A week the world's eyes misted...

You sit, looking out through the mist and the wind-blown waves, and you know that you can't begin to imagine... You hear, even feel, the seas rushing up on the shores before and around you. And you know, on another island, beyond the horizon, waves similarly unfold on the beaches. There, however, are the shores of a shattered land. We are all deeply touched by the magnitude of what has happened, and continues to happen, in Haiti this week. Like most, I struggle to comprehend what it must be like, and what it is we must do. I do know that I must find a way to make a meaningful connection that will make a difference.

Some will ask "Why?", as if the answer will bring some comfort, or some explanation that the human mind can grasp. It seems that precious moments are lost in asking such questions.

We live on a planet that is dynamic and changing. Its position in space changes in every nanosecond. We circle the sun and move through space as part of larger "wholes" - the solar system, the galaxy. As those of us who cherish the out-of-doors know so well, the atmosphere is in constant flux - for that is the very nature of weather. The oceans and seas are never still. They are subject to the action of the winds, the currents, the waves and the tides. The very substance of the earth, terra firma, is a dynamic substance. Natural forces within the earth, push and shove and lift, moving the very matter of which this planet is made. It is not difficult to imagine that this sphere, upon which we live and have our being, is still "groaning" from its birth pains, billions of years ago.

So asking "Why?" seems moot, even pointless.

In Haiti, the earth moved, structures fell, and people have died in unimaginable numbers. The infrastructures that existed are gone. "After shocks" have already come in the form of a scarcity of food, clean water, adequate shelter, and the challenges facing those who would provide humanitarian aid.

The only question that matters is, "What now?" How do we, each of us, from our own small corner of the world, help? How do we bring some degree of comfort to a devastated island? How do we assure the survivors that they are not, and will not be, alone?

At best, we can enable and empower those whose wisdom, experience and skills will most effectively bring immediate assistance. To do that we must provide resources and ensure the political will is focused. And at the very least, we can redefine for ourselves and for one another what is important in life. That very action leaves us more energy to do what is essential in the world to care for one another. If we do not gain perspective from this event, we have not understood its magnitude.

As we look out to sea, knowing that we must not feel helpless, we know one thing. We must all work very hard to discern that life, as a human community, interconnected with the natural world, is not about "us"...it is about "all of us", all who share this fragile island planet. Perhaps that realization is the first and most fundamental step.

In peace and with hope,

Duncan

Shoreline treasures...

I rather enjoy the occasional "salvage" operation. Paddling along the coast of Vancouver Island and the Gulf Islands often reveals interesting flotsam and jetsam - even some treasures! Well, OK, we've never actually found any "treasures" but the occasional float and buoy sometimes make it back home strapped to the deck. We did find a rather new PFD once, with identification on it. We were relieved to find that the owner was fine and and that the life jacket had simply been blown off his dock, a considerable distance away from where we had found it, lodged in the rocks above the high tide line. We returned it - circle complete.

Collected salvage can be a bit of a hassle, however, when a stiff cross-wind comes up: the above-water "aerodynamics" become just a little problematical! No worries, we've got a rudder and in a worst-case scenerio, the "cargo" can be returned to the shore or released to the tides, currents, and winds for the pleasure of another fortunate "kayakcomber".

Anybody else find any cool / interesting stuff out there?

Paddling the calm, before the storm...

I have to say, some of the pics on a number of sea kayaking blogs, particularly from Great Britain and Maritime Canada, are pretty impressive! Thing is, I've been going on a bit about our "Mediterranean" climate here on Vancouver Island, “Canada’s Pacific Island”. After all, we’ve got palm trees and there are already flowers coming up in...January. On your day off, you can get up in the morning here and there's lots of choices: will it be kayaking, trail running, hiking, golf, gardening. And, the Island has glaciers and some of the best powder skiing in the country. At sea level, however, (where most of us do our paddling!) it’s pretty mild. Today, for example, it’s 11 degrees C.

But reading some of the blogs from other parts of the northern hemisphere, I'm beginning to feel a little less like the intrepid sea kayaker that I like to think I am. Honestly, I'm humbled by fellow sea kayakers who are “getting out there” in weather conditons that many avid paddlers would (understandably) find just a little, well, “wintry”. Traversing snow-covered beaches in temperatures well "south" of the minus side of zero degrees C to launch their narrow boats is pretty impressive. Images of sea kayaks, decks iced up and gathering snow, punching through the ocean swell is awe-inspiring. Now don’t get me wrong. This is the west coast of Canada and it gets pretty serious on the “left” coast of the Island. Folks come from all over the world to spend a few days watching Pacific waves, birthed a thousand miles away, crash mightily on the remote and wild shores.

Here, however, the waves weren't crashing. Having said that, the forecast was a little iffy for paddling: a Pacific frontal system was coming in with a wind and rainfall warning in effect. Predicted gale force winds, however, were a few hours away. As we prepared to launch off the beach at Maple Bay, the skies darkened – and then lightened – it was as if we had been mysteriously carried into the "eye" of the coming storm!

The water was as calm as could be, with a few sailboats trying to capture whatever occasional breeze there was in order to get back to their harbour. Paddling away from the beach there was an eerie feel to the air. We both hoped the wind would come up enough to at least give the sailboats some forward passage and us an exhilerating "ride" for the next couple of hours - and maybe get a few pics of some interesting water.

Well, the winds never did increase while we were out so we cruised the shoreline, investigated some tiny "caves", counted jellyfish, practised a few braces, admired the arbutus trees in their lush, winter "green", took a bunch of pictures, and just generally felt deep appreciation "for the beauty of the earth". I think that's at the heart of the sea kayaking experience: the gentle days are as enjoyable as the "epic" paddles..each in a different way. Time on the water that is punctuated by surges of adrenaline are lots of fun but on those days when it's so quiet that you can almost "hear" the swirling eddies in the wake of eace paddle stroke - well, they're pretty special too, just in a different way.

The promised weather did come to our coast and the neighbouring Gulf Islands, with lots and lots of precipitation and gale force winds. By that time, however, our gear was drying, the kayaks back on their racks and our minds soothed and refreshed by the day's memories of paddling the calm, before the storm.

Stay safe out there,

Duncan.