Paddling Where Raindrops Reach The Sea: Kayaking in British Columbia

By Nat Hab Expedition Leader Kristina Disney 

Something I had to learn when I moved to British Columbia‘s Vancouver Island is that you don’t not do something because it’s raining. If that were the case, you’d never do anything. So I learned to pack a toque* and a rain jacket on every trip, even in August. I also learned that the ocean did more than separate the island from the mainland; it separated the people, too. As far as I could tell about the people who called the island home, there were those who lived by the ocean and those who lived with the ocean. There were those for whom the ocean was an abyss and a barrier—it delineated the boundary of their known world and created an “otherness” that they were not a part of. For others, it was the complete opposite; the ocean wasn’t an edge, it was a beginning. It was an infinite source of connection, whether that be to your neighbor, to your next meal, to find peace and quiet, or to battle the elements.

Old growth rainforest, Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada.

After about three months of living here, I found a way to get out on the water: I got certified to start working as a kayak guide. On my first ever training trip and my first open-water crossing, the wind came up—and with it, the waves. The lead guide was out front, and I was the caboose, there to make sure the bobbing cluster of colorful boats dutifully followed the course the lead had set. The swell was growing, and our kayaks were beginning to crest small peaks and run down valleys that previously hadn’t existed. I could see some hands gripping paddles a little tighter and eyes flicking back and forth with worry as we had to paddle harder to stay on course. We had to consciously space out so as not to get pushed into one another. One of the women in the double kayak looked back over her shoulder at me and asked, “Is this normal?”

My certification course, barely three weeks behind me, had been in a harbor well protected from the wind. I knew the numbers of what they had taught us: at 11 knots of wind, whitecaps start to form; anything over 15 knots and entry-level guides are not allowed to take people out on the water, while lead guides are certified to make judgment calls as needed. Judgment comes from experience, and there is a difference between knowing a number on a page and knowing how much that number relates to the rolling pressure of a wave trying to push you broadside. I had no idea if this was normal, but I did trust my lead guide. I trusted that while my limited experience told me this was manageable, her more than a decade of experience would see the bigger picture and the possible consequences that I could not.

We made the choppy crossing and had our lunch on the neighboring small island. Some people were laughing and teasing that they wanted to go back out because it was fun, while others were relieved to be off the water because that had been the far edge of their comfort zone. I checked in later with my lead, and she said that was a bit of a harder crossing but not an unreasonable one. I realized how mirrored that experience had been for both myself and the guests—we had relied on someone else to take us beyond the limits of what we knew.

Nat Hab Expedition Leader © Eddy Savage

When we got back on the water after lunch, I resumed my shepherding role at the back of the group. Now that we were tucked in on the leeward side of the island, the world was calm and tranquil, and we could paddle close to shore and explore the intertidal zone. The rock itself is volcanic and ancient; it was pushed up against the North American tectonic plate some 200-odd million years ago. Since then, land and sea have been warring to reclaim one another’s territory. To us, this millennia-old contest looks like the erosion of hollowed-out sea arches and sea caves, and tiered beaches of shell and sand left from bygone days when the sea level was higher.

Nat Hab Expedition Leader © Eddy Savage

Terrestrial and aquatic life are no less competitive. Though there is no soil in sight—only bare rock—Sitka spruce and western red cedar encroach as close to the high-tide line as possible. Try as they might, they can’t survive farther down because the ocean rears up to scour away new growth. Even ocean spray, seemingly harmless, deposits salt crystals that corrode away needles and bark. Inevitably, the roots fail to cling to the rock, and trees fall toward the water. You might be fooled into thinking this means the end, but the trees will reroute. Apical dominance, the hormonal function controlling the upward growth of the tree, is lost by the main stem now that it lies parallel to the surface of the water. What were previously branches begin to grow straight up and compete to become the new dominant leader. You can see 20-foot trees lying out horizontally over the water with new growth shooting up another 5 to 10 feet. With the low tide, it’s possible to paddle right underneath these trees and be brushed by their boughs.

Other trees do perish when they fall and become submerged. However, the demise of their role on land as photosynthesizers is only the beginning of their role as substrate for marine life—they will become a home for sessile organisms for tens of years to come. Their greenery will be replaced with encrusted legions of acorn barnacles and the periwinkle snails that graze on them. A few guests look back at me as I laugh out loud. The tree I’m paddling under is even covered in a colony of green anemone. I have to crane my neck to look up at them, and it feels so strange to have my world turned upside down, because they should be below me. They should be under my boat with the ochre sea stars, the sculpins, and the red rock crabs that canvas the crevices below for food. I look back down at the water and search for the thousands of lives that swim, scuttle, and suction their way across the seafloor. It’s not long before my view starts to become obscured by raindrops. The ripples from each drop disturb the windowpane into the watery world below, but they also force me to notice the beauty of the water itself.

Sea star clings to rock.

First is the sound. It’s like being surrounded by infinitely small bells as the raindrops hit the water’s surface. Then, as I look away from the immediate shore and back out toward the open ocean, I see what the others are looking at. The raindrops have enough force to bounce back; the surface of the water acts like a trampoline that sends a second, new drop skyward by maybe an inch. I’m not sure whether my mind is playing tricks on me, but the second droplet seems to hold itself at the water’s surface for a fraction of a second. From me to the horizon, these rebounding raindrops blink in and out of existence like silver stars living the briefest of lives before returning to the sea.

We can choose to connect with the ocean in a myriad of ways, or we can choose not to—and it can become a barrier. Many barriers are simply the limits to what we know, and much like my first trip, trust in someone else can take us beyond our limits. Trust can turn fear into awe and respect. Certainly, a lot has changed in my years of guiding, but a few things still hold true. I still take great joy in helping people cross the bridge from living by the ocean to living with the ocean. Second, there’s no better way to spend a rainy day than skirting the edge of the coastal rainforest in a kayak, paddling along the line where the forest meets the sea. If you’re wary, your skepticism isn’t unwarranted. I’ll admit that not every rainy day I’ve paddled has been as serene as my first trip, but if you’ve got a toque and a rain jacket, there’s no reason to stay home.

*Toque – For my American friends, it’s what you’d call a beanie or a hat. It’s the thing that keeps your head warm. Permit my Canadian-ness for the sake of the story.

Nat Hab Expedition Leader © Eddy Savage