The scene on the beach is bright and colorful. The purple, orange and red Gore-Tex dry suits, worn by my family and our dear friends from Germany, contrast sharply with the light grey ocean, reflecting the slightly pink and dusty dawn sky. The aqua blue and red kayaks are lined up on the beach. The diving sea birds are silhouetted against the everchanging muted morning backdrop. Excited, but a little anxious, I sit on my log, just outside of my tent, watching the preparations. Everyone has a job…mine is to conserve energy.
Well beyond insisting on helping in these situations, I accept my family’s wishes to relax and let us all enjoy our family adventures…together. “Not an option, Mom,” they tell me when I suggest staying home. “We’re not going if you’re not going, Lucinda,” as Tim finished the aggressive itinerary for our kayaking trip with our friends. My grown kids have always reminded me of the many times, decades ago in their young childhoods, when it was never an option for them to stay home when Tim and I wanted to explore. It had never been an option for them then and it was not now for me. We just needed to adjust to my limitations.
Now I follow their lead and reluctantly allow them to help me. I remember needing to dress Terra into her tiny climbing harness at age five. Now she now helps me into the dry suit, struggling to get the tight neck gasket over my thick skull. I remember teaching Craig to ski between my legs when he was three. Now he firmly takes my arm and guides me down to the beach. I remember Tim’s appreciation as I competently balanced child raising, working in Seattle, and assisting his elderly parents when he would be out of state on work trips. Now he supports me into the water and carefully holds my upper arms as I submerge into the icy ocean and burp the air out of my air-filled dry suit. The Hauser and Emmelheinz families work as a team to stabilize the boat and help me awkwardly climb into the cockpit. It’s not an option. It’s never an option. I’m going…and I’m accepting their help.
This morning, our two families are leaving our remote camp on Island 44 in the Nuchaletz Provincial National Park on the outer north coast of Vancouver Island. We had only just arrived by kayak yesterday afternoon after a water taxi shuttled us on an 18-mile route from Zaballes to Rosa Island, where we unloaded five kayaks and a weeks’ worth of gear, food and water for the two families. After a languid paddle through the rest of the Nuchaletz Inlet, we approached the back side of Island 44. The protected cove where we hoped to camp, on the other side, required us to face the rolling ocean waves and strong head winds, with only a distant reef breaking the full force of the Pacific Ocean on us. We braced our legs against the boats, bent our bodies forward, and paddled like hell. We made it.
Last night had been magical. We had set up camp, looking to the water with its shallow rocky tidepools, birds swooping down to investigate the intruders and islands in the distance. My tent had been carefully prepared with the tools required for my special needs. The extra thick sleep pad, complete with bumper edges. My nighttime baclofen in the small bag near my sleeping bag for the inevitable night spasms. A bathroom area by large rocks was prepared to provide the balance and privacy I would need. A stump was strategically placed by the door of the tent to allow my arms to help push me up, since my legs weren’t much help. I was ready for the week.
The Emmelheinz clan and my family returned from the tidepools, excited to show me what they had gathered. Their buckets were filled with intensely orange-red mini-mussels. We later gorged on the fresh steamed mollusks dipped in butter with no appetite left for our freeze-dried meals.
The sunset last night was intense, a palette melding the hues of orange, red, yellow, and magenta and showcasing the silhouettes of distant islands and sea stacks. Succumbing to the expected fatigue after the sustained effort of the day, I stayed at camp to enjoy the view from my log, hearing voices carry over the calm evening water as my family and dear friends went out in kayaks after dinner and discovered a large pod of sea otters sleeping in rafts among the kelp fields.
The nighttime rest we needed last night eluded us. I woke suddenly to Tim’s instructions to get out and move our camp. The slapping water from the ocean was only a few feet from the tent. We had miscalculated the extent of the incoming tides when choosing out tent sites. Johannes had woken Tim earlier and they had watched as the tide came in closer and closer to the sleeping campers.
Deprived of the full slumber our bodies needed to restore completely, we still woke early today. It was Day Number Seven of our carefully planned two-week trip. Despite the usual detail provided on the itinerary for each day, today’s entry simply read, “Explore, explore, explore.” So, with tide charts, a plastic covered map of both Nuchaletz and Esperanza Inlets and enough food for lunch, we are now finally launching from the beach. Soon, the camp behind us becomes smaller and smaller. It is eerily quiet with only the subtle, rhythmic sounds of paddles dipping in the water, birds squawking in the distance and a faint ten-year-old voice complaining that he is old enough to have his own kayak. We all smile. Timmy is the youngest in our group with the cocky self-assurance a typical ten-year-old has of his physical abilities. We knew it wouldn’t be long before his father will be the primary force propelling their kayak forward. In the meantime, the sky is lovely, the water smooth and the day is promising.
It will be important to pace myself during this physically demanding day. My energy is limited. I need to have it last. While kayaking, my legs will not need to carry me, but they are working while hidden under the spray skirt in the kayak. I feel the pressure of my abductors as they press to each side of the kayak, knees wedged firmly into the small space near the top outer edge of the cockpit. That pressure will be critical when turning the double kayak or if in rough water when bracing or just balancing against the waves. My weakened core needs to hold a sitting position all day. My arms need to help propel the double kayak forward. I lightly paddle, mimicking Tim’s pattern to avoid the wasted energy of excessive splashing or paddles hitting each other.
Kayaking. Not what we imagined we would do until we grew older. Yet, as my multiple sclerosis weakened my muscles progressively each year, Tim had discovered this sport to replace the mutual love of the mountains and the physical challenges of getting on, up, around, over and/or down them. To enjoy our mutual passion of the outdoors together, we needed to find alternatives to skiing, hiking, biking and climbing. His solution is kayaking and this is the result of that decision. He signed the family up for the Mountaineers Sea Kayaking class and told us afterwards! Not an option. We needed to be ready for our next family adventure.
So here we are. We have just approached the end of the cove with two choices ahead of us. To reach the first beach destination in the distance, we could opt for the smooth easy route around the bend or go a little further and ride the waves between the two sea stacks ahead. The German girls choose the first. The rest of us paddle ahead in four kayaks to the rocks ahead. Tim and I, then Johannes and Timmy, ride the swell and enter the cove in a thick floating bed of sea kelp. We hear a shriek and turn to see Terra’s boat being tossed over by a rogue wave. Before I have time to panic, Terra has done a wet exit out of the flipped kayak and is in the process of a self-rescue, Craig already alongside her boat to keep it steady and hold her paddle. Beautiful, classic textbook rescue. Our course instructor would be proud.
After a short break on the beach, Terra is warm enough to get going again, although I would have welcomed more time to build up my reserves. We decide on Catala Island in the Esperanza Inlet for lunch. It requires a lengthy open ocean crossing, but the weather is good and the rolling waves seem innocuous.
Once on the water, it is clear that the waves are much larger than they seem from shore. The exhilaration of rolling from the top of one to the bottom, looking up at a wall of water is only tempered by my need to see my kids. I exhale a breath of relief each time Craig or Terra appear as little dots on a distant roll. We paddle hard with no opportunities to sit back and give our arms a rest.
The island is finally in sight. Our anticipation helps to increase our pace and we get there in short order. The waves crash in small foamy rolls as we approach this picturesque island, the white sandy beach lined with driftwood walls, wind bent trees, and beach grass. The paddling has sapped more of my energy than expected and the boys need to help me to the sun-bleached logs up the beach. The warmth of the sun against the logs feels wonderful…to a point. However, soon the boys help me move to a shady spot after we have been basking for a half hour in the sun, the heat insidiously draining my energy. My hands fumble to unzip my suit and open my water bottle.
After a few hours, we note that in the midst of relaxing, body surfing and snacking, the water had slowly become more turbulent, roughly crashing its white caps on shore. Johannes and Tim encourage us to pack up and prepare to leave. Quickly. We pick up the pace. I look at Tim. He knows that stress increases my spasticity and instability.
“Just do your best,” he says.
It is clear that we should have left earlier. Our suits are on, the kayaks are packed and we are at the water’s edge. The breaking waves have only increased in their intensity while we were preparing to leave. I can see the men’s concern as they instruct the others to move the kayaks to a part of the beach only nominally calmer. A plan is quickly devised. Tim’s and my double kayak is the first into the water, with Johannes and Craig pushing us off. Then mother-daughter double, followed by Johannes and Timmy, and then Terra pushed off by her brother.
Finally, my first-born in his single. The unspoken question - how will he be able to push off, mount, secure his skirt and then paddle like hell through the now crashing waves on his own? We all breathe a sigh of relief as he pulls it off. Fifteen minutes later, in what seems like a lifetime, all five boats are off the island and moving slowly against a headwind. The rolling open ocean waves obscure the land cropping ahead. Our destination.
Despite paddling efficiently and hard, the land remains stubbornly distant. It is difficult to know if we were making any progress. It sure doesn’t seem so. Tim’s urging to paddle harder pushes me to do so…harder…harder…with my repetitive mantra, “you can do it, you can do it, you can do it, yes you can.” The winds prevent conversations. I catch the glances of the others as we try to stay close enough in range to see each other.
Finally, there is land…we think.
Another problem - the one we had read about when preparing for the trip. The predicted, ominous, thick fog has shrouded the water and islands, leaving visibility at barely ten feet. Plus, the tide must have gone out because the water is shallow with ridges in the sand clearly visible beneath our kayaks. Sandbars. We can barely put a paddle tip in the water. Unable to navigate visually and worried about grounding the kayaks, Tim is pulling out the plastic-covered map and his compass. Where is our island?
Honestly? I don’t care. There are seven other able bodied and smart outdoorsmen (and women) to get us home. I am toast and just want to get out of this boat and into my tent. I miss my daily afternoon horizontal session on the couch. No more paddling, no more bracing, no more thinking. I lean back, close my eyes, and lull myself into a half-sleep.
Terra shouts, “it’s over there!” when she spies our tents in the distance two islands away. The fog had lifted for a few moments. I open my eyes and our group paddles in that direction, barely avoiding the sand bar that I had missed as the team’s lookout.
Our boats finally hit land and I look at Tim, wearily letting him know that I am done, but I didn’t need to. He knows my limits and today I have exceeded them. The fatigue has reached every inch of my body. Craig holds the boat, Terra the paddles, Tim and Johannes lift me by my arms. It takes both of them to lift me out of the boat. There is no let me do it this time. There is nothing more my body can do. With their help, I am returned to my log, barely moving my legs to help the men.
Exhausted, I watch the busy group clean up our gear. My family and friends work against this vibrant backdrop of ocean, sky, seabirds, a few sea otters and a rainbow of colorful gear. I am incredibly thankful that multiple sclerosis did not stop my family from wanting to share the magic of this trip with me. Today was a wonderful adventure, each day of this trip has held new and exciting experiences as we enjoyed the beauty of coastal British Columbia.
Tim’s itinerary shows that here is more planned with kayaking, whale watching, salmon fishing and camping. More to experience, more to explore. No option except to embrace each new adventure with unquestionable support from my family and friends. What’s next?
Author: Lucinda Hauser
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