VHF Marine Radio: A Lifeline for Sea Kayakers

a chart showing the Canadian Coast Guard coverage area for DSC equipped marine VHF radios
The DSC system covers most places a sea kayaker would want to go on the BC coast. These antennas are not like cellphone repeater towers: they will let you communicate with the Coast Guard; they will not retransmit your calls to other VHF users. [From https://www.ccg-gcc.gc.ca/publications/mcts-sctm/ramn-arnm/part4-eng.html ]

“Hello? Hello? Is anybody out there?” The call came faintly over my handheld radio, secure in its holster on the shoulder of my PFD. No details on what they were hailing about: was it a life-threatening emergency, were they wanting weather information, or were they simply lonely and thought marine VHF worked like CB radio for casual chats with random strangers? Whatever it was, the only thing they had communicated was that they didn’t know what they were doing. I just had time to hear the Canadian Coast Guard respond before my attention was taken up by one of the guests in the kayak tour group I was leading.

Calls like that underscore why it’s common sense, as well as the law, to get your Restricted Operator’s Certificate, Maritime (usually shortened to ROC [M] and pronounced “rock ’em”) before using a marine radio. It’s not a black art: a few hours of study and a short exam will get you in the game, all ready and legal. It’s just that, as in other fields, a specialized vocabulary and specific protocols allow quick and unambiguous communication. Had that muddled radio user known them, it would have been clear from their first transmission what the nature and purpose of their call was.

But, I hear you ask, why would I, a humble sea kayaker, want a marine VHF in the first place?

Some sea kayakers might feel it’s a bit pretentious to sport a full-fledged marine radio—after all, we’re not large craft. But I’ve always treated sea kayaking as real seafaring, albeit with everything—boats, crossings, crew size—scaled down. So a miniature version of the “big boys’” radio makes perfect sense to me. 

Other paddlers might feel a radio is superfluous: they have their trusty cellphone in a waterproof baggie. And you can indeed reach the Canadian Coast Guard by dialing *16 on your cell. But shockingly, the Coast Guard isn’t always going to have a rescue boat just around the corner from where you are. In many, if not most, cases, they will be getting on their VHF radio to see if there might be a nearby good Samaritan who could help you faster. Putting out a call for help on a marine radio allows you to communicate directly with any “vessels of opportunity”, eliminating the need for the Coast Guard to act as a middleman.

Then there’s also the fact that if you’re voyaging to the remote outer and North coast parts of BC, your particular cellphone carrier might not have coverage in that area. But as long as you’re within radio range, you’ll be able to talk directly to other boats. And thanks to a series of strategically placed antennas on high ground up and down the coast, there are very few areas on the BC coast (except far down some of our deep fjords) where you wouldn’t be able to contact the Coast Guard directly (see map).

As a further bonus, thanks to another network of land-based antennas, you should be able to receive marine weather broadcasts on your VHF weather channels pretty much anywhere on the coast—very handy when you’re off the cellphone grid and can’t access the marine weather website.

A marine VHF is certainly useful for emergencies, but even more useful for preventing emergencies. Some years ago, I was leading a small group of coworkers on a kayak trip from Prevost Island south to Portland Island in the Gulf Islands. Partway through the crossing, a BC ferry appeared out of the western end of Active Pass, en route to Swartz Bay. I knew the late afternoon sun would be reflecting off the water around us and dazzling the eyes of anyone on the ferry’s bridge. So I hailed the ferry on my VHF, gave them our position from my GPS, and herded my fellow paddlers into a tight group so the ferry wouldn’t have to slalom through us. Similarly, when doing a solo crossing of Johnstone Strait, I’ve made contact with a tug towing a barge to clarify its course and intentions and to confirm they were aware of my presence (something not to be taken for granted when you are a very small object in very big waves, and the helmsperson on the tug may be multitasking).  

Even for routine on-water communications, radios are superior to cellphones. Simply pushing a button and talking is a lot faster than dialing and then waiting for the call to go through and be answered. As a kayak guide, I’m often with large groups, working with several colleagues. Any radio call one of us makes is heard by all the other guides—very handy since we’re often doing the marine version of herding cats. Nor do you need to be a pro guide to benefit from these “everyone in the loop” communications: it’s equally useful for club outings, or even when it’s just you and your paddle buddy. 

So now that I’ve hopefully sold you on the idea of getting a ROC (M) and a radio, which radio should you get?

To DSC or not to DSC—that is the major question

DSC, or Digital Selective Calling, is a feature that uses a dedicated channel to let radios sync with one another digitally, and so perform all kinds of cool tricks.

Assuming the party you want to call is also using a DSC radio, and that you know their MMSI (Maritime Mobile Service Identity) or MI (Maritime Identity) number, you can call them directly, without having to hail them first by voice on Channel 16. It looks and feels a lot like calling someone from your list of contacts on a cellphone. (Although, as I caution people in my ROC [M] courses, unlike a cellphone, your conversations aren’t private: anyone who’s tuned into the channel you’re using can hear you.) 

If you do need to put out a call for help, pushing the red DISTRESS button on a DSC VHF will start digitally broadcasting your Mayday, your MMSI/MI number, and your position in latitude and longitude. Any DSC-VHF-equipped boat with its radio on and in range will receive it, as will the Coast Guard (see the coverage map above). Ideally, you’d follow up pushing the DISTRESS button with a voice Mayday on Channel 16, but I’m sure you can imagine scenarios in which all you have time to do is push the red button, then cope with the situation at hand. In such cases, it’s reassuring to know the radio is automatically squawking out your digital Mayday and updated location every few minutes.

Downsides to DSC radios are that they are more expensive to buy and have a shorter battery life due to powering the integrated GPS (though on many models, you can reduce power consumption by slowing down the position update rate).

So do you want a DSC or non-DSC radio? My answer is to get one of each. When paddling or instructing in my home waters of English Bay, Vancouver, I use my non-DSC radio since I’m confident of my ability to give my location clearly in reference to local landmarks. That puts the highest daily wear-and-tear on my less expensive radio. For touring, I carry the more expensive DSC radio for its ability to send out my location accurately when I’m in less familiar waters and/or further offshore.

Most radio manufacturers make the instruction manuals for their products available on their websites. So you can browse the manual for the model you’re considering and see if it has the features you want and if the menu works in a way that makes sense to you.

If you are buying a DSC VHF, you’ll need an MMSI or MI number to activate the DSC features. Industry Canada will only issue those for radio models that have been IC-approved. Plus, radios for use here need to have the appropriate CAN, USA, and INTERNATIONAL operating modes. So while it’s OK to order radios online, it’s best to do so from stores that have a bricks-and-mortar presence in Canada so you can be sure their products are ready for use here. I had a student in one of my ROC (M) classes who’d ordered a DSC handheld from one of those mysterious overseas sites. It arrived without IC approval or the proper mode functionality, so they wasted their money. (A note to American readers: please adjust the above info for your country. And if you’re paddling in Canadian waters, your radio will need to have a CAN mode for you to talk to users here. This has to do with channel frequencies and simplex-duplex channels.)

Waterproof…ish

Almost all handheld marine VHFs are advertised as being “waterproof”. But that seems to mean something less demanding to ordinary boaters than to kayakers. The typical use for a handheld might be on the decks of a larger boat in the rain, or perhaps in a dinghy on trips away from the mothership. The worst case scenario there might be the dinghy pilot dropping the radio in a few inches of bilge water for ten seconds. But if a kayaker has to do a wet exit with their VHF in a PFD pocket, the radio gets pushed several feet below sea level during the ejection phase, and might remain a foot or more underwater for a long time if reboarding is difficult or impossible. 

Waterproofness is measured on an IP scale. IP7 is the minimum for a sea kayaker; IP8 would be great if you find such a radio with all the other features you’d like.

There are custom-made waterproof radio baggies available, but I find them awkward. They make it tough to see the screen and a battle to operate the controls. As a final insult, the baggie clips often prevent the radios from fitting in PFD pockets.  So I carry my radio naked and accept that the price of greater accessibility is that it will eventually die from saltwater exposure (usually just after the two or three-year warranty has expired). 

Keeping your handheld at hand

Some paddlers carry their radios under their deck bungees or in the glove compartment hatch on the front deck. I’m not a fan of either: if you became separated from your boat after a wet exit in big waves and high winds, that’s when you might most want a VHF. 

Because I’m routinely transmitting with my radio, I like having a radio pocket or case on my PFD shoulder that lets me quick-draw and quick-reholster. It baffles me that many sea kayaking PFDs don’t come with radio-specific pockets with pass-throughs for antennas. And that a certain kayak personal equipment company, whose products are otherwise intelligently designed, persists in putting the radio pocket on some of their PFDs dead centre at the waist front where: 1. The antenna is perfectly positioned to go up your nose; 2. If you’re swimming, both the radio speaker and antenna are underwater; and 3. The radio is subject to maximum crushing force under your body as you slide along the back deck after a seal flop or heel hook re-entry.

a photo of a holster for a marine VHF radio, mounted on a sea kayaking PFD

My current radio holding hack is a Nite Ize cargo holster, with the top flap cut away for antenna clearance, and a dollar-store hook-and-loop strap sewn on that can be released or secured one-handed. It stretches to fit either my DSC or non-DSC radio snugly, and the rotating back clip secures easily to the shoulder strap of my PFD. I like having the radio, especially the antenna, at least mostly above water in its holster in case I dump, especially if I’ve pushed the DISTRESS button and need the radio to be automatically calling for help while I thrash for shore or cling to my upturned boat.

But if you’re not constantly transmitting with the radio, the removable belt clip that comes with it should be fine for clipping to the webbing or somewhere on your PFD. Whatever system you use, add a lanyard and hook to prevent losing the radio if it should slip from your hands. I prefer the Scotty nylon snap hook over metal carabiners since it won’t rust or bang destructively against my radio.     

A part of many layers

If you’re familiar with the Swiss-cheese model of accident causation, you know that the more layers of equipment and/or skill-based defences you have, the more opportunities there are to break the chain that can lead to catastrophe. A VHF radio can be part of many of those defences: in the outer layers, it lets you access marine weather reports that help you make go/no-go decisions; in the middle layers, it lets you communicate with kayakers and other boaters to prevent confusion; and in the inner layers it lets you call for help if all else fails.

In more than three decades of carrying handheld VHFs for sea kayaking, I have never needed to send a full-on Mayday call. And I couldn’t be happier about that. But I’m also very happy to know that if the need should ever arise, I have both a radio and the knowledge to use it effectively. I think you should, too!

Philip Torrens is a long-time sea kayaker. He instructs on-water, onshore, and online classes for Jericho Beach Kayak, including the course to get your ROC (M). He’s the majority owner of WestCoast Paddler, an online community for kayakers. He also blogs about kayak trips and techniques at https://philiptorrens.com/

Crossposted from https://www.bcmarinetrails.org/vhf-marine-radio-a-lifeline-for-sea-kayakers/.

Four Day Getaway: An Escape To Átl’ka7tsem/Txwnéwu7ts (Howe Sound)

Prologue: this spring, I scored an ancient Current Designs Expedition kayak at the Jericho Sailing Association’s bailiff’s sale (where they auction off boats that have not had the storage fees paid in a while.) For the princely sum of $240, I got a 1992 boat, old enough that it had been made in British Columbia, before Current Designs was sold to an American company and the manufacturing moved out of BC.

Obviously, a boat that old was a fixer-upper, and I did spend a fair bit of time patching gouges, swapping out the sliding footpedals and guillotine-like aluminum rudder blade for gas pedal pegs and a light, low-drag SmartTrack rudder blade. I also added sail mounts and found a deck compass that could be modified to fit the existing base from the long-lost original compass.

After sea trials to confirm the boat would float (and sail!), it was time to take it on a multi-day voyage. 

September 21, 2024

I intentionally arrived at my put-in at Xwawchayay/Porteau Cove in mid afternoon, so that by the time I launched the afternoon inflow winds would be tapering off.

As I packed, one of the onlooking tourists wandered up to me and shot off a long paragraph in what I recognized as German. I had to tell her in English that I didn’t speak German. She switched to English. Her confusion had come from the fact that the spare paddle halves on my kayak deck were clearly labeled “Werner”. But that’s a brand name, not my name. I conscripted her husband to take a prelaunch photo of me, and exhausted my entire German vocabulary to thank him: “Das is gut, donkey-shine!”

ready to launch my sea kayak at Porteau Cove, British Columbia
Out To Launch

I also briefly puzzled them by soaking down in the outdoor diver’s shower just before stepping into the boat (it was so I wouldn’t overheat in my drysuit on this sunny, warm afternoon.)

I launched just before 4PM. The fully loaded boat punched easily through the oncoming waves, scattering sun-silvered droplets across my bow. I was fighting the tail end of the inflow wind. As hoped, as I approached the southern tip of Lhaxwm/Anvil Island, the wind eased.

paddling South down Howe Sound, British Columbia

I had the golden hour pre-dusk light bathing Christie Islet as I crossed Ramilles Channel to Gambier Island. I landed at the Inaka Lhaxwm/ Ramilles Channel Recreation Site just before 7PM, to find two other paddlers already in residence. They had, naturally enough, taken the primo tent site with a large flat pad. Since I knew from talking with them they’d be leaving the next day, I set up my tent on a rather lumpy section of the path. 

Because I was on a shorter trip, I’d tried something different for my first night supper: a few days before the trip, I’d hit the Chinese takeout buffet at our local T &T market, and filled a container with a selection of my favorites. I’d frozen the container at home and kept it in a cooler bag in my car until just before launching, so it stayed safely cool until I reached camp. As I set up my tent, I reheated my supper in my Outback Oven (a great outdoor cooking gadget that is sadly no longer made.) A delicious novelty to be feasting on Chinese buffet in camp, especially those crispy spring rolls. 

Moderate alarms and excursions in the night. I’d been reading in bed, and initially attributed the slight twitches on my legs to muscle spasms. They turned out to be a small mouse scampering over me in search of the egress. After an exclamation (which it turned out was loud enough for my site mates to have heard), I evicted him. I’m sure we both slept better for it.

After that, I slept well, occasionally catching traffic noises from the Sea-To-Sky highway a few miles to the east.

September 22, 2024

In conversation with my two site mates over coffee, it came out that one of them has taken several courses from my employer, Jericho Beach Kayak, from fellow instructors I know well.

As they launched for their trip back to Lions Bay, I took a few photos to email them later (I know from experience it’s always nice to have pictures that include you taken from a bit further away than arm’s length.)

two sea kayakers in Howe Sound, British Columbia, with Anvil Island in the background


As soon as they had packed up their tent, I pounced on the primo pad for a property upgrade, literally leveling up from my lumpy site of the night before. I spent a happy hour cunningly rigging a super cozy campsite with a tarp over my tent (so nice to have a full porch in front of the tent where you can kneel out of the rain while entering or exiting). I also rigged a large tarp over the picnic table. Thanks to having brought a telescoping tarp pole, I was able to rig the seaside axis of this tarp in a high A-frame, giving me a million dollar view of Ramillies Channel and Anvil Island through the cedar branches. Whether by accident or design, the table is positioned so those trees conceal the cottages on Anvil Island. And the now steady rain created white noise (or perhaps wet noise), drowning out any traffic noises. The two effects combined to create at least the illusion of deep wilderness. Very cool, especially just an hour’s drive from downtown Vancouver.

a tent with a sheltering overtarp to reduce internal condensation
a view of Anvil Island, Howe Sound, British Columbia, from under a tarp on Gambier Island


With a good morning’s work of homesteading done, I settled down to enjoy a brunch of tinned hash and buttered bagel.

As I heated up water for an apres-brunch shower, an open aluminum skiff drifted into view a couple of hundred metres away, with a pair of fishers trolling their rods. Funny how your outlook on exposure changes with age. A half a lifetime ago, when I actually had a body worth ogling, I was pretty self-conscious about it. Today, my take is that if someone is so deprived of stimulation that the sight of my pudgy pink body in the distance is enough to drive them into some sort of erotic frenzy, it would be almost unkind to deprive them of this outlet. So I showered in full view without shyness. 

Since there seemed little likelihood of much sunshine–and this site is in the shade much of the time anyway–I set up my candle-powered clothes dryer in the tent. This is basically a three candle lantern, set carefully far enough below the tent gear loft not to melt or burn clothing. I then stacked my drysuit liner in the loft, so the rising hot air would dry it and save me having to climb into clammy layers next time I wore it. 



I set out my wok to collect rainwater draining off the tarp. I’d be leery of using tarp run-off for cooking or drinking, but I know from experience it will be fine for washing dishes or self.

In addition to my food, I’ve got my drysuit stored in the critter-proof aluminum cache. Nice to know it’s out of reach of salt-seeking rodents. (Years ago, I had the sweat-seasoned armpits chewed out of a doffed and inverted paddling jacket by mice in the time it took me to eat lunch.)

I spend the rest of the afternoon reading and zoning into that lovely zen state where what Buddists call “the chattering monkey” finally shuts up. 

My book is The Ancestor’s Tale, by Richard Dawkins and Yan Wong. It’s a revised edition of the book I read years ago on a circumnavigation of Princess Royal Island.

I supped on tinned beans and molasses. With plenty of rainwater and fuel available, I was able to give the dishes a thorough wash, and not the mere lick-and-a-promise of typical camp cleaning.

I am being buzzed by the occasional mosquito. My mild annoyance is tempered with gratitude that it’s warm enough this late in the season for them to be conducting flight operations.

September 23, 2024

I awoke to low cloud, steady rain and limited visibility. Anvil Island is only a faint shadow looming through the rain. If this persists tomorrow, there won’t be the strong Northbound inflow wind typical of sunny days, and I won’t get my hoped-for glorious free ride back to Porteau Cove, courtesy of my sails. On the plus side, the water would be calm. Navigation would be no problem: in addition to my GPS, I’ve got a hiker’s compass, deck compass and a chart with many of the crossings pre-plotted. I’d aim for Anvil Island, follow its eastern shore to the northern tip, then paddle a compass course aiming off so I’d hit the east shore of Howe Sound south of Porteau Cove, turn left to go North and handrail along the shore to the Cove. 

I’m very glad of my folding travel chair. It’s much more comfortable for my not-fully-evolved-for-bipedalism back than the unsupportive bench of the picnic table would be. As always, I’m also happy to have brought what some would have considered a rather selfishly oversized tarp for a solo camper. But on rainy days like these, it’s nice not to have to crouch and prowl under a low, tiny roof. Instead, I have a high ceiling with plenty of head room, and a rain-free area that’s about equivalent to a reasonably-sized room at home. The tarp’s translucent yellow colour creates a warm, vaguely sunlit feel beneath it even on dark days. Add unlimited stove fuel, herbal tea and a good book, and it’s all very cosy.

As I fried up my brunch of pancakes and bacon, I flashed back more than half a century to (under)cooking fatty bacon purloined from mom’s fridge on top of a hobo stove. I’d made this chimney-like contraption out of a large apple juice can following directions from Boy’s Life magazine. It’s a surprise I didn’t die from trichinosis, taking my too-trusting younger sister with me.

There are lulls in the rain during the afternoon. I take advantage of them to explore the site a bit more, finding a second tent pad further in the trees along the path to the east (it would have been too much in the personal space of my site mates to have pitched my tent there on the first night.) Further east still, there’s a beach-access-only site. I’d already noted another cleared site just below the outhouse, but that would be a last resort only option for me: it’s up a steep and slippery climb, which would be even more awkward when portaging gear. Plus, who wants to be serenaded by the sounds of their site mates’ bodily functions in the night?

Although I have other options in my larder, I opt for quick, easy and spicy Korean ramen noodles for supper, with a fruit cup cocktail for dessert to ward off scurvy.  

a spider's web, backlit, with a sea kayak visible on the beach behind it

Shades of Robert The Bruce, I fall into a reverie watching a spider whose web hangs off tree branches just beyond my tarp. He’s been patiently sitting in the centre of his web all day. More insects are buzzing about in the gloaming, and soon a hapless fly hits the trap. The spider instantly scuttles towards its victim. We need to avoid anthropomorphizing other animals, but I can’t help but wonder if insects feel something akin to terror when caught like that? Obviously, they wouldn’t experience the full gamut of human emotions, but neither can they be merely the Cartesian automata that ol’ René imagined. But just where on the continuum would they fall?

a tent and its covering tarp glow from the internal light

September 24, 2024

a foggy beach on Gambier Island, British Columbia, with Anvil Island faintly visible in the background

Heavy rains in the night, but I awake to blue sky visible above a low fog. Confident it will burn off, I take my time breakfasting and breaking camp, and launch a bit after 11AM. With visibility now clear, I opt for a dogleg detour to check out Christie Islet. As a Migratory Bird Sanctuary, off limits to boat landings, it swarms with seagulls, cormorants, and seals.

cormorants on the cliffs of Christie Islet, British Columbia

Turning north, I briefly put up my forward, Pacific Action sail. But though I am filled with hope, it is not filled with wind. I am reduced to actually having to paddle my kayak again. The horror! The horror! But I’ll soon be amply recompensed for this loss. As I’d been admiring the birds on Christie, I’d noticed out of the corner of my eye a jetski stopping in the middle of Montagu Channel, north of me. I’d wondered if they’d had a breakdown. As I altered course to swing close and offer to use my marine VHF to call for assistance if they needed it, I discovered the real reason they were stopped: a mother humpback whale and her calf were putting on an amazing show of synchronized swimming, plunging deep, under long enough that they must have been feeding on the seafloor more than two hundred metres below, surfacing with loud huffs and vast plumes of steam, and repeating the process as soon as they’d caught their breath. 

the tail of a diving Humback whale, with her calves visible on the surface behind her. Howe Sound, British Columbia

The jetski leaves soon after, but I stay, entranced. An occasional other boat joins me, grabs their requisite social media selfies, then zooms away. But everytime I try to get out, those whales pull me back in. I linger for about two hours, paddling a bit north, drifting south again as I stop to watch them surface, rinsing and repeating. It was magical, visiting with my cousins a few tens of millions of years removed.

a Humpback whale prepares to dive. Howe Sound, British Columbia'
The arc of a diver: moma Humpback prepares to sound
Humpback whales in Howe Sound, British Columbia

Eventually, I did have to go. I even got to paddle sail for a short while. And I approached Brunswick Point, more whales! Too far away for worthwhile photos, though.

By now it was late afternoon, and the need to pump my personal bilges was becoming ever more urgent. Not wanting my drysuit to become a wetsuit, I landed at the south end of Porteau Cove park, where the walk-in camping sites are, clipped the painter of my kayak to a convenient tree root, and scuttled to the outhouse. Much relieved, I reboarded to paddle the remaining few hundred meters to the boat ramp takeout. 

My timing was perfect: the wind was increasingly downchannel as I packed my car and reloaded my trusty kayak, and the rain began to fall just as I finished and got behind the wheel. An excellent four day getaway.

Epilogue: I don’t know whether the original owner of my new-to-me boat simply aged out of kayaking, or whether they’ve gone to the great sea in the sky. Either way, I like to imagine they’d be happy to know their boat is getting out and about once more. Just goes to show that even old sea kayaks–and old sea kayakers–are still good for a few voyages yet!   

PSA (Paddler’s Service Announcement): If you are not already a member of the BC Marine Trails Association, you totally should be. Not only does this group inventory all the water accessible campsites along the BC coast, they also help create them, including negotiating access to First Nations land (such as the Inaka Lhaxwm/Ramilles Channel Recreation Site where I camped on this trip. It’s part of the Sea To Sky Marine Trail.) This negotiated access is increasingly important as Canada works its way towards justice regarding the unceded traditional territories of the various First Nations. Thanks to Sḵwx̱wú7mesh Úxwumixw/Squamish Nation for allowing access to their lands, to the BCMTA for helping create these campsites, and to SKABC for maintaining them.

Leveling Up: assisting on a Paddle Canada Sea Kayaking Level 2 course

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I hugely enjoy my work as a sea kayak instructor, but since I’m only certified to teach up to Paddle Canada’s Sea Kayaking Level 1 on my own, I usually just get to paddle locally in the Iy̓ál̓mexw/Ayyulshun (Jericho Beach/English Bay) area with my students. So when the opportunity arose to assistant-instruct on a Paddle Canada Level 2 Sea Kayaking course, with three days and two nights away in Átl’ka7tsem/Txwnéwu7ts (Howe Sound), I was in faster than you can say “re-entry roll”!

Sweetening the pot was the fact that my friend and colleague, Mike McHolm, would be the lead instructor on the course. I’ve known Mike since he was a customer at the late, lamented Ecomarine. Mike absolutely caught fire as a kayaker, and recently earned his Paddle Canada Sea Kayaking Level 4 (for those not in the know, that’s about one step below being able to calm the seas and walk on the water.)

Mike and I have co-instructed on Paddle Canada Beginner Sea Kayaking and Intermediate (Level 1) courses before, and found we have nicely complementary skill sets: he’s the master of advanced strokes, braces, scrambles and rolls; I’ve got a solid background of practical experience with extended touring and navigation.

The prep for the trip portion of the course included two intense days of on-water and on-shore instruction at Jericho Beach over the September 16-17 weekend. As it happened, three of the six students in this Level 2 course were graduates of a Paddle Canada Level 1 course I’d taught the weekend before.    

September 29, 2023

A bit after 8AM, Mike and I rolled into Xwawchayay (Porteau Cove) in the Yakmobile (a Yukon truck with a custom-made roof rack that can accommodate up to ten kayaks). As we offloaded the boats, our students joined us. The usual knocked-over-anthill scurrying about ensued, as we all packed our kayaks for the first time on this trip. Next, we had a pre-launch meeting, where we went over “Me, We, and The Sea”, reviewed some compass navigation and dead reckoning techniques, confirmed our planned route, and designated lead and sweep paddlers.

sea kayak students at a prelaunch briefing
prelaunch briefing at Xwawchayay/Porteau Cove

We launched around 12:15PM onto calm and sunny seas, course set for the Defence Islands. About 45 minutes later we hit the gap between them, pretty much bang on our time-distance-speed prediction. 

sea kayakers crossing to the Defence Islands in Howe Sound, British Columbia
Crossing to the Defence Islands

From there, we handrailed along the shoreline to Ts’itpsm (Zorro Bay), practicing our bow and stern rudders as we went. The slight inflow wind that had picked up nudged us gently on our way.

Our class included many with prior sea kayaking experience, including Chessy, who’s previously paddled with Mike in some serious seas. She entertained us (and cooled herself off) by nonchalantly popping off both paddle and hand rolls enroute.

a sea kayaker handrolls her kayak
Chessy handrolls

We arrived at Zorro Bay to find, amazingly for a long weekend with such nice weather, that we had it all to ourselves. Some of us doubled up our tents on the pads sites to leave at least one platform open for possible later arrivals.

sea kayakers arriving at Zorro Bay/Ts’itpsm, Howe Sound, British Columbia
Arriving at Zorro Bay/Ts’itpsm. That’s me in the attractive orange Nor’western hat. Thanks to Julia for this image.

At about 15:30, we relaunched into the bay to work on bow and stern rudders and hanging draws. The shallow waters of the bay were turquoise, which combined with the sunshine to create an almost tropical vibe.

Actually performing a roll is not a requirement to pass Sea Kayaking Level 2: you’ve just got to be able to demonstrate you understand the theory. But Mike had led a rolling session during our pre-trip prep weekend, and some students had really gotten into it, among them Leah. Spotted by Chessy (she who had demonstrated hand rolls earlier), Leah pulled off a few paddle rolls herself before coming ashore.

Mike McHolm sea kayak instructing

stern rudder practice in Zorro Bay

Evening class was on knots and ropework as related to rigging tarps over tents and kitchens. Fortunately, this was all merely theoretical, as the clear skies continued.

With all this learning, we dined European-style late. The main course was a spicy dish of noodles in peanut sauce with stir-fried veggies, including wild-harvested mushrooms courtesy of Claus and Alysia (since none of us started tripping out or tripping over, we can assume they know their ‘shrooms.) For dessert, I heated a deep-dish apple pie in my Outback Oven ‘til it had a convincingly fresh-baked feel, then topped it with real, albeit aerosol-can, whipped cream. (In response to questions from the class, I did acknowledge that I’m not always sure whether I eat in order to kayak tour, or kayak tour in order to eat…)

I got to bed about 10PM. Initially it was warm enough that I merely draped my winter-weight down bag over myself duvet-style, but later in the night things cooled down enough that I burrowed into it full mummy-style, and was glad to have the option: crawling out of bed pre-chilled in the morning is not inspiring for a day of challenging paddling.

September 30, 2023

I made my way down to the beach to find warm and sunny conditions, with the water outside the bay windy with whitecaps – perfect Level 2 conditions (it’s a requirement for passing the course that students complete at least some paddling in waves with winds in the 19 knots range.) Tragically, the wind and waves died shortly after we launched at about 10:40. So all the students, who were attempting cowboy scramble re-entries (and reverting to paddlefloat re-entries if they couldn’t pull one off), got to swim in calm water.

It’s worth noting that Level 2 is the point at which instructors begin to stress test students a bit. It’s not stress for the sake of stress: it’s because, as Mike noted during class, overnight trips are getting into life-and-death decision territory, so it’s better to learn lessons from mistakes in practice than “for real”. It was in that spirit that I yanked an insufficiently-secured paddlefloat off the end of one student’s paddle during their re-entry. As I explained to them later on shore: if you think I was being harsh and unforgiving, imagine how harsh and unforgiving one metre seas would be. Fortunately the student understood my point completely, and no hard feelings resulted. 

After reviewing the bow and stern rudder and the hanging draw, we handrailed south along the shore towards Lhemlhemḵwús (Islet View) campsite. Enroute, Mike encouraged the students to head at maximum speed straight at a convenient cliff. This was not so much to test the strength of their kayaks; it was more to encourage them to deploy a low or high brace turn effectively!

sea kayak practice: a paddler uses a high-brace turn to avoid ramming a cliff with their kayak.
Putting his money where his mouth is: Mike McHolm uses a last-minute high-brace turn to avoid turning his very expensive sea kayak into very expensive kindling.

We landed at Islet View about 12:40. Shortly afterwards, a family arrived in a small RIB stacked high with camping gear and were visibly relieved to discover that the eight of us paddling riff-raff were just there for lunch. As Mike went over the shore lesson (the signs of and responses to hypo and hyperthermia), several of his friends from SKABC paddled in.

Ashore at Lhemlhemḵwúss/Islet View campsite, Howe Sound

We relaunched about 14:20, and did tows with both throwlines and towlines, working up to towing a victim who needed to be stabilized by being rafted with a second rescuer. This culminated in teams of three – two rescuers, one hypothermic capsize victim – towing a patient back to Zorro Bay, and setting up a rewarming “burrito”.

sea kayak rescue practice:  as one rescuer tows a "hypothermic capsize victim" a second rescuer is rafted up with the sometime swimmer to prevent a recapsize.
Tow me the way to go home: as one rescuer tows a “hypothermic capsize victim” a second rescuer is rafted up with the sometime swimmer to prevent a recapsize.
sea kayak rescue practice: rescuers help a simulated hypothermia victim out of her boat and onto the shore
Helping hands: the rescuers help the hypothermia victim out of her boat and onto the shore.
sea kayak rescue training: as a simulated hypothermia victim waits in the recovery position, two rescuers lay out a "burrito" for rewarming her.
Taco Time: as simulated hypothermia victim Chessy waits in the recovery position, Julia and Drew lay out a “burrito” for rewarming her.

Leah was once again keen to practice her rolls before supper, so I spotted her, occasionally offering my bow for a bow rescue. She returned the favour when I was ready to try a few. Fortunately for my instructor honour, no bow rescue was needed — all my rolls worked, though it has to be said that none of them were pretty or “demonstration quality.” Leah generously proffered the rationale that this was because we’d had a long, tiring day, and I gratefully seized on this pretext like, er, a kayaker who’s repeatedly failed their roll grabbing a friendly bow.

My drysuit insulation layers were mildly damp from a combination of sweat and slight seepage during my rolls. It was too late in the day to sun-dry them, so I used a trick from my days touring on the Northern wet coast: layering them onto the gear loft in my tent, then suspending a lit candle lantern a safe distance below. The gentle heat dries out the moisture and, as a bonus, provides a welcoming beacon for finding your tent after dark.

Drew and Julia were on supper duty, and did not disappoint: an excellent home-made chili with grated cheese, sour cream, bread and all the trimmings. I was once again the dessert chef. Tonight’s course was assorted Auntie’s Puddings. I hadn’t been able to fit the microwave oven recommended for reheating them into my skeg kayak, so I simmered them in hot water for 20 minutes instead. While that was happening I whipped up the instant custard without which no proper English dessert is complete. (I briefly thought I’d made far too much custard, but Leah and Julia actually hoarded the surplus in a water bottle overnight and added it to their breakfasts the next morning in lieu of milk!)

We were not the only mammals who dined well: as a shriek from the direction of the food cache box announced, Mike’s improvised fix to the box’s rusted-out bottom (piled-up gravel and rocks) had failed to keep out the mice. Fortunately, nothing critical was spoiled, and we moved our remaining provisions to the greater safety of the kayaks.

It was a working supper: as we ate, we covered Collision Regulations, Environmental Impact, Tool/Repair Kits and Indigenous Relations and Considerations (the latter especially appropriate as today was the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, plus we were camped on First Nations Land generously made available as a water-access site.)

October 1, 2023

Determined not to be robbed of rougher conditions again, Mike had us all on the water shortly before 9AM. The sea state was a satisfactory brew of whitecaps and wind.

Making waves: rescue practice in rougher water
sea kayaking rescue practice: one sea kayaker offers the bow of her kayak to a capsized paddler, so the upside down paddler can roll up without having to wet exit their boat.
Bow rescue practice. For her first several capsizes, Chessy instinctively rolled up before Leah could “rescue” her. She had to make a conscious decision to refrain from rolling for this attempt.
sea kayak rescue practice: one kayaker uses the T-rescue technique to empty the boat of a capsized paddler prior to helping them reboard.
Returning the favour: Chessy T-rescues Leah in Level 2 conditions.

As expected, the class found all their maneuvers, from turns to re-entries, rather more challenging in sporty water. But when you think about it, bouncy seas are exactly the conditions in which you’re more likely to need braces, rolls or re-entries. So best to practice in realistic conditions. Enroute back to shore, the class got to use their stern rudders “for real” to keep their boats from being broached by the following seas.

We packed up camp while eating an early lunch, then launched for Porteau Cove, via a dogleg at Furry Creek. Enroute, Mike and I debriefed several of the students two-on-one.

Once we were just off Porteau Cove, a bit inshore of the buoys marking the sunken ship dive site, we did the final class exercise: an “all in” with everyone wet-exited and helping one another back into their boats.

Everyone in for the swim: an “all in” rescue at Porteau Cove

We landed, took advantage of the outdoor showers meant for the Porteau Cove divers to rinse the salt water off our immersion wear, skirts and PFDs, then packed up, including reloading several kayaks onto the yakmobile — that went a lot faster with a crowd of willing hands than it had on Thursday evening when Mike and I had been doing it ourselves at Jericho Beach Kayak. As we completed all this, we could see rain clouds moving in, proof that our timing had been perfect, weather-wise (and it was wonderful when unpacking at home not to be wrestling with wet and muddy gear).

Mike and I finished debriefing the remaining students, then said our congratulations and farewells. Holiday traffic meant it was fairly late in the day by the time we were back at Jericho Beach Kayak and offloading the boats, so we were both pretty bushed, and much overdue for showers (drysuits keep out the brine but seal in sweat and body odour with equal effectiveness). However, the satisfaction of having worked with a wonderful group of people and helped them towards new adventures kept us energized!

Putting the best face on things: all students and instructors looking alert!

Update: my fellow instructor Mike made a short video about the weekend that will give you a better sense of what dynamic water looks like.

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

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

Paddling The Past: Solo Sea Kayaking Kyuquot Sound, September 1994. Part 1

A sea kayak makes its way through heavy rain

As I round the tip of Whitely Island into the long Pacific swell, the bow of my kayak lifts like the head of a stallion eager for rolling, open country after miles of narrow trails. The first leg of my solo paddle from Fair Harbour has run through sheltered channels, and my boat seems to welcome a greater challenge. As do I. For the past several hours, the weather has been what the Irish euphemistically call “soft”—meaning it has varied from gently curling mist to torrential downpours that have hissed on the surface of the water like oil on a hot frying pan. Now the clouds have parted, making the final hour of paddling to Rugged Point pleasantly dry.

Continue reading

Sea Kayaking Around Cape Scott, Part 2

A trip from a time before digital photography.

August 25, 1999 We awoke to a mix of blue sky and clouds, and no rain! With a forecast for 15 knot westerly winds, we made the decision to go for rounding Cape Scott today, and got launched about 9:45AM. Even as we crossed Experiment Bight, we could see foam from swells breaking on rocks north of Cape Scott.

Near the north of the cape, Stania was startled by a sea lion surfacing with an explosive snort just behind her. He torpedoed past our bows, glaring back as he paced us. Just then we noticed, in a kelp bed a couple of hundred feet away, the front flippers of numerous sleeping sea lions, presumably our escort’s harem. By this time we’d passed our closest point of approach to the ladies, so as much as one can tiptoe in a kayak, we tiptoed away, while trying to project soothing vibes to the effect of “We have no designs on your wives, lovely and blubbery though they all are, we’re sure.”

Continue reading

Sea Kayaking Around Cape Scott, Part 1

A trip from a time before digital photography.

August 17, 1999 Stania and I were up at 6AM to stow our gear. I dropped her with our kayaks at the Government Wharf in Port Hardy, then bucketed my trusty Escort Wagon over 63 kilometres of logging roads to our takeout on the San Josef River. As arranged, a truck from North Island Transportation picked me up there at 11AM.

Meanwhile, back at the dock, when Stania asked to change in the washroom at the Coast Guard Office, she was welcomed with open arms. She was even invited to take a shower (or perhaps be given one – it wasn’t quite clear). Oddly, when I appeared, I was not offered a shower and only grudgingly allowed to change.

Continue reading

Kayak Touring BC’s Gulf Islands, Part 1: Swartz Bay, Portland Island (Princess Margaret Island) and North Pender Island

a sea kayak paddles beneath Kanaka Bluff, Portland Island (Princess Margaret Island) Gulf Islands National Park

rounding Kanaka Bluff

This series is a response to one reader’s request (It’s nice to know I have at least one reader!) They’re grab bags of trip suggestions and photos from many sea kayak voyages I’ve made through BC’s Gulf Islands over the course of more than two decades. I keep going back, not just because of the islands’ proximity to my home port of Vancouver, but also because they are richly served by a combination of National, Provincial and commercial water-accessible campgrounds.* By mixing up routes and seasons, you can create an infinite variety of voyages. Continue reading