We holed up in Mike Inlet for the afternoon, hoping the building seas would calm. The 4 p.m. forecast came around on the VHF but didn't bring the news we wanted. A big Nor-Wester was coming. It was a tough decision. We were only 6 km from Puffin Cove, where local legends Neil and Betty Carey built a cabin and homestead that they lived in from the 1960's to the early 1980's. Keith had read Neil's book 'Puffin Cove' and Todd had read 'Bijaboji', Betty's account of her 1930's canoe trip up the Inside Passage. During the course of his reading, Todd became somewhat smitten with adventurous Betty. The black flies were brutal in Mike Inlet, the camping marginal at best, and love, well, a man in love will not be denied.

We stuffed scattered, airing belongings from the pebble beach into our kayaks and were ready to go in half an hour. When we started our circumnavigation of Haida Gwaii thirty days earlier, the process lasted more than twice as long. 460 kilometres around Graham Island worked out all our packing kinks for this second leg. Just 6 km to go...a mere 6 km. It turned out to be the biggest water of out trip.

Mike Inlet is one of a handful of safe coves that cut into the 3000-foot high, storm-scraped San Christovals. Dropping straight down to water level along the West Coast of Moresby Island, the mountains are stark in their nakedness. Coined in 1774 by Captain Juan Perez, the range is the first recorded name to ever be applied in British Columbia. Perez was unable to land due to stormy weather but he holds the distinction of being the first white man to lay eyes on Haida Gwaii. St. Christopher was aptly chosen as the namesake since he was well known for his great height and protection of travelers. That day, we hoped the peaks would cast some of that saintly cover over us.

In between bays, rolling buses of swell crash relentlessly against jagged rock, creating boomer zones and clapotis that test even the most skilled paddlers. Rounding Hippa Island two weeks before, I was pounded over shallow reef by a rogue, Jaws-sized wave that broke unexpectedly, jettisoning me from my boat. The experience instilled in us a respectful fear every time we ventured out along the perpetually exposed coast.

My hand curled comfortably around the paddle shaft, a month's worth of callouses finding their place for another evening's work. The blade bit into rippled water and my muscles fell into rhythm. As we moved out from the safety of the cove, we knew we were in for it. Dark sentries of swell marched steadily across the exposed mouth, growing like anthills under time-lapsed photography. The forecast called for a huge Northwest sea of 3 to 4 metres, with waves up to twice as big on the faces.

Breaking out from the shadow of the mountains, we joined the big blue at its huffing, puffing best. 35- knot gusts drove the swell and began to shove us inexorably toward Puffin Cove. The conditions were so strong that within a couple minutes of leaving Mike, it was impossible to backtrack. We were committed. It was six kilometres of huge water or bust.

Ever seen the movie Castaway? There's a scene where Tom Hanks' plane has just crashed into the ocean during a storm. He's clinging onto a little yellow rubber raft, the camera pans away, and all you see is this little speck bobbing up and disappearing behind mountains of water in the middle of the sea. That's what it felt like watching Todd and the Keith, their kayaks seeming more like little paper boats made by children.

Trying to draw focus away from the growing knot of fear in my gut, I looked ahead at the beehive-shaped island that indicated the entrance to Puffin Cove. Gripping the paddle shaft so tight I thought it would shatter in my hands, I crushed every stroke like it was my last. Time ground to a halt, our destinati