My wife, Theresa, and I were nearing the end of a weeklong trip exploring Clayoquot Sound in the last week of July, 2000. I had been dreaming of making such a trip ever since I had begun sea kayaking eleven years ago. This trip had abundant wildlife, rugged terrain, and a sense of discovery with every paddle stroke.
Since this was only my wife’s third time in a kayak, I chose Clayoquot Sound, because it offered ample protected waterways.
Then, if the weather and my wife’s confidence allowed, we could take on a bit of the more challenging water on the open coast. During our circumnavigation of Meares Island, Theresa was relaxed and confident in the choppy water and windy weather we encountered. Rather than take the inside route back to our starting point in Tofino, we crossed to Vargas Island to try paddling its exposed western coast. We made camp on the northwest corner of Vargas, and weighed our options for the next day’s paddle. Our options were the beach at Ahous Bay, about two miles away, or a beach just west of Moser Point, about four-and-a-half miles away. The weather forecast called for light morning winds developing to moderate winds in the afternoon from the southwest. While the beach at Ahous Bay had the advantage of being in a protected horseshoe-shaped bay, it was farther from our take-out in Tofino. In addition, its setting-around the headland from Ahous Point-would not allow us to see our actual paddling conditions until we had broken camp and rounded the headland. The beach near Moser Point would put us much closer to Tofino, and it would allow us to see the actual paddling conditions from our campsite, alleviating the need to break and set up camp again should we be weather-bound. I talked over the options with Theresa, and we agreed that if the weather looked fair, we would spend the last night at Ahous, but if it looked threatening, we’d push on to Moser Point. We’d leave the final decision until we were actually on the water and could observe the weather. We were up before dawn and got ready to paddle.
Theresa wore a cotton sweatshirt, a fleece vest, and synthetic pants under a paddling jacket. She also wore a neoprene cap, booties and gloves. I dressed in a shorty dry top, shorts and neoprene booties. We both wore our PFDs. Theresa was paddling my rotomolded Aquaterra Chinook, and I paddled a rented rotomolded Perception Eclipse. We got on the water just after daybreak. As forecast, the winds were light, the sky was overcast, and there was a comfortable three- to four-foot ocean swell. The morning weather report had been much the same as the night before. As we crossed Ahous Bay, I noticed that the skies to the south were darkening. The winds were steady, and the swells were slightly building. When we were about two-thirds of the way across the mouth of Ahous Bay, we rafted together for a morning snack and to discuss our options. We were both feeling strong and confident. The weather looked like it might make a turn for the worse, so we wanted to finish up the exposed coast of Vargas and get as close as possible to Tofino. We decided to push on toward Moser Point. I judged that we had approximately an hour-and-a-half of paddling, and that we should be able to make camp before the weather to the south arrived. We reached the south end of Ahous Bay and rounded a predominant headland. Without warning, we were buffeted by strong winds and confused seas.
I had expected that it would get a bit rough as we left the lee of Ahous Point, but I was not prepared for the sudden and dramatic change in conditions. By the time I realized that the weather we had seen building to the south had arrived as we rounded the point, it was too late to turn around and seek the safer waters of Ahous Bay. The 20- to 25-mile-per-hour winds and three- to five-foot breaking and confused seas made coming about a sure invitation to capsizing, and I wasn’t at all confident that either of us would be able to get back into our boats. Theresa was barely able to make any headway against the wind, and began to fatigue. I tried to stay as close as possible, but as I braced to stay upright and fought to punch through the oncoming waves, the distance separating us began to increase. In the lulls, I stopped paddling to let her narrow the gap between us. I realized that if she capsized behind me it would be unlikely that I would be able to turn around to help her. We were about a quarter mile from Ahous Point. I quickly scanned the shore to find a pullout to escape the danger we had unwittingly placed ourselves in. It was at this point that I felt panic start to creep in, for there was nothing but rocky shoreline with thundering surf. I could see a sandy beach approximately a half-mile ahead but, looking over my shoulder at my wife, I was afraid that we’d never make it without a mishap. Somehow, through determination, courage, and a healthy dose of fear, we made the beach and shelter of the small bay. Resting on a kelp bed, I scanned the beach and realized that, although it might offer temporary shelter, it would be underwater at high tide, which was due at around 9:00 p.m. At the top of the steeply shelving beach, there was a jumble of logs piled up against the base of a nearly vertical wall of rock. Regaining some strength, we decided to push on toward Moser Point. As we fought our way along the rocky shoreline, we rested in the lee of small points of rock. My arms were beginning to cramp up. Eventually, we dragged ourselves, exhausted, wet, and cold, onto the beach that was tucked into a small cove to the west of Moser Point.
At the back of the cove, a small beach was littered with driftwood and hemmed in on either side by rocky cliffs. The dense woods behind the beach were barricaded by thick undergrowth. I chose a spot on the beach that appeared to be above high tide, and that was in the lee of a small cliff that would provide us with some protection from the blasts of wind. I tied our boats and gear between two logs that provided some protection from the wind, while Theresa set up the tent. When everything was as secure as we could make it, I joined her in the tent and crawled into my sleeping bag to listen to the latest weather report. It was about 10:30 in the morning. The moderate winds that had been forecast had developed into a series of disturbances that would be moving through the area during the afternoon. Throughout the day, we tried to get what rest we could, but the snapping of the tent in the relentless wind kept us from any prolonged sleep. I told Theresa that this was just a summer gale that would blow itself out before the evening, and that by tomorrow morning we would have calm, glassy conditions to finish our paddle in. That afternoon, as the wind gusts abated, I felt sure my forecast was holding true. By 4:00 p.m., however, the wind had shifted to the southwest, and was as strong as ever. With each gust, our tent would snap with a rifle-like report, and I began to worry whether it would hold up to much more abuse. I had never known the tent to leak, but with rain now driving at it horizontally, water was dripping from the zippers. We had a difficult time keeping the interior dry. Our sleeping bags got progressively wetter as the day wore on. Theresa stayed in her sleeping bag throughout the day. I went out periodically to check on our gear. By 8:00 p.m., I began to have doubts as to whether our tent was actually above high tide, especially with the tide being wind driven. With the wind shifting to the southwest, we had lost our protection from the cliff, and the tent was taking a beating.
The weather reports had been updated to gale and storm warnings, and I had begun to fear whether the tent would last the night. I scouted for a better location. Back against the tree line, I found a log protruding six feet at a forty-five degree angle-high enough to allow our tent to nestle under it. I thought that if I could move the tent there and then cover both with a tarp, I could alleviate some of the stress on the tent. Moving the tent in those winds was no easy feat, and securing the tarp was a chore, but the activity did provide some relief from my constant worry and the noise of the tent. As night fell, I listened yet again to the weather report: gale warnings with no mention of when the storm would abate. I decided that if things weren’t calm by morning, I would use my handheld VHF radio (a six-year-old Raytheon that I kept in a dry bag) to try to contact someone who could get us off the island. My wife and I were exhausted and cold. It was impossible to get any sleep with the roaring of the wind and snapping of the tent. I was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on small tasks at hand. Neither of us had an appetite, despite the fact that we had not eaten during the day. I knew that we should eat, but I didn’t have the energy to make a meal. It took all of the energy I had to keep adjusting the tarp and tent against the wind, and trying to keep the tent dry. Throughout the night, I asked Theresa how she was doing. She always said she was doing fine, and sounded upbeat. The minutes dragged by when, around 1:00 a.m., a gust of wind flattened our tent on top of us. I decided to try to contact the Canadian Coast Guard. Better to communicate with them while I had some shelter from the elements than to do so in the midst of the storm. I had been struggling all day with the question of what to do if conditions deteriorated. I felt that asking for help was to admit defeat, but once I made the decision and began transmitting on the VHF, I felt a considerable amount of relief.
Once there, to my amazement, the Coasties brought the boat through the surf and one of them, Dave, jumped onto the rocks. He helped my wife into a survival suit. She was spent, and collapsed on the rocks, crying with relief. Yet, we were far from being done. Dave had made it onto our rock with great skill, but it was decided it was too risky for us to jump from there to the boat. We climbed back to the beach, and slowly made our way to a place on the east side of the cove. There, we timed our jumps to land in the Zodiac after it rose nearly eight feet to touch the rocks at the crest of a wave. With all of us aboard, we had a wild ride through the six-foot surf before we finally made it to safety. Upon our arrival at Tofino, Theresa was taken to the local hospital, were she was treated for mild hypothermia. The next day, conditions had finally calmed down. We took the Coast Guard some breakfast in appreciation of our rescue, and to inquire about hiring someone to take us back to salvage our gear. Without hesitation, they offered to take us back to the beach.The Weilemans live in Tacoma, WA, where Steve is a system network engineer.
Lessons Learned
by Christopher Cunningham
When I first read Steve’s story, I had a hard time making sense of it. After all, Steve and Theresa, in spite of some very rough going, had made it to shore with all of their gear intact. They had shelter, plenty of food and water, everything they needed to sit out the storm. I couldn’t understand how they could get to a point at which they would need a rescue. A couple of the pieces of the story didn’t make sense. The first was their complaint that they couldn’t get any sleep, even though it was only mid-morning. The second was how much time passed during the day without their doing much. I didn’t understand why they didn’t make more of an effort to find a spot that was better protected from the wind and rain. Then, as I worked with Steve on the story, he mentioned that he had had trouble doing simple mathematics to determine whether or not the tide would rise to the level of their camp. I then realized that hypothermia had been a factor at a very early point in their experience. Usually, when we look at hypothermia in the context of a paddling incident, someone winds up in the water, and the onset of the symptoms of hypothermia is sudden and dramatic. Certainly Steve and Theresa were at risk for this sort of problem-they found themselves paddling in conditions that put them well beyond the previous limits of their paddling abilities and at risk of a capsize in clothing that would not have protected them from the cold water. Fortunately, however, they both managed to stay upright in their boats and made it to shore.
They had a tent, dry clothes, sleeping bags and plenty of food and water. The air temperature was a relatively mild 58°. Yet, within 24 hours of their coming to shore, Theresa’s deteriorating condition warranted an evacuation. The Weilemans had burned up a lot of calories paddling from Ahous Point to the shelter of the cove west of Moser Point. Not only did they expend a lot of energy in their efforts to keep upright and move their boats forward, they lost a lot of energy in the generation of heat, an inevitable by-product of strenuous exertion. When they reached shore, they were exhausted. Setting up camp in winds of up to 40 knots and heavy rain, they continued to lose heat. Our bodies operate on an energy budget. The cost of the exertion and the heat is fuel. You may have heard of this in the context of the repercussions of disturbing coastal fauna: Animals that take to the water or the air at the approach of a kayak use up energy; if their food supplies are scarce, their chances for survival may be reduced. We, too, need to replace the calories we have metabolized in order to keep our strength up. Given the cargo capacity of a kayak, it is usually easy to carry enough food to provide the energy we need to meet the demands of paddling and camping. The task then is to balance the calories burned up with the calories taken in. Comfort is a good indicator of how well you are maintaining that balance. You need to drink before you get thirsty. The feeling of thirst is an indication that you are already somewhat dehydrated. The same could be said of food and of warmth. Eat before you get hungry, and put on extra clothing before you feel chilled. If you can achieve and maintain a level of comfort even in challenging conditions, you are better able to perform well and to avoid the serious consequences of the onset of hypothermia.
After Steve and Theresa had set up camp, Steve had held to the idea that the storm would let up. The guidebooks that he’d read noted that there were often stiff breezes in the afternoon, followed by calm conditions in the morning. If they could wait it out, eventually the weather would improve and they could get back to the normal activities like cooking and eating. Unfortunately, the wind and rain were the product of a storm system that had caught the forecasters by surprise. It would last much longer than the local afternoon winds. Regardless of how long they might have had to wait for an improvement in the weather, they could not afford to remain cold. The discomfort of being chilled should have been their cue to reevaluate and improve their circumstances. The dense underbrush at the edge of the woods was a deterrent to moving their camp away from the beach, but it could have created an effective windbreak if they had made their way through it to set up camp. Protected by the trees and brush, they might have been able to break out their stove to prepare hot food and drink. They might also have found or made a small clearing for their tent. Exposed to the force of the wind on the beach, the tent was not keeping them warm or dry. Rainwater leaking through the zippers was pooling on the floor of the tent, and the constant pulsing of the tent walls was circulating cold air, further chilling them. Without food and water to replace the fuel they had expended, the Weilemans continued to lose heat. Once the available calories had been burned off, the heat would be drained from their bodies.
Steve, at 6’3″ and 220 pounds, had a larger heat mass, so it is not surprising that Theresa, at 5’2″ and 125 pounds, would be the first to succumb to the cold. Theresa, described by Steve as strong and adventurous, withdrew into her sleeping bag. That might seem like a normal response to the effort she had made paddling that morning, but “hypothermia is easily overlooked in the wilderness, and has been mistaken for fatigue”*. By the time she crawled into her sleeping bag, she didn’t have the fuel to generate more heat. The insulating property of her sleeping bag would only help her maintain her body temperature, which was already low, but it wouldn’t return her to normal. Steve checked in with Theresa frequently, but he took her at her word that she was OK. A more specific line of questioning might have given Steve a more accurate assessment of Theresa’s condition: Are you warm? Are you dry? When is the last time you had something to eat? Theresa needed food and water and/or heat from an outside source. Steve might have zipped their sleeping bags together and crawled in with Theresa to serve as a heat donor, but he was probably running out of fuel too. To generate enough heat to help rewarm Theresa, Steve would have needed to be at a normal temperature and well fed. Without the calories to “donate” to Theresa, he would have only worsened his own hypothermia. Steve was not aware that he, too, was hypothermic. He found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on small tasks as he tended to the tent and the kayaks. “Mental functions tend to go first . . . The diminished intellectual response evident in early stages of hypothermia dangerously impairs our ability to react to the environment.”* The loss of mental function is the most compelling reason to manage your energy budget well: Once you start to get hypothermic, you may not realize that you have a serious problem to address.
Steve did a good job of tending to the tent and the kayaks. He kept active, but he did not realize the growing seriousness of their condition. When Theresa became less communicative, a symptom of moderate hypothermia, Steve realized that something was wrong. He then discovered that she was cold and wet. Even though Theresa had been telling Steve that she was OK, she probably had been aware all along that her sleeping bag was wet. Apathy and an improper response to cold are also symptoms of hypothermia. Steve was well advised to contact the Coast Guard at that point. As it turned out, the storm would last another day. Fortunately, his VHF radio had enough power to make the distress call. His VHF was six years old, and equipped only with a single rechargeable battery. During the trip, he had used the radio only to check weather reports. Once he made the distress call, he established times to check in with Tofino. Despite the measures taken to conserve battery life, the battery went dead and Steve was no longer able to transmit. A number of new radios have optional alkaline battery packs that provide backup power when the rechargeable battery dies. By the time Steve’s radio battery failed, the rescue was already underway and the Weilemans were picked up and taken to the hospital for treatment. While the main concern was for Theresa’s condition, Steve was also treated for hypothermia. To his surprise, his temperature was lower than Theresa’s. It wasn’t until after the rescue that Steve realized that he, too, had become hypothermic, and that his ability to respond properly to the cold had been diminished.