I travelled a long, long way last September—two days by land, sea and air—to see some of the most beautiful sights in the world and find out I'm not seaworthy.
I'd always boasted that I prefer big water. I told paddling friends that I'd take a choppy lake over a calm river any day. And then, one sunny day near Nuchatlitz, B.C., I had my first taste of ocean swells.
They weren't so swell. The Pacific caused a slow-motion wooziness, as my stomach followed the rise and fall of the kayak. My kayak seemed to always have its bow pointed upward. I was forever paddling uphill and seemed never to reach the crest of the waves. Something—whether it was the constant back-sliding or the smooth, rolling motion of the swells—was making me nauseous.
A fellow paddler advised me to get ahead of the others so my eyes wouldn't reference the other boats going up and down. That didn't help. Neither did staring at the horizon. Nor did taking deep breaths, sipping water, or the tablets I had taken.
The queasiness lasted for hours, even on shore, and I'm embarrassed to say in present company that it wasn't an isolated event. Each paddle brought the same results, including an unforgettable final journey in 16-foot swells. To my friends I became a natural, inescapable part of the landscape—brilliant sun, loons and sea otters, glistening waters, forests, and a small Ontario girl vomiting into the sea.
Published in Paddler magazine