Large Fierce Mammal

To say I was frustrated at the sheer bullshittery of discovering my radio battery dead would be an understatement of monumental proportions. Literally overnight, the situation had morphed into a bag of shit to hold.

The reaction of the rest of the party when I delivered the latest situation report was predictable, ranging from acceptance with a willingness to move forward to, “We’re all going to die!”

I reminded everyone who needed it that the situation was far from what would be categorized by any professional as an “emergency”, and in fact, since the plan for the trip didn’t even include departure before early afternoon, it hadn’t even transcended simple inconvenience. The island we were on was uninhabited but it was far from being up the ass crack of nowhere, and while we weren’t exactly pissing distance from land, we were damn close to it.

“An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered; an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered.” ~ On Running After One’s Hat, All Things Considered, 1908, G. K. Chesterton

An unexpected turn of meteorology had nearly blown our gallant vessel away, but due to the vigilance and prompt action of her Captain and crew, she was brought to shore undamaged. No one had been injured beyond what one would expect from a spirited roll in the hay — a few scrapes, scratches, bruises, and pulled muscles (some of which had yet to fully reveal themselves) — no supplies had been lost, the wind was warm, the sun was out, and we still had liquor left!

My morose companions were still gathered by the beached ‘Val II as though mourning a loved one, and I was facing the cove as that final point of enlightenment fell from my lips. I remember I was reaching in my pocket with the intention of inserting some hope in the spirits of the downhearted by explaining the purpose of the aforementioned Erma device when another turn of events motivated me to abandon explanation in favour of demonstration.

A large sailboat with at least a half-dozen people visible on her deck rounded the north arm of the cove, riding the stout northeast wind under minimal sail on a course that would take her straight past us.

Immediately pulling out the two “pens”, I checked the safeties and thrust the one containing the red flare at Peter Boulanger, the only one there other than me who had ever operated one. I told him to pass it to me when I asked for it, and readied the one with the “crack” cartridge for myself. You see, Peter and I had practiced this drill before on backwoods canoe trips, the idea being to attract attention with the BANG, and then signal the situation with the immediate followup of the red flare, that being a recognized signal of a maritime state of distress. As I waited for the approaching boat to reach its best point of vantage, I urged my companions to spread out on the beach so they could be clearly visible, and then to wave their arms and make as much noise as possible.

When the boat reached what I felt to be the go point for signalling, I noticed all of its occupants were looking in the direction she was travelling so none appeared to have even noticed the bright white Cape Islander, let alone her frantic cheering section, on the beach in Meisner’s Cove. I fired the first cartridge, there was a muffled “pop” an oscillating “whoosh!” as its rocket streaked up and over the cove on a plume of white smoke, and a second and a half later came a thunderous “BOOM!” Even as the rocket was still on its ascent, Peter was pressing the second launcher into my outstretched hand so I stood, ready to fire, when the blast came and six faces turned to look toward the beach.

There was another “pop” and a streak of sparks mounting skyward before igniting a brilliant red star that was starkly visible even in the morning sunlight as it coasted up and over the apex of its trajectory. My message sent, I joined the rest of the group in yelling, waving both arms, and beckoning, even pointing to the ‘Val II in hope of conveying some sense of our predicament.

The response of those sailing past was to cheer at the sight of our flare as though what they’d heard and just seen was some sort of delightful firework display, smile and wave, and then continue on their way. If disbelief could sink a boat, every one of those cocksuckers would have drowned that day.

Fire, breakfast, and more coffee ensued as we evaluated developments and formulated an egress plan. While it was possible that another boat crewed by smarter people might happen by, and so come to our aid, and we needed to be prepared for that, the northeast wind across the mouth of the cove — accelerating by the look of the waves racing before it — promised to make that less likely with each passing hour. Deliberations led to Me, Michael, and Peter standing on the beach next to the rowboat, looking at the sea conditions, and discussing options.

As things stood these were two in number:

1. Wait out expiry of the drop dead clause of our expedition plan. Specifically, if I had not been heard from by 18:00 on the day in question, my operations staff would attempt radio contact with me. If unsuccessful, a further attempt would be made to contact the Mi-Pet-Val II on Marine VHF. If that also failed, a vessel would be dispatched to investigate, and I had every confidence we would all be back ashore by 20:00. Confidence born of knowing that my staff knew they needed me back if anyone was going to get paid next Friday.
2. Michael’s proposition, which had two of us taking the rowboat back to Herman’s Island and the Baker family cottage thereon, to organize extraction of the rest.

Obviously, in between and in concert with these, were five more unexpended chances to signal passing boats, should any make an appearance, but under the circumstances we weren’t counting on those.

Option 1 simply involved waiting in a still well-stocked and comfortable campsite, and on the surface would appear to be the best option considering the risks inherent in Michael’s idea. On the other hand, the weekend weather forecast had long since diverged from that reported the previous morning, and what we were seeing in real time gave every appearance of getting nastier by the minute for anyone on the water in anything other than a large boat.

On the plus side, the winds and waves, while high, were not yet what any of us considered suicidal. All three of us were strong Men-At-Oars, the wind was blowing in the desired direction of travel, the water was warm, and the boat crew would be wearing personal flotation devices. On the down side, conditions were treacherous enough to preclude a change of oarsmen en route as remaining afloat demanded maintaining course so as to keep the boat stern to the wind and following seas. The boat was flat bottomed so, lacking a keel to maintain course during a pause in propulsion, would quickly lose way, turn side to the waves, and soon be swamped; likely capsized.

For Michael’s plan to succeed, then, would require that one man rowed while the other bailed like there was no tomorrow. The island had been formed by glaciation during the last Ice Age, and parts of the sea floor of Meisner’s Cove were strewn with boulders, some the size of a small car, that had been dropped as the ice melted. Mid-beach, where we made landfall, was sand out to a considerable depth, so the plan was to take that route to deeper water, and then gradually turn southwest while still under the relative shelter of the island. Done right, the boat’s course would converge, and ultimately merge, with the travelling waves and she’d be carried along, both by the sea under the boat and the wind above pressing on her hull and the bodies of her crew — a technique Peter and I were actually practiced in, albeit in a canoe on one of Nova Scotia’s shallow, open, windblown lakes.

We knew that once into the wind and current proper, there would be a transitional phase while the boat accelerated from the speed imparted by human input to that demanded by the elements, and during that interval both Men would need to do their part to perfection. In a canoe, following waves would break either side of the pointed stern, and if large enough, roll in over both sides into the canoe where they needed to be dealt with promptly by the bailer before the next wave hit. After the boat and sea were travelling in concert, the paddler simply needed to maintain enough speed to keep the boat aligned with the following waves and pace them as much as possible so the frequency of waves breaking over the stern was diminished.

That all being said, our row boat was no lightweight, graceful, deep keeled lake canoe. She was built more as a tool than a means of efficient transportation over distance, so in this she was designed more for toughness and longevity than agility and seaworthiness on the open water. Built of stout wooden planks, she was wide and stable, but heavy, flat bottomed, and square sterned so we expected that while her ass end would be helpful in catching the wind once underway, it would take quite a hammering, and receive no small amount of overflowing waves, before she accelerated in the aforementioned transitional phase. We also expected that phase to be made all the longer by her weight.

If all went to plan, and the boat made it to the eastern point of Hermans Island, it would be an easy transition westward out of the wind into the lee of its southeastern point for a relatively relaxed pull in calm water back to the wharf. This provided, of course, that the turn out of the wind was made as close to shore as possible. Too wide a turn would leave the boat wallowing in the troughs and literally sink the enterprise with the destination in sight. At least then, while the boat might be lost, the shore could still be gained by determined swimmers.

The die was cast in favour of Michael’s not unfounded concern for his Father who, he knew, would be off to save us all in an inadequate craft no matter the conditions and damn the torpedoes. The longer we left it, the greater the risk to anyone on the water in boats the size we knew would be being used.

The plan revealed to the doubtful rest of the party, and time being of the essence, the rowboat was soon readied for launch with water canteens to quench parched throats. Michael at the oars by right of his Captaincy of the ‘Val II and his overblown sense of personal responsibility for the situation, and Peter in the stern with the bailing bucket, having won the coin toss against me for the privilege. Three of us gave them a sound shove off the beach and into the cove.

“They’re not LAAAANG for this world!” I said, mimicking an elderly Scottish pepperpot.

There was no reaction from those in the receding boat, but my words brought a ripple of tense laughter from the group, and a cry of dismay from one woman — a Pharmacist as I recall — who I knew couldn’t swim, was afraid of boats, and I had come to know considered camping to be cruel and unusual punishment. Something you do after you survive the plane crash or shipwreck while you’re waiting to die of thirst, starvation, exposure, or all three at once.

All humourous predictions of doom notwithstanding, we watched them transition smoothly into the white capped slipstream of the passing sea, Michael and Peter rowing and bailing respectively like men possessed, and kept them in sight until we were sure they were no longer likely to be swamped into a desperate swim back to the leeward south shore of Covey Island.

Ruins of a shed and deck/wharf at the southwest end of Meisner’s Cove, as it appeared in 1991, five years before the expedition. Photo credit: Bob Layton

With nothing left for the party ashore but to pack up camp in readiness for a speedy loading of the rescue boat and then await its arrival, I encouraged this by example. And so the gear, tents, their owners and custodians presently came to rest in the lee of what was left of a small shack someone had built, abandoned, and left to rot on the beach (see photo above, taken five years before we were there).

Enlisting the group in the gathering of kindling and driftwood, I soon had a fire going, and so coffee, hot chocolate, snacks, stories and songs were keeping spirits high, even among the fragile first (and after this, only) timers who I could see kept sinking into an unsound reverie that had them stewing over how they had reluctantly sidelined their doubts and fears at the behest of those who told them it would all be fine and lots of fun. Those people never knew that, were this to be a real shipwreck that might lead to cannibalism, I had already picked them while they were still plump and tender. Anyway, notwithstanding dark thoughts and self-imposed gloom, someone resembling me had everyone laughing when a boat was spotted rounding Hermans Island and then turning into the wind toward us.

The boat belonged to one Patrick (Pat) Burke, a local barrister, who speedily, generously, and with no small degree of intrepidity, contributed his vessel and person to the cause. As previously mentioned, Mr. Burke was not the only lawyer involved in bringing the adventure to a successful close, for our own Michael Baker, Captain and saviour of the Mi-Pet-Val II, and legitimate claimant to the illustrious title of 1996 Coveys Island Rowing Champion, practiced likewise.

There is a joke, first told to me by a lawyer, that goes:

Q — “What do you call 200 lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?”

A — “An excellent start.”

As funny as I find that on the most visceral of levels, I for one would unreservedly grant dispensation to at least two of their number.

Equipped with a fully charged battery, the ‘Val II was crewed and made her own way back, the Goode Captain Baker at her helm.