haidagwaii
ocean during a storm. He’s cling- ing to a little yellow rubber raft, the camera pans away, and all you see is this little speck bobbing up and disappearing behind moun- tains of water in the middle of the sea. That’s what it felt like watch- ing Todd and the Keith, their kay- aks seeming more like little paper boats made by children. Trying to draw focus away from
the growing knot of fear in my gut, I looked ahead at the beehive- shaped island that indicated the entrance to Puffin Cove. Grip- ping the paddle shaft so tightly I thought it would shatter in my hands, I crushed every stroke like it was my last.
Time ground to a halt, our destination only a dream. Though
we were hauling ass, it felt like we were paddling on a treadmill. Every time I looked up, the distant cove remained static. If I let the waves take me, I’d instantly surf seven metres
down the face and pound into the trough at the bottom, sub- merging my kayak halfway. The best thing to do was backpad- dle when the wave broke from behind, let it wash over and then stroke like mad before the next one broke. We all tried to stay close—but not too close, as we could end up harpooning each other with our boats.
Time ground to a halt, our destination only a dream. Though we were hauling ass, it felt like we were paddling on a treadmill.
After 40 minutes that seemed like 400, the biggest, baddest
wave appeared just as we were about to turn into the lee of Puffin Cove. With Todd and Keith just behind me, a behemoth that was literally 20 metres wide and who knows how high passed underneath and then broke only 10 metres ahead of us in one simultaneous explosion that seemed to turn the entire ocean white. It was a little bon voyage kiss from the North Pacific. Moments later we were in Puffin Cove. A narrow channel brought us into a placid lagoon and our
jaws dropped. Encircled by perfect powder sand and protected by an amphitheatre of rock, it was like we’d entered Fantasy Is- land. I half expected a flock of bronzed women in hula skirts to run down to the beach, greet us with hugs and put leis around our necks. At any moment Ricardo Montalban would appear in his white suit to welcome us while diminutive Tattoo would cry out, “THE KAYAKS! THE KAYAKS!” The Careys were Americans who sought out a life away from
the hustle and bustle of California. After years of searching, they found Puffin Cove. Their cabin is still there, fully intact af- ter 40 years, perched up on a bluff in the corner of the lagoon. Incurable beachcombers, they accumulated piles of fish floats, buoys, glass balls and other flotsam and jetsam that remain stashed around the foundation.
Waves near Cape Freeman, Moresby Island
Gale-time reading at the Careys’
In rainforests even marshmallows grow bigger 38 || Adventure Kayak spring 2006
†
KEITH KLAPSTEIN
FRANK WOLF
KEITH KLAPSTEIN
LORENZO DEL BIANCO
FRANK WOLF
~
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