The kayaking adventure that ended in a search & rescue boat

For the first time EVER, all three of our children were old enough to attend week-long camp this summer - the same week. It didn't take Luke and I long to figure out the implications of this milestone. Months ago, Luke applied for and received leave for our golden week of opportunity. The only thing remaining was to decide how best to take advantage of our time together.

Knowing Luke's thirst for outdoor adventure, I promised him I would be up for a backpacking adventure - something we hadn't done together since an epic, near-disastrous trip in 2002. Sadly, permits for the routes Luke really wanted to hike were already taken. As he mulled other options, I remembered a magazine article I had read years before about a multi-day kayaking trip in the San Juan Islands. At the time, it was filed in the mental category of, "Sounds lovely, but impossible for us." Suddenly, I realized that it wasn't impossible any more. The San Juan Islands were fairly close, and we actually had the child-free time we needed during the summer months that trips were offered. I presented the idea to Luke, and we checked on availability for the longest trip we could find. With two weeks to spare, we booked a four day, three night kayaking/camping tour of the San Juans.

Among his family and close friends, Luke is known as a man who eschews the beaten path and blazes his own untrodden routes in search of solitude and adventure. This character trait has prompted sleepless nights and fervant prayers for protection from his mother and others who love him. It has also led to a handful of gripping near-miss stories, the most famous involving a fall into a crevasse on a Swiss mountainside while Luke was alone on a glacier. Knowing that his family tends to worry when they hear he's headed towards adventure, we emphasized to them that this time, there was no reason for unease. "In case you're worried about our safety," reassured Luke in an email announcing our trip, "we're going with a professional tour group with a good safety record!"

"Heather is with you," replied his brother, Titus, with a winking emoji. "Not worried about your safety."

I appreciate Titus' touching confidence in my ability to shield Luke from danger. I fear it was sadly misplaced. We now have another story to add to Luke's storehouse of sketchy outdoor escapades.

* * * * *

The vast majority of our trip was exactly what we signed up for. We kayaked for miles in an expedition double kayak, slowly learning to pull well together and work as a team. We watched a family of seals cavorting in the kelp, and lost count of our bald eagle sightings. We delighted in the company of our six fellow voyagers and Matt, our laid-back, storytelling guide. We pitched our tent near enough to the water to hear the waves, and ate gourmet vegetarian meals we didn't have to cook.

Beautiful sunsets on Stuart Island...

Incredible campsite on Jones Island

The penultimate day even gave Luke the kind of adventure he craved. We made an open water crossing with a stiff headwind, plowing through whitecapped waves that loomed large (to our eyes, at least). Sometimes the front of our kayak would catch a little air, come crashing back down, and pitch under water. Occasionally, a wave hit us hard enough to drench me. Although I was freezing and my fingers were numb, Luke envyed my front row seat. Our fellow paddlers felt slightly uneasy at the size and strength of the waves and the current, but Luke gloried in the action. He pulled out his iPhone and kept trying (but failing) to snap a picture of our kayak diving under water after a big wave. Meanwhile I paddled alone, struggling to keep the kayak facing the waves and emploring him to put his phone away and help me again. By the time we completed the crossing and beached at our final (and most beautiful) camping spot, I was relieved and cold, and Luke was exaltant and satisfied.

Luke got a lot of pictures like this. But he never quite captured a big wave.

Our final morning began with rain. We got a later start than intended, completed our first open water crossing, then took a lingering break. Our initial plans from there were to cross straight across San Juan channel, then paddle along the coast of San Juan Island until we got to Friday Harbor (the primary harbor for the San Juans). We planned to paddle across the harbor, beach on the nearby Turn Island for a last picnic lunch, then cross a narrow channel to where a van would pick us up. Because we were running behind schedule, however, Matt made a last minute change of plans. Rather than cross San Juan channel directly and hug the shore, we would just paddle straight up the middle of the channel until we reached Turn Island. We would be paddling against a strong tidal current and into the wind, but our guide felt we were strong enough to succeed. "Ready to haul ass?" he asked me as I headed back towards my kayak at the end of the break. Yes, I was ready.

* * * * *

Ready to "haul ass" the last day (Matt, our guide, in the background)

It seemed like a fine plan. The current was strong, but not unmanageable. The clouds were scattering, the sun was peeking through, and Luke and I felt a dreamy pleasure in paddling in sync, wind in our faces, breathing in the scent of the sea. After the rough crossing of the previous day, we felt like we were pretty good paddlers. When we saw a line of white-capped standing waves appear in front of us, I felt a little excited and curious. We paddled into the outskirts of the disturbance, and I found that unlike the day before when waves came steadily towards us, this water was disorganized, with waves coming from all directions. One of them hit our kayak from the side, dumping several gallons directly into my lap. The freezing water penetrated my spray skirt and soaked my seat. Matt quickly led us out, steering us off our direct path.

"What was going on back there?" I asked him.

"It gets shallower there and the currents get weird," he explained. "I didn't like it. I wanted to get out of there." We followed him parallel to the line of standing waves, moving towards Friday Harbor, until we reached a place in which the band of turbulence looked fairly narrow and easily crossed. The kayak with the strongest paddlers, a father-son duo, began to journey across, and Matt told Luke and I to follow their line. We were just entering the white water when we heard Matt began to yell. "Keep paddling, keep paddling," he called after the father and son. His voice was edged with urgency. "Nick and Greg, just keep paddling. Don't stop! KEEP PADDLING!" We all took notice. Up to this moment, our guide was supremely laid back, the epitome of chill. It was disconcerting to hear his voice so sharp, so imperative.

I missed the exact moment that Nick and Greg's kayak capsized, but the sight of it upside-down in the middle of a washing-machine maelstrom of white water is forever etched in my memory. Time seemed to stand still until I saw both of them bob up and our guide, upright in his single kayak, at their side. Then I heard Luke's voice behind me. It held the same urgency as Matt's had a moment before. "Paddle, Heather! Paddle hard! PADDLE!"

I was glad I had a few days of paddling practice under my belt. My arm muscles had ached the first day, then hardened, and my technique had grown more efficient. For five minutes, Luke and I gave everything we had to paddling through the white, disorganized waves and whirlpools that surrounded and threatened us. Since following Nick and Greg's line appeared disastrous, Luke steered us sideways to try to escape from the turbulence. (He did not reach for his iPhone this time, even though his pictures would have been dramatic.) Finally, it appeared that we were on the edge of the problem area, tantalizingly close to peaceful water. I relaxed a little, only to see an upwelling right in front of us. It quickly became an eddy and jerked the front of our kayak down and sideways. We again paddled like crazy to stay upright and escape the eddy, only to find ourselves in another one. I fixed my eyes on a buoy that appeared to be a couple hundred meters ahead. It was surrounded by still water. If we could only get there, I thought, we could relax and float a little and figure out what to do next. Maybe I could even get out of our kayak and cling to the buoy. It looked safer. (Luke thought that was a terrible idea.) But we couldn't reach it. Like monsters from the deep, upwellings and eddies continued to appear in front of us, trapping us and drawing up back towards the turbulence that had downed Nick and Greg. After about 30 minutes of frantic paddling, we were no nearer to the buoy.

When Nick and Greg capsized, I felt sure that the rest of us were toast. Those guys were by far the strongest paddlers in our group, and had spent the entire trip in front of the group. So we were thrilled and relieved to discover, after our initial survival paddling, that the other two couples in double kayaks were miraculously upright. Just like us, they were on the edge of the turbulence, and were paddling frantically to escape from the nightmare water behind us. Every few minutes, Luke glanced back to locate Nick, Greg, and Matt. Matt was wearing a bright orange hat, and we felt slightly reassured every time Luke spotted it. Then came the awful moment, after about 20 minutes of paddling, that we couldn't see it any more.

Not only were we worried about Nick and Greg and Matt, but we felt very alone. There we were, six inexperienced kayakers in three double kayaks, in the middle of a large open channel, exhausted, paddling madly and futilely to get away from turbulence that had flipped the best paddlers of our group. We were guideless and had no means of communication. We all worried about what would happen if another kayak flipped. Luke was mentally reviewing what he knew about kayak rescue (not much). He decided that we would try to help if there was another capsize, but that the chances of us performing a successful kayak recovery in white water without flipping over ourselves were fairly low. The water was about 56 degrees and we were all wearing summer clothes with light rainjackets. With full immersion, the risk of developing hypothermia within a short amount of time was fairly high. We kept paddling. A sense of desperation began to grow in me. I eyed the whistle hanging from my life jacket and considered blowing it.

As if things weren't bad enough already, we glanced behind us again and beheld, looming up above our heads, enormous waves. They were around three or four feet tall and looked like ocean rollers. They were scary, and they were advancing towards us. We had no idea what had caused them. I was afraid that they signaled an escalation in the severity of the turbulence. We just had time to arrange the rear of our kayak perpendicular to the waves when the first one rolled under us.

Ironically, those terrifying waves from nowhere were our salvation. There were about six of them in a row, and when they had all come and gone, we realized that not only were we still upright, but we had surfed out and away from the turbulence. We were finally free of the current that was pulling us backward, and we could make progress. The other two surviving kayaks were also upright and free.

Up to this point, Luke and my only strategy was to paddle AWAY, and maybe make it to the elusive buoy that seemed to promise calm water. We didn't think beyond that. Thankfully, one of the women in our group of six remaining kayakers was able to realize that we needed more of a plan. Barb had been part of an Outward Bound program the year before, and was trained to remain calm and think strategically in emergencies. She suggested that we stay together, pick the nearest beach we could access, and paddle there.

The scary waves had carried us quite a bit closer to Shaw Island. It was nowhere near our original destination or Friday Harbor, but we could see a couple spots that looked amenable to beaching kayaks. We began paddling towards one of them.

When we were fairly near the shore, a large yacht pulled next to us and cut its engine. A gentlemen leaned over the side and asked if we were okay. We wondered what exactly it meant to be "okay". He clarified. "Are any of you having a heart attack or in imminent medical distress?" When we answered that we weren't, he declared brusquely that we were okay. We felt he was being a little unsympathetic to our plight, but before we could talk much further, another boat pulled up, this one decidedly more businesslike in appearance. "SAN JUAN COUNTY SHERIFF * FIRE" it proclaimed, in beautiful big letters. "Here's your rescue!" announced the yacht-man, before motoring away.

The crew from the rescue boat were a lot kinder and more helpful than the yacht-man. They pointed towards a beach on Shaw Island and directed us to land there. "It's university land," they warned us, "so don't leave the beach or walk around too much." I found this advice quite unnecessary. Why any of us would feel solid land under our feet and immediately desire to wander off and explore was beyond me.

As we were turning our kayaks towards Shaw Island, a second rescue boat drew near. Matt was waving to us from the deck and inside the cabin, to our immense relief, we glimpsed the figures of Nick and Greg. They were shivering and hunched over for warmth, and Nick was huddled in his sleeping bag. But they were safe. I happily set my face towards Shaw Island.

Finally, the glorious moment arrived. We ditched our kayaks, splashed onto dry land and safety, and immediately began hugging each other. We had all survived.

The very welcome Sheriff boat, beached on Shaw Island

* * * * *

The rescue boat beached next to us, and we gratefully clambered aboard. We stumbled into the interior cabin and lowered our dripping bodies into the booth. Our kayaks were loaded onto the stern and we headed off. We were giddy with relief, full of laughter and smiles. The EMS personnel aboard looked us over, determined we didn't need their help, and smiled at our euphoria. They brought out smartphones and took pictures of us, while we took pictures of them. A rescue like this only occurs about once a year, they told us.

As we motored to Friday Harbor, we crossed near the spot that had trapped us. The sight of it was sobering. It still looked insane, a crazy mix of standing waves, rollers, and eddies. One of our rescuers said he had gotten in trouble in that same spot. I felt a renewed respect for the power and mystery of open water.

Our day was far from over. It took a couple hours to unload and empty our kayaks, unpack our dry bags and repack our suitcases, and load everything onto the outfitter's trailer. Instead of the planned Turn Island picnic, we drove to the county fairgrounds and ate our last lunch with a nice view of the skateboard park and playground. Matt broke out a lovely French wine, and we toasted our survival.

At the end of our picnic we debriefed together, each one of us recounting what had just happened from our own perspective. It was nice to piece the stories together. Matt said he had encountered tricky currents in that area before, but never as rough as that day. A class 5 white-water kayaker in a maneuverable single kayak, he admitted even he had difficulty maintaining control. Even so, he had been able to right Nick and Greg's capsized double kayak and help them into it. However, the water was so rough that they were unable to bilge it. Waves kept on splashing over and refilling the seats, and the kayak remained almost completely submerged. After a few minutes of attempting recovery, Matt realized that it was impossible and radioed for assistance. It took 10-15 minutes for the help to arrive. We had missed the moment when the rescue boat fished them out, noting only that Matt's orange hat disappeared. His rescue call included us and had gone out on marine radio, which is why the yacht-man knew we might be in distress.

When we finished our storytelling, Matt apologized to us. He admitted that as a guide, he underestimated the danger posed by the currents and wind that day on the alternate route he chose for us. Even when he saw the white standing waves, he thought we could safely cross them at the place he directed us to. We were under a time constraint (we had to get to the take-out point in time for kayakers to catch afternoon ferries), and kayaking towards the coast first and hugging it would have taken quite a bit longer. So he made an error in judgment, one that put us all in jeopardy. Luke and I appreciated that fact that Matt owned his mistake. We can both think of times when we made errors in judgment, and we were so thankful that the consequences of this one presented a learning opportunity that didn't have serious consequences.

* * * * *

As we waited for the ferry to arrive in Friday Harbor that evening, I reconnected to the internet and tried to figure out what had been going on with the water. I discovered that the San Juan Islands are known for their strong currents. Our trouble spot was where not only a couple channels met, but there was also an underwater shelf, creating an area much shallower than its surroundings. Furthermore, we were in the middle of a particularly strong ebb tide - there was more than a nine foot difference between high and low tides that morning, so the current was moving very fast. Finally, there was a stiff wind. All these factors came together to create what I think is called a tide race or a massive tide rip. Some experienced sea kayakers who know how to roll and self-recover actually seek out tide races for the adrenaline rush. We were not experienced sea kayakers.

I also discovered that most kayaking deaths are caused by hypothermia, when rescue is delayed. This was definitely a risk for all of us. I was not particularly frightened in the midst of the drama - I was too focused on what I needed to do in the moment. But afterwards, I felt a little overwhelmed by what could have been, as well as startled by how an experience can transform from blissful to terrifying in the blink of an eye. Luke was even more impacted. When we departed on the ferry that evening, we sailed right across our trouble area. Luke didn't even want to remain on deck to look at it - it "gave him the willies". When I asked him if he would consider another kayak trip in the San Juans, he answered with an emphatic "NO".

We are both so thankful for the gift of returning to our children strong and unscathed. We've again learned we cannot take that gift for granted. I'm thankful that God understands my petitions even when I'm too focused on survival to put them into words. Thankful for those who pray for us, even when we assure them there's nothing to worry about. Thankful for those terrifying mystery waves from nowhere. If I had known they would save us, I would have tried to enjoy surfing them a little more.

Only a couple questions remain. Is Luke's thirst for adventure satisfied? For how long? The kids head off to camp together again in July 2018, giving us another chance. I fervently hope to have less material for stories after our next outdoor escapade. I wouldn't mind a little less terror mixed in with the delight.