. I'd show those Manx grannies a trick or two.
If fortune should once again come my way and I should I be granted an opportunity to return to paddle this coast I'd start in Peel. Ideally I'd return with two or three companions and together we'd make our way to this port city on the west side of the island. At least a day would be given over to exploring the narrow streets, the history and the charm of the town.
Peel Castle sitting out there guarding the entrance to the town on St. Patrick's island is worthy of a days exploration.
From Peel I would head south to Port Erin. Along this coast I'd try to stay inshore to paddle the cIiffs that I had to pass by. Bradda Head would also come under closer scrutiny.
Already I feel a kinship with this town. It was here that I truly took control of my trip. Because of the weather I came ashore early and was able to spend at least a few hours getting to know the town. I'd look up the kayak shop owner Jenny and buy her lunch for the help and assistance she gave me. I'd also introduce my friends to the Grosvenor Hotel and it's friendly proprietors. Up town we could hop aboard the steam train for a ride. When we got back I'd look up the Manx Phone company and politely explain what I think of them.
Each town, Port Mary, Castletown, Douglas, Laxey and Ramsey would be on our itinerary to explore and discover. Just as important as the present habitats it would be grand to come ashore and examine any number of the forts that dot the Manx coast line. There is no doubt that Manx men where warriors, the proof is in the ruins of forts that lookout from almost every head land.
But of course we'd have to experience the ultimate Manx custom – racing down narrow lanes lined with stone walls in some car of uncertain quality and reliability. Just about any little old grandmother should be able to provide that experience as they all race home seemingly afraid the eggs will go bad or the milk will spoil if they don't get home as fast as possible.
Ultimately for a kayaker the attraction to the island is the Caff of Man and those headlands where tide races form. Here's where the devil may care thrill seeker in us would come to the fore. I'd show those Manx grannies a trick or two.
Mist in the Valley
Yet another front has moved into the Conwy Valley. There's been almost no rain for the past two days but there has also been very little sunshine. Now a mist of fog and cloud has slipped down off the moors to fill the valley. Conwy is obscured behind a veil. Oddly there is no wind at all.
Hasn't the wind always blown up here, I cannot recall such quiet. Even the sheep in the pasture have gone to ground, their seemingly constant bleating has come to an end. I wonder if this is a foretelling of a coming storm.
The embers in the fire need attention, dry wood is running low and although there is plenty in the garden neatly stacked it needs to season and dry. No worry in five days I'll quit the cottage and head to Manchester. My kayak will have to be sorted out on Monday. I think a trip to Holyhead to plead for support will be required.
Up here I'm cut off. To connect I have to drive 20 minutes down the lane into Conwy. Yesterday the rental car was side swiped by a giant MB SUV. Any joy in driving is gone. No doubt there will be a deductable to pay when I return the car.
Once down I borrow time on a computer at the library. Check emails and try to connect with friends and family. After my time runs out I walk over to to “Coffi Conwy”, an internet coffee house, buy a cup of joe (white) and log on with my own lap top. I up load the notes and comments I've prepared the night before, then head back up the hill to the cottage, packing in whatever supplies I need.
If the time is right I try to make a call home from a phone box. this is usually frustrating as I frequently get answering machines, or if I do connect I rapidly run out of coins for the phone and get cut off in mid sentence. That's very annoying.
One bright ray of sunshine was the travel agent in Conwy. After exhausting my time trying to book a flight with the information the now defunct Zoom Airways was providing I walked into the local travel agent and with her help quickly had a flight home booked. I'm taking them coffee and cookies tomorrow to show my appreciation.
It means a drive down the lane, but it has to be done. The fire is almost out, got to attend to it.
Hasn't the wind always blown up here, I cannot recall such quiet. Even the sheep in the pasture have gone to ground, their seemingly constant bleating has come to an end. I wonder if this is a foretelling of a coming storm.
The embers in the fire need attention, dry wood is running low and although there is plenty in the garden neatly stacked it needs to season and dry. No worry in five days I'll quit the cottage and head to Manchester. My kayak will have to be sorted out on Monday. I think a trip to Holyhead to plead for support will be required.
Up here I'm cut off. To connect I have to drive 20 minutes down the lane into Conwy. Yesterday the rental car was side swiped by a giant MB SUV. Any joy in driving is gone. No doubt there will be a deductable to pay when I return the car.
Once down I borrow time on a computer at the library. Check emails and try to connect with friends and family. After my time runs out I walk over to to “Coffi Conwy”, an internet coffee house, buy a cup of joe (white) and log on with my own lap top. I up load the notes and comments I've prepared the night before, then head back up the hill to the cottage, packing in whatever supplies I need.
If the time is right I try to make a call home from a phone box. this is usually frustrating as I frequently get answering machines, or if I do connect I rapidly run out of coins for the phone and get cut off in mid sentence. That's very annoying.
One bright ray of sunshine was the travel agent in Conwy. After exhausting my time trying to book a flight with the information the now defunct Zoom Airways was providing I walked into the local travel agent and with her help quickly had a flight home booked. I'm taking them coffee and cookies tomorrow to show my appreciation.
It means a drive down the lane, but it has to be done. The fire is almost out, got to attend to it.
Friday, August 29, 2008
News Flash Zoom Goes Belly Up
This morning a gentleman from Scottish Power came by to examine the power line drop at the cottage. After he was finished he asked if I was from Canada? Then if I was flying Zoom.
Yeah, why, I replied. "You don't have radio or telly up here?" No I don't. It's pretty basic, why? "Then you have not heard?" says he. Heard what, I asked.
"Why Zoom suspended all flights and has gone into receivership, asn't she."
I broke out laughing and I'm sure by the look on his face he thought me mad. But, I could not help myself he sounded so much like my Dad parceling out the bad news, chewing over every morsel as if to extract every bit of flavour from it.
After quickly saying his good byes, surely he thought I'd been up here too long, I packed out a few things and headed down the hill.
Down in Conwy I set about solving this later problem. I booked a ticket home on a more solvent airline, or so I hope, called my wife, updated the cottage owners and started what will be along process of getting my kayak home - if at all.
As a consequence I will be returning to Victoria a week earlier. Plans to kayak around Wales have been suspended. My kayak was holed in a parking lot accident, has yet to be repaired and may not be until after I return.
Money is now running short as my budget for the last 12 days in country has just been consumed by a one way ticket home. I'll spend my time up at the cottage throwing myself into the reno work, cut back on the pub nights and take in some long walks. More later.
Yeah, why, I replied. "You don't have radio or telly up here?" No I don't. It's pretty basic, why? "Then you have not heard?" says he. Heard what, I asked.
"Why Zoom suspended all flights and has gone into receivership, asn't she."
I broke out laughing and I'm sure by the look on his face he thought me mad. But, I could not help myself he sounded so much like my Dad parceling out the bad news, chewing over every morsel as if to extract every bit of flavour from it.
After quickly saying his good byes, surely he thought I'd been up here too long, I packed out a few things and headed down the hill.
Down in Conwy I set about solving this later problem. I booked a ticket home on a more solvent airline, or so I hope, called my wife, updated the cottage owners and started what will be along process of getting my kayak home - if at all.
As a consequence I will be returning to Victoria a week earlier. Plans to kayak around Wales have been suspended. My kayak was holed in a parking lot accident, has yet to be repaired and may not be until after I return.
Money is now running short as my budget for the last 12 days in country has just been consumed by a one way ticket home. I'll spend my time up at the cottage throwing myself into the reno work, cut back on the pub nights and take in some long walks. More later.
Thursday, August 21 – Isle of Man
0235 High Water Liverpool, 0919 Low Water Liverpool,1453 HW Liverpool, 0603 LW Liverpool
Weather,
Light winds WNW, expected to increase in afternoon
Paddle Plan
- on water at 0800, 1st hour tide running SW 0.5 knots, straight across from Douglas to Clay Head approximately 3.5Nm, start 5hrs after HW Liverpool
- Clayhead - straight across to Skeirripp, – about 2Nm, stay offshore
- Skeirrripp to Maughold Head back inshore, should be out of wind and in weak opposing current
- Maughold Head to Shellag Point – winds NW, straight across Ramsey Bay, 4hrs before HW Liverpool
- Shellag Point to Point of Ayre inshore out of wind current at back
- rest one hour at Point of Ayre
- 1600 begin SW trip down to Jurby Head expect beam seas aft, NW winds freshening
Juby Head to the Cronk, 1Nm end time 1600 total distance about 57k or 29 Nm – 10 hours at 3 knotts
At the end of day three Jim and I went in search for a place for me to stay for the night which lead us to the Information desk at the ferry terminal.
Inside out of the wind I was no longer up wind of myself. I took a step back but to no avail. Still in paddling gear I was ripe. As a test to the legendary Manx hospitality the lady on the info desk said nothing and very quickly found me a room at the Berkley; 30 pounds. She was amazingly efficient.
Jim returned to the kayaks while I checked in and had a fast shower. Back at the kayaks we sat down and waited the return of the car. Upon the return of the bus riders I stored my kayak tucked in between some containers and left for a quiet evening walk back along the Douglas promenade.
From the second floor sitting room adjacent to my room I had a great view of the promenade and Douglas Bay. Out in the Bay perched on St. Mary's Rock is the Tower of Refuge.
As I sat watching the evening light play across the tower I imagined young men seeking refuge for some misdeed on this rock. It looks quaint, but I suspect it's sparse interior and the elements would quickly melt most men's resolve.
Easterly storms pound into the seawall along the promenade, out on St. Mary's rock I could envision desperate men throwing themselves from the castellated tower to escape their despair and the madness of those storms. My despair still lay before me manifested in one more mad rush to complete the trip around the island. I set about planning, then headed off to bed.
Morning came and true to form my chariot ride was waiting for me at the door. The evening before I had met a couple who had come in off the ferry to kayak the island. When they learned I was from Vancouver Island they broke into huge smiles and spilled out their account of living in Tofino for a year. They then volunteered to meet me in the morning to help me launch off the slipway.
The detailed plan I'd worked out the night before however came apart as I missed the launch start by half an hour. I'd chase that time and never catch it all through the rest of the day.
For once I launched into flat water and with the harbour masters green light to cross the entrance I headed NW. Once past Douglas Bay the coast steepens up again and there are few pull outs for kayaks except at the seaside towns.
Laxey and Ramsey like Douglas' waterfront consist of stately old Victorian walk ups that show off their finest in the early morning sunlight. This same light brings life to the moors high above the towns. The greens are sharper, richer and more vivid then anything I've seen since leaving the cottage up above Conwy in Wales.
Although the interior roads are lined with gnarly old oaks and elms from the shore the entire island looks bald. Stone walls cut back and forth, with no rhyme or rhythm, to create a patch work of fields cropped short by the ever present sheep.
Coming from Vancouver Island where towering giant trees are in abundance not having any trees around seems strange. Yet days ago I cut a dozen trees out of my sister in laws garden to open it up to the sun and to open up the view. I found myself paddling along wondering if I'd done the right thing. Life takes strange twists.
And then perhaps the most whimsical moment of the entire trip occurred. I heard a steam train whistle and high above me climbing across an open meadow was what looked like Thomas the Steam Engine. I stopped paddling and watched the little guy and his string of cars until he disappeared around a curve in the track.
Manx men are nuts about trains. I think they have one of every type and one of every gage. The other thing the are crazy about is motorcycles. Occasionally the morning quiet would be punctuated by the roaring wine of a high performance bike working it's way up through the gears.
This was the weekend of the Manx Gran Prix and a good portion of the island roads would be closed for the running of the race. Yet if not for these odd bursts of sound and the old guys in leathers on all sorts of conveyances, from flimsy vintage motorized bicycles, to super modern and powerful death dealing monsters, I was barely aware of the event.
Later I'd learn that the racing gods had taken another life. The Manx population seem fatalistic about this, some hold the life given is an almost natural right of passage. It smooths the road for the survivors. I think of the parents, families and friends. Their road will be anything but smooth.
I suppose this is what happens when the weather is fine, the sea kind and the tide and current is at your back – you spend too much time thinking and not enough time focused on the task. My speed has dropped, I'm loosing ground to my plan and I still have miles to go.
Finally I make Maughold Head and turn the corner into Ramsey Bay. The wind is now right into my teeth and the sea has turned to a short choppy 12 inch to 18 inch waves for my entertainment. I look for a place to rest and put on my jacket.
For the past two to three hours I have been paddling in a short sleeve Kokatat rash shirt, but it's time to suit up as there is a chill in the wind. I put in at Stack Mooar. The tide is rising and I have to keep pulling the boat out while I fix a quick lunch of flat bread, honey and peanut butter.
I launch and start what will turn into a two hour crossing. The waves are just big enough to break over the bow and wash back to the forward hatch. At first I'm happy not to be in another beam sea but I soon tire of the head wind.
Eventually I make Shellag Point 4Nm to the northwest. It's now three hours before HW Liverpool and as predicted in the sailing guide there is a NW flowing back eddy. My speed picks up and I'm gliding along at an average of 4.5 knots for the run up to the Point of Ayre ; the extreme northern tip of the island. I make the point just at HW Liverpool (1453).
Just off shore there is a monster tide race forming. The waves are stacking up into great piles, one after another they stretch out for about a mile to the northeast. With a couple of trusted paddlers I would head out to play in the chaos, but I'm alone and off schedule.
I slip by, once again tight inshore, and make my way around the head land to the shouted encouragement of who else but Jim. He seems to be everywhere. I make a fast landing onto the dumbing shore share a quick word of encouragement with Jim and Kirstine but forgo the hour rest I'd planned.
Just as I push off Jim shouts out what I think is, “19 kilometers to go”. I quickly do the conversion and it's 8 Nm. Odd I thought it was only 4Nm. I recheck the map. He's right it's still 8 Nm away to the start point. My heart sinks. How could I have miscounted the distance.
I put the disappointment behind and put my head down. The tide will be against me for the first hour, the winds are on my aft starboard quarter and the waves are relentless. I paddle along like this for an hour then I pick up the southwest flowing tide stream. Nevertheless the progress is slow.
For the first time the Ordinance Survey map lets me down. It does not show Rue Point, or Blue Point either so that each time I pass these points I think I have rounded Jurby Head and have only a mile or so left. It's soul destroying. On top of that I'm running out of energy. My squeeze bottle of honey has gone overboard swept away by a wave. Luckily Jim and Kirstine have pulled into an over look to watch out for me.
As Jim goes to get chocolate Kirstine feeds me cheese and nuts followed by the chocolate the sudden calorie intake almost makes me sick as my blood sugar levels spike. I go for a short walk and feeling better climb back into the boat.
In geological terms the north end of the island is minutes old. It's a large sand and gravel bar that dried out only 5,000 years ago and attached itself to the much older main island. It's seemingly featureless. In close to shore you cannot see beyond the beach two to three meters above your head.
But it is home to lots of birds. One of those birds or rather a small flock of them returned to lift my spirits. Earlier in the day I had been startled by a sudden white flash that plummeted straight down into the sea just in front of the kayak. Moments later a white bird surfaced and lifted off. It was an Arctic Tern feeding on sand eels.
I felt a kinship with this bird from high up in the Canadian Arctic that was now just off my bow feeding. Now they were back and my spirit soared. These beautiful birds where well into their own journey or migration that will take them from the Arctic to Antarctica. And I was down because I had a few more miles to go. Suddenly I felt chastised. What a wimp.
As I pressed on I started side surfing the waves to pick up speed and distance. I knew I was tiring by my posture, I was beginning to slump, my cadence was dropping and my high paddle stroke was dropping. Then I started side surfing breaking waves at these false head lands.
But I gave this up as it was not worth the risk. These waves where breaking on a shelving beach that most likely was littered with underwater rocks that my Ordinance Map did not depict. I moved back off shore.
Yet I kept miss reading the chart thinking this has to be Jurby Head- it wasn't. Then I was convinced that the GPS had been possessed by a sea witch who was playing games with it and me. I sorted it all out by turning the chart over and ignoring the GPS. I simply started looking for the view of the beach I had fixed in my mind when I launched.
Eventually I spotted Jim waving a yellow gag over his head. Strangely he kept walking away from me. He'd explain later that he wanted to make sure I did not finish 10 yards short of the launch site. I just looked at him like he was mad.
Just off shore I pulled out my VHF and made the following call.
“Liverpool Coast Guard, Liverpool Coast Guard, this is the sea kayaker Gulf Whiskey over.”
Gulf Whiskey this is Liverpool Coast Guard, go to channel 86 that's eight six over. “Going to eight six Gulf Whiskey out.”
“Liverpool CG this is GW do you read me, over.” Go ahead Gulf Whiskey “Liverpool CG I am 500 meters off the beach and have completed my circumnavigation of the Isle of Man. This is my finial report, thank you for your assistance and service.”
Thank you Gulf Whiskey Liverpool CG out.
“Liverpool coast Guard, one last thing, you and your colleagues have just helped raise almost $6,000 for the Canadian Cancer Society thank you for your help. Gulf Whiskey out.”
Eh. r anks, ad ta elp ooout. Bloody! Liverpool oast ard out.
I shut down, surfed in and fell out of the boat 13 hours after starting.
Weather,
Light winds WNW, expected to increase in afternoon
Paddle Plan
- on water at 0800, 1st hour tide running SW 0.5 knots, straight across from Douglas to Clay Head approximately 3.5Nm, start 5hrs after HW Liverpool
- Clayhead - straight across to Skeirripp, – about 2Nm, stay offshore
- Skeirrripp to Maughold Head back inshore, should be out of wind and in weak opposing current
- Maughold Head to Shellag Point – winds NW, straight across Ramsey Bay, 4hrs before HW Liverpool
- Shellag Point to Point of Ayre inshore out of wind current at back
- rest one hour at Point of Ayre
- 1600 begin SW trip down to Jurby Head expect beam seas aft, NW winds freshening
Juby Head to the Cronk, 1Nm end time 1600 total distance about 57k or 29 Nm – 10 hours at 3 knotts
At the end of day three Jim and I went in search for a place for me to stay for the night which lead us to the Information desk at the ferry terminal.
Inside out of the wind I was no longer up wind of myself. I took a step back but to no avail. Still in paddling gear I was ripe. As a test to the legendary Manx hospitality the lady on the info desk said nothing and very quickly found me a room at the Berkley; 30 pounds. She was amazingly efficient.
Jim returned to the kayaks while I checked in and had a fast shower. Back at the kayaks we sat down and waited the return of the car. Upon the return of the bus riders I stored my kayak tucked in between some containers and left for a quiet evening walk back along the Douglas promenade.
From the second floor sitting room adjacent to my room I had a great view of the promenade and Douglas Bay. Out in the Bay perched on St. Mary's Rock is the Tower of Refuge.
As I sat watching the evening light play across the tower I imagined young men seeking refuge for some misdeed on this rock. It looks quaint, but I suspect it's sparse interior and the elements would quickly melt most men's resolve.
Easterly storms pound into the seawall along the promenade, out on St. Mary's rock I could envision desperate men throwing themselves from the castellated tower to escape their despair and the madness of those storms. My despair still lay before me manifested in one more mad rush to complete the trip around the island. I set about planning, then headed off to bed.
Morning came and true to form my chariot ride was waiting for me at the door. The evening before I had met a couple who had come in off the ferry to kayak the island. When they learned I was from Vancouver Island they broke into huge smiles and spilled out their account of living in Tofino for a year. They then volunteered to meet me in the morning to help me launch off the slipway.
The detailed plan I'd worked out the night before however came apart as I missed the launch start by half an hour. I'd chase that time and never catch it all through the rest of the day.
For once I launched into flat water and with the harbour masters green light to cross the entrance I headed NW. Once past Douglas Bay the coast steepens up again and there are few pull outs for kayaks except at the seaside towns.
Laxey and Ramsey like Douglas' waterfront consist of stately old Victorian walk ups that show off their finest in the early morning sunlight. This same light brings life to the moors high above the towns. The greens are sharper, richer and more vivid then anything I've seen since leaving the cottage up above Conwy in Wales.
Although the interior roads are lined with gnarly old oaks and elms from the shore the entire island looks bald. Stone walls cut back and forth, with no rhyme or rhythm, to create a patch work of fields cropped short by the ever present sheep.
Coming from Vancouver Island where towering giant trees are in abundance not having any trees around seems strange. Yet days ago I cut a dozen trees out of my sister in laws garden to open it up to the sun and to open up the view. I found myself paddling along wondering if I'd done the right thing. Life takes strange twists.
And then perhaps the most whimsical moment of the entire trip occurred. I heard a steam train whistle and high above me climbing across an open meadow was what looked like Thomas the Steam Engine. I stopped paddling and watched the little guy and his string of cars until he disappeared around a curve in the track.
Manx men are nuts about trains. I think they have one of every type and one of every gage. The other thing the are crazy about is motorcycles. Occasionally the morning quiet would be punctuated by the roaring wine of a high performance bike working it's way up through the gears.
This was the weekend of the Manx Gran Prix and a good portion of the island roads would be closed for the running of the race. Yet if not for these odd bursts of sound and the old guys in leathers on all sorts of conveyances, from flimsy vintage motorized bicycles, to super modern and powerful death dealing monsters, I was barely aware of the event.
Later I'd learn that the racing gods had taken another life. The Manx population seem fatalistic about this, some hold the life given is an almost natural right of passage. It smooths the road for the survivors. I think of the parents, families and friends. Their road will be anything but smooth.
I suppose this is what happens when the weather is fine, the sea kind and the tide and current is at your back – you spend too much time thinking and not enough time focused on the task. My speed has dropped, I'm loosing ground to my plan and I still have miles to go.
Finally I make Maughold Head and turn the corner into Ramsey Bay. The wind is now right into my teeth and the sea has turned to a short choppy 12 inch to 18 inch waves for my entertainment. I look for a place to rest and put on my jacket.
For the past two to three hours I have been paddling in a short sleeve Kokatat rash shirt, but it's time to suit up as there is a chill in the wind. I put in at Stack Mooar. The tide is rising and I have to keep pulling the boat out while I fix a quick lunch of flat bread, honey and peanut butter.
I launch and start what will turn into a two hour crossing. The waves are just big enough to break over the bow and wash back to the forward hatch. At first I'm happy not to be in another beam sea but I soon tire of the head wind.
Eventually I make Shellag Point 4Nm to the northwest. It's now three hours before HW Liverpool and as predicted in the sailing guide there is a NW flowing back eddy. My speed picks up and I'm gliding along at an average of 4.5 knots for the run up to the Point of Ayre ; the extreme northern tip of the island. I make the point just at HW Liverpool (1453).
Just off shore there is a monster tide race forming. The waves are stacking up into great piles, one after another they stretch out for about a mile to the northeast. With a couple of trusted paddlers I would head out to play in the chaos, but I'm alone and off schedule.
I slip by, once again tight inshore, and make my way around the head land to the shouted encouragement of who else but Jim. He seems to be everywhere. I make a fast landing onto the dumbing shore share a quick word of encouragement with Jim and Kirstine but forgo the hour rest I'd planned.
Just as I push off Jim shouts out what I think is, “19 kilometers to go”. I quickly do the conversion and it's 8 Nm. Odd I thought it was only 4Nm. I recheck the map. He's right it's still 8 Nm away to the start point. My heart sinks. How could I have miscounted the distance.
I put the disappointment behind and put my head down. The tide will be against me for the first hour, the winds are on my aft starboard quarter and the waves are relentless. I paddle along like this for an hour then I pick up the southwest flowing tide stream. Nevertheless the progress is slow.
For the first time the Ordinance Survey map lets me down. It does not show Rue Point, or Blue Point either so that each time I pass these points I think I have rounded Jurby Head and have only a mile or so left. It's soul destroying. On top of that I'm running out of energy. My squeeze bottle of honey has gone overboard swept away by a wave. Luckily Jim and Kirstine have pulled into an over look to watch out for me.
As Jim goes to get chocolate Kirstine feeds me cheese and nuts followed by the chocolate the sudden calorie intake almost makes me sick as my blood sugar levels spike. I go for a short walk and feeling better climb back into the boat.
In geological terms the north end of the island is minutes old. It's a large sand and gravel bar that dried out only 5,000 years ago and attached itself to the much older main island. It's seemingly featureless. In close to shore you cannot see beyond the beach two to three meters above your head.
But it is home to lots of birds. One of those birds or rather a small flock of them returned to lift my spirits. Earlier in the day I had been startled by a sudden white flash that plummeted straight down into the sea just in front of the kayak. Moments later a white bird surfaced and lifted off. It was an Arctic Tern feeding on sand eels.
I felt a kinship with this bird from high up in the Canadian Arctic that was now just off my bow feeding. Now they were back and my spirit soared. These beautiful birds where well into their own journey or migration that will take them from the Arctic to Antarctica. And I was down because I had a few more miles to go. Suddenly I felt chastised. What a wimp.
As I pressed on I started side surfing the waves to pick up speed and distance. I knew I was tiring by my posture, I was beginning to slump, my cadence was dropping and my high paddle stroke was dropping. Then I started side surfing breaking waves at these false head lands.
But I gave this up as it was not worth the risk. These waves where breaking on a shelving beach that most likely was littered with underwater rocks that my Ordinance Map did not depict. I moved back off shore.
Yet I kept miss reading the chart thinking this has to be Jurby Head- it wasn't. Then I was convinced that the GPS had been possessed by a sea witch who was playing games with it and me. I sorted it all out by turning the chart over and ignoring the GPS. I simply started looking for the view of the beach I had fixed in my mind when I launched.
Eventually I spotted Jim waving a yellow gag over his head. Strangely he kept walking away from me. He'd explain later that he wanted to make sure I did not finish 10 yards short of the launch site. I just looked at him like he was mad.
Just off shore I pulled out my VHF and made the following call.
“Liverpool Coast Guard, Liverpool Coast Guard, this is the sea kayaker Gulf Whiskey over.”
Gulf Whiskey this is Liverpool Coast Guard, go to channel 86 that's eight six over. “Going to eight six Gulf Whiskey out.”
“Liverpool CG this is GW do you read me, over.” Go ahead Gulf Whiskey “Liverpool CG I am 500 meters off the beach and have completed my circumnavigation of the Isle of Man. This is my finial report, thank you for your assistance and service.”
Thank you Gulf Whiskey Liverpool CG out.
“Liverpool coast Guard, one last thing, you and your colleagues have just helped raise almost $6,000 for the Canadian Cancer Society thank you for your help. Gulf Whiskey out.”
Eh. r anks, ad ta elp ooout. Bloody! Liverpool oast ard out.
I shut down, surfed in and fell out of the boat 13 hours after starting.
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