A kayaker was enjoying a peaceful day paddling through the waters of Ireland’s west coast—near Galley Head, Cork—when over half a dozen Basking Sharks surrounded his kayak.
Paul Clearly mentioned that he stumbled across “at least eight large basking sharks feeding” and remarkably was able to capture the extraordinary encounter on his handheld, underwater camera.
Basking Sharks’ jaws can expand up to 3 feet wide and, in the video, we can clearly see that it’s feeding o’clock for these guys.
At this point, you’re probably wondering, “why is he filming, instead of paddling away as fast as he can?”
Well, luckily for Clearly, this species of shark—the second-largest living shark or fish on the planet—has no interest in humans. Basking Sharks feed almost exclusively on microscopic animals called zooplankton.
Even so, we’re still not certain we would have the courage to be sticking our hand underwater, so close to their mouths…
1. Wetsuits provide an insulating layer between skin and outside air and water but they’re not waterproof. Lightweight, flexible, durable and available in all different shapes and thicknesses, a wetsuit can keep paddlers, surfers, divers and anyone else playing in the water comfortable, even in 40°F water.
2. The wetsuit was invented in 1951 by University of California physics professor and Manhattan Project scientist Hugh Bradner. He didn’t foresee its mass appeal and never patented the idea. Both O’Neill Inc. founder, Jack O’Neill, and Body Glove founder, Bob Meistrell, also claimed to have invented the wetsuit. They continued to publicly vie for the distinction for decades, even threatening lawsuits, according to the Los Angeles Times. Before wetsuits were available, surfers kept their sessions brief in cool seas, wearing a swimsuit and sometimes oil-soaked wool sweaters or long underwear.
3. Most wetsuits are made of neoprene. Invented in 1930, neoprene was the first synthetic rubber. Nowadays, it’s in many everyday objects, including laptop sleeves, mousepads, cycling chamois, electrical insulation, automotive fan belts and paddling apparel.
4. Neoprene is even used in space. American astronaut Neil Armstrong’s spacesuit was made of 21 layers of synthetics, neoprene and metalized polyester films, protecting him from the vacuum of space and the Moon’s extremes of heat and cold, which range from 260°F in sunlight to -280°Fin shadow. The suit cost $100,000 in 1969, equivalent to $670,000 today, according to Smithsonian Magazine.
Q: What detergent do surfers use to wash their wetsuits? A: Tide.
5. There are those who pee in their wetsuit and those who lie about it. The need to go when you’re in the water is due to a physiological process called immersion diuresis. When you enter water colder than the ambient air temperature, vasoconstriction occurs (narrowing the blood vessels), and extra blood is sent to the central organs. The body interprets this as fluid overload, causing an increase in urine production.
6. According to Guinness World Records, the record for the fastest time to put on a wetsuit is held by Lindsay Scott of Fayetteville, North Carolina, at 43.13 seconds. Alistair Kealty of Belgium holds the world record for the fastest marathon run while wearing a wetsuit at 3 hours and 14 minutes.
This article was first published in Paddling Magazine Issue 63. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the digital archives here.
Despite Kelowna’s warm spring temperatures, Okanagan Lake can still reach frigid low temperatures of around 9 degrees celsius. Wallick paddled over to the man and quickly learned that he had been capsized and in the water for at least 45 minutes. As she approached, she realized his lips were blue. With hypothermia top of mind, she knew she had to act fast.
Wallick urged the man to grab onto the back of her kayak so that she could paddle him to shore. After some trial and error, she instructed him to move to the front of her boat and to “try to kick” so that he would stay as warm as possible.
The stranded paddler seemed unwilling to leave his kayak and belongings behind. “You’re really cold. Leave the kayak. We’ll find it I promise,” said Wallick in the video. She reassured him that the kayak and his belongings would wash up on the shore.
The rescue began promisingly, with Wallick reassuring the swimmer that he was doing a “good job” as she paddled forward with him hugging the side of her sit-on-top kayak. Unfortunately, their joint success was short-lived.
She asked the man to lie across her kayak, and as he did so, the kayak flipped—submerging them both underwater. The camera she was filming with became submerged and the sequence of events that followed becomes a little unclear.
Despite the new dire circumstances, the video shows Wallick remain calm. She was able to flag down a pontoon boat that was able to bring the man to shore. Though, at that point in the video, it is unclear how long they were both in the water. “I’m just grateful that it all worked out,” she told Global News. “I do kind of think about what would have happened maybe if the pontoon boat didn’t come.”
OCEANSIDE, California – Hobie, the leading manufacturer of premium kayaks and watersport products, today announced the launch of the Mirage Lynx, an innovative pedal kayakwith elevated seatingthat boasts extreme versatility, rugged performance, and a durable but lightweight design.
Born out of popular demand for a hard-sided version of theinflatableHobie i11s, the Lynxdelivers lightweight performance withACE-TEC construction that delivers rigidityanddurabilitywhile maintaining afitted hull weight of just 45 pounds. Fast and efficient, the Lynx features the patented MirageDrive 180 with Kick-Up Fin Technology, enabling hands-free forward and reverse pedaling in even the shallowest of depths. The stability of the Lynxhandles rough water with ease, allowing for effortlessmaneuverabilityin challenging waters, thanks to a v-hull entry, wide bow, and innovative waterflow tunnel system.
“We built theLynx to give kayakers everything they could dream of and more.”
“We built theLynx to give kayakers everything they could dream of and more,” says Mike Suzuki, CEO of Hobie. “With all of the tenacity of a hard-sided kayak, and the benefits of the unique, lightweight design, the Lynx is as enjoyable as it is versatile; whether it’s taking you fishing, kayaking, sailing, traveling, or relaxing, the Lynx is a jack of all trades.”
The Lynx includes accessory mounts, molded-in tracks, an EVA standing pad, and ample cargo room that can be utilized for a variety of applications. AnH-bar stand-up bar,fishing accessories, and an H-Rail system with integrated, patented RAM® Hand-Track™are easily installed to give anglers the ultimate package for fresh andsaltwater fishing alike. The Lynx comes ready to install fishing electronics and a Power-Pole® anchor system.Hobie’s optional Mirage Sail Kit and Bimini Sunshade are simple to installusing the forward accessory mount, while the lightweightmono-mesh seat delivers elevated, comfortable seating for increased visibility and a lively, stable ride. Multiple features, including ergonomic handles and rear loadingskidpads, make transporting the Lynx efficient and hassle-free.
The Lynx retails for $2,699 MSRP and will be available in a neutral tone, Dune, and a brighter, safety option, Orange Papaya. Inventory is arriving at authorized Hobie dealers as early as today. To purchase, customers can use the dealer locator feature at www.hobie.com to find their closest Hobie dealer.
Photo courtesy Hobie Cat Company
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About Hobie
Since 1950, Hobie has been in the business of shaping a unique lifestyle based around fun, water and quality products. From their headquarters in Oceanside, California, Hobie Cat Company manufactures, distributes and markets an impressive collection of watercraftworldwide. These include an ever-expanding line of recreation and racing sailboats, pedal-driven recreation and fishing kayaks, inflatable kayaks and fishing boats, standup pedal and paddleboards, plus a complementary array of parts and accessories. To learn more, visit hobie.com.
Going where no board had been before. | Photo: Bruce Kirkby
Years ago, while traversing Vancouver Island’s outer coast by paddleboard, I chose to avoid Cape Scott’s capricious waters. Instead, I portaged a narrow sand tombolo, following a centuries-old Nahwitti portage trail, where heavy dugout canoes were once dragged in efforts to avoid dangerous waters with names like achdem (foam place), nomas (sea monster) and tsequime (trail on the surface).
But ever since, the Cape had haunted my imagination.
So last summer, longtime expedition partner Norm Hann and I set out from Port Hardy—a quiet fishing community in the north of the island—with seven days of food and gear lashed to our boards. We weren’t aware of anyone previously rounding Cape Scott by SUP, but that was beside the point. We both love exploring wild landscapes, and together pushing the limits of what seems possible aboard a SUP.
Afternoon gales were building by the time we finally departed the busy harbor, and we soon had tucked into a draft, scratching our way along a rocky coast, darting from headland to headland with waves crashing over our bows. It took three hours to reach Songhees Creek, a sheltered beach tucked beneath towering Sitka spruce. A pair of curious seals watched as we cooked a quick dinner. Later, while lying in the tent, the haunting cry of a bald eagle echoed over the dark waters. Already, modernity had slipped far behind us, and we’d entered a wilder and more primal world.
The next morning, we faced our first major obstacle: Goletas Channel. This narrow waterway funnels the prevailing northeast winds and tidal currents. Lined by a sheer rock offering no chance for respite, paddlers must run the entire 24-kilometer gauntlet in a single shot.
On the water before dawn, we raced over glass waters, a gentle ebb tide carrying us on. Three hours later, sweaty but happy, we emerged on the far side. Beyond, we passed Tatinall Reefs (where waves and current pile up) and Cape Sutil (the most northerly point on Vancouver Island), before camping amid dunes at Shuttleworth Bight, where crashing knee-high surf eased us to sleep.
Another day of paddling, past increasingly rugged beaches and windswept forests, over dark sparkling with herring and feeding humpbacks, brought us to Experiment Bight—the last pullout before the notorious Cape.
Following a muddy trail out towards the distant headlands, we emerged from old-growth forest to a scene unlike anything I’d witnessed before. Lines of dark swell heaved on the horizon, breaking a kilometer or more offshore. Closer in, foam and waves exploded from a maze of rocks and islets. Unbeknownst to us (on the protected north coast), a strong southerly wind had been blowing for days, leaving the ocean in turmoil. For some time, neither of us said a word. Clearly, we weren’t going around the Cape any time soon. On a deeper level, we both felt humbled. And intimidated.
Going where no board had been before. | Photo: Bruce Kirkby
Thirty hours later, the storm finally began to ease. That night, the weather radio announced northwest gales would build the following morning. It was a typical West Coast weather pattern, but it meant the only possible window was a slack tide near dawn. After that, the ocean would again be a mess.
We fell into an uneasy sleep, heads churning with questions. Would the swell ease overnight? Could we see sufficiently clearly to paddle at 5 a.m.? Would we be able to sneak around the headland before the gales arrived?
Watch alarms hummed at 4 a.m., but we were already awake, having slept restlessly. Twenty minutes later, our gear packed, we gulped down energy bars and water. Coffee and oatmeal could wait.
We planned to launch at 4:45, giving us a short window to get around the Cape before flood currents built. But we couldn’t see a thing. So, we paced the beach, waiting. At 4:55, we pushed through knee-high surf. The sky above was a dark purple bruise. Far to the east, the sun’s first embers smoldered on the horizon.
Within minutes we’d reached the point of no return: an immense black rock separating Queen Charlotte Sound from the open Pacific. A stiff northwest wind was blowing, generating a chaotic, three-foot chop. More unsettling, the powerful southwest swell had not abated overnight. Dark sets rose from the ocean, three meters tall or more, exploding over shallow reefs. There was no discussion. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it was within our abilities. Without a word, we paddled on, entering a world of black, gray and white.
Then a wave caught my tail, sending me tumbling
forwards across my nose. Suddenly I was underwater.
Ghostly waves exploded upwards around us. The tide turned, slowing progress. A monster wave reared up and broke, exactly where we’d been headed, so we pointed further out to sea. Surf scooters streamed past at waist height, in long lines reminiscent of smoke. Then a wave caught my tail, sending me tumbling forwards across my nose. Suddenly I was underwater. Silence. And up again.
“You okay?” Norm yelled, but I was already on my feet and paddling—proving a long-held theory that paddleboards, and the ability to leap back on, have significant advantages in serious situations. I shudder to think of a capsized kayak in those waters.
Steadily we inched southwards. Brace, paddle, brace. At some point, we realized we were past the worst of it and rafted up. Tiny corks tossed on a massive ocean. Norm’s eyes told the story: we’d experienced something quasi-spiritual in those few miles. Hours later, we landed on the sprawling white sand beach of Lowrie Bay. The open coast lay before us.
Rounding Cape Scott was like passing a portal—both outer and inner. We now found ourselves alone in raw, windblown wilderness. Wandering white sand beaches and rocky islets, we kept eyes alert for Japanese glass fishing floats. The scotch emerged from the bottom of the drybag. Time stretched out in a comforting way.
Days later, we entered San Josef Bay’s protected waters, paddled up a quiet estuary, and saw the glint of sunlight on windshields. The wilderness had released us.
This article was first published in Paddling Magazine Issue 63. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the digital archives here.
Going where no board had been before. | Photo: Bruce Kirkby
Bruce Kirkby is a photographer and writer living in Kimberley, B.C. A member of the Starboard Dream Team, his third book, Blue Sky Kingdom, was released in Fall 2020.
Feels like a classic Stakeout situation on the Mistassibi River, Quebec. | Photo: David Jackson
It’s that time of year again. Spring melt brings Stakeout, a nickname given to the big wave season by ambitious kayakers local to the Ottawa River. Obsessed with free-riding, surfing and descending massive whitewater rapids, these kayakers are now a little less young and maybe a little wiser. Wherever you are, big wave season is all about amplitude: big air, big tricks and big bonfires. Over the years, we developed a system for success.
Feels like a classic Stakeout situation on the Mistassibi River, Quebec. | Photo: David Jackson
1Always stick to the last-made plan.
Logistics are hard. Simple plans designed to leave one or more vehicles at the take-out with kayakers and boats at the put-in can get complicated and unravel. On the river, safety is always top of mind. In both cases, you need a plan, and every paddler needs to know the plan. When things get confusing, and people are separated, stick to the last-made plan. You’ll avoid pandemonium and wasting time.
You don’t need to be fluent in another language to chase big waves, but learning to say “Hello,” “I am sorry,” “I am not from around here,” “Goodbye,” and “Thank you” in the language spoken by locals goes a long way to making friends. No matter where you’re shredding, it’s useful and respectful. Smiles are contagious and go a long way in navigating almost every situation. If you don’t feel like smiling, there is a good chance you need to bust one out.
Look steezy, feel steezy, paddle steezy. Being warm and comfortable means more time out, and more rides equals more fun. Quality doesn’t mean expensive, though a good spraydeck and drysuit aren’t cheap. For warm layers that aren’t too bulky, wool and fleece are best. Everyone has different tolerance levels for being cold and wet. Figure out what you need to be comfortable so you can handle long, cold spring sessions.
4 Never separate from your gear.
You need a kayak, paddle, helmet, life jacket, spraydeck and throw bag to shred. For spring, you’ll want mitts and a skull cap, plus warm layers and a drysuit. Whether you have a vehicle or you are a barnacle, dial in your gear management. Never be left wondering where any of your kit is—or worse, knowing where it is, but where it is isn’t with you.
It is not always easy or possible to get gear dry overnight for the morning session. If you can, rotating two sets of layers can make a huge difference in how keen you are to get into the ice-cold water. If you’re already thinking two sets of layers is a good idea, bring three.
6Engage beast mode.
You can’t always get dry, and you won’t always have the best or newest gear, but you can decide to be the charger in your group. The keenest, the out-the-longest and the most resilient with the least excuses.
7 Hydrate, stretch and breathe.
Kayaking on high-volume rivers is mostly low impact on the body. But when you start getting your boat and body a few feet or more out of the water while surfing big and fast waves, you are taking hits, flat landings and cranking up your heart rate. Big wave freestyle can feel like burpee intervals. And many waves require a hike back upstream to the access eddy. Recovery is important, so don’t just sit there. Drink water, stretch and control your breathing. Memorize basic yoga routines for early morning movement and before rest. Hot tip: Take advantage of the cold river water and get nipple deep for two minutes after a session for recovery.
Two laps aren’t just twice as fun, it’s more like three times as fun. Hike upstream to run lines again and again. Look for eddy sequences that challenge your technique and strength by crossing the river multiple times.
9 Don’t be scared.
Breathe. Fear is contagious, don’t let it spread in your group. When someone is uncomfortable, be comforting and remain calm. If you are uncomfortable, slow down, identify the problem and work it out.
This article was first published in Paddling Magazine Issue 63. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the digital archives here.
Feels like a classic Stakeout situation on the Mistassibi River, Quebec. | Photo: David Jackson
Australian canoeist, Roo Davis, was tandem paddling with his nine-year-old son on a local, manageable class 2 section of river when things took an unexpected, ugly turn. Quite literally.
The avid canoeist explained that his son had recently watched his older sister paddle the same stretch and was determined to step up to the challenge. Davis senior obliged.
“Unlike his more experienced sister I knew his technique was slowly developing, but he was still a beginner. However, I thought I could compensate for his lack of turning power by using solo techniques,” said Davis, as he recounted the story on his Youtube account.
Unfortunately, Davis was in fact unable to compensate for his son’s lack of turning power and at 3:36, we see this harsh reality manifest. Davis attempted a cross-duffek stroke, but it was too late and ineffective under the circumstances; the paddling duo had not quite made it down the far-right channel they were aiming for. Instead, they were turned sideways by the river’s powerful current. The canoe became pinned on a rock island in the center of the river.
In mere seconds, the canoe began to fill up with water, making it totally immovable. Coming to terms with the impending danger – as well as seeing the visible panic on his son’s face – Davis instructed his son to jump out of the boat and into the flow downstream.
His son jumped and Davis quickly followed suit. Less than a second later, the canoe almost fully wrapped in half around the rock before popping out downstream alongside the swimmers. Davis called it “a clean flush” as neither of the paddlers were harmed in the process.
“It was my fault for expecting at that moment my son to have the quickness of skills he had not yet developed,” commented Davis as he reminisced on the close call.
Surprisingly, the duo were able to paddle the damaged canoe for another hour until the take out, with the assistance of some rope reinforcement between the lacing.
On children and risk, Davis commented, “I think there is no excuse for not carefully calculating and understanding the risks before taking children on adventures. I think it’s also a mistake to be paralyzed by fear and not let children be exposed to risk while under supervision.”
Davis concluded that even though things went awry, both paddlers had been fully prepared with the appropriate rescue gear, PPE and emergency communication systems, as well as transportation (with the boy’s mother and sister) ready to meet the paddlers at each access point along that section of river.
paddleboarder pulled from the water after calling for rescue on his cell phone. | Feature photo: RNLI/YouTube
The emergency calls came in a flurry as the weather turned sour along the coast of North Wales. When the last one came, Andy Bolter was the only person in the little operations center who still had an open line. He picked up the phone.
“Coastguard rescue.”
Paddleboarder Saved by Cell Phone Pouch
“Thank you,” came a breathless voice at the other end of the line. “I’m like 400…now 400 meters off the coast. I don’t know where it is, but it’s by Pwllheli…the two islands off the coast.”
That wasn’t much to go on, but one of Bolter’s colleagues had taken an earlier report of a paddleboarder blown out to sea near Aberdaron Bay, about 15 miles west. So the veteran rescue operator played a hunch.
“The caller didn’t say he was swimming, or that he was in the water. He said he was drowning.”
“Are you on a paddleboard or a kayak or what are you doing at the moment?” he asked.
“I had a paddleboard,” came the reply, “but now I’m drowning.”
You can tell a lot by the tone of a person’s voice and their choice of words. The caller didn’t say he was swimming, or that he was in the water. He said he was drowning.
“I could hear the water entering his mouth,” Bolter recalled later, “He was almost gargling to me at times, and I thought, I’m not leaving this young man. I cannot leave him alone.”
With remarkable calm, Bolter assessed the situation, using his voice to reassure the caller while simultaneously working with his colleagues to coordinate a rescue.
“What’s your name?”
“Alfie.”
“Your name’s Alfie,” he said reassuringly. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“You’re 17,” Bolter said.
The lifeboat crew spots Alfie about a quarter-mile offshore. “He was just a tiny little head in the water,” said crew member Elissa Williams. | Image: Royal National Lifeboat Institute
The repetition had a comforting effect, though it was actually for the benefit of Bolter’s three colleagues in the Coastguard operations center, who were working feverishly to pinpoint Alfie’s location and coordinate a rescue plan.
The rescue effort kicks off
As they spoke, Bolter learned that Alfie was wearing a life jacket and a wetsuit. This was encouraging news. Without the life jacket Alfie may not have survived long enough to make the call, and the wetsuit would prove critical as the young man waited for rescuers in the 61-degree water.
Critically, Alfie also had his mobile phone in a waterproof pouch. It was his lifeline to Bolter and the others who would come to his aid—if they could find him.
Coastguard spotters searched the water from atop the Aberdaron headland, a sheer limestone cliff rising some 500 feet above the bay. The earlier caller had reported a paddleboarder being swept between the headland and the two islands, the nearest of which is about half a mile offshore. There, Alfie was exposed to a trifecta of challenging conditions, including high waves, a powerful outgoing tide and rising offshore wind. These factors also affected visibility. The spotters scanned in vain from the cliff top as a Coastguard helicopter and the Abersoch volunteer lifeboat rushed to the scene.
The lifeboat needed 20 minutes to close the distance, running full throttle in heavy chop. As the 28-foot rigid inflatable bounced west toward the headland, the information Alfie shared with Bolter was relayed to its crew.
“We found out that it was a young lad, that he was 17 and that he potentially wasn’t on his paddleboard anymore—that now he was actually in the water,” crew member Elissa Williams said in a podcast about the rescue produced by the Royal National Lifeboat Institute (RNLI). “People couldn’t really see him anymore, so rather than an assistance call it was turning into search and rescue,” she said.
Situation gets more and more serious
A few minutes after reaching Alfie’s last reported location, the lifeboat crew spotted the paddleboard, but the young man was still nowhere to be seen. That fact points out the critical factor that made Alfie’s rescue so difficult: He had become separated from his standup paddleboard.
For all of the factors working in his favor—the life jacket, the wetsuit and the phone linking him to Bolter and a team of determined rescuers—losing contact with his paddleboard put Alfie in grave risk. Paddleboarding experts stress the importance of using a leash to tether the board to the paddler’s ankle. This simple $20 item can be as critical to a paddleboarder’s safety as a life jacket, because the board provides unmatched flotation and visibility. Without a leash, a board can quickly drift out of a paddler’s reach, even in a light breeze. In the difficult conditions Alfie faced that day, a board can disappear in a matter seconds.
Rescuers hoisted Alfie from the lifeboat and rushed him to the hospital. He was released later the same day, safe and well. | Image: Royal National Lifeboat Institute
Separated from his board, Alfie struggled to keep his head above the heavy waves and became noticeably less coherent as the cold water took its toll. “It started to feel more and more serious as the search was progressing,” Williams said, and when the crew finally spotted Alfie “he was just a tiny little head in the water.”
Bolter was still on the line when the lifeboat reached Alfie.
“I remember listening intently and I could hear a female voice saying, ‘You’re okay, we’ve got you,’” he said. “And from what I understand now, that was Elissa.”
After the rescue, a full recovery
Williams and her teammates pulled the teenager into the lifeboat and began treating him immediately for hypothermia and shock.
“The minute we got eyes on him, we started doing an assessment of what sort of condition he was in. And it was clear that he was doing quite poorly. He’d been in the water quite a long time and it looked like he’d ingested quite a bit of water,” Williams said.
Because Aberdaron is one of the most remote spots in North Wales, the crew decided not to land Alfie on the beach where they might have to wait an hour for an ambulance. Instead they transferred him to the Coastguard helicopter, executing a seamless hoist maneuver with both craft underway. Alfie was in the hospital within minutes, where he was assessed and released the same day, safe and well.
“Alfie, he was an absolute star. I would say he was very brave that day.” — Emergency operator Andy Bolter
The rescue received a good deal of attention, thanks in no small part to the gripping audio of the call. Williams says she cried when she first heard the recording, in which Bolter uses his voice to comfort and reassure Alfie. When podcast host Jasmin Downs thanked him for his role in saving the teen’s life, Bolter was quick to share the credit.
“It was an all-around team effort, with Elissa, the Coastguard rescue teams, everyone,” he said. “Alfie himself as well. He did everything right that day.”
Although he did lose contact with his board, Alfie was able to survive and summon help thanks to his life jacket, wetsuit and the mobile phone he kept in an inexpensive waterproof pouch.
“Alfie, he was an absolute star,” Bolter said. “I would say he was very brave that day.”
This article was produced under a grant from the Sport Fish Restoration and Boating Trust Fund, administered by the U.S. Coast Guard.
“You never take advice. Someday you’ll pay the price, I know.”—Foreigner. | Photo: Geoff Whitlock
Early and late season canoe trips mean more tranquility and less of the three Bs: bugs, boats and bodies. No wonder we love them. In most of canoe country, these trips happen on frigid waters in cool air temperatures.
According to the United States Coast Guard, in 2019 cold water was a factor in at least 87 paddling fatalities. Cold water is also a factor in roughly 200 drownings each year in Canada. Boaters, including canoeists, make up 40 percent of those deaths, according to the Canadian Red Cross.
Paddlers dedicated enough to be on the water in the shoulder seasons are hopefully familiar with the dangers of cold-water immersion. The old rule of thumb is to wear immersion protection if the sum of the air and water temperatures combined is less than 120°F (49°C). Nowadays, cold-water researchers advise dressing for the water temperature and treating water cooler than 70°F (21°C) with caution.
Of course, lakewater canoeists never expect to find themselves in the water and many eschew the wisdom of immersion protection even if they know better. Have you seen flatwater canoeists wearing drysuits in April?
How much does self-rescuing in icy water suck? Let me tell you. But first, some background.
Cold shock response is caused by the sudden lowering of skin temperature upon immersion in cold water. The rapid cooling of skin causes gasping and hyperventilation, a spike in heart rate and blood pressure and panic for many. Cold shock can kill in just seconds—someone who gasps underwater without a life jacket won’t resurface.
The 1-10-1 principle is an easy way to remember the three phases of cold-water immersion. Experts recommend spending one minute recovering and getting breathing under control. Then a swimmer has about 10 minutes of meaningful movement to self-rescue. Arms usually become uncoordinated first due to muscular cooling because of their high surface area to low mass. Swim failure follows soon after—and then drowning if a person is not wearing or hanging onto something floaty.
So long as an adult paddler can keep airways clear, most will maintain consciousness for an hour or longer after immersion. Even in icy water, hypothermia takes time to kill.
“You never take advice. Someday you’ll pay the price, I know.”—Foreigner. | Photo: Geoff Whitlock
I’ve thought a lot about cold water this winter. An exceptionally mild fall extended last year’s canoe tripping season into December. Then the pandemic kept everyone home. I started daily dips in the 33°F (1°C) water of Lake Ontario as a way to beat back the pandemic blues and find adventure close to home. I know, endless lockdowns makes a person do crazy things.
What started as screeching 10-second immersions grew to comfortably numb five-minute meditations. It’s hard to be anything but present in a body electrified by the cold. Worries wash away. Spirits are buoyed. It’s very addictive.
The wellness community claims many benefits of cold-water immersion—from a boosted immune system to lower inflammation levels—but for my mom and me, the frigid forays are fun and exhilarating. In that sea of indistinguishable winter days, an icy swim made each day a little less mundane.
The cozy fleece pants and down parka I burrow into après dip are an essential part of what makes the daily experience enjoyable. The more I plunge, the more skeptical I am about a successful self-rescue in similar temperatures.
“You never take advice. Someday you’ll pay the price, I know.”—Foreigner
From the first panicked gasp, how could a capsize on trip become anything other than a survival mission? Resurface, right the canoe, porpoise back in, collect gear and paddle to shore. Then peel off sopping wet clothes, get into dry ones, set up camp and make a fire. All in whatever inclement weather conditions contributed to the capsize in the first place.
After a season of winter swimming, a recovery from a capsize without proper immersion wear seems improbable. After even just five minutes immersed, I have to coax numb fingers to change into dry clothes and warm boots waiting onshore. The dexterity to open the buckles on my PFD would be a challenge, zippers impossible, never mind trying to feed tent poles or strike a match.
Experiencing the cold puts into perspective the tragic newspaper headlines we see at the Paddling Magazine office every spring and fall. Lone anglers who capsize and never make it to shore. Trippers who tip over into a survival situation and are severely hypothermic when hoisted into a rescue helicopter. Many of these paddlers aren’t intentionally reckless—some are otherwise strong swimmers with years of canoeing experience.
Warmer days and sunshine have a way of luring us onto dangerously cold water without taking precautions. Nothing happens until it does. And then it’s too late.
This article was first published in Paddling Magazine Issue 63. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions here, or browse the digital archives here.
Kaydi Pyette is the editor of Paddling Magazine. She’s up to 10-minute dips but needs an equally long hot shower to warm up. See what cold water immersion looks like and how to prepare yourself here.
A new 20-minute Red Bull documentary follows Canadian paddler Ed Muggridge as he sets out on a whitewater expedition paddling over 60 kilometers down Filer Creek in his home country’s remote and rugged Coast Mountain Range.
With international travel off the cards due to the ongoing pandemic, Muggridge came up with the plan to embark on a mission closer to home. 250km North of Vancouver—to be exact. Knowing that this would need to be a team effort, he invited two close friends and whitewater mentors along with him: Ben Marr and Sandy Macewan.
The B.C. Coast Mountain Range is home to a burgeoning population of Grizzly Bears and other wildlife// Photo: Sandy Macewan
As with most expeditions of this nature, the planning time took months. The trio spilled over satellite imagery on Google Earth and spent months working on travel logistics, including flying their kayaks to the launch point. But even the most extensive preparations could not prepare them for the unforgiving terrain and powerful torrents of water they would face.
There were days where the paddlers would have to carry their boats for hours on end often through thick bush to find the next stretch of runnable water// Photo: Sandy Macewan
Despite being rewarded with first descents down untouched gorges and slot canyons with spectacular backdrops, Muggridge still describes the trip as “type 2 fun” due to the sheer amount of lengthy and grueling portages.
“Some days we’d spend six to eight hours dragging our heavy kayaks through the thickest BC bush I’ve ever seen – pushing through our blood, sweat, and tears,” he commented in a Red Bull interview.
Overall, of the expedition, Muggridge commented that he took a reserved approach to running rapids that, under different circumstances, would have easily been within the scope of his ability.
“We’d spent months talking and planning, but the feeling of actually being there, watching the helicopter fly away, was one of the wildest, more exposed feelings I’ve felt in my life.” – Edward Muggridge. // Photo: Sandy Macewan
“There were some really solid sections but the high exposure and riskiness, as well as the remoteness, removed the option of pushing any boundaries. The whole feel and character of the river put me on edge.”
It has also made him determined to undertake similar challenges in the future and be even better prepared next time. He explained:
“True backcountry is extremely gnarly, and you can never be too prepared. Going into future expeditions, I’d like to put more focus on getting comfortable in wild settings and ensuring I’m physically and mentally at my best and ready to take on the challenge. Your life is in your own hands. It was a very humbling experience and I’m looking forward to continuing my learning process over the course of my career.”
You can watch the full Red Bull TV Documentary here.