Eddied with Sea Lions
Day two of my solo kayak trip around the Johnstone Strait found me working my way through a notoriously finicky stretch of water called Blackney Passage. The current was in my favor, pushing me north, when I spotted them, at least a dozen Steller sea lions hauled out on the rocks.
If you’ve never seen a Steller, picture a grizzly bear that traded its claws for flippers and tripled its weight. The males can push 2,400 pounds; their jaws are more than capable of crushing bone. Fellow kayak guides had warned me: Keep your distance. These animals have been known to turn aggressive, and in the water, they hold every advantage. But the light was perfect, my camera was handy, and the rocks were close. Too scenic to pass up.
My plan was simple: drift past on the current, camera ready, let the wildlife do the posing. I’d used this trick before to get intimate looks without disturbing the subject. Only this time, I underestimated either the current, my angle, or both.
I slipped past the colony easily enough; most of the sea lions didn’t bother to open an eye. But as soon as I rounded the far side of their little island, the water betrayed me. The eddy grabbed my kayak and spun me into a lazy circle. I was suddenly orbiting their rock like a turd circling the toilet drain.
Oh, shit, I thought. The second lap brought me unnervingly close. I could smell their fishy breath, their reeking coats, the unmistakable stench of guano. I tucked my camera into its dry bag as slowly as possible, hoping not to draw attention—but one or two heads lifted. A bark rolled across the rocks.
When I slid my paddle free, more of them stirred, glaring down at me with dark eyes. Then, from the water just a few feet away, a young male surfaced and let out a throaty bark. The effect was instant: some of the big bulls plunged into the water, others bellowed from the rocks, offended by my presence.
That was my cue. I dug my paddle in hard, searching for the thread of main current that could pull me free. The water boiled behind me—half a dozen, then a dozen slick heads cutting toward me. Stellers are astonishingly fast swimmers, and even though I suspected they were chasing out of curiosity, I didn’t stop to confirm.
They gained as I sprinted, my shoulders burning, my pulse pounding in my ears. Every glance over my shoulder showed them closer, their wet muzzles breaking the surface. They could have caught me. Maybe they chose not to. Either way, when I finally broke free into the open current, they peeled off, and I kept paddling until the rock was a speck in the distance.
Alone in the boat, breath coming in ragged bursts, I felt that old cocktail of awe and vulnerability. Out there, you’re never really in control. At best, you’re tolerated. And on that morning in Blackney Passage, the sea lions let me leave.
Stellar Sea Lions hauled out on a submerged rock