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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 />
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