The ferry takes about 50 people, as well as 22 foot kayaks (which was a good thing). After an hour's crossing to False Bay, we stepped onto a bustling dock crowded with islanders, beer boxes, dog food and bicycles. Lasqueti locals say there's no Pacific Standard Time there, only Ferry Time. Everything moves to the rhythm of that ship.

We launched our double, and paddled away from the crowds. Across the strait, Mt. Arrowsmith stood clear and snow-splashed behind Parksville, with a cobalt sky beyond. It was going to be a great weekend. A sleeping otter, drifting on its back, awoke suddenly and ducked away. A westerly breeze produced a choppy sea before we turned north into the lee of the Finnerty Islands, where the surface was flat and made for easy paddling.

Born of fiery rocks
Lasqueti lies along the geological join between the Cascadia Plate (with Vancouver Island on it) on the left, and the North America Plate (with everything else on it) on the right. The right plate is moving left, and the left plate (being a lot smaller) is apparently not moving right, but up towards Alaska instead. Lasqueti was born of fiery rocks that are obvious in many places. Black basalt cliffs, swept by waves, stand at most headlands.

We turned east around the top of the island into Sabine Channel. Ahead, the huge forested flanks of Texada Island swept down from a thousand meter high ridge, bare of roads or buildings. Finally, we felt away from it all.

Ahead, the channel narrowed into an archipelago of islets, the furthest of which was to be our destination … Jedediah Island Marine Park. We threaded our way through the channels, rock headlands and secluded gravel beaches. Trees crowded to the tideline, filling our view, as the double kayak slid through the water.

Jedediah's north and south aspects are high rocky bluffs, dropping steeply into deep blue channels. At low tide, the inter-tidal zone is crowded with oysters and mussels. In contrast, the east and west sides have narrow bays that allow access to hidden farmland in the centre of the island.

We inspected the western access first. A now-deserted house stood on stilts, overlooking the waters of Long Bay, its windows bare and sad. The whole inlet had a melancholy feeling about it, and we backed out. Sand flats were drying as the spring tide dropped, exposing beds of shellfish.

Back in the channel, we turned south past Bull Island, to approach the eastern side of Jedediah. The cliffs at the southern end are impressive, but there was better yet to come on the eastern shore. Gliding into the sheltered waters of Home Bay, a narrow cutting led us to a protected harbour with a sandy bottom ... a perfect anchoring spot for the many sailboats that pass this way en route to Desolation Sound to the north. But today, it was deserted.

Protecting Jedediah
Facing us was the old homestead, occupied by the island's owners Mary and Al Palmer until they retired. Faced with the choice of selling the island to a developer for more than $13 million, they offered it instead to the provincial government for a marine park, for a little over $4 million.

But, where to find that sort of money? The Friends of Jedediah, Mountain Equipment Co-op, and other groups banded together, trying to raise the necessary funds. But it was a tragedy half way around the world, ironically, that made the project possible.

Dan Culver, the first Canadian to summit both Everest and K2, died on the descent of the latter. In his will, he left over a million dollars to acquire environmentally sensitive land for the public good. Inspired by this huge bequest, the provincial and federal governments and the public joined forces, and Jedediah was preserved.

The old farm buildings still stand, but are closed and shuttered now. Flocks of feral sheep and goats keep the meadow grass at a reasonable level. Stained water trickles from a marsh. Old split cedar fences stand in rows, leading nowhere. Lines of mature fruit trees … chestnuts, apples … serve to remind you of an earlier time, when this was a working farm.

At Home Bay we camped on freshly cropped grass, and spent a lazy evening. Above, the sky showed a few cirrus clouds. A horse, no doubt lonely for company, appeared, and we scratched his neck. Some visiting child had plaited a few strands of his mane into pigtails.

It was twilight when the wind started. It came from the northwest, shrieking through the trees tops and shuddering among the tall trunks. At ground level it went from calm to a fabric-humming tent in minutes. Warm in our sleeping bags, we listened to the rising gale.

We'd planned an early start to catch the tide, but at seven the next morning the wind was still howling, although the sky was cloud free. There was nothing for it, but to wait it out – except that we needed to be back in the office Monday morning. How to do that, when the channels were strips of churning waves and driven spray?

A most remarkable day
And then began a series of lucky breaks that were to add up to a most remarkable day.

Looking at the charts, we saw a jetty marked at Squitty Bay, at the south end of Lasqueti Island. Well, if there was a jetty, there'd be a road and houses. And if there were houses, we could find a phone to call a cab to take us to False Bay. And, with luck, we'd make the 4 p.m. ferry to French Creek, so we'd be back at work on Monday, as planned.

Our morning of procrastination meant there was now no water in Home Bay. The tide had dropped, leaving sand and mud. There was nothing for it but to carry all our gear, plus the kayak, to the entrance channel. Crunching over oyster shells, we finally became buoyant. Overhead, the wind screamed. Sprayskirts on ... check. Rudder down ... check. Deck cargo stowed... check. Hat chin-straps on ... check.

Ready. When we popped out into the channel between Jedediah and Bull Islands, we saw a hundred metres of seething water before the calm behind Bull Island. It wasn't far. By taking it at a broad angle, we crossed without a problem. But ahead lay the very much larger Bull Passage. In the calm of the last headland, we paused and watched the strait ahead. It didn't look too bad … no more than 700 meters across. But the whitecaps looked wild, and the gusts spinning off the rocks above our heads made us nervous.

Turning partly downwind, we struck the water with our paddles. Within moments we were into the surging sea, and the craft came alive under us, taking on a life of its own as we forged ahead. One moment our paddles would barely catch, then on the next stroke wrists would disappear underwater, as the waves rolled under and away. But the kayak cut the crests, rose in every trough, and responded to the rudder pedals. We were flying!

Already the rocky shore of Lasqueti was closer. We turned to put more of our tail to the wind, surfing down the swells. Clear of Bull Island, the full force from Sabine Channel could be felt. But we were now end-on to the wind, and leaping forward with every paddle stroke.

This must be Squitty Bay!
So exhilarating was the ride, in fact, that we nearly made a serious mistake. In the spray-covered conditions, it was easy to miss the turn-in to Squitty Bay. But our second bit of luck occurred … we spotted a small Parks sign on a passing headland, and realized that the blank rocks off to the right were our destination.

"Turn in! This must be Squitty Bay!"

Swinging beam-on to the sea for just a moment, we lurched wildly into the lee of a reef, and then, as suddenly as it had started, we were in calm water again.

At the quay, another bit of luck: a large powerboat languished at its lines. The owner offered us his cell phone. "It's Sunday," he said. "It's free."

The hotel in False Bay didn't have a taxi. "Stranded in Squitty, eh? Barry's your man!" said the voice at the other end of the line. He rattled off a number.

More luck … Barry was home. We explained our predicament. "No problem," he said. "When d'you want to be picked up?"

"Now is good."

"Now?"

We waited an hour. I borrowed the cell phone and called again. "Didn't realize you wanted to go right away," said Barry. "Can't pick you up right now. I'm doing a wash."

There's Pacific Standard Time. And there's Ferry Time. I reminded Barry of the latter.

"OK," he said, "I'll be there in 20 minutes."

He arrived promptly, 40 minutes later. There was an air of unhurried calmness about him. The cab was a surprise. It was a Suzuki Samurai, with a dinky roof rack on top. Somehow, we managed to attach 22 feet of kayak to the 4-foot frame.

On an island that boasts no paved roads and very limited numbers of vehicles, the 30 kilometres (18 miles) to False Bay took some time. Besides, when you're negotiating potholes with a 22-foot boom fore and aft, you have to avoid bobbing.

The 4 o'clock ferry
Glancing at our watches, we were just estimating we'd make that 4 o'clock ferry, when Barry dropped a gentle bombshell. "There was a pretty good rave at the community hall last night," he said. "Lots of people came over from the mainland for it." There was a long pause. "Most of 'em'll be catching that 4 o'clock ferry back."

Our hearts sank.

"So I went down to the dock before I came to pick you up," he continued, "to get you some boarding passes."

Our hearts soared.

"But they were all gone."

Our hearts sank again.

"But that's often the way," he said. "Usually something turns up."

I'm not sure our hearts knew what to make of that. We drove the rest of the way in silence.

The dock was its usual chaos of islanders, beer bottles (empty now), large dogs, and bicycles (returning to Vancouver Island). Barry helped carry the kayak down to the dock. Then he hung around. He seemed to know everyone.

The ferry arrived, and the already full jetty doubled in capacity. We clustered near the vessel's on-ramp, and watched passengers pouring onboard, each waving a precious boarding pass. Judging by their appearance, they'd had a great rave the previous night.

Then, just as it looked certain we wouldn't get on, Lady Luck smiled again. A girl appeared on the dock. "Oh, hi Barry!" she laughed. "Do you need a boarding pass? I've got two spare."

Barry scooped them up before anyone could intervene, and handed them to us with one of his gentle smiles. "Looks like you're on your way," he said. I guess we were.

Island Trip Planner:
Trip Length and Timing: Expect to take 4-6 hours to paddle from False Bay to Jedediah Island, going in either direction. A single kayak averages 3 knots (6 kph), a double 4 knots (8 kph). Normal tides can add or subtract a knot to those numbers. Spring tides can add 2 knots. Wind can also play a major role in your speed.

Difficulty: An alternative approach for strong kayakers is from the Sunshine Coast (east side) of Georgia Strait. Start from Vancouver by taking the ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Langdale on the Sunshine Coast (www.bcferries.bc.ca/), then driving to Secret Cove. Paddle west past North Thormanby Island (private, with beautiful sand beaches), then across Malaspina Strait to Upwood Point on the south end of Texada Island.

Weather and tides can be factors. In good conditions, Secret Cove to Jedediah Island is 4-6 hours. Both the Malaspina Strait crossing, and the southwest flank of Lasqueti Island are exposed, and should only be paddled by experienced kayakers.

Access and Exit Points: To get to French Creek (on Vancouver Island) from the B.C. mainland, take the Tsawwassen - Nanaimo (Duke Point) ferry, or the Horseshoe Bay - Nanaimo (Departure Bay) ferry (about 90 minutes crossing), operated by BC Ferries.

Lasqueti Island ferry (604) 681-5199: sailings change with the seasons. Contact Qualicum Beach Info for the latest schedules and prices. It's about $5 per person and $10 per kayak in each direction. No cars.

Maps and Guides:
For small scale maps of the island and surroundings, and for Park information, contact BC Parks.

This is not a wilderness area. Apart from the park, most land is privately held (even on some of the small islands), so don't assume you can camp anywhere. The southern end of Texada Island is, however, mostly Crown Land. Camping on Jedediah Island Park is still free, but take water. The streams on Jedediah Island are polluted by sheep and goats.

If you need a kayak or a tour, join one of the many mothership cruises, where you sleep on board and paddle each day, or try:
Powell River Sea Kayak
Pacific Northwest Expeditions
Sea Dog