An atmospheric river was what he called it. Said it four times then sat back in his glasses to watch me pack. He was so fond of the term. Eager to see just what it would look like. Jealous he hadn't thought of it himself.
It was a nice thought. Atmospheric fish, the vague imprint of a deeper blue thread wriggling across the sky like a pinched nightcrawler. He finished his tea as I gathered my things into three packs.
He didn't stop me because he would've done the same.
Two days later the river was over my head. The cove was calm except for the hiss of rain on salt water. Not unlike a flu tablet. When you're alone in it you mix in a similar way.
A gallon of rainwater was suspended in the awning of the tent that morning. The low ceiling rushed between the shoulders of the mountains opposite the cove. High swirling clouds, so opaque they seemed like suspended snow. I expected to hear crashing sounds as they shattered against the blue peaks. There was nowhere to be, so I returned to my bag.
The radio was tuned to channel 16 to monitor any developments with the river. Every ten minutes a brief static stained patch came through. Fisherman navigating in the nearest channel, they didn't sound concerned so I exhaled for two more hours. From my tent I could see the breeze carrying mist in loose fibers over the increasingly fluffed sea. A bear came out of the woods across the channel and sat on the bank with her prize. She proceeded to open a chum with the urgency of a child with a birthday gift.
Eventually I became aware of the peace, and in doing so asked it to leave. The wind picker up and rustled the tent walls, flicking droplets onto my nose. Waves built to crashes against the rocks. Packing up a wet sleeping bag is a losing battle when it won't have sun to dry. You can feel it in your bones when you realize the rain won't stop.
But in ten minutes I pushed my neon red boat into the bay. Gaskets thunked shut leaving only my face and hands threatened by water. Paddling in the rain creates an illusion of being the only dry thing in existence.
With the wind at my back I bobbed over long waves. A bad sign. In the main channel these waves would be a few feet high. The radio scratched, "Darcy Ann to sirocco" I coasted and waited for a repeat to make sure I heard it right. I recognized the accent on the second listen. We moved to channel 19.
"There are ten foot breakers on mountain point".
He sped toward me, hoping to pick me up before the waves got any larger. I paddled ahead to the meeting point. It was in a bay protected from the main channel. The tide was going out and the sheer cliffs surrounding the choppy surf seemed taller now. Hemlock spilled over the rocks but halted on tip toes against the waters edge.
I didn't hear the engine over the wind. He called out to come his way.
He was frantically digging in the cabin to find a line. For the first time I realized how small the six passenger boat was. Waves were already a few feet tall. He was off the throttle for only a minute when he tossed a line to pull me in, but the boat was drifting and quickly reorienting. The bow was pointed at the cliff face fifty feet from us.
He went back to the throttle as I tied onto a cleat. The idling prop frothed the surf, the engine was still humming and diffusing oily exhaust into the air. The urgency of the situation struck me. The kayak slammed into the side of the boat with each broken wave. At the apex of one I threw my torso over the stern railing. He looked back with worried eyes, "we have to get that boat up or we'll drift into the rocks." I struggled to unload the kayak from the pitching platform. I lost sight of the kayak between crests. He was yelling from the cabin to move faster. He stood with clenched teeth fighting against the gale through the wheel. I held my breath and in a burst pulled the boat out of the water and heaved it onto the roof. We turned our backs to the bay.
I grabbed a handful of nylon straps to secure the kayak. I climbed white knuckled onto the outside of the boat on boot tips. For a few minutes I hung off the railing on the outside of the boat working quickly to secure the kayak. One hand held the roof of the boat. The other darted and cinched the red plastic to the pool noodle rack. Green water splashed up my leg as the boat dipped into a trough. Through the window I could see him staring straight ahead leaning over the wheel, his eyes wide.
We made heavy skips into the main channel where the open pacific met the atmospheric river. Each bump jolted my knees and shoulders. The boat rocked in all directions. I had never been in waves like this before.
Cruise ships leave three large waves if you catch them at cruising speed south of the channel. Passengers tend to get a kick out of it if you point out the growing ripples as they approach. The boat dives over the second crest like a rollercoaster pause. This was entirely different. Wave after wave sent water onto the cabin windows. Green foam splashed onto the rear deck and filtered out under the railing. We widened our stances.
We slowed down coming into Nichols passage. He pointed to cutter rock in the middle of the channel. It heaved massive green waves into the air. The wind drove the water towards the shore in a white streak. He gave them a wide berth. We counted the big ones. Every fifth wave crashed over the bow. My stomach hung at every fourth peak like a speeding car cresting a hill. When the bow fell the sheet was cut in two. The water was full of shore minced bull kelp making it as green as fresh grass. The prow split the wave, but at the moment you'd expect to see spray and air, there was only deeper green water. My stomach dropped. The bow tipped up just in time, but it still caught a few feet of water and threw it over the boat in a mane. We weren't quite a cork but it was close. Each wave seemed like it would punch us under the surf. I prepared for water to slosh into the cabin as we lost the fight.
But the back deck always drained. The boat came over the next crest. The worst of it passed in this way.
After an hour we were through the chaos. The wave trains didn't need to be counted anymore. Our shoulders and jaws relaxed. He sped up and the hull thunked over the chop.
The atmospheric river stayed over the islands for four days. There were no tours out, purse seiners stayed put, and the town battened itself against the deluge.
He had a new story. He told it a week later to worried looking tourists. They chuckled nervously as we helped them into their kayaks. But he never told that story as a close call.
. . .
When he first pulled up to me in gem cove he was smiling like a kid. He leaned his grin out of the cabin and in his Australian accent yelled, "I figured you might need a little help."
