From a perch on a rocky breakwater, I once watched a transient orca pod driving in a lone minke, the violent attack sending whitewater spray over a gathering crowd. The orcas ate only a portion of the small unfortunate whale, then moved on.
Kayakers are just as transient and yet we defend our turf with much the same vigour as the orca might if some other pod came along for a nibble. We travel in small family pods much like our orca buddies, seeking not minke, but a reconnect with the natural world—some minute patch, a scrap untouched, wilds to call our own. The question is: Can we truly expect to find solitude in a ma- rine park setting? Claiming small islands and beachfront properties, and then acquiring expectations of unwritten exclusivity in such a setting: is this realistic?
I landed on an unseasonably warm April day at the penthouse of all the islands located in a West Coast marine park. I got out of my kayak, the water translucent emerald green, and alas, some people had beaten my group to this gem. Oh well. We didn’t really expect to get this particular island to ourselves. With most of the beach cov- ered in logs, a bigger group had laid claim to the meadow above. A single tent appeared tucked in the far corner of the beach.
We settled into unloading gear, and who should happen by but the owner of the lone tent—someone we knew from home. I approached him with my usual open hand and good nature.“What a great surprise!” An evening of comfortable chatting by our campfire waits, I thought. But this was not to be. He watched, he waited and when we had set up our camp in its entirety, the barrage ensued.
For setting up camp beside him, he called me a bully and insensitive, and insinuated that my friends and I had paddled all the way there with the purpose to ruin his time on “his” island. He had been there over a week and said we should move away. I found out that the group in the meadow was leaving in the morning. There was our answer! I would relocate after a day-paddle, and that would get our group out of his hair the next morning.
The negotiations were not going well. None of our apologetic solutions were good enough. He wanted us gone! He was insistent that we go someplace else, but where, as now it was well and truly dark? He returned to his tent, dissatisfied. The mood in our camp dropped like a stone. We were astonished at the behaviour. How could he be so unfriendly? What was the big deal? Weren’t we all friends, and why had he taken up three campsites for one person? He had spread out his gear as if to say,“There is not room at the inn.”
The next morning brought a new angle on his tirade. Now we had ruined his lay-in. I left my buddy to play diplomat as I walked up the beach to get some fresh air. We left for our paddle with our plans intact to move to the meadow. Returning, we found the island vacant. The meadow dwellers had jumped on water taxis and zoomed away. Our grumpy neighbour was also gone and could be seen paddling across the channel, leaving a final list of grievances scribbled on a bit of paper pinned to one of our tents.
The episode left me feeling downhearted. We had encroached on this guy’s minke, I accept that. However, it is a marine park, a public park after all. To expect it to be absent of public is ridiculous!
In my years of travelling by kayak, I have been in similar situa- tions. Every time I have been greeted warmly and enjoyed memorable experiences due to my courteous approach to nibbling the other pod’s minke.
Be open to your new neighbours paddling into “your” islands. Remember we are all in it for the same reasons, and that commonality should bring us together, pod to pod. Share and share alike in the great “public” outdoors. There is enough minke whale to go around!
David Barnes is an artist on Saltspring Island, British Columbia, whose latest kayaking memoir is titled Dreaming in NuchatLitz.
This article first appeared in the Spring 2009 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
