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From the Rainforest<br />

Heading for the Horizon<br />

Water bottle—check. Snack bar—<br />

check. Extra sweater, gloves,<br />

toque—check. Duct tape—check. Dressed<br />

for immersion—check. One hour after<br />

maximum ebb. Time for my annual spring<br />

expedition to intercept the north-bound<br />

Gray Whales.<br />

Riding the tidal flush out to sea. Coming<br />

around Stubbs Island, picking up the tail<br />

end of the ebb in Father Charles Channel.<br />

Winds are light westerly, not a cloud in<br />

the sky. First warm days of spring—nothing<br />

better. Hope I see some whales…<br />

Starting to pick up some swell. The<br />

horizon obscures occasionally—seas<br />

must be a meter or more. Flushing past<br />

Wickaninnish Island. Last chance to pull<br />

ashore passing by. Shouldn’t have had that<br />

second cup of coffee—too late now.<br />

Taking my time. Remembering: enjoy<br />

the journey, not the destination. Suddenly,<br />

McKay Reef. The final thin line of rocks<br />

extending from Lennard Island all the way<br />

up to Sea Otter Rock. Call home to do a<br />

radio check. No answer—Bonny must be<br />

in the garden, soaking up some rays.<br />

Time to head offshore. But first, must<br />

relieve my bladder. A delicate operation<br />

at sea in the best of conditions. Not made<br />

easier by the fact I’m alone. Or the five<br />

foot seas. Thank goodness I don’t paddle a<br />

skinny boat…<br />

Winds are light westerly, not a cloud<br />

in the sky. First warm days<br />

of spring—nothing better.<br />

Hope I see some whales…<br />

A simple hiker’s compass laid on my<br />

spraydeck. Turning the boat around, take a<br />

bearing on Lone Cone Mountain (Wah Nah<br />

Juus) on Meares Island. Now I can use the<br />

back bearing. The plan is to shoot 3 miles<br />

straight out to sea. Start the timer on my<br />

watch—this should take about an hour if<br />

I keep moving.<br />

Settling into a steady rhythm. This feels<br />

great, if slightly crazy. I can hear the whalewatchers<br />

chattering away on Channel 18.<br />

Sounds like the whales are about 3 miles<br />

north of where I’m headed. Don’t have the<br />

luxury of changing course and motoring<br />

over. But there are bound to be more whales<br />

coming—twenty thousand in total, and this<br />

Dan Lewis<br />

is the peak of their migration. I turn the<br />

radio off and keep paddling.<br />

Believe. Tune in to the energy of these<br />

remarkable creatures who annually<br />

make the longest migratory swim of any<br />

mammal—a 12,000 mile round trip.<br />

Passing right by my home, just offshore.<br />

Try to feel the whale energy, tune in to<br />

their presence.<br />

Faint whiffs of rancid fish-breath in the<br />

air. Whales must be close. Hard to see<br />

them from my low vantage point, especially<br />

with these five foot waves. Suddenly, that<br />

familiar sound of a whale spouting, the<br />

giant hollow sound as her lungs refill before<br />

diving. Must be close. Watching, waiting.<br />

There! Right there, not 100 feet away. A few<br />

more spouts and she is gone.<br />

It’s getting late. I’m a couple of miles<br />

offshore, heading for the horizon, and I feel<br />

great! <strong>Paddling</strong> on like there’s no tomorrow,<br />

as if the harsh realities of darkness on the<br />

open coast don’t matter. Nothing matters<br />

now, except paddling on towards the<br />

horizon and watching for whales.<br />

A couple of working skiffs pass by,<br />

heading down the coast. Packing it in for ➝<br />

June/July 2004 www.<strong>WaveLength</strong><strong>Magazine</strong>.com<br />

29

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