Leslie Buys a Kayak and Smuggles it Through Customs

After I located a good used sea kayak at the Port Townsend Sea Kayak Symposium in September, I made arrangements to go up to Galiano Island in British Columbia to purchase it. Many things were poised to go wrong that weekend but somehow they magically didn't. I took this as a sign that getting a kayak was a good move, a worthy pursuit.

Friday night I picked up the ever-ready road-tripping Marcia Tapp for the drive up to Vancouver in British Columbia. Things started out badly, which I hoped was not ominous for the entire trip. I had no map of Vancouver, I had an out of date ferry schedule. I had made hotel reservations at my favorite place in Vancouver before Marcia had agreed to come along, and when I called to change the reservation, they told me they didn't have a two-bed room to put us in. Marcia hates sharing beds and I knew eventually I'd have to endure her complaining over that. Also, they didn't have a place for me to park behind their hotel, and thought that clearance in the garage next door was about 6 feet, too short for my truck and boat rack. I had no idea where I was going to park in that part of downtown so late at night.

If you're in the Vancouver area and are looking for a great inexpensive little gem of a European-style hotel on Robson Street in the midst of the night life and great restaurants and near Stanley Park, check out the Barclay Hotel. When we got to the hotel it was late. They had managed to find us a peculiar room with two beds after all, at no additional charge (in fact I think it was cheaper...) The garage had 6'-8" clearance after all, so my truck fit, and it was only about $4 Canadian to park the night. So I dodged a couple bullets in short order.

Marcia had sprained her ankle the week before so she stayed in the room and watched the novelty of Candian cable television. I walked up and down Robson at eleven pm, and there were still shops open. I tried to find a hockey puck for McBee as a present, but no one seemed to have any. I suspected these were not shops run by Canadians. I mean, no souvenir hockey pucks?

Next morning we got up way too early, fuelled by paranoia of missing the only ferry over that day, grabbed some pastries and coffee at the Starbucks on the corner opposite another Starbucks (it's the strangest thing, but less than 100 feet from each other, they draw different clientele and both stores are highly profitable). Some policemen aimed us out of town after finding us rambling aimlessly in the bus lane, and we went to the ferry to wait for the boat to Galiano.

FROZEN ASSETS

We arrived there too early for the one restaurant on the island, so we drove around the island to check it out, then over to the Sutil Inn run by Tom Hennessey and his wife Ann. His funny hammocks were strategically placed here and there for the slothful pleasure of his guests. Marcia and I took a few of his boats he had for sale out onto Montegue harbor to check them out. Our launch was witnessed by a nice man and his little daughter who helped us with a push off the beach and sympathetic advice based on his own novice experience. (It's nice when kayakers don't laugh and point, as they well could have. I was most ungraceful.) The water of Montegue harbor was glass-clear and frigid. I put my hand into the water to point out some huge starfish to Marcia, and it went numb. Even Puget Sound isn't that cold, I thought. (It was confirmed that indeed the water there in the Canadian Gulf Islands is significantly colder than in Seattle, which I thought could never be.)

After I inspected the boat I wanted, Hennessey and I struck a deal over tea and cookies. Zeuss, who I'd met at the Port Townsend Sea Kayak Symposium, helped me put my new used boat on the truck. The two rack cross-pieces on the truck were close together and too far forward, so half the kayak hung far over the truck's hood. It was a disgraceful car-topping job and I actually DO know how to car-top a boat, and I would have worried more about the boat if it had been wood or fiberlass. Plastic boats, like heavy Tupperware, have the advantage of not inviting worry. Marcia trussed the rudder down like a holiday turkey.

A GREAT SCHOOL IN AN UNLIKELY PLACE

Hennessey invited us to see some films created by his daughter and other students at the Gulf Islands Film and Television School (GIFTS), a new and wonderful school built out of logging camp trailers, a production van and a total passion for filmmaking. This is something worth checking out, by the way. The programs involve a methodical schedule , teamwork, and support compete creativity. The videos we saw were very good, and more remarkable that they were done in only a week from concept to viewing.

We hit the road, getting into a very short line at the ferry dock to go back to Vancouver. I did notice that the locals tend to blast up to the ferry line last minute. The kayak, MY kayak, looked great on top of the truck. "What kind of duty do you have to pay on this thing?" Marcia asked. I never thought of that. I didn't really have much of a bill of sale... I'd paid half cash for the boat and charged the rest. I began to panic. Could we act cool enough to make it look like this boat just rode around on top of my truck all the time? Oh, this old thing? Had it for years. At the time I didn't know this, but I was later told that if the boat was made in Canada and bought in Canada, no duty needs to be paid. Since it was a used boat, I suspect there was even less worry. I worried nonetheless, since I was about to face an Authority Figure.

THE BORDER CROSSING

We make a stop in White Rock for those keen druggy tylenol codeine things for Marcia's sprained ankle. While she's buying this stuff (which you don't need a prescription for but you still have to get it from a pharmacist), I'm marvelling at the Canadian candy bars. "Look!" I say, waving a Kit Kat bar. "It's different here!" Yeah, yeah, says Marcia. "Look! Violet Crumble bars! Ever had one? Hey! Cadburys!" We get bottles of water, some chips, three or four exotic candy bars, and head for the crossing at Blaine.

By the time we get there, I'm giddy from a sugar rush, she's mellowed out on codeine, and the tired-looking border agent asks us if we've brought back anything from Canada. I start with most recent purchases. "This candy bar..." I rummage around looking for the wrapper, only beginning my recitation. The agent sighs and signals us through, unwilling to listen to our empty-headed fol-de-rol. I'm rolling toward Blaine to freedom with my new used boat.

"This candy bar AND a $1000 kayak..." snorts Marcia, astounded at my luck. "Minor detail."

The moral of the story is, catch the border guards when they're tired, look like you're going to fecklessly bore them to death, and you'll probably not have to claim anything at all as they hasten to make you go the hell away. If they catch you, plead idiocy and tell them they didn't let you finish.

And you didn't hear it from me.

Leslie Strom can turn an everyday event into a verbal death march. But she kinda likes it.