MyWestworld

Vancouver Island: Surfing the Wild Side

Posted on 28. Jul, 2009 by BCAA in BC

It takes a special breed to surf the Graveyard of the Pacific

by Brady Clarke

I turn on the boat’s VHF radio and tune in to the latest marine forecast. Last night the buoys were showing a significant, long-period swell, with the winds predicted to blow offshore at our “secret” reef break up the B.C. coast. But things change fast out on the Pacific northwest of Tofino, with big tides, unpredictable wind shifts and quick swell changes. The first few hours beyond the sandbars, kelp beds and rocks littering the inner waters of Clayoquot Sound are in sheltered seas, but the last third of our trek is an exposed, open-ocean sprint up an isolated stretch of coastline. Fortunately the forecast still looks good.

courtesy Kerry Banks

We weave around the commercial crab traps spread over every sandbar in the sound, before slipping between a barely submerged rock on the portside and two feet of water over a sandbar on the starboard. There’s just enough room to squeeze through, but I have to trust the landmarks to navigate rather than the GPS that can be up to three metres off. Even after hundreds of passes through this shortcut, I still hold my breath at the crucial moment.

“I wouldn’t be the first, or the last, to hit this unnamed rock that has claimed more propellers than I care to count.”

Rounding the point, we’re then met head on with gale force winds. It’s going to be a rough ride from here on. Still, we’re happy: the wind is directly offshore at the reef break we’re heading to. We cut the engine to put on the cruiser suits that serve as life preservers and element protectors, then slog into the one-metre chop with a rolling swell underneath.

The boat-in route isn’t the only option when surfing this coast, but other than being dropped off by seaplane, camping and waiting for the weather to be clear enough for a pickup, it’s the only way to access the quality surf up-island. Unlike the user-friendly beach breaks off Tofino, however, surfing these wilderness waves can have serious consequences. One mistake could be our last. The combination of isolation, wild Pacific weather and hypothermia-inducing cold make surfing here a balance between calculated risk and outright luck. There are many stories of close calls: overturned boats, engine failure, anchors dislodging and boats drifting out to sea.

courtesy Kerry Banks

The few surfers who have the knowledge, resources and cojones to surf up here are a relatively close-knit crew who, on occasion, have saved each others’ lives. Finding the gems – the high-quality surfable waves on a coast this jagged – is next to impossible without someone in the know passing along the coveted coordinates and landmarks. Those secrets are then held close, even within a community where most know one another.  A few Luckys at the pub won’t unlock the vault. And without intimate knowledge of this coast, its coveted waves elude even the most persistent searches. Even with the exact locales highlighted on the chart and flagged on the GPS, the conditions needed to produce both good surf and safe-enough boating conditions are rare.

We pound our way up the coast, rattling every bone in our bodies the whole way. Just when our kidneys have had enough, we spot big white plumes of spray blowing perfectly shaped overhead waves. There’s already another boat anchored in the channel, where we slowly cruise up to the break and set the anchor. I tie the stern line to a strong piece of bull kelp, then wait for a couple of sets with long, long lulls between, to ensure the anchor is holding. If we lose our boat out here we’re done for. While we wait, I pull on a five-mm wetsuit, boots and gloves.

Finally, there’s just the surf to contend with: serious, unhindered, powerful waves that rise abruptly from deep water and explode on shallow rock shelves. We jump over the gunwale and start paddling toward a perfect set of waves, the racing thoughts of how far we are from help inevitable.

“I calculate the time needed to get within VHF radio range, never mind the distance to the nearest hospital. Wave selection becomes critical.  Each drop is a heart-in-throat leap of faith.”

courtesy Kerry Banks

We paddle into the lineup as the two other surfers start the long paddle to their boat. The anticipation builds. A lump shows on the horizon – an approaching set. I’m too far inside, so I paddle hard for the outside. This is easily the biggest set we’ve seen. My pulse quickens, my heart drops. I’m in the worst possible place. I redouble my efforts, taking long, deep, efficient strokes in a race to the edge of the reef. If I make it before the wave I’ll be home free. If not I’ll be pinned to the rocks and will take the rest of the set on the head.

The wave touches bottom and rises, the lip feathering, pitching out toward shore, millions of tiny droplets suspended momentarily, then blown seaward by the offshore winds. I’ve lost the race. The wave trips over itself. Suddenly it’s bearing down on me with menace. I grip the rails of my board as tightly as I can, push my knee into the deck and sink it as deep as it will go, then begin a valiant but hopeless duck dive. Looking up into the guts of the wave about to obliterate me, I’m oddly mesmerized by its beauty. I take a deep breath and brace myself.

“The lip explodes right in front of my face. For a moment there is nothing but whiteness and the sensation of being struck by a freight train, followed by chaos. I’m somersaulting and cartwheeling, limbs akimbo.”

I cover my head. My shoulder slams into the reef, then my knee. Water rushes above me and I’m pinned to the rocks. I know not to fight it, there’s no point. The air in my lungs burns. Each second is an eternity. Finally the violence above me subsides. I kick off the reef toward the surface, now a frothy, boiling cauldron of whitewater.

So why take such risks? Because there is no way to describe what it’s like to sit 45 metres off a reef, miles and miles from even the remotest community, absolute wilderness in every direction – no evidence that the world has been touched by the hand of man. No tourists, no towns, no traffic, no houses, no power lines – hell, not even a fishing trawler puttering back to the shelter of Tofino, just me and my friends sharing perfect waves alone. Surfing becomes something else entirely – a life-altering adventure far removed from the Waikiki and southern California scene. Self-reliance is a necessity; knowledge, skill and experience far more valuable than getting more waves at the local beach. The thousands of hours, the years, spent bobbing in the sea, the money spent on gear, the jobs and relationships sacrificed, all seem worthwhile – even necessary – to snatch these fleeting moments out here in the wilderness, in the surf.

courtesy Kerry Banks

With a nod toward the channel, we start our own long paddle back to the boat. Near the anchorage, the kelp beds thicken, making paddling all the more difficult. The bull kelp grabs at our legs and leashes – it feels as if we’re paddling in porridge. Three hours in the water, and we’re exhausted, cold and hungry. Thankfully the anchor has held, despite the strong ebb tide. I undo my leash and gently place my board in the boat, leaving barely enough energy to haul myself back over the gunwale. We de-suit and pull on dry, warm clothes and cruiser suits. My hands are numb, even with the five-mm wetsuit gloves I’ve been wearing, but I manage to turn the key and the outboard comes to life. We breathe a small sigh of relief. The campsite and protected anchorage is still half an hour away and the seas are building and the wind is rising. If all goes well, we’ll be able to set up camp before dark. We cruise without speaking, with only the drone of the outboard and the slap of the boat as it falls into each wave’s trough to disrupt the silence. After what feels like an eternity, we pull into a sheltered bay with a rocky cobblestone beach that drops off abruptly. Cold, damp wetsuits are put back on; dry bags are packed and unloaded, and all of the camp gear paddled to shore. After a brief scouting of the campsite, we pitch tents and hang the food in a nearby spruce. We’ll probably have a few late-night visits from black bears, and we don’t want them eating our supplies. It’s also not uncommon to wake and find wolf prints around the tent. Thankfully, when we’re out here, we’re usually too exhausted to lose too much sleep over the wildlife.

We hang wetsuits over some driftwood; there’s not enough light left in the day for them to dry, but with any luck they won’t be frosty in the morning. I quickly turn on the handheld VHF radio to check the battery and listen to the marine forecast. It sounds as if tomorrow should be as good as today. I’m sure to double-check that I’ve turned it off. The radio is our only connection to safety and help should we need it.

We get a good fire going – even in this coastal rainforest environment, the driftwood burns well. We heat up the salmon caught earlier and wash it down with cold beer. The sun dips below the horizon somewhere out over the vast Pacific, and suddenly the sky turns on the night lights. There are more stars out here than I remember seeing. A couple of steps into the forest, though, and I’m surrounded by absolute darkness. This is a vast and primordial wilderness and it’s very much alive. There is more biomass here per square foot than anywhere else on earth: gigantic old-growth Sitka spruce, hemlock and western red cedars, the ground spongy, green and alive, not an inch without something growing or decomposing.

“It’s not difficult to imagine we’ve stepped back in time a couple of thousand years.”

courtesy Kerry Banks

Back by the fire, the smoke is blowing offshore – if it keeps up the waves will be perfect tomorrow.  Conversation flows easily as the night grows older. We talk the way surfers do, of travel, waves, love and adventure.  Not much is said about the day, not much is needed. These moments, as brief and as rare as they are, as difficult as they are to obtain, are what it’s all about. They’re the moments we’ll reflect on for the rest of our years.

Photographs: Kerry Banks.

Tags: Surfing, Tofino, Vancouver Island