Category: Safety

I woke up in the front seat of my truck on Sunday morning at the Grant Village parking lot on the shore of Yellowstone Lake. Despite my penchant for making lists, I’d forgotten a couple of things, so I bought some Tang for breakfast and a hoodie in case it got cool.

I had breakfast in the restaurant by the boat ramp and went to the backcountry office for my boating permit and campsite reservations. The guy there looked at my itinerary and mentioned that I had a 20-mile passage and some long days between proposed campsites. Then he said that they don’t recommend traveling alone.

I asked, “Do you want to come with me?” He laughed and shook his head. Then he told me to stick close to shore, but the look on his face told me he knew that I wouldn’t. Of course in rough weather I would stay close to shore, if I went out at all, but with a favorable weather report and no clouds in the sky, I’d cut across the bays. The Park Service does a great job keeping people safe, but they know to let the more experienced boaters do their own risk evaluations.

My trip was going to cover the south end of the lake. The north end has a highway that runs along it—I didn’t go to Yellowstone for traffic noise. Besides, that’s the open part of the lake and weather can whip up quickly with a fair amount of force. I prefer the more convoluted path at the south end and the anticipation of what lies unseen around the next bend.

Yellowstone Lake is the largest lake above 7,000 feet in North America. It has 110 miles of shoreline and an average depth of 139 feet with a maximum depth of 390 feet. Half of it lies in the Yellowstone Caldera, an ancient volcanic crater approximately 34 miles wide and 45 miles long. The super volcano that created it erupted on three occasions, 2.1 million, 1.3 million and 640,000 years ago.

Sunday’s weather was perfect with barely a breeze. I cut across the West Thumb, a 3 ¾-mile-wide lobe of the lake on its western side, and paddled through the narrows to the main body of the lake. After 12.3 miles I reached my first campsite at the mouth of Flat Mountain Arm. Halfway there, I realized that I had forgotten one other thing. Bread!

I had scratched it off my packing list when I bought two loaves, only to leave them in my fridge. My sandwiches would be rolled-up ham and cheese and there would be no toast with breakfast.

At the campsite I had the option to place my tent on a slight, flat-topped hill overlooking the lake, or down by the shore. I chose the shore to be closer to water for cooking. Each park-maintained campsite has a fire pit. After I set up my tent, sleeping bag and pad, I got back in the boat to paddle the Flat Mountain Arm.

What little wind there was had died, and the lake was like a mirror reflecting the beautiful pine-covered mountains. I was told that the campsites at this end of the arm were not open because of the presence of bears at this time of year. I hoped to catch sight of one taking a drink from the lake, but I saw none. At the end of a six-mile loop I was back at the camp.

The following morning, I packed up, paddled across the mouth of Flat Mountain Arm and crossed over to the South Arm and headed south. At the end of the arm, as I paddled between two islands, a pair of eagles came swooping down, trying to hook talons in a courtship ritual. They missed.

The fire of 1988 was evident in many places. Tree skeletons, no more than bare trunks, rose far above the eight- to 10-foot-tall post-fire pines that were replacing them. The park  is making a remarkable recovery.

Coming back north on the east side of the arm, I found my second campsite. It had a sand beach that wrapped completely around the point, leaving me with lots of sun and a view of the entire South Arm. The fire pit and camping area was up on a small rise. After a bit of lunch, I went for a swim. The water was a bit chilly, but it was another perfect day in the 80s with blue skies and only a few white puffy clouds. My day’s mileage was 15.7.

My third day of paddling was going to be a short one, less than 10 miles, so I slept in and made a late start. I paddled up the South Arm, rounded the point and back down the Southeast Arm. Shortly after rounding the point I passed a beautiful campsite, but I continued on to where I had made a reservation. At the bottom of the arm, the lake widened and I found  my campsite.

It was off to the side with a long, tree-lined outcropping, creating a small protected bay. It was next to a huge open meadow with lots of purple, yellow and red flowers and a thick forested area with a fire pit and room for a tent. I had my choice of sun or shade, but I was concerned that the meadow would attract bears seeking berries.

Later that evening, I finished my dinner of chili and had pudding for dessert. As the sun went down, I crawled into my tent to read the issue of Sea Kayaker that I’d packed. About an hour later, I heard the sound of a thick branch cracking. The last time I’d heard that noise I was in the Minnesota Boundary Waters—and it had been a bear. Grabbing my can of bear spray, I began to consider my options.

I didn’t want to leave a tent door open for a quick exit because of the mosquitoes. With a two-door tent, I could go out either way. I hoped I wouldn’t have to spray a bear while I was inside the tent. Ten minutes went by and nothing—then another loud crack and again it was quiet. Suddenly, I heard another crack; but this one was much louder and the sound kept going until I heard a very loud thud.

It was unmistakably the sound of a falling tree—but there was no wind. I was afraid that it was a bear pushing over one of the dead ones. The bear I saw in Minnesota had torn a tree stump apart to get at some ants. I heard nothing after that and later went to sleep. As I drifted off, it occurred to me that this was the first time I had ever known of a tree falling without it being cut down. I figured that I would likely never experience that again.

The next morning brought the first sign of a change in the weather. It was cloudy, but the sun was trying to peek through. After breakfast, I packed the kayak. On days like this, I leave the tent for last in case it starts to rain. It did. I crawled back into the now empty tent and waited. Ten minutes later it stopped, and I was on my way.

I headed across the bay, avoiding the Molly Islands bird sanctuary. When I got to the other side of the arm, I found a small river. I paddled up a ways, but I didn’t want to make this a long day because the next day I’d have to paddle close to 20 miles and cross some open water to get back to my truck—even longer if weather forced me to hang closer to shore.

I wanted to make that crossing as quickly as possible because you never know what the weather on Yellowstone Lake has in store for you, and I didn’t want to get caught out in the open. As I headed back out onto the arm, I saw a rain cloud moving toward me from across the lake.

A giant, thick bolt of bacon-strip lightning crashed down to earth. I thought about continuing but, reminding myself of the many foolish risks I’d taken in the past, I pulled over to the shore and exited the boat. The wind and the rain soon came.

It didn’t rain hard or long, but the wind was strong. I retreated to the cover of some tall, thick bushes and stayed dry and out of the wind. The waves kicked up and although they weren’t very big, I was glad not to be out there. A half hour later, the wind died. The lake was still choppy, but not bad, so again I
pushed off.

The waves turned to gentle swells coming from my left, but then the wind did a 180-degree shift and created small waves from my right. This made for a slightly confused sea, but I was more annoyed than worried. I would soon exit the wide area of the lower part of the arm and be in a lee of the land with only the gentle swells to contend.

As I made my way up the arm on the east side, the wind switched again and came from the south. The wind waves grew large enough to surf. This made the going fun and easier.

Then the wind picked up and the waves got up to two-feet high. I decided to cut across the arm hoping that the other side would be calmer. The change in plans would also allow me to stay at that beautiful campsite I’d passed near the point and cut off a couple of miles from my last day’s paddle.

The only downside was leaving the safety of the shore for a 2.2-mile open-water crossing. However, I could easily see the waves coming from my left and I could turn into the larger ones. It would be no problem if it didn’t get worse. It got worse.

The wind increased and the waves grew to 2½ to 3 feet high. The rough sea made my paddling more difficult; what should have taken 30 minutes took almost an hour, and I was getting tired. Near the other side, I discovered the land wasn’t protecting me at all.

The waves were going right down the coast, so I turned north and paddled slowly, letting the waves slide under me. With just 50 yards left to get to the campsite, the wind died as quickly as it came. By the time I turned around the point and beached my kayak, the water was completely flat.

I saw I had cell phone reception and called the backcountry office to let them know of my change of plans. They assured me that the site was available and thanked me for calling.

I made some soup for dinner and put up my tent. As evening came, I saw a storm cloud coming across the lake.

The first storm had come from the west, the second from the east and the third from the south. This one was coming from the north. As the storm approached, I could only see the edge of it. The rest was concealed by the trees on my left. Not recognizing the size of the front moving in, I thought, “At least this will be a mild one.”

I went to my tent early and within a few minutes the winds whipped up. I switched on my VHF radio and listened to the forecast: “Severe storms expected. If you see one of these storms approaching, move to a sturdy building immediately.”

I’d never heard that kind of advice on the weather radio. I laughed. What was I supposed to do? I’d been in some nasty blows, but I’d never heard such a warning before. The forecast was for winds stronger than anything I’d experienced, so I decided it would be wise to evaulate where I was and consider picking a safer spot.

There were fallen trees all over this part of Yellowstone. I had little idea which of those still standing were vulnerable to being toppled. A friend of mine told me that he was in a storm and only the live trees got blown over because they had plenty of leaves to catch the wind; the dead ones were bare and stood strong.

In Yellowstone, there are lots of dead trees from the 1988 fire. With that tree crashing down not far from me during the windless night before, I should have been more aware.

In addition to the countless fire-damaged trees around me, trees throughout much of the west have been damaged by beetle infestation. Many campsites have been closed until they can be cut down. Setting up my tent next to a downed tree might offer some protection, I thought.

I left my kayak tied to a log close to the water’s edge. I hung much of my food from a tree, but my kayak was still quite heavy, laden with cans of food. I was betting a bear couldn’t smell through metal.

[Not a winning wager. According to the National Park Service, bears can pick up scents from metal cans. See www.sierrawild.gov/bears/faq —Ed.]. I loaded them separately—rather than packed in bags—for better weight distribution, a tighter load and more storage. As a consequence, it’s inconvenient, though usually unnecessary, to unload my supplies.

A lot of it stays in my kayak when I’m in camp. I’ve been in some severe blows before that were so strong the tent completely blew over flat across my face, but my kayak, weighed down with the gear aboard it, didn’t budge. It was only after this trip that I realized the log it was tied to could have been washed away.

If I’d had more rope, I could have, if nothing else, tied my kayak to something solidly fixed on higher ground. There was the rope that I’d used to tie my food up in the tree—there wasn’t much chance of a bear foraging for a meal in that storm—but I didn’t think to repurpose it.

So, upon hearing the weather report, my attention was focused on what might happen to me in the tent, rather than on the vulnerability of my kayak.

The wind seemed to double in strength every 30 seconds. Soon, dirt was flying up under my tent’s fly, through the screen and onto the book I was trying to read.

The wind kept building, and I became concerned. Suddenly, that cracking sound that I’d heard at the last campsite came again, only this time much louder and much closer. With a powerful thud the tree came crashing down onto the corner of my tent, missing my foot by inches. The roof was pulled down slightly and it was difficult to unzip the screen door with its distorted shape.

A branch tore off another tree and landed right next to the tent on the other side. As I stuck my head out, thick branches blocked my way. A huge tree trunk pressed up against the side wall. I realized how close I’d come to injury or even death. I crawled out of the now small door opening and looked out onto the lake in absolute horror. There were five- and six-foot waves with the wind blasting the tops off into spray.

If I had gone with my first idea of paddling farther, I’d still be out on the lake. There was no way I could paddle in that maelstrom. It was then that I began to worry about my boat. It started to rain.

I crawled back into the tent to keep dry while I figured things out. The tree had landed on my can of bear spray. I wondered what would have happened if that thing had exploded with me in the tent. Just then, another tree crashed to the ground about 10 feet from me.

Luckily, it was downwind of the tent and fell away from me. I stuck my head out to see the damage and then I looked upwind. I saw four tall trees within striking distance. There wasn’t one live pine needle on any of the four trees. They were dead and had been decaying for 24 years since the fire. I couldn’t stay in the tent, and I also couldn’t move it because it was pinned under the
fallen tree.

My mind raced. If I had to abandon the tent, I’d have to find something to shelter myself. The only waterproof thing in my tent was my sleeping pad. My concern about leaving my shelter was hypothermia. Soaking wet in a 40-degree night could be serious.

I said to myself, “Think, Jim, think. What do you have? Where’s your stuff?” Even though I’d heard the warning on my VHF,  I had negelected to bring enough “just in case” stuff to my tent.

I had nothing to protect me from the rain. I’d thought that as long as I was in the tent, it wasn’t going to be blown away, and I could weather the storm safe and dry inside. I never foresaw myself stuck outside my tent hoping trees wouldn’t kill me.

I calmed myself and remembered that my rain jacket was in my kayak. I needed to check on my boat anyway, so I hurried to the shore. It was fine, but it had been blown sideways by the wind.

I pulled it as far away from the water as I could. I grabbed my multi-tool and jacket and ran back to the tent. Wind and rain sprayed my face as I knelt in the lee of the tent, staring up at these four giants and waiting to hear that awful cracking sound.

I was forced to stay outside the tent to keep an eye on the trees, but could I get my 60-year-old self out of the way in time? I looked around, but saw nothing that could give me any sort of shelter from rain or wind. I had to figure something out.

Then I saw the logs that were used for seating around the campsite fire pit. I grabbed a log and laid it next to my tent then I grabbed another and placed it across the first. I laced more logs across each other making a V-shaped wall up in front of my tent. If those trees came down, they’d crash onto the logs instead of me.

My fortress complete, I crawled back into my tent and lay down on the side closest to the wall of logs. Adrenaline was still flowing through my veins, but I was feeling safer now and I began to calm down. I heard two more trees come crashing down, but not the ones upwind of me. About 45 minutes later, the winds began to subside and I was able to drift off to sleep.

Dawn revealed a perfectly calm day with no wind, glass like water and blue skies. I got up and inspected the damage. The tent was still pinned under the tree and it wouldn’t budge. I decided to give myself time to figure this out while I went to see if I still had a boat. I found it upside down with its rear deck shoved up on some rocks.

My spray skirt and paddle leash had kept everything with the kayak, including my two carbon wing paddles. There was almost no damage to the kayak, just a few chips in the gelcoat. My expedition deck bag was gone. In it were my two cameras, binoculars in a waterproof case and a few more belongings like my toilet paper.

I looked around, and to my amazement found the deck bag washed up about 10 yards down the beach. Then I looked at my PFD and realized that in all that had happened, I’d never even thought about my PLB in the front pocket. Not that I would have needed to use it, but that’s not something you want to forget about in an emergency. If I had been pinned under a tree, I could have used it to signal for help. All that I lost from my boat were my cheap $10 sunglasses.

I returned to my tent. I looked at the pile of logs and thought I could use them to create a fulcrum and lever to move the tree off my tent. The idea worked. I pulled the tent free. I was surprised that there was no damage to either the fabric or the pole.

I was still shaken and thought to wolf down an energy bar and race across the lake back to Grant Village. Instead, I reconsidered and had an oatmeal breakfast and some orange juice and settled myself down before heading out. After a relaxed 19 miles of paddling I was back at my truck.

When I got home, I called the National Weather Service and asked what the highest wind speed was on Yellowstone Lake that night. The highest recorded wind was 87 mph, but she said it could have been higher because some of the weather stations hadn’t reported. I asked, “How come? Did they get blown away?” She said, “They might have.”

Jim McCann lives in Colorado and kayaks about 75 times a year on mountain lakes. He’s been at it for almost seven years. Before that, he was a canoeist for five years.

Lessons Learned

I lived in Yellowstone Park for six years in the ’90s and have paddled on Yellowstone Lake many times over the past 35 years, so I have come to know it quite well. In addition, I have come to respect it. Jim describes paddling on Yellowstone Lake with accuracy and detail.

It is, indeed, a very large body of very cold water where intense winds can develop quickly without predictability. Conditions can range from glassy surfaces to waves that would challenge and bring fear into the heart of even the most experienced paddler.

It is a mistake to paddle on Yellowstone Lake without being mentally and physically prepared for every possibility. When we leave land for water, even inland lakes, we have taken on significant additional risks.

Having said that, not every condition and possibility can be known, prevented or planned for.

There are always changing conditions and surprises that we must respond and react to. This is certainly part of the reason we find enjoyment in paddling our little boats to remote places.  The unknown challenges that lie ahead do pull us along.  It is clear to me that this paddler feels that pull, and I admire him for it.

The National Park Service does an excellent job of trying to prepare visitors for the realities of paddling on Yellowstone’s waters and for traveling into its backcountry.

I have listened to their checklist of warnings many times, and there have been times when I felt as if I knew more than the ranger. That can be a mistake, as the 100-plus deaths on Yellowstone’s waters attest to. Being humbled can be a good thing.

Complacency on Yellowstone Lake is not. The tendency to get going, to prove things, to power on can often overwhelm our deeper instincts, gut feelings and good sense—all qualities that can help keep us safe. Mindset is an important element in big-water paddling.

Heading off alone into backcountry of any kind also adds to the inherent risks, and the Park Service is correct in the warnings given to solo paddlers. I have had some of my most memorable and enjoyable trips with no one to share them with but myself.

However, it should be obvious that one’s risks go up when traveling alone on water in the backcountry, and one should behave accordingly by being hyperalert to possible dangers.

With all the warnings the Park Service outlines, one can’t be warned of every possible risk, and it is not clear to me whether the paddler was warned of falling trees.

I can’t recall that I’ve ever been warned of “widow makers.” It appears to me, however, that the park does make an effort to cut down limbs or entire trees that may pose a risk at campsites.

As I read Jim’s narrative, there were a couple of red flags at the start of his trip. He had forgotten warm layers when going into the high-mountain, cold-water conditions of Yellowstone Lake.

Substituting a good synthetic layer with a gift-store hoodie, most likely made of cotton, is not the ideal—as I trust he knew. Also, forgetting somewhat important food items made me wonder a bit at Jim’s method of preparing for a trip.

No matter how many trips you’ve been on, there are a lot of things to remember, and to forget things is natural. Relying in any part on your memory when preparing is inviting omissions. The creation of a personalized and detailed checklist of equipment is essential to the safety and enjoyment of your trip; though even Jim, with a “penchant for making lists,” prematurely checked off “bread” and forgot it in the fridge.

Make sure you’re constantly updating your checklist and don’t ignore any item until you’ve put it in your boat. From my own mistakes, I know it’s not unusual to bring a necessary item to put in, only to leave it in the vehicle. While paddling in Alaska’s Glacier Bay National Park, I came across a couple who had experienced several miserable nights in the rain, hunkered down in a tent without poles which were left at the launch.

So, use your list when preparing and packing for the trip, double-check it at the launch point, and update it both during the trip and shortly after. Updating it after will help you benefit from your experience by eliminating the items that turned out to be superfluous, and adding new ones that will improve your next adventure.

An equipment list should be continually revised. This list can also include such additional items as: Have you left your float plan with someone? Is your mail being taken care of?

Have you checked weather forecasts? Is your vehicle locked and do you know where the key is stored? Your wallet? In other words, your list should address every detail so you can relax knowing you are completely prepared.

When you are traveling in a group, be sure to double-check the items others are responsible for both at home and again before launching. You don’t want to be at camp the first night and find out the food, the stove and pots, or the tent poles are still at home.

It does appear clear that Jim used adequate caution in assessing the water conditions, thereby arriving safely and without incident at each of his camps. Though luck sometimes plays into our successful outcomes more than we care to admit. Ironically, terra firma was where his risks increased to a dangerous degree—and this can so often be the case.

There’s a strong tendency after a long day of paddling, perhaps out of relief or weariness, to just get camp set up, get some food in our stomachs and sit back and relax. It may simply have to do with the security of being firmly ashore. The risks are over. Or are they?

At times I’ve paddled in some challenging conditions, whether on the coasts of British Columbia and Alaska or on a big freshwater lake like Yellowstone, where the last thing I did was consider my safety.

For example, even on land, winds can be a problem and, in some cases, even life-threatening. Gear and boats can be blown away, leaving you in a precarious situation at best. While canoeing in the Boundary Waters region in Minnesota, my paddling partner and I were forced to camp on a small and exposed island due to increasing wind and waves.

Once camp was set up and we felt relatively secure hunkered down in the tent, the wind really picked up, blew cooking gear into the lake and rolled our 18.5-foot canoe well into the island. The lost pot was a nuisance, but what if the wind had blown the canoe toward the water rather than inland? Should we have tied it down even if it was high and dry? Most certainly!

While that remote island we were forced to bivouac on was treeless, trees would have surely added to the risks.

It turned out this storm was one of those that flattens square miles of trees like stalks of corn, complicating camps and portages for the remainder of the trip.

Camp is where new risks replace the ones left behind on the water, and these deserve the same degree of attention. Camp becomes the place where burns and cuts can occur, where ankles and knees get sprained, where contact with wildlife takes place, where rocks can tumble from cliffs and where trees can fall. Dead trees combined with high winds was exactly the very serious situation Jim found himself in. Could he have eliminated the risks? That’s hard to say, but there are some things he could have considered that may have
reduced the danger.

As Jim describes, parts of the Yellowstone Lake region were burned in 1988. That’s a long time ago, and most of those dead trees have fallen over the years. But some remain standing, and you can be assured that their root systems have decayed, leaving them poised to fall when the wind comes up.

Weather reports that include high winds should always be cause for evaluating your situation and taking steps to assure your safety and secure your gear.

While forecasts will help you assess general and potential risk, alertness to specific conditions at your location is what can save your life. How strong are the winds, what direction are they coming from, how are my camp and my tent situated within this reality and, in the context of this article, are there trees nearby (or limbs overhead) that could pose a threat?

Moving camp can be an option, but it’s not always a realistic one. In Yellowstone, you may only use a site if you’ve reserved it. Of course, I can’t imagine the Park Service would quibble over a camper’s decision to avoid an apparent risk.

(I once had a family ask to share my camp on Yellowstone due to inclement weather and, of course, I made room for them.) If there’s a safer spot to pitch your tent, that’s an option to consider.

Jim had already made his camp and retired for his third night when he heard a cracking branch that caused some concern. I’m puzzled that the cracking and thud of a falling tree came without wind and a flapping tent, or the sound of waves coming ashore.

I have to wonder whether the absence of wind was in the primitive realm of nighttime imagination that we naturally carry with us. But sometimes trees do fall of their own accord, and maybe this was one of
those times.

At this point, it would have been both wise and helpful to exit the tent and take a look around with a flashlight (and his bear spray—just in case) to assess the situation and conditions. While I can understand the hesitation to exit a tent when bears are in our thoughts, especially at night when our fears may be distorted, a tent provides no real safety if a bear is present.

If it was determined that conditions were worsening, he could begin to assess the risks and his options. Whether or not the weather was responsible for the tree falling, a tree did indeed fall. That’s cause for concern, and some action.

The following day’s lightning, rain and wind brought some changing conditions that Jim responded to by wisely heading to shore to wait it out. As he headed off again, conditions on the water may have been fun, but also noteworthy if waves were getting to two feet.

A crossing of over two miles with these changing conditions, in my mind, is taking an unnecessary risk—one that increases as the paddler tires. While weather systems passing through the region may have somewhat predictable conditions, the uncertainty and possibility of localized strong winds and high waves should be taken seriously.

Many people have died of drowning and/or hypothermia on Yellowstone Lake after their watercraft capsized on open-water crossings during both predicted and unpredicted afternoon storms. Jim was lucky he made it through the deteriorating conditions to a beautiful, albeit unplanned camp.

Jim used his cell phone to call to the backcountry office to inform them of his changed plan. That was the right thing to do, and one of the many benefits of today’s technologies. Jim was also equipped with a VHF radio, and the weather report he describes was an ample warning of things to come. With that warning Jim should have secured his camp, the kayak and its contents.

This should have been part of the preparation for the upcoming storm, not done after the fact. When we are on the water during deteriorating conditions, the increasing dangers cause us to seek safety by getting ashore or to a protected place, but when the same conditions take place on land, we are often lulled into complacency by the apparent safety of land, only to find different risks and dangers looming all around us.

This was therefore the time to assess the risks of falling trees, especially since this had happened the night before. Conditions were becoming ripe for this and sure enough, soon after, a falling tree came close enough to raise the greatest of concerns, losing one’s life. Then a second tree came down. His situation was worsening, but the risks to his well-being could have been lessened by assessing them ahead of time. The time to notice four dead trees directly upwind is before a storm hits, not in the midst of it.

Under the seriously deteriorating weather conditions, Jim ultimately jumped into action, attending to his boat—but not securing it—and trying to remedy the pinned tent situation. Hypothermia was a realistic concern, especially considering the hoodie layer and the fact that his rain gear was not with him in the tent, but left in his kayak.

Building the protective log fortress was probably better than nothing, especially under the circumstances, but I would be suspicious that logs light enough to be moved by hand wouldn’t offer adequate protection from the extreme force of a falling tree.

The new day brought clearer weather and perhaps a clearer mind. Jim was very fortunate that his kayak was still there and undamaged. Wondering and worrying about its safety could have been eliminated if he had properly secured it earlier.

Getting a good night’s sleep is always important. It helps you recover from the rigors of the previous day and better prepares you for the day to come. A restful night is more likely if you prepare for the worst before turning in.

For a calm and confident mind, make sure that your kayak is safe and secure, that gear won’t blow away, that food has been properly stowed and that emergency and rain gear is at hand.

Jim was fortunate; he came away from a severe storm—with perhaps record-breaking winds—with minimal material losses. It could have been far worse. Could he have prevented the worst-case scenario?

That’s difficult to determine, but I hope his story now promotes a greater understanding and respect for the forces of nature and the risks they impose. Look up, down and all around whether you’re on water or land.

Don Nelson has been kayaking since 1993 and lived in Yellowstone Park from 1991-1997 as the Director of the Yellowstone Institute. He is the author of Paddling Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks.

A group of friends from the Sea Kayaking Club were wrapping up a four-day trip in the Apostle Islands. They had successfully avoided a few isolated rain showers, but were caught off guard by the cold nights.

Their sleeping bags were simply not warm enough, and everyone was sleeping poorly. To make matters worse, they forgot to bring coffee, which made each morning a little rougher. As the sun came up on the last day of their trip, tempers were short, and while it had been nice to be out in the wilderness for a few days, everyone was ready to get back to the mainland.

The weather radio indicated a forecast that was near the limit of their skills, with rain expected for the afternoon and evening. Everyone was a bit edgy, and the decision to launch was made with minimal discussion since no one wanted to spend another day camping. Halfway through the crossing, they realized that they were in over their heads and wished they had stayed ashore.

Nearby, Adventure Kayaking Club paddlers had enjoyed a weekend out on the water. They had camped close to the group from the Sea Kayaking Club. As the sun rose on a crisp Sunday morning, the group started to move around, enjoying a hot cup of coffee and some breakfast to start the day.

A warm fire provided welcome relief against the cold. Enjoying breakfast together, they listened to the weather forecast. Conditions were within their abilities, but with a minimal safety margin.  Their campsite was in a protected cove with a nice view of the surrounding islands, so they were in no hurry to leave. After some discussion, they declared it a “wind day” and made plans to go hiking while the new weather front moved through the region. At midday, from a viewpoint at the apex of the island they saw that the water was quite rough and were glad to be ashore.

Economics of Decision Making

In these hypothetical examples, why did the Sea Kayaking Club launch while the Adventure Kayaking Club opted to stay ashore?  In most discussions of the mistakes kayakers make, the focus is on understanding the risks faced by the paddlers on the water and their ability to correctly evaluate and/or overcome them.

This line of inquiry is incomplete because it does not account for how risk is perceived and it fails to take into account how we actually make the decision to launch.

Most paddlers would agree that the efforts that go into getting ready for a trip are, in economic terms, an investment, and the pleasure of paddling is a return on that investment.

If you’ve spent a week getting ready for a big trip and then drive five hours to the launch site, you’re going to be very eager to get on the water—paddling is the return on your investment. During a long cruise, each successful launch during the trip brings you closer to your goals and improves the return on your investment.

If being out on the water seems like the best use of our time, we launch. Since every kayaking incident starts with the decision to launch, it follows that our safety on the water is influenced by the alternatives that are available to us at launch time.

While reading reports of kayaking incidents in the past few years, I became convinced that something fundamental was missing in how kayakers made decisions to launch in marginal circumstances.

Having recently completed my MBA, it occurred to me that concepts from economics and consumer behavior could be applied to better understand how we make our decision to launch. I realized that things we consider to be optional when preparing for a trip should actually be considered as playing an important role in safety.

It also became clear why many attempts at discouraging kayakers from launching into deteriorating conditions are unsuccessful, and how that can be improved.

There are some economic terms that you might be able to apply to decision making at the start of a paddling day:

Potential value: The amount of enjoyment you might have or the goals that you’ll achieve by paddling today.

Perceived risk: The downsides of paddling today—the things you will not enjoy or that might harm you.

Perceived value = potential value minus perceived risk: Is the payoff worth the risk or effort you take on? If the potential value clearly outweighs the perceived risk, the perceived value is high.

Opportunity cost: What else could you be doing if you chose not to paddle today?  Could a day ashore be time well spent?

Incremental value = perceived value minus opportunity cost: How much more will you enjoy paddling over whatever else you could be doing? This is the difference between perceived value and opportunity cost.

Potential Value

The potential value is where we typically focus when deciding whether to launch. This includes both the experience of being out on the water—seeing cool sea caves, surfing in moderately sized waves—as well as what might be gained from achieving the day’s objective—getting to the campsite, completing the trip on time.

Economic theory says that the effort we put into getting ready for a trip should have no bearing on the launch decision. It is referred to as a “sunk cost,” meaning that we have already spent our time and resources in such a manner that it cannot be undone.

As paddlers, we often view the work of packing and getting to the put-in as an investment, which puts additional pressure on us to “protect” that investment when we arrive at the launch. This is a dangerous perspective. No matter how much we’ve invested in getting to the water, a bad launch decision is still a bad launch decision; it is in no way excused because we worked hard to make it possible.

Perceived Risk

When evaluating conditions, the skill level of the paddler is important because a heavy reliance is placed on previous experiences. Thus, risk assessment is subjective in nature because it is the perception of risk that drives our decision. There are two factors that affect how we perceive risk.

First, we are much more willing to accept a risk when it is voluntary.  Voluntary risk is why people believe they are safer driving cars versus flying in an airplane, even though the airplane is statistically much safer. It turns out we feel comfortable with  significantly higher risks when we feel in control of our fate.

This is important, since it distorts how we evaluate risk. I have happily launched in conditions when I felt it was my decision to make, but was opposed to launching in similar conditions when someone else was pressuring me to do so.

Next, we evaluate risk by comparing it to something we know, and extrapolating when it lies beyond the boundaries of what we have already experienced. Unfortunately, we tend to underestimate significantly the additional risk that lies outside of our experience.

Experienced paddlers know that key variables for paddling difficulty are wave height, wind speed and the paddling direction relative to the wind and waves. We listen to the weather forecast and try to extrapolate the conditions based on what we have already experienced.

When evaluating conditions, I might think, “Hmm, that’s kind of like a crossing I did last summer, but the winds are going to be a bit stronger so it will take longer.” The smaller the gap between what we have experienced and what we are considering, the more likely we are to correctly evaluate the new situation.

Since we underestimate risk when extrapolating, novices are especially bad at assessing the risk associated with adverse conditions they encounter for the first time.

Evaluating the additional risk when moving from paddling on a small city lake in calm conditions to making a two-mile crossing with 15-knot winds and three- to four-foot waves is a jump beginners simply cannot make. As a result, the weather forecast may have limited value because new paddlers cannot comprehend the associated risk.

Making matters worse, they may not be aware of their limitations, which can make it very difficult, at best, for a concerned paddler to have a conversation with them about the risks associated with launching in challenging conditions. The result may be an “I know what I am doing” response, since they may not even be aware of the fact they can’t fully understand the situation. In such a situation, the perceived risk associated with launching is low for the new paddler, since they lack the knowledge needed to correctly interpret what it will feel like on the water once they launch.

Note that I use the term “perceived risk” here to signify possible negatives associated with the trip. Large waves may not be a negative for everyone, but the possibility of having to call for a rescue certainly is.

Perceived Value

Perceived value starts with how much we might enjoy paddling today and accounts for the associated risk. The result is how much we reasonably expect to enjoy paddling today.

Bringing the components—potential value and perceived risk—into play makes it easier to bring our traditional kayak-focused discussion of risk into this economic framework.

Opportunity Cost

Although an accurate assessment of risk is a key step when deciding to launch, the opportunity cost is always considered—either explicitly or implicitly. This explicit discussion is often missing when discussing the launch decision at the beach.

As mentioned above, the opportunity cost is what the alternative use of our time will be if we don’t go paddling now. The higher the opportunity cost, the higher my requirements are for a fulfilling time paddling. The experience of staying on the beach has some level of value and the better prepared you are to enjoy the time you spend ashore, the higher that value is.

Giving up something that has a high value implies a high cost for the activity you choose. Good alternatives to paddling have a high opportunity cost.

In the example I created at the beginning of this article, the Sea Kayaking Club was cold and tired, and staying at their campsite to wait for better paddling weather was going to mean more of the same, creating a low opportunity cost. They could imaginebeing uncomfortably anxious paddling in marginal conditions, but they knew staying ashore surely meant even more discomfort because of the cold.

A few miles away, the Adventure Kayaking Club had a great campsite, where all were warm and well rested. They were quite happy, and staying in camp would continue to be enjoyable. For them, there was a high opportunity cost associated with launching, since they knew they would be leaving a good thing behind. Since the opportunity cost of staying (warm and happy) exceeded the low value they saw in launching (high degree of anxiety), it was easy for them to opt to stay on land for the day.

Incremental Value

Understanding perceived value and opportunity cost brings us to the idea of incremental value. A decision to launch goes through these steps:

How much are you going to enjoy or gain from going padding?

Weigh the negatives associated with the paddling (e.g., potential for strong winds and large waves, or the chance of rain).

Compare your experience if you go paddling to what else you might do instead.

The gain you might realize by going paddling versus doing something else is your incremental value. The larger the incremental value, the more likely you are to launch.

Consider when launching whether the incremental value is high for the right reasons. Is it high because the paddling conditions are great, or because your current situation is miserable and almost anything would be better than staying where you are? The incremental value should be high because the expected value is high—anything else is a red flag.

Wind Day at Pukaskwa National Park

A few years ago I was paddling with a group of friends at Pukaskwa National Park on Lake Superior. We were five days out and had not seen anyone since launching. Everyone in the group was an experienced paddler. The winds had come up overnight, and it was clear that there were significant waves (five to six feet) and whitecaps out past the protection of our cove.

We discussed the pros of launching—we wanted to make some miles to reach a specific point in the park in order to complete the entire trip within our allotted time. Paddling in big waves all day was going to be challenging and introduced some risk, but it was within our abilities (albeit with various individual safety margins).

Finally, we began to discuss the alternative. “If we stay here, what are we going to do today?”  The group grew quiet, since the opportunity cost was low. No one was excited by the prospect of spending the day just “sitting on the beach.”

One person in the group noted that the wind was blowing into the cove, so the waves were coming in as well. It would be an excellent day to go play, since in the event of a wet exit the waves at the mouth of the cove would simply push us back to the calm water inside.

Not moving camp would allow for some free time: an enjoyable happy hour later in the afternoon complete with freshly made guacamole by our resident gourmet chef. With those observations the opportunity cost increased dramatically, causing the incremental value of launching to become negative.

A few moments later, everyone enthusiastically agreed that staying at the campsite and playing in the cove was the right decision to make. The perceived risk of the situation never changed, only our awareness of the alternatives available to us if we did not launch. By considering those alternatives, the incremental value of paddling went from marginal to negative, making the smart choice clear.

The opportunity cost is important to keep in mind when planning a trip. Think of good food, an interesting book, and comfortable accommodations as your insurance policy. These “luxuries” will help protect you from being forced into unsafe decisions by a positive incremental value for paddling that is elevated simply by discomfort and/or boredom in camp.

Chain of Events

Safety on the water is important, but the situation off the water has a huge influence on our decision to be out on the water in the first place. The better the situation on land, the higher our opportunity cost. The higher our opportunity cost, the less likely we are to launch in marginal conditions.

A low opportunity cost at the time of launch is an often overlooked link in the chain of events that leads up to an incident. Too often the focus of accident analysis is on gear or skills that failed to meet the challenges that arose on the water. The decision to leave the beach is always at the root of an incident and the conditions we make for ourselves on land play a large part in that decision.

The following all contribute to the chain of events that lead to a low opportunity cost at the time of launch:

Good Planning and Preparation

Wind day options: What will everyone do on a wind day? No one should be itching to go because they’ve worked hard to get to the put-in or are bored after spending a day or two at the same campsite. While you are home making plans, be sure to investigate the alternatives available if conditions are poor when you arrive at the launch site, making it unwise to launch. Prepare yourself to spend your wind days comfortably in camp. A very experienced kayaker I know once told me that a good book is his most important piece of safety equipment, because it prevents him from launching in marginal conditions simply because he is bored.

Scheduling flexibility: A pressing reason to be back on the expected date of return skews the incremental value of launching before the kayaks are ever loaded. The perceived value of completing the outing at a certain time to meet family or work obligations dramatically inflates the perceived value of launching.

This frequently leads to trouble. Wind days must be accounted for, and a plan should be in place if the group is running a day or two late.
I was on a trip recently where seven- to nine-foot waves were forecast for Saturday night into Sunday morning.

The winds would subside Sunday around noon, but it was unclear when the seas would settle enough for safe paddling. We’d planned to spend that night at an island offshore, but because my friend had to be back at work on Monday, we opted to forgo camping on the island. It was a tough decision to make because the water was still flat late Saturday afternoon when we had to weigh our options.

We stayed on the mainland and did some day trips rather than force ourselves into a bad situation Sunday afternoon if the conditions were marginal.  This turned out to be the right choice when the wind began to blow that night.

Happy Group

Personalities: When the personalities get along well, everything else seems easy. When they don’t, your group has lowered the opportunity cost, since paddlers would rather be out on the water than stay in camp with people they don’t like.

Communication: Talking is the key to staying in sync as the trip evolves. I find that setting aside a time of day (at dinner, over the campfire) to talk about the day and expectations for tomorrow keeps everyone in tune with the situation. Poor communication can quickly create a situation with lots of drama, lowering the opportunity cost at launch time.

Good Campsite

Site: Avoid choosing a site where you have to move the next day simply because you can’t stomach the idea of spending an additional day there.

Explicit discussion: What will we do if we call a wind day tomorrow? Is this where we want to be, or is a different campsite the better choice? On a recent nine-day trip, the forecast indicated 12- to 15-foot waves with 40-knot winds for the next day. That afternoon, we specifically chose a campsite with those conditions in mind. It ended up being a great choice, since we were protected from the wind and had lots of room to move around.

Influencing the Launch Decision for Others

It’s one thing to make better decisions as a group, but what can you do when you come across other paddlers (especially those you don’t know) getting ready to launch in questionable conditions?

You might try to initiate a discussion that focuses solely on the risks involved. This is ineffective with new paddlers, because they lack the personal experiences required to assess risk correctly. A better approach is to influence the perception of risk, and the opportunity cost associated with launching.

My friend Dave came across a paddler getting ready to launch near Meyers Beach in the Apostle Islands.  Conditions were windy, and Dave knew that several paddlers have died exploring the sea caves in that area when their boats flipped and they found themselves in the water.

Dave tried to explain that capsizing in Lake Superior without at least a wetsuit is a bad idea—the 45˚F water quickly leads to hypothermia, making it nearly impossible to get back into the boat. The paddler was not convinced. Dave asked him to stand in water up to his knees while they continued their conversation.

After a minute, Dave asked if he could still feel his legs and was told “no.” Dave then asked him how effectively he would be able to get back into his boat if his whole body felt as numb.

The paddler now had a new personal experience that made the knowledge gap much smaller, allowing him to assess the risk more effectively. His potential value remained the same—the sea caves are cool—but his perceived risk just increased, resulting in a reduced perceived value.

The paddler was new to the area and had no idea what else he might spend the afternoon doing, so his opportunity cost was pretty low—just sitting on the beach was of little interest. The incremental value was still positive, but had become marginally so.

Dave next addressed the opportunity cost. He suggested checking out the Bark Bay Slough, about five miles down the road. It’s sheltered from the wind and an interesting place to explore via kayak. This sounded interesting, so the opportunity cost provided by the alternate destination went up.

The incremental value of exploring the caves became negative and not launching made the best sense. The alternative destination was now the better choice. The paddler decided to load his boat back onto the car and drive down to Bark Bay instead.

Conclusions

The decision to launch is the last decision in a chain that starts with trip planning at home and continues on to our environment at the time of the launch. By focusing on each step along the way to ensure we always have an enjoyable backup plan, we are more likely to avoid launching in marginal conditions.

Understanding the components of this process also enables us to be more effective at helping others understand the implications of launching in poor conditions.

Discussing risk is a good starting point, but the incremental value will be decreased more effectively by suggesting interesting alternatives. It is the awareness of those alternatives that may persuade both new and experienced kayakers to come back and paddle on a better day.

Sea Kayaker magazine has a lot of stories about kayakers being rescued by other mariners: Sometimes it’s by the Coast Guard, sometimes by working seamen or by pleasure boaters.

Occasionally the tables are turned and kayakers come to the rescue. I had the opportunity to do just that this summer on the Great Peconic Bay between the north and south forks of New York’s Long Island.

On Monday, August 9, 2011, my girlfriend Dara Fee, her 17-year-old nephew Ryan and I were enjoying a late afternoon outing on the Great Peconic Bay. It was the first time Ryan had been kayaking. He was in Dara’s P&H Delphin, Dara was in her Lincoln Canoe and Kayak Schoodic and I was in my Tahe Marine Greenland-T. We had paddled out of Red Creek Pond in Hampton Bays to Red Cedar Point and were on our way back. It was a short outing, less than three miles.

Dara and I are both American Canoe Association (ACA) Level-3 coastal kayakers. We are also ACA-certified trip leaders. I lead numerous trips each year for North Atlantic Canoe and Kayak, a kayak club that both Dara and I belong to. We are also members of QAJAQ USA, the Greenland-style kayaking community in the United States. We have circumnavigated Manhattan Island and kayaked most bays on Long Island and Long Island Sound and have explored stretches of the Maine coast.

While I’m paddling, I always carry a VHF radio and keep it secured to my PFD. I always take visual sound signaling devices, a paddle float, pump, first aid kit and a tow belt. Dara carries the same equipment that I do. We carry food and water appropriate to the length of the outing. If I am kayaking with Dara or other experienced kayakers I usually stow my tow belt along with my first aid kit in my day hatch. I wore the tow belt on our August 9th outing because we were paddling with Ryan, a novice kayaker.

We were nearly halfway back to Red Pond when a white sailboat about 27 feet long passed in front of us about 35-yards ahead of us. There are a lot of boats sailing Great Peconic Bay so this is not an uncommon occurrence, but this sailboat had a man trailing behind it being dragged through the water at the end of a line.

No one was visible aboard the boat and only the jib was set. The boat was moving fast enough that the man in the water was only hanging on, not pulling himself toward the boat. Dara and I, without speaking or even glancing at one another, started to paddle after the sailboat with Ryan following. After my start to pursue the sailboat, I hesitated, believing that I heard a faint yell of “Help” off to my left.

I looked in that direction but I didn’t see anyone in the water. I paddled after the sailboat again but I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling about the faint cry that I thought I’d heard. I once more turned my kayak to the left. It was clear that Dara would catch the sailboat and I knew she could render whatever assistance was needed to the individual being dragged behind it.

Ryan was paddling after Dara and I was confident that if Dara needed Ryan’s assistance in helping with the sailboat she would instruct him what to do. I’d watched Ryan paddling on our way to Red Cedar Point and I was confident that he wouldn’t capsize in the small 18-inch swells. Besides, Ryan was wearing a PFD and even if he did capsize I knew he would follow the instructions that Dara had given him before we set out: Hold on to the kayak to be more visible in the water, then wait for us to get him back into his kayak.

After paddling about twenty-five yards, doubt started to set in: Did I really hear a cry for help? Could that cry have come from the man being dragged behind the sailboat? Was I wasting time traveling in this direction when I should be trying to catch up to the sailboat? Just when I was about to change direction and continue chasing the sailboat and the man tethered to it, I noticed a hand with outstretched fingers emerge from the water about 15 or 20 yards away.

Then, as if it had been a mirage, the hand was gone.

I glanced back over my shoulder and could see Dara now off in the distance rapidly gaining on the sailboat with Ryan not far behind her. I slowed down and continued paddling toward the spot where I had seen the specter of a hand emerge from the water. It didn’t reappear. I continued to paddle, but didn’t see anyone in the water.

Then, directly in front of my bow, just below the water’s surface inside a small swell, I was startled to notice a pair of eyes. The swell had brought the eyes almost up to my kayak’s bow level just a few feet in front of me. The eyes seemed the size of golf balls.

Emerging from the water once more was the hand, reaching for my bow. I applied some reverse strokes before the hand grasped my bow. I wanted to stop my kayak before the man could do anything in panic that might capsize me. With just his fingertips griping my bow, a head now emerged from the water and with it came the sound of a gasp for air.

As I paddled backward I said, “Don’t grab my boat; I will tell you what to do!” I didn’t want to risk capsizing by having him pull himself along my kayak’s grab lines toward me. The man nodded and I stopped back-paddling.

I instructed him to place his other hand on my bow and interlock his fingers. Once he had done this, I told him to let me know when he had caught his breath. When he once more nodded his head, I had him wrap his legs around the bow of my kayak and place his feet around the foredeck.

The man on my bow seemed to be in his 50s, shirtless, tanned, heavyset but not overweight, black hair, dark eyes and barefoot. He appeared extremely calm while secured to my bow.

I hadn’t done this swimmer rescue with the Greenland-T, but I had practiced the technique with my other kayaks. It is my preferred method for transporting a swimmer: I can see the individual attached to my bow and assess their condition as I paddle.

I have no problem paddling distances with someone attached to my bow and I don’t feel unstable. As it turned out, the Greenland-T is very well suited for this rescue technique. Its long tapered bow allows the swimmer to nestle right under the bow. He had no problem wrapping both his arms and legs around the kayak’s narrow bow. With water temperature in the 70s (21 ° C) this time a year, I didn’t have to concern myself with the swimmer quickly becoming hypothermic.

The Greenland-T has very little freeboard and if I had tried to carry him on the rear deck he would have submerged the stern of the Greenland-T and made it unstable. With him now secured to my kayak’s bow I started to pursue the sailboat, which appeared to have come to a stop.

My passenger, now that his life was no longer in jeopardy, regained his composure and was breathing normally. I have never been thanked so often and in that short a time span as when this man was clinging to my kayak’s bow. He turned his concern to the sailboat, which was being carried by the wind toward a rocky shore.

It only took me a few minutes to paddle the approximately 100 yards to reach the sailboat. When I arrived, Dara was at its bow and the man who previously was being dragged by the sailboat was now standing in waist-deep water, holding the line he’d been dragged by to keep the sailboat from running aground on the rocky north shore of Hampton Bays.

The man on my bow, his shorts hanging around his knees, waded over to the sailboat and pulled an anchor out of the water and put it on deck. The anchor was overboard and may have helped stop the boat as it drifted into the shallows near shore. There was no chain attached to the anchor, just a short line. The man I’d rescued climbed onto the sailboat’s stern. With all modesty forgotten and no attempt at pulling up his shorts, he started the small outboard engine.

Now with both men aboard, shorts up and engine running, they moved the sailboat away from shore while continuing to thank us. We didn’t get their names or even take note of the name of the boat.

Dara and I, in the brief conversations we had with the sailors, put together the circumstances leading up to this incident. The two men were sailing on the Great Peconic Bay and decided to anchor near the exposed sandbar off Red Cedar Point. They dropped the anchor but left the small jib up.

There was no chain affixed to the anchor: it was just tied to a short length of nylon rope. Without the chain to weight the anchor line, the anchor couldn’t get a purchase on the sandy bottom. The line looked taut as if it were holding, but the boat was drifting slowly backward.

The man I had rescued hadn’t noticed the boat had moved into deeper water and jumped off the sailboat believing it was still in the shallows surrounding the sandbar. He found himself in water over his head. He was not wearing a PFD and he couldn’t swim. His companion, noticing the plight of his friend, secured a rope around his own waist and jumped into the water in an attempt to rescue him.

The wind and current quickly separated the two. With just the jib set, the sailboat would swing around on a downwind course and pick up speed. Soon it was moving enough that the man tethered to it could not pull himself along the rope to get back aboard. Within a few minutes the wind and current pushed the sailboat and the tethered sailor across our path.

I marvel at all the circumstances that fell into place to allow us to rescue these two men: Dara didn’t have her normal work assignment and was able to leave work early; we’d picked that precise location and time to paddle; the direction of the wind and current carried the men right across our path; the nagging feeling I’d experienced that I’d heard a weak cry for help; looking in the right direction and noticing a hand emerging briefly from the water. We were very fortunate to be in a position to help the two sailors.

This was the second time I’ve been able to help someone while I was out kayaking. Two years ago two teenage boys capsized a one-person sit-on-top kayak in Noyak Bay, 12 miles to the northwest.

I got one of the boys back into the sit-on-top and towed the other back to shore with my kayak. I did not really think much of that incident. I’d spent three years as a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne in the 1970s and almost 30 years in law enforcement, so this was not my first incident helping someone. I did not think much of helping the boys out of a bind, but it was quite a different experience to see a man’s hand reach out from beneath the waters of Great Peconic Bay.

Lessons Learned

It’s good to see that kayaks are not always on the receiving end of a rescue. There is a long-standing tradition of assisting mariners in distress: “Every master is bound, so far as he can do so without serious danger to his vessel and persons thereon, to render assistance to any person in danger of being lost at sea.”

There is also an obligation to keep watch while operating a vessel, not only to assure its safe navigation, but also to respond to emergencies. The custom of assisting others is a central part of the maritime culture for one simple reason: On water we are out of our element and without a sound vessel to carry us our survival time is limited.

Kayaks may be small, but we are all mariners nonetheless. The diminutive size of vessels may limit what we can do to assist others, but being alert to what goes on around us and prepared to take action can put us in a position to save lives.

The degree to which we prepare to go paddling usually increases the farther we are from home and the more isolated our destination. It makes good sense to be quite self-sufficient when help in an emergency would be, at best, hours in reaching us.

But closer to home, while we may feel a greater margin of safety for ourselves, the likelihood of encountering other boaters in distress is much higher. Great Peconic Bay, where Colin, Dara and Ryan crossed paths with the errant sailboat, is rimmed with piers and marinas.

Just as most auto accidents occur within 25 miles of home, it’s reasonable to expect that most boating accidents will happen in close proximity to the places boats are moored or launched.

The waters within view of the Sea Kayaker offices are a good example of an urban waterway. At the center of Shilshole Bay is a marina with 1,400 slips. To the south of the marina is a beach popular with stand-up paddlers and a canal leading to locks that lead to inland waters. About 65,000 boats pass through the locks each year.

To the north of the marina is a four-lane launching ramp used by more than 10,000 boats per year and a popular beach frequented by kayakers and kite-boarders. The vast majority of boaters pass through these busy waters without incident, but a few get into trouble. Rob Casey paddles this area often and reports:

“I rescued two kite-surfers in 25-plus-knot winds and waves reaching 4 feet. I carried one on my deck back to shore. A fisherman who’d stood up to pee and flipped his boat.

When we found him he was trying to swim his boat to shore even though it was anchored by a 16-pound downrigger weight. I gave him clothes to warm him until the paramedics arrived. I used a flare to direct the police boat to the site. A teenage kayaker in a boating channel in sight of a waterfront restaurant on a busy summer day had been capsized from boat wake. He was wearing only shorts and had been in the water 20 minutes.

My partner and I got him back aboard with a T-rescue and gave him clothes to wear. He was getting pretty stiff. This past summer I towed a stand-up paddler back to his put-in. He hadn’t been able to paddle back into a headwind. I gave him my tow rope to hold on to while he sat on the board.”

In this same area I’ve pulled two sailors out of the water while sailing and have towed a disabled fishing skiff behind my kayak.

We can’t expect that other boaters will respond to people in distress. A couple of years ago I was walking along the beach and noticed a kite-boarder about 50 yards offshore.

His kite had landed in the water and he appeared to have lost his board. He was struggling with a tangle of kite lines and it was clear he wasn’t going to be able to get himself to shore. I kept an eye on him for about 10 minutes, fully expecting that someone in the steady stream of power who was passing by him on their way in and out of the marina would stop for him. Not one did. I had just asked a person on the beach for a cell phone to call 911 when a pair of kayakers came to the kite-boarder’s aid.

They had seen the downed kite, recognized the distress and did something about it. They gave him a bow to hang on to and intercepted a powerboat to bring the man ashore. He was quite chilled but otherwise OK. His board was later recovered about a half mile away.

The kite-boarder’s sail in the water was clearly visible, if not an obvious sign of trouble. The signs are not always so easy to detect, like the faint cry that Colin merely thought he’d heard and could have passed without notice.

For the two sailors that I’d pulled out of the water, there was literally nothing to see or hear. I had looked astern just to keep track of the other boats in my area. I’d been keeping a mental note of traffic nearby so I knew that one boat was missing. I turned around and headed to where I thought they might be and eventually caught sight of the slim profile of an upturned hull.

Colin did well to pay attention to the sense he had heard something when the sight of the sailboat dragging a sailor was so obvious and could have narrowed his focus. He could easily have missed the person in the water—“PIW” in Coast Guard jargon.

A drowning person can be very easy to miss. We commonly associate drowning with crying out and thrashing in the water, a behavior referred to as aquatic distress. That can be true in some cases, but the signs of drowning can actually be quite subtle.

Mario Vittone and Francesco A. Pia, Ph.D, describe what they call the instinctive drowning response, or IDR.  There is also an article on cold-water immersion on the previous page of this issue of the U.S. Coast Guard’s magazine On Scene.) In the IDR, drowning people cannot speak or shout—their efforts are exclusively occupied with breathing. Their mouths will rise briefly above the water, and upon exhalation submerge again with a quick inhalation.

They will not raise their arms or reach out because they’re pressing down in an effort to get their mouths above the water. They float vertically and don’t kick to support themselves.

Colin approached the PIW with caution, knowing that a person in aquatic distress can be unpredictable and put a rescuer in danger. Emergencies necessarily create a sense of urgency, but it is important not to act too hastily. You can’t be an effective rescuer if you make yourself part of the problem. Fortunately Colin reached the swimmer in time and the swimmer was able to grab his bow. As Colin discovered, people exhibiting the IDR typically relax when rescued.

The water wasn’t dangerously cold, so hypothermia wasn’t an immediate risk. Colin could afford to keep the swimmer in the water and wrapped around his bow while he paddled toward shore and the sailboat. In cold water, swimmers can be transported on deck to delay the onset of hypothermia (See “Back Deck Swimmer Rescue,” Swimmer Rescue Transport,”).

Rescue practice is often directed at getting kayakers back in their kayaks. To prepare for coming to the assistance of other boaters, practice should include assisting a boatless PIW.

If you are paddling with a group, a pair of kayaks can be rafted up to provide a stable platform to get a PIW on deck. Additional kayaks can tow the raft to safety. If your easily accessible emergency gear includes a space blanket, the PIW can be protected from the cold. (Our Off the Water tip in this issue, page 48, recommends carrying a silicone swim cap for such emergencies.)

Colin had a VHF radio and could have summoned the assistance of a larger vessel if that had been required. In a life-threatening emergency, a Mayday call can bring other vessels in the area to assist and enlist the services of the Coast Guard.

The Coast Guard can coordinate or assist in the rescue and prepare land-based emergency medical services to receive the rescued person. With handheld submersible VHF radios now available at under $100, there is little reason not to have one.

Most of the paddling sea kayakers do is very much like the summer afternoon outing that Colin, Dara and Ryan embarked upon. The benign conditions they paddled in were just what bring other boaters out in numbers.

Those times where we may feel least at risk may present us with situations where we can be of great service to othersperhaps even save a life—if we are well prepared and equipped.

I had been thinking about paddling in Alaska for a long time. Many kayakers I know have paddled there, most of them in organized groups, and almost all of them in Prince William Sound. My friend and fellow kayaker, Albert, instantly accepted the idea of paddling in Alaska, but proposed a different Alaskan destination, the Kenai Fjords.

We both are committed kayakers. I’d been kayaking for six years year-round, along the Mediterranean coasts of Tel Aviv and Herzlia. I made a few kayak trips in Greece, visited Wales during summer and winter for the intense BCU Five-star training, and joined the three-man Ireland expedition, paddling 400 miles clockwise from Dublin to Galway. I feel quite comfortable in tidal races and in surf zone and have a good roll.

Albert had been paddling for four years. He has never taken serious advanced kayak training; he can roll but his roll is weak. He has done a couple of kayak trips in Greece and paddled for two weeks in Alaska with a strong group, both in Prince William Sound and in the open sea.

Our plan was to explore the Kenai Fjords launching in Seward, rounding the Kenai Peninsula and taking out after roughly 300 miles at Homer.

FIRST EIGHT DAYS

On the bus from Anchorage to Seward, our driver updated us on the weather situation: “We’ve had a very dry summer this year, very unusual, but now, at last, we’re getting the first real rain.” We could see the dark clouds from the bus window.

At Seward it was already raining heavily and we were informed that the wind outside Resurrection Bay was southeast at 45 knots. Alan, the local kayaker who helped us with the kayaks, commented on that: “You wouldn’t believe what beautiful weather we’ve had all this summer, but we always knew that when the storm would come, it would come big.” We decided that even in this weather we could start our trip if we kept to the sheltered water inside the fjords and bays. We left on the next day, knowing that we would stay in Resurrection Bay, until the conditions improved.

We were paddling rented NDK Explorers, the same model that both of us own and paddle at home. Both of us carried NOAA nautical charts of the area on our kayak decks. We each had a compass mounted on our kayak fore decks. Albert carried a simple waterproof Magellan GPS in his day hatch. He carried a backup GPS, this one a Garmin, packed below deck.

I had an Icon waterproof marine radio, kept in a waterproof bag that was attached to my deck. I also had a Macmurdo PLB (Personal Locator Beacon) with GPS in a pocket on the back of my PFD. In a dry bag deep in my day hatch, I had two aerial flash rockets.

While on the water we both wore drysuits with one layer of fleece and a hat. Each of us used a paddle leash and had a spare paddle on deck.

The constant rain stayed with us for the next eight days, usually accompanied by wind and fog. We continued our trip, cautiously passing from one fjord to another, always having escape plans ready and usually using them. On one occasion we had high and rising choppy seas and strong wind just before the narrow McArthur passage, but we found shelter safely in Chance Cove that was one of a few escape places that we prepared for that day.

On another occasion we were surprised by the enormous strength of the tidal race at the entrance of the Northwestern Fjord—it was clearly impassable so we camped on the western side of the upper Harris Bay. It was the only place that day without big surf and suitable for landing. We didn’t have a day without a new challenge.

By July 29 we had covered 155 nautical miles and more than half of the distance to Homer.

On that day we camped at Berger Bay on Nuka Island. It was a beautiful gravel beach with a place for the tent and a natural place for our kitchen. We had a fresh salmon that I caught and it was our first camp almost without rain. What else does a kayaker need?

THE PLAN FOR THE DAY

We knew that Gore Point is often a difficult place. It has high cliffs, unpredictable currents and rocks all around. But Gore Point was not our main concern. We worried more about the day following our rounding of the point. On that day we would have to leave very early to catch the flood. It was the only way to continue west from Gore Peninsula and cover the long distance to reach the first landing spot.

To set ourselves up properly for the following day our objective was to pass Gore Point as quickly as possible and to camp at the first place that presented itself. We knew of one potential campsite, Ranger Beach, located on the west side of the base of the Gore Peninsula. It is a sandy beach and the landing should not be a problem with the usual SW winds. Ranger Beach was located 15 miles from our camping site on Nuka Island.

At that point in the trip we were in good shape and could easily paddle at 4 knots, so the entire way with the favorable wind and current should take less than five hours. That was the good news. The bad news was that the last 11 miles, everything west of Tonsina Bay, offered absolutely no place to land. It is all high cliffs and we knew very well from the previous days that even in a moderate swell we would do well to stay at least one mile away from the land. We hardly had any rain that evening and our weather forecast, for a change, was not bad.

The last forecast that we got by satellite-phone text message from our weather support man in Israel was for wind ESE at Beaufort Force 3 to 5, and waves at one to two meters coming from SSW. The VHF reception was very bad at our campsite, but from what we were able to make out seemed to be a forecast that was no different from our satellite-phone forecast. Before we retreated to our tent that night we watched the northern lights on the horizon. We felt encouraged by our prospects for the following day.

THE GORE POINT DAY

We left our camp on Nuka Island at 1 P.M. The sea was very quiet and there was almost no wind. It was foggy but not too bad; the visibility was about two miles. We decided to go in the same manner as we did on the previous days—keeping within sight of land. It made navigation easy and we could quickly determine our location based on the shoreline shape and the mountain relief. We headed west and then southwest to Tonsina Bay.

Very soon after we left, we started to feel some wind. It was NNE at Beaufort Force 3 to 4. This direction was unusual and not the forecast. The wind was, however, ideal for us, and I had nothing to complain about having it help push us along. In about one hour we could see Tonsina Bay on our right side. Our speed was very good, the weather was great and we continued south to Front Point.

On our way to Front Point the wind changed to northeast but still was at Beaufort Force 4. There were only the occasional whitecaps. The only thing that worried us was that the fog was becoming worse. We could still see the land from about one mile’s distance, but it was behind a hardly transparent screen of fog. We worried that our view of the land could disappear in a few minutes. But the sea conditions were not bad at all at Front Point and we continued to Gore Bight.

The three miles from Front Point to Gore Bight took about one hour and within that span of time everything changed. The wind grew stronger with frightening persistence. In one hour the wind had changed from a friendly Force 4 to a challenging Force 7. The direction of the wind changed as well, shifting from northeast to east.

At 3:30 P.M. we were two miles northeast of Gore Point in a rapidly strengthening wind and in waves reaching eight feet and coming from all directions. We still could see some shape of the land to the north, but the fog obscured any hint of the Gore Peninsula. (The log kept by the captain aboard the nearby fishing vessel Vigilant noted “15:30 … Gore Point, Winds 45 miles per hour, Seas 10 Feet.”)

I had to brace constantly just to stay upright. Albert was much less experienced in a sea like this, and I knew his situation had to be much worse. We were pushed by the wind toward the most intimidating place on the whole Kenai Peninsula. The locals know it as the best location to find interesting debris that has been driven ashore by wind and waves.

It was absolutely clear to me that we were in serious trouble. I called out to Albert, “I think we should call for help.” He quickly agreed.

We brought our kayaks alongside one another. Albert held my cockpit with both hands and I took the VHF radio from my deck and attached it by the wrist strap to the clips in my PFD’s right pocket. Then I switched the VHF on, put it on Channel 16 and pressed the transmit button.

“MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY. We are two kayakers two miles northeast of Gore Point. We are still in the kayaks but cannot paddle and we are drifting in the strong wind.”

I had very little hope that anyone would receive our message as we hadn’t seen any other boats since we left Aialik Bay five days ago. We hadn’t seen anyone onshore either. To my surprise, the call was answered. The blowing wind and the fact that English is not one of my native languages didn’t help. I could understand only part of what came across the radio. I heard: “This is … Star, … specify your position.” I didn’t know who had responded to my call. I replied “Please wait.”

In the strong wind and high waves Albert and I concentrated on keeping the kayaks rafted together. I put the VHF into my pocket, then held Albert’s cockpit while he retrieved the GPS from his day hatch. We couldn’t make any mistakes. He switched the GPS on and held my cockpit as the coordinates appeared on the GPS screen.

I took the VHF out and relayed our coordinates using numbers as well as the words “degrees, minutes, seconds, north, west.” (It was explained to me later that I was expected to use only digits, everything else only made the reception more difficult.) The VHF came back: “… sending the boat … will come in one hour and fifteen minutes. It is a big black boat; you will see it.” I was not so sure that we would see it in the fog. The hour we would have to wait seemed like a very long time, too long a time.

I looked at Albert: “Let’s activate the PLB.” Albert took the PLB out of the pocket on the back of my PFD, and opened the safety. “The lights are on,” said Albert.

We were so focused on operating our electronics that we didn’t look around even though we knew we were drifting. Albert glanced up, “Gadi, look!”

I looked and saw the landscape looming over the fog. The land wasn’t the coast we’d been seeing to the north. It was to the west. It was the Gore Peninsula.

We were drifting very fast in a very bad direction. There was very little chance we would survive being washed ashore on the peninsula. The only solution was to paddle away very fast. We needed to move about one mile south, to avoid getting washed ashore.

I called on the VHF: “This is the two kayaks; we will try to paddle south and get around Gore Point.”

We started to paddle again, bearing ESE to make sure our real progress was to the south. Our effort was mostly against the wind now, and it helped our stability to have the waves coming over the bow.

But the farther south we moved, the worse the sea conditions became. It wasn’t surprising. The sea around the end of a headland is always the worst.

It is hard to say how much time passed, but at some point we had the Gore Peninsula behind us. Now, without the danger of being thrown on the rocks, we could try to go to the peninsula’s west side where we would probably be protected from the strong wind and waves. We continued to paddle west, but the sea was the worst we had met that day. The 11-foot waves coming from the SSE were constantly breaking in the strong east wind. One cresting wave hit me from the left and turned me over. The water wasn’t as cold as I expected. I noticed it wasn’t as salty to my tongue as the Mediterranean; I felt like I was turned over on a river.

My roll is quite reliable, but when I was nearly upright, another blow turned me over once again. I made a much more aggressive attempt and came up expressing my feelings in my native Russian language. I realized that if the waves could capsize me, they could do the same to Albert, and he probably wouldn’t be able to recover by rolling. Albert was on my left and I reduced the distance between us to about 30 feet. In a few minutes one wave crushed violently on both of us.

I did a high brace and survived. Then I looked to my left after the wave passed and saw the white bottom of Albert’s kayak. Albert had bailed out and was holding onto a deck line. The strong wind made it difficult to maneuver alongside him, but I eventually reached his kayak. I didn’t dare try to empty the kayak, so I just made the rescue and got Albert back into a cockpit full of water. We had a hand pump on my deck and I hoped to use it to empty the cockpit. We rafted up and started to pump. Our success was only partial. We took some water out but the process was very slow, and we had to protect the cockpit from the waves.

I asked Albert if he thought we should try to paddle toward land. He said that he preferred to stay rafted together and wait for rescue. It was quite understandable. The water remaining in his cockpit made his kayak less stable. The wave that had capsized Albert had washed away his hat and glasses, despite the fact that they were tethered.

Albert’s glasses are a very strong prescription and he had never even tried to paddle without them. I looked around and couldn’t see any hint of the land—the fog was obviously stronger than before and, besides that, at the time of the rescue we were drifting out. I looked on the GPS—it was dead, just a black screen. I agreed that the best thing right now was to keep our raft upright and to wait for the rescue.

As we were moving away from Gore Point, the wind remained strong but the seas became more regular. The waves were still big, but now they came from only one direction. A strong rain had started, making the visibility even worse.

We couldn’t put our paddles at 90 degrees to the kayaks. The wind was shaking our raft structure and threatened to take our paddles away. So we had no other choice but to put the paddles under the deck lines. They were not so vulnerable to the wind there, but they were not in the best start position for us if we failed to keep the kayaks rafted and needed the paddles to roll.

We had to pay attention to every wave. It was all about having the right angle of the kayak to meet the wave. All the waves came from Albert’s side. My left hand was on Albert’s kayak and on each wave I pushed the far side of his kayak down. It was a kind of low brace edging without a paddle that gave us some control of our stability. While we were rafted up we maintained contact with rescuers over the VHF.

“This is two kayaks; we are drifting in strong wind.”

Rescue Ship: “Do you see any land around?”

“Negative, we are in fog; we don’t see any land.”

I later learned that the captain of the rescue ship was not confident that we had actually succeeded in getting beyond Gore Point and was searching for us in the worst place, on the east side of the point. This is why the question about land was asked more than once.

“We activated our PLB. Do you have our position?”

No answer. Some time after, the rescue ship responded: “We turned on our searchlights. Do you see us?”

“Negative, we see nothing. We activated our PLB; do you have our position?”

Rescue ship: “Do you have any flares?”

Deep inside my day hatch I had a dry bag that we got with the kayaks. I knew that we had flares in there but I didn’t think it was worth the risk for one of us to let go of the deck to open the day compartment and grope for the flares. Even if we had been able to find flares, I didn’t believe that they would have been able to see them when we hadn’t been able to see their searchlights.

I replied on VHF: “Negative, we don’t have flares. We activated our PLB; do you have our position?”

The search by the ship continued quite a long time, but they couldn’t find us. Then we got a new message. “A helicopter is coming for you. It will direct us.”

Then after some time we heard a transmission from the rescue helicopter. It was hard for me to understand every word: “… radio … count … ten …“

What I got was enough. “One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten. Should I do it again?”

Rescue Helicopter: “… count …”

“Should I count again?”

Rescue Helicopter: “Yes, please count.”

“One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten. Should I do it again?”

Rescue Helicopter: “Yes.”

This back and forth continued for some time.

It was explained to me later that I had been asked to count repeatedly to provide a continuous radio transmission.

Rescue Helicopter: “Great! The signal is stronger now!”

In one minute we saw a big red helicopter coming out of the fog just above us. It was a moment that I will never forget.

“We are in good condition. We can wait for the ship.”

A few minutes later the helicopter dispatched a rescue swimmer.

He approached us with a huge smile on his face: “Hi! I’m Chuck.” It seemed he would jump on our kayaks and shake our hands. “How are you?”

“Albert lost his hat and glasses but we are well.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We are paddling nine days from Seward to Homer. The weather changed suddenly.”

“Where you from?”

“We are from Israel.”

“Israel? Really?! You are quite far away!”

In a few minutes we spotted the Vigilant with all of the searchlights on. It was bouncing up and down on the waves and our first attempt to come to the ship with the kayaks didn’t go well.

But Chuck was very cool and very efficient. We were told to leave the kayaks and climb up using the ship’s tethered life ring. The ship’s crew pulled us aboard. Chuck held on to our kayaks and helped the Vigilant crew haul our boats aboard. In short time we were safely aboard with all of our gear.

It was 6:00 P.M. Two and half hours had passed from the moment we had transmitted our first Mayday.

The fishing boat Vigilant, a 58-foot fish tender, was handled by captain Dennis Magnuson and the deckhand Quinn Tavfer. We couldn’t imagine a better welcome than what we got on the Vigilant. Fortunately for us, the Vigilant had been nearby in Port Dick Bay collecting salmon from three smaller fishing vessels. We stayed aboard the ship for two days, and when it was full of salmon and ready to head home, we were dropped off at Homer.

LESSONS LEARNED

BE ALERT

We allowed ourselves to be distracted from our safety procedures. Our routine was to get a weather forecast via the satellite phone text message, and listen to the weather radio twice a day to get the regular updates at 4 A.M. and 4 P.M. Even when we didn’t have reception for the weather radio at our campsite, we still could paddle out from shore and probably have reception out on the water.

With the good weather around us, the forecast for fair weather we had gotten a day before and the general feeling that conditions would likely improve after the eight days of rain we’d been through, blunted our senses, and we didn’t maintain the necessary level of alertness. The radio forecast was drastically changed that day.

If we had received it, we would have heard the gale warning. We did ultimately receive the SMS message announcing the change in the weather forecast, but it was received by our satellite phone—when we were already on the fishing boat—after a delay of more than twelve hours.

BE WELL EQUIPPED

Both the PLB and waterproof VHF radio were necessary. If we had had only the PLB and not the VHF, we would have had no knowledge about a rescue being launched until it got to us. At least two hours could have passed while we waited and wondered. I can say that it would have been highly unpleasant.

According to the Coast Guard, the location of a transmitting 406 PLB beacon like we had can be determined within approximately three miles by the first satellite pass, and to within one mile after three satellite passes. In our case of very poor visibility and fast drifting in the wind, it would be very difficult not only for ships but also for the Coast Guard helicopter to find us without the radio signal.

The fact that our VHF radio call was heard by the fishermen was just good luck. The annual salmon season in Port Dick Bay lasts only twenty days in a year. Without large vessels around, our PLB would have been the only means to call for help.

We had flares, but they were stowed deep in the day hatch. In the fog they might not have done much good but, as a rule, safety flares should be kept handy and ready for use.