Category Archives: BC kayaking

Midwinter Paddling: to the Pasley Islands in Howe Sound, BC

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January 21, 2024

The relentless icy rain this Sunday morning was pretty uninspiring. But we thirteen Jericho Beach Kayak guides had committed to a group daytrip weeks before. So we had a certain professional pride (plus a gender-neutral machismo) that dissuaded any of us from chickening out in front of our peers.

We waded through a small ice-water lake in front of the Jericho Beach Kayak hut to schlep the boats out to the roof racks waiting on our vehicles (the prudent—or at least the so-equipped—of us had heeded EJ’s suggestion to bring boots for this portage.)

Our little car convoy made fine time to the Horsebay Ferry Terminal, and caught the 10AM something boat across to Nex̱wlélex̱wm/Bowen Island. Enroute, we had a quick huddle in the passenger lounge to confirm launching, the paddle plan and radio channels.

final pre-paddle briefing on the ferry

As if to reward us for our perseverance, the rain stopped just as we launched from Tunstall Bay at noon. On the cliffy south side of the bay, a frozen waterfall testified to the unseasonably cold weather of the previous week.

Ice, ice, baby! A frozen waterfall on the south side of Tunstall Bay
Enroute to Worlcombe Island

As we approached Worlcombe Island, we could see vast flocks of large birds gyring above the treetops. They proved not to be vultures lurking for under-prepared kayakers, but eagles young and old. (They’re clearly visible at this point in my buddy Mike’s video of our outing.)

Along the north side of Worlcombe Island

We alit a little after 1PM in a small bay at the southwest tip of Pasley Island. In summer, I wouldn’t bother firing up a stove for lunch, but in winter, it’s nice to stoke the inner fires with pre-warmed fuel. So my trusty WindBurner stove came into play. It was not only mucho fast but also provided much amusement for my tripmates, as the vast clouds of steam made it look like I was either improvising a sauna or preparing to do a magician’s disappearing act.

It being the offseason, the homes on the upland above our picnic spot were not occupied. This was fortunate, since it meant that those of us who lined up facing the southern rockwall to take the necessary pre-launch precautions to ensure our drysuits would remain dry for the next leg of the voyage were not accosted by irate cottagers. 

On an offshore rock near the northwest tip of Pasley, we spotted a bleached white skeleton. This was not a kayaker who’d been marooned by an insufficiently secured boat, but a brilliant bit of sculpture installed by an unknown artist for the delight of passing boaters. It even included an appropriately wind-tattered pirate flag.

Somewhere between our boney friend’s reef and Mickey Island, the rain began to fall intermittently. But it had held off for our lunch stop and was pretty tolerable while we were buttoned up in our boats and pumping out body heat with every stroke.

As we bobbed in the lee of Mickey Island, confirming our course home and who was leading the next leg of the trip (me, as it happened), swooping and diving seagulls just off the point on Pasley Island south of us showed something was afoot (or perhaps, afin). And as we got nearer, swirls and splashes from beneath the sea, like reversed raindrops, confirmed that fish were being herded up from below. Sure enough, enormous thick brown necks suddenly broke the surface, accompanied by huffs and snorts. (As an aside: I’ve been within paddle-poking distance of Orca more than once over the years, but I continue to be more wary of sealions than killer whales. Still, I comforted myself with the idea that if they decided they were tired of seafood and wanted a little red meat, the odds were only one in thirteen I’d be dinner!) The sealions are best visible at this mark in Mike’s video.

Switching leaders once more at the western tip of Worlcombe, we handrailed along its south shore, encountering more sealions on route. They proved pretty camera-shy, appearing only in the distance anytime I had my Go-Pro in hand.

along the south shore of Worlcombe Island

We landed back in Tunstall Bay a bit after 4PM, with a rain falling so steadily I opted not to change out of my drysuit, but to drive to the ferry terminal still wearing it.

The last of us rolled onto the five-something ferry just moments before it sailed, as if it were our own personal, private transportation. Upstairs in the passenger lounge, we ambushed one of our number, whose birthday it happened to be, with donuts and singing.

After offloading the boats back at Jericho Beach Kayak, we supped at the Wolf And Hound. It’s amazing how many of our adventures end there. It’s almost become our off-season office!

The fabulous thirteen!
a chart of Bowen Island and the Pasley Islands in Howe Sound, British Columbia, showing the route of our kayak daytrip
the route of our daytrip

Thanks to all my colleagues for the pleasure of their company, and to Mika, Chris, Natalie, Tomo, Warren, and EJ for sharing pictures for this post.

Guiding Light: 2023 Jericho Beach Kayak staff trip to Halkomelem: səl̓ilw̓ət (Indian Arm)

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One of the things I love about working as an instructor-guide with a raft of mostly younger colleagues is the chance to spark off their energy and enthusiasm. But at work, the longest paddles we typically do together are day trips. So getting away for three days and two nights up Halkomelem: səl̓ilw̓ət with many of them gave me a chance to feel like I could pay things back a little by demonstrating some campcraft, backcountry cooking and compass navigation to co-workers who might not have done a lot of kayak touring.

Read more: Guiding Light: 2023 Jericho Beach Kayak staff trip to Halkomelem: səl̓ilw̓ət (Indian Arm)

June 9, 2023

Having swung by Jericho Beach Kayak to pick up boats, we arrived at Deep Cove mid morning. I, like several others, was waffling back and forth about whether to bring my wetsuit or my drysuit on this trip. At the present, it was cool and cloudy, with showers predicted, but it was scheduled to get warmer and dryer later in the weekend. In the end, I opted for the drysuit, which proved to be the right choice. At least mostly.

Launching at Deep Cove
Heading out of the Cove. Note the marine sighting compass tucked under my decklines.
Tethering up the boats at the Twin Islands dock

As we lunched on the Twin Islands, the rain began to patter down. Shortly after we left the Islands, it upgraded to full showers, with a following wind. I’d stowed a folding sail on the back deck of my boat (I was paddling a kayak borrowed from JBK, and suspected my boss would not appreciate me drilling holes in it to mount a permanent sail, so the clip-on Windpaddle Sail it was.) My cunning plan had been to effortlessly cruise past, or at least alongside, my colleagues. But with the cloud, the wind was not the strong atabatic it would have been on a sunny day, so my sailing was significantly slower than I’d hoped. In the end, I did a series of leapfrogs – sailing until I was a few hundred meters behind the pack, then sprinting with the paddle to catch up, then taking a sailing break again, and so on. The end result was me landing pretty much with the pod at Granite Falls in the late afternoon.

Running through the wind and rain. Croker Island is faintly visible in the distance.

On this rainy Friday night, there were only a few other campers, which gave us a nice selection of sites. Some of our group doubled up tents on one pad, since we suspected the Inn would be much fuller tomorrow (we knew at least three more of our own group would be joining us.)

Landing at Granite Falls, Indian Arm, British Columbia
multi-person portage at Granite Falls

EJ, our fearless leader, had rigged the kitchen-dining tarp by the time I had set up my tent and changed into shore wear. Very necessary as the rain was falling heavily now. Audrey was my meal mate for making the group supper this first night, and was very patient with chopping vegetables (I was making this dish, but with the Chorizo fried separately to be added downstream by the non-vegetarians in our group.) I also managed to subcontract grating the Parmigiano Reggiano to Mika, which left me free to concentrate on toasting the pine nuts, frying the veggies in proper order and boiling a huge pot of pasta. It looked like a lot, but eight hungry kayakers made short work of it. Good thing I’d also brought a strawberry-rhubarb pie to heat in the Outback Oven. And hot custard to pour over it.

June 10, 2023

It continued to pour heavily through the night, so I was glad of the overtarp on my tent. The precip lightened off by the morning, but we were still glad of the kitchen tarp as we enjoyed oatmeal with a range of toppings, courtesy of Chris and Mika.

Paddling past Granite Falls

Then it was to the boats and off to the mouth of the Indian River. We’d planned to arrive at near high tide in order to get as far up the river as possible. With EJ demoing, the group got to practice paddling in currents. Though I used to run whitewater back in the day, being in an unfamiliar boat with a rather loose skirt, I opted to eddy out just below the sandbar the rest of the group made it to, and go birdwatching while they walked further upstream. During all this, we got the call on my VHF from the trio that were joining us today – Natalie, Maggie and Mark. I was pretty impressed that the handheld radios worked with us so far up the river.

Entering Indian River

After the exploration, we ran effortlessly downstream. The falling tide had made the river significantly more boney than it had been on our way in, but we got to a sandbar in the estuary without anything more serious than some sacrificed gelcoat. There Lyra and EJ laid out a beautiful buffet lunch for us. I got a chance to demonstrate a marine sighting compass and the use of a modified Douglas protractor to the group. After a bit of a learning curve with the sighting compass, the group did plot an LOP off the west side of Croker Island that put us where we already knew we were (how awkward if it had been otherwise!)

lunch at the Indian River buffet

On the way home, we both played and learned, experimenting with a variety of old and new strokes. Back at Granite Falls, as we’d expected, there’d been a massive population explosion, but everyone was being considerate of one another, and no-one was operating loud musical devices. (A sensible precaution, as it has been known for boom boxes at backcountry campsites to fall in the water, even from well up on shore. Funny that.) Natalie and Alex fed us to repletion on amazing ramen.

Paddlers in the hood

Mark is a stand-up guy!

June 11, 2023

Sunday lived up to its name, dawning clear and dry. I helped Marc and Maggie configure the campstoves to set up a pop-up IHOP, with excellent pancakes and a wide selection of toppings, including whipped cream! To tamp down breakfast, Alex led us all in some improvised yoga paddle warm-ups.

a magnetic tool with grains of local ferrous rock stuck to it.
This little magnetic stove tool is made to plunge the jet cleaner needle up and down. Turns out it’s also great for identifying ferrous rocks!
yoga posers
Sunday morning service

Natalie chills out on a water bed

Even with my lightest layers on under the drysuit, it would have been a boil-in-bag experience save for the fact I was wearing a Mustang Hudson suit, with a neck seal that could be loosened for a bit of ventilation.

We frolicked down the east side of Croker Island, with Marc and EJ giving us an on-water clinic on the use of cross-bow draws and hanging draws to slip along right next to the rock walls. Just off Silver Falls, the water was thick with Lion’s Mane jellyfish, including one monster that must have been a couple of feet across.

big ass jellyfish

As we made our way south, the kind-hearted Mika fished a winged warrior out of the water, where it had somehow crash-landed and stuck. With its wings dry, it was able to take off again from our lunch stop.

With the sun out, the inflow wind rose steadily as we clawed our way towards Thwaythes Landing for lunch. (Where was that wind a couple of days ago when I needed it to race north to Granite Falls?) Elaine and Rita laid out a zesty tortilla wrap buffet for lunch. Since I’d been lagging significantly behind the group just prior to lunch, I opted to launch earlier than them after lunch to get a head start and not hold the fleet back. (By prior arrangement, we were in touch on Channel 69 on the VHF.) Though I was nominally the navigator for the fleet, they assured me they were capable of “keeping the land on the right” until they reached Deep Cove. And so it proved.

Thwaythes Landing

By hugging the shore and finding back eddies from the wind, I made pretty good time back to Deep Cove, maintaining my 30 minute lead. The sea just in front of Deep Cove beach looked like a pond of mutant water lilies, with paddlecraft and inflatable rafts of every colour and size wafting about under varying degrees of directional control.

I tried to put my advance landing to use by running to Honey Donuts, hoping to greet the main invasion force on the beach with a box of a dozen gooey treats. But the weekend line-up was insanely long, so I instead grabbed a quick shower and fetched my car back from the long term parking.

It was evening by the time we got back to the Jericho Sailing Association, offloaded boats, and headed home in that happily weary way that ensures a sound sleep and sweet dreams.

Thanks to all my colleagues for sharing their knowledge, the pleasure of their company, and their photos!

April Showers bring… April showers

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April 7, 2023

We’d laid plans for this trip with an Option A (Howe Sound/Átl’ka7tsem) and an Option B (Indian Arm/Nuth Khaw Yum Provincial Park). The predicted winds made Howe Sound sound rather too exciting, especially given that if we were crossing from Porteau Cove to the Islets View site, we’d have the wind and waves on the beam coming and going.

Rack n’ Roll: securing boats to the trusty Subaru
Read more: April Showers bring… April showers

So Indian Arm it was. Rhian and I swung by the Jericho Sailing Association compound to grab our boats, then met our accomplices, Paul and Nessa, at the Deep Cove put-in. A light drizzle washed us as we loaded and launched. 

Paul and Nessa snap a selfie at the Deep Cove put-in as Rhian and I demonstrate precision kayak maneuvers in the background.

Things cleared a bit as we made our way down the Arm, becoming what the Irish would call “soft”. Scraps of blue sky even appeared, lulling us into a false sense of security.

We paused to frolic briefly in the currents below Silver Falls, then pressed on.

Premature Exhilaration: Paul and I celebrate the blue sky. North Twin Island is visible on the horizon behind my outstretched left arm.
Sea kayak siren self-portrait: Rhian’s selfie


The rain held off as we landed at Bishop Creek (Berg’s Landing) in the late afternoon, letting us all rig both our tents and the overtarps for them. It began to foreshadow the coming deluge as we rigged the kitchen-dining tarp.

Nessa and I approach Bishop Creek/Berg’s Landing on the left. Croker Island is visible just beyond us.
Overtarps are de rigueur in heavy rain to reduce interior condensation in tents. So de rigger set’em up!
Paul and Nessa’s backcountry pied-à-terre. Happily, the grey overtarp I lent them accessorized well with their tent, else I’m sure they would have refused it.

Fortunately, the group consisted of seasoned outdoor folk, who understand that when it comes to weather, things are what they are. Plus, we had brought a lot of good cheer (mostly of the fermented-red-liquid-in-bags kind.) And, as this group’s now-traditional dessert, we heated a pie in the Outback Oven until it was as warm as though fresh-baked, and drizzled it with hot custard. 

April 8, 2023

Throughout the night, the temperature continued to fall, as did the rain. In fact, it cranked up to a volume that made last evening’s showers look like a desultory drizzle. Even landing on the tarp above the tent canopy, it drummed loud enough to preclude sleep. So I stuck in my ear plugs – not usually a recommended procedure in bear country, but honestly, unless Brother Bruin were clashing cymbals to herald his approach, I’d never have heard him over the rain anyway.

I was on breakfast duty and had massively underestimated the time needed to cook a “full English” for everyone in the group. It could only have gone slower if I’d started by planting the potatoes and fattening the pigs. Fortunately, no-one was in any hurry to leave the sheltering tarp, so the meal evolved into a leisurely “full English brunch”, washed down with endless cups of tea and coffee.

Camp kitchen, complete with cold and colder running water (under your feet)!

The ground under the kitchen tarp had gone from fairly damp last night to full swamp this morning. Fortunately everyone had waterproof pants for kneeling to cook or fill plates, and full-frame, above-the-flood chairs for actually eating.

By this point, all of us were wearing every layer we had when outside our tents, and counting our blessings that we’ll all brought winter-weight sleeping bags, pads and clothing. Entering and exiting the tents involved elaborate doffing or donning rituals that would have looked familiar to a hard-hat commercial diver. Vapour hung in the air with our every breath.

In the afternoon, Paul and Nessa, ever the bold and energetic ones, launched for a daytrip to Granite Falls. Rhian went on a wet weather photo safari, finding the beauty in the rain. I did likewise in my own way, hanging out under the tarp and admiring the way the swirling low clouds concealed and then revealed the various peaks and crannies in the fjord walls opposite our camp. And I pondered an additional point I would emphasize to the students in my Online Trip Planning Class: in the Marine Weather class, we typically talk about the importance of being dressed appropriately for whatever on-water (and possibly in-water) conditions prevail. But frankly, if everyone in our group had not been equipped with not just drysuits and appropriate layers, but winter-weight shore wear and sleeping equipment, we’ve have at best been trying to call a water taxi for the trip home and at worst needed to be medi-vaced for hypothermia.

Supper was tamped down with our also now-traditional hot Auntie’s Puddings and custard. (Are you sensing a theme here?)

April 9, 2023

Wanting to be back home at a reasonable hour for what promised to be several days of drying tarps, tents and selves, we’d agreed the night before to aim for a 9:30AM launch. Typically this means we’d actually launch nearer 10ish. But we were all apparently very motivated, and were sliding the boats off the cobbly, shelly beach at the appointed hour. Even with all four on each boat for the portage from the loading station to the water, we all walked very gingerly – one slip on the slimy, lumpy and shifty rocks would have been an excellent way to twist an ankle or break a leg.

Undamped spirits or contagious rictus? We Report; You Decide.
Rhian and Nessa model this winter’s must-have kayak cruise wear. From the high (and watertight) necklines to the little-black-cockpit skirts, they’re sure to make a splash wherever they go!

My three companions, all younger than me, set a smart pace back to base. At first, I kept up well, and was even in the lead for a bit. But gradually, I fell behind. If there had been a Captain Oates Award For Best Straggler, I’d have been a shoe-in. Fortunately, the situation was not quite dire enough for the others to suggest I go outside for some time. Besides, we already were outside.

About an hour out of Deep Cove, we got hammered by a headwind squall and blinding rain. In the low vis, I mistook two other paddlers who were bee-lining for their shoreline cottages as Paul and Nessa, and wound up paddling for sometime at a tangent to the rest of the group. But once the weather cleared, we re-united.

On the final leg to Deep Cove, the wind shifted, and I kept hoping I would get a least a sail assist to catch up with my friends. But the wind just toyed with me – repeatedly inviting me to rig the sail, glide through the water for a few seconds, then dying off. My companions were remarkably patient with all this faffing about. And even with it, we landed at Deep Cove shortly after noon.

The rain continued to fall so hard that Rhian and I simply stayed in our drysuits for the drive back to Jericho and dropping off our boats. Even with the wipers on full blast, the windshield often looked as though it were iced over. The heavens poured one last contemptuous dump on us as we offloaded the kayaks. And naturally, as I drove Rhian home from Jericho, the showers ceased and the sun began to peek coyly out from behind the clouds. That sun of a bi …!

Big thanks to Rhian, Paul and Nessa for sharing their companionship and photos!

Sea Kayak Navigation: Plotting Your Position With A Compass

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In an earlier post, we discussed how to use a chart and compass to find a compass bearing we could follow to a desired destination. But all those techniques for heading somewhere new require us to know where we are now. As any kayaker who’s ever done a longer crossing or paddled along a featureless shoreline can confirm, it’s easy to lose track of your precise location. How do we find it again? 

First, a quick detour into a concept called a Line Of Position (LOP). You’ve almost certainly used LOPs before, even if you didn’t call them LOPs. If you were wandering around a city (for example, Vancouver, British Columbia) with a paper street map, you might have known you were somewhere on Granville Street, but not sure where along Granville. So you walked down to the next corner and checked the signs for the cross street. Finding it was Broadway, you now knew your exact location: the intersection of Granville and Broadway. Each of those streets served as one LOP for you. Where the two LOPs intersected was your location.

A section of roadmap showing the intersection of Broadway and Granville in Vancouver, British Columbia. Demonstrating the concept of Lines Of Position.
Granville Street is one Line Of Position. Broadway is a second Line Of Position. Where they intersect is your location. See, you’re already a navigator!

To determine our location when sea kayaking, we do exactly the same thing: we find the intersection of two or more LOPs. The only difference is that we use lines other than streets as our LOPs.

Even for novice kayak navigators, there’s one Line Of Position that’s so obvious you’ve probably used it without even thinking about it: the shoreline. (Yes, most shorelines are curvy and crinkly rather than straight. But there’s no requirement that every Line Of Position be a straight line. In my hometown of Vancouver for example, Kingsway Road has lots of jinks and bends, but I can still use it to clearly define a position such as “the intersection of Kingsway and Broadway.”)

Bendy LOPs? No problem: where they intersect is still your position.

So, if we only ever intend to navigate along shorelines, why would we ever need a second LOP?

Imagine you and I and several friends are kayaking close alongside the southwest shore of North Pender Island, admiring the undersea flora on the rock wall and petting the passing Orca. Distracted by all this merriment, we’ve lost track of how much time we’ve spent paddling vs drifting. Plus, the tricky currents on this coast have sped us up or slowed us down unpredictably. So now all we’re sure of is that we’re somewhere between Boat Nook and Smuggler’s Nook. We need a second LOP to show us exactly where between those points.

A section of marine chart, showing the lines of magnetic North drawn in with red, to allow plotting Lines Of Position without adding or subtracting for compass variation.
A section from CHS Chart #3441. Look for Canoe Rock (below the purple compass rose) and Pelorus Pt (on the right/East side of Moresby Island). The red lines I’ve drawn in point to magnetic North, 16° East of truth North. (Why 16° East? The purple compass rose shows true North, magnetic North as of 2005, and a predicted change in the magnetic variation of 8’ Westward annually. So in in the 18 years since 2005, the variation is predicted to have reduced by 2° 24’ (18 years x 8’ = 144’ or 2° 24’). The variation in 2005 was 18 1/2° or 18° 30’. Subtracting 2° 24’ from that gives us 16° 6’ East. This matches pretty closely with the 15° 46’ East predicted for this area by the online declination calculator. We can round either figure to 16° East for practical purposes.)

To lay out a second LOP, we need to take a compass sighting (AKA a bearing) from any clearly identifiable location shown on the chart and visible from where we are in the real world. A lighthouse, the tip of a cape, one side of a known island, or a distinctive mountain peak would all be excellent options. 

Looking out to sea from Pender Island, we find a highly distinctive landmark to take a bearing from: the red-and-white marker on Canoe Rock. Even better, it’s at roughly a right angle to the shoreline. (It’s a good habit to pick your landmarks so that your LOPs meet at as near to right angles as possible; this creates a much clearer intersection point than sharp acute angles or almost parallel obtuse angles.)

Taking a bearing from a real-world object (in this case, the orange thingie representing the marker on Canoe Rock) using a hiker’s/orienteering compass. Step 1. Holding the compass as level as possible, aim the Direction Of Travel arrow towards the landmark. Pro tip: this is much easier and more accurate if your body is facing the landmark. Which means your boat should also be pointing in at least the general direction of the landmark. Notice that at this time, the compass bezel dial is in a random direction relative to the magnetic compass needle, with the N (for North) on the bezel not aligned with the red needle tip. 
Taking a bearing from a real-world object using a hiker’s/orienteering compass, Step 2. While keeping the Direction Of Travel arrow aimed at the landmark, twist the bezel dial until the meridian lines in the bottom have put “Fred in the shed” — that is, the red box on the bottom of the bezel is enclosing the red half of the magnetic needle, and the N on the bezel is directly in front of the red needle tip. Read off the degrees at the Read Bearing Here indicator. In this case, the bearing to Canoe Rock is 224°. (BTY, if this whole process feels exactly the same as taking a bearing to a visible landmark you want to paddle to following a compass course, that’s because…it is!)

Great. We have our bearing off Canoe Rock. So now what? So now, we’re going to transfer that bearing into an LOP on our chart.

A section of marine chart with a hiker's compass, bezel parallel to the lines of magnetic North. Showing how to draw a Line Of Position on a chart.
Using a hiker’s compass to transfer a bearing onto a chart as an LOP. We keep the bezel dialed to 224°, from when we “shot” our bearing to Canoe Rock. Keeping the meridian lines on the bottom of the compass bezel as parallel as possible to the red magnetic North lines on the chart, we put one edge of the compass baseplate on the Canoe Rock landmark on the chart. That baseplate edge is now a Line Of Position. Where that LOP intersects the shoreline is our location. In this case, the baseplate doesn’t quite reach to Pender Island, so we extend the LOP by eye and pencil it in. (Notice that we don’t care about where the compass needle is pointing now: we’re just using the compass bezel and baseplate as a protractor.)

Woot! We are unlost! We are right where the shoreline (the first LOP) and the bearing from Canoe Rock (the second LOP) meet. High fives everyone! 

BUT…

We took that compass bearing with a hand-held land compass from the cockpit of a kayak rocking in the waves (landing to take the bearing wasn’t an option on the cliffy shores). And we extended that LOP by eye from where we ran out of compass baseplate. So there have been lots of opportunities for errors to creep in. How can we cross-check our apparent position? By determining a third LOP.

Happily, our pod of paddlers includes the excellently-equipped Greta Geerweenie, so we can not only shoot an entirely separate landmark, we can do so using a more accurate instrument. Because Greta’s kayak boasts a deck compass, aligned with the keel line of her kayak. So to take a bearing, she simply aims the bow of her boat toward her chosen landmark (Pelorus Point on the east side of Moresby Island), and reads the bearing in degrees at the lubber line.

A model kayaker with a real, full-sized marine compass pointing towards a marker. Showing how to take a bearing on a landmark with a deck-mounted kayak compass.
Taking a bearing with a deck-mounted marine compass. With the kayak pointing towards the real-world landmark (the orange thingie now representing Pelorus Point), we read the bearing directly from the black “lubber line.” In this case, it’s 172°. (No bezel twisting required. Because instead of the needle on a hiking/orienteering compass, a marine compass has a floating, degree-marked dial that rotates to line up with local magnetic North.)

But Greta’s opportunities to flaunt her superior gear don’t end with the deck compass. Now it’s time to transfer the bearing she shot onto the chart as that third LOP. Rather than roughing it with the hiker’s compass, she whips out her modified Davis Protractor, complete with String™ that extends much further than the baseplate on a hiker’s compass.

A chart with string-added Davis Protractor. Showing how to use the string as a Line Of Position to determine your location based on a compass bearing to a known landmark.
Using a string-equipped Davis Protractor to transfer a bearing onto a chart as an LOP. Position the protractor’s centre point over the landmark we took the bearing on (Pelorus Point). Pivot the protractor until its North-South grid lines are parallel to the red magnetic North lines on the chart. Pull the string taut across the degree reading we got with the compass (172°) on the outside edge of the protractor. Where the string intersects the shoreline is our location. Reassuringly, it’s pretty much the same place as the LOP from the first landmark showed us. (And remember how we said we don’t care about where the compass needle is pointing for this step? The Davis Protractor doesn’t even have a compass needle to distract us!)

We won’t always be paddling with a Greta Geerweenie. But we still can (and should) cross-check our plotted position wherever possible by shooting at least two landmarks as bearings and bringing them down onto our chart as LOPs, even if we’re only using a humble hiker’s compass for everything. It’s also true that in the real world, our multiple LOPs won’t usually intersect with the suspiciously perfect agreement they have in this story: typically they’ll form a triangle. You’ll know you’re somewhere inside that triangle, and as long as it’s small enough, it will be good enough for navigation purposes.

A PLOT TWIST!

Clever readers (which is all of you, of course) will have realized something: once we’ve intersected two or more LOPs based on compass bearings, we don’t need the shoreline LOP anymore to know where we are. That’s exactly how bigger, deeper boats, who need to stay further from the shore than kayaks, do it. And exactly how you can do it as you graduate from simple shoreline paddling to longer crossings. There are even other compass-free LOPs you can use when away from the shore. But we’ll save those for another post.

And that “another post” is now up here.

Different Angles On Sea Kayak Compass Navigation

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If you’ve done any map/chart and compass navigation at all, you’ve wrestled with the inconvenient truth: with some very limited local exceptions, in most parts of the world, the needle on your compass does not point to the true North pole (the Northern tip of the axis around which the Earth revolves, also known as the geographic North pole); instead, that needle usually points to the magnetic North pole. Sort of. Because what that needle is actually doing is aligning itself with the local magnetic field of the Earth. And those local fields are heavily influenced by currents and counter-currents in the sea of molten iron that swirls far below the Earth’s outer crust.

kayak deck compass with sail reflection
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Shoulder season on the Sound: Hotham Sound

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September 30, 2021

During the drive to Earl’s Cove, heavy rain showers coated the winding road with sheets of water a centimeter deep at times. It was uninspiring, but by the time we arrived at the ferry terminal, it had cleared.

As we approached Saltery Bay on our second ferry ride of the day, we could see Freil Falls (AKA Harmony Falls) in the distance off the starboard side. Shortly afterward, the ferry crew announced whales cavorting off the port side. I snapped a couple of photos of the “you can’t quite make it out, but this black blur is a whale” variety.

The Falls in the distance
A humpback whale spyhops in the distance

By the time we’d landed it was late afternoon. Packing the boats for the first time on any trip always involves a couple of hours of faffing about, especially when you have to go park the car several hundred meters from the put-in after offloading. So we opted to car camp at Mermaid Cove that night, and make a single hop, all by daylight, to our intended destination at Elephant Point the next day.

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The Trip That Wasn’t (Part 2)

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August 20, 2001

Though I had set my watch alarm for 6:30AM, when my bladder alarm went off at 3:30AM, the wind was howling fiercely through the trees and the barometer had continued to fall. I switched off the clock alarm and slept in until 8AM – which was fine: as it turns out the wind continues to blow against me and whitehorses gallop north through the passage as far as the eye can see.

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The Trip That Wasn’t (Part 1)

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August 13, 2001

Just getting to the put-in at Prince Rupert from Vancouver has proven to be an epic. I’d driven up from Vancouver to Port Hardy and camped at the Wildwood Campground. The Port Hardy to Prince Rupert ferry which was supposed to leave at 7:30AM on Sunday, August 12, had engine troubles. On the plus side, this meant I didn’t have to get up at 4:30AM to hike from the campground to the ferry terminal. Having driven over to the terminal at 7:30 and dropped my kayak and equipment, I drove back to the campground to park my car long term, and caught a lift back to the terminal in the RV of a friendly Dutch family I’d been chatting with the evening before. 

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Valhalla Warrior: Solo Kayaking And Hiking On Slocan Lake, Part 1

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July 9, 2003
The shuttle driver from Smiling Otter dropped me off with my boat and gear at the north end of Slocan Lake at about 13:00 hours. The weather was lovely and sunny.

The first few hundred yards of paddling was past beautiful summer cottages. Beneath the emerald water, I saw what I’m speculating might be Asian Milfoil growing on the bottom – a corkscrewed shape, like a drill or auger. The branches of an evergreen freshly toppled off the bank vanished into the ghostly green depths of the lake. The water was startlingly clear; in the shallower areas, I could see the shadow of my kayak flitting across the lake bottom. 

kayak from underneath rescan resized

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Paddling The Past: Solo Sea Kayaking Kyuquot Sound, September 1994 Part 2

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the mouth of Johnson Lagoon, a tidal inlet

When the weather and my sickness lift, I return to the entrance of Johnson Lagoon. This time, I have scheduled my approach better: like the gate of a fairytale kingdom that opens to only a few, the current admits me. Not wanting to have to wait half a day for the next slack, I leave the lagoon less than two hours later. Already the current is coursing in a strong ebb. It’s with me, but this is a mixed blessing. While I don’t have to fight against it, it also means there is no retreat once I’ve neared the mouth of the lagoon. The virtues of a kayak optimized for touring—its length, straight line speed, and resistance to turning—are liabilities in what is effectively a whitewater river. It’s like doing a downhill slalom on cross-country skis. After a couple of heart-racing minutes, I am flushed out onto the open sea, very glad not to have left my departure any later. Continue reading →