“Thick Wetsuits Aren’t So Bad When They Break Your Fall.”

All photos by Christa Funk 

It’s not like we had a month to plan for this trip, and only now, as we inch through Vancouver’s glacial traffic late to the 3:10 p.m. ferry, do we realize that we forgot to pack wetsuits. OK, it’s like that. But I’m with three of the most competent water-women in Hawai‘i—and they rarely wear them.

“Offer him a hundred dollars,” Paige pitches from the backseat of our rented mom-van.

“Paige Alms will give you a hundred dollars,” I say into the phone. I make sure to use her full name, nearly adding “Two-time Big Wave World Champion Paige Alms.”

Zac Elik, the general manager at Patagonia’s Vancouver store, is on the other end of the line and holds our fate in his hands. Wetsuits are non-negotiable in British Columbia. If we detour to the store, we’ll miss the ferry and cleave a whole day off our trip.

A muffled voice comes through the phone, “See you at the ferry.”

“I love you.”

“No one panic,” says our photographer, Christa Funk, in a voice that sounds panicked. “But I just missed our exit.”

Besides the incoming wetsuits, the van is packed with Patagonia’s new line of cold-weather gear, designed for conditions that range from inclement to arctic: Hydropeak Stretch Thermals, Granite Crest Rain Pants, Capilene® Midweight Zip-Necks, and the Big Water Foul Weather Kit—built for open-water voyages. Our job is to beat the crap out of this gear, then deliver detailed feedback to Patagonia’s R&D team. (Poor us.)

Patagonia’s field-testing program is arguably the most robust of any outdoor company. Because Patagonia is not publicly traded, it allows the company to make financial decisions that shareholders might deem bonkers. That’s where the Forge, a building on Patagonia’s campus that is dedicated to dreaming big, comes in. Some of the outdoor gear designed in the Forge may never be sold, and a lot of it is experimental. Ambassadors are wear-and-tear artists. We push products to their limits, then send photos and written reviews to the materials team. This feedback from the wild spurs innovation.

“We don’t do this stuff because it’ll change our brand,” says Eric Noll, lead designer of advanced concepts at Patagonia. “We do it because it’ll change our sport.”

Back in the van, my phone buzzes. It’s the store manager.

“Hey, are you in a black minivan with board bags on top? I’m right behind you.” He throws a shaka in our rearview mirror.

Gravel crunches beneath our tires as we pull off to the shoulder. I leap out of the car and give Zac a hundred-dollar hug. First he doesn’t accept it, but I force it on him. Because it’s not my money. We make our ferry, park at a small dock, meet our captain and load into a 22-foot, camouflage-wrapped vessel called The Nomad, our only form of transportation for the next week.

It’s night by the time we motor off the dock. The air smells of diesel and rain. Our captain, a fishing guide named RJ, uses a light bar to pierce the blackness, but the milky haze causes the lumens to scatter into an ominous glow. RJ keeps his eyes fixed on a green GPS unit to scan depth, which reads more than 170 feet deep. But it doesn’t register logs.

“Oh shit!” RJ shouts as he swerves, narrowly missing a bull seal that lunges in front of us. “You see the size of that thing?” I secure myself in a seat, scan a laminated pamphlet of Coast Guard rescue information, then share my mom’s name and number in our WhatsApp group chat, just as service drops.

Moona Whyte sits near the stern. She resembles a turtle as she buries herself deep within a thick down jacket. The four-time kitesurfing world champion grew up on O‘ahu and has never surfed in water colder than Australia’s tepid Gold Coast. Up until recently, Paige had a condition called cold urticaria, which caused her to break out in itchy hives when she touched cold water. Cold urticaria can be caused by an abnormal immune response where cold exposure triggers the release of histamine. “That’s why I haven’t been to Mavericks the past couple years,” she said. “But I’m ready this year.” Thanks to a new diet and supplements, Paige is on the other side of cold urticaria.

The next morning, I walk out of the floating lodge onto the dock, skidding along the mossy wood in sneakers. Air-sealed barrels and blocks of Styrofoam keep the lodge afloat, and each section is anchored with rope, chains and buoys. The sea is deceivingly calm, russet water the color of iced tea. But just beyond the shielded inlet are dozens of rarely surfed waves only accessible by boat. It’s my first time in Canada, and while here, I have two goals, besides the promised R&D feedback. First, I want to surf Dropbox, a world-class slab that delivers a flawless right-hand barrel. Second, I want to see a black bear. RJ says they often lumber out to beaches at low tide to feast on rotting kelp.

We load into The Nomad for an all-day expedition, bringing surfboards, fishing poles and layers of gear to test. The engine lets out a throaty gurgle as we accelerate into the sea. Conditions along this coast are mercurial, and the tides are extreme. To put this in context, the average tide swing in Hawai‘i is 1 to 2 feet. For surfers, this means consistency because the water will remain at roughly the same volume over the reef all day long. In this part of British Columbia, the average tide swing is 11 feet. Tides of this magnitude cause conditions to always be in flux. If Dropbox starts pumping, it will likely only be for an hour or so before the tide turns and the reef gets flooded. The power of these tide swings can also pose dangers to fishermen. When king tides flex through narrow fjords, currents can surge up to almost 20 mph.

We drop anchor outside a small beachbreak. I walk to the stern and cup my hands over my forehead, shielding my eyes from the glare. I scan the beach. No black bears. Just small waves.

“Good foil wave,” says Moona.

Paige and Moona assemble their foils. I ride a mid-length bonzer shaped by Fletcher Chouinard, and the three of us paddle to the sandbar. Christa slides her camera into a water housing and jumps off the boat. She dunks under the water for the first time and lets out a yelp that can either be translated to “Brrrr” or “Brahh.” Possibly a combination of both.

Moona paddles into a dribbly little crumbler. Backdropped by a thick forest, she levitates on her foil to the open face, subtly adjusting her weight to gain speed as she cuts through the glass.

“What’s your favorite form of big-wave training?” I ask Paige as we wait for a set.

She points to her battle axe. “Downwind foiling.”

When trade winds blow hardest in Maui’s summer months, she stays fit by foiling down the coast. “You can approach speeds only possible on big waves,” she tells me. “You get comfortable going fast.”

Big-wave surfing is full of solemnity and dudes who don’t smile. It is the most dangerous form of wave riding and some guys never let their guard down. But Paige borders on goofy. She seems acutely aware of when she needs to flip the switch on and when it’s time to relax. She’s now an instructor at BWRAG (Big Wave Risk Assessment Group), a certification course that teaches big-wave safety, and this preparedness lets her enjoy her time off.

“Let’s float down the river!” she pitches.

We surf to shore and walk up the charcoal sand to a waterfall, 20 feet tall with sheets of water shearing off the top. On either side of the waterfall, spruce, hemlock and Douglas fir grope to the sides of the mountain for purchase. In our thick wetsuits, Paige, Moona, Christa and I jump off the side of the waterfall and float down the river like buoyant starfish, sliding over cobblestone rocks on our way to the brackish seam where the river mixes with sea.

A storm hits that night, and even after I close my eyes, strobes of lightning illuminate my window so brightly my pupils dilate. Finally, I blindfold myself with a T-shirt and drift into darkness.

The next morning, I hear shouting. “Little bit of shrapnel today,” says a wide-eyed RJ as he jumps into his boat. I look across the inlet. Marooned on the shore, a three-story house appeared overnight. Then I look to our own lodge. A major section is gone. Luckily, no one was sleeping in the structure when it snapped off. Paige, giddy with excitement that an emergency is going down, jumps in the boat to help RJ. The rest of us follow. RJ uses the nose of the boat to nudge the structure back across the inlet and secure it in place.

“Always something,” says RJ, wiping his forehead.

“Good name for a boat,” says Christa. We all laugh, aware of how much worse the situation could have been.

On the final day of the trip, we spot a tide window for Dropbox, the coveted jewel of the coast. “Gooooo!” I shout to Moona as a barrel lurches across the reef. She paddles behind the peak and airdrops into the tube. Kelp is sucked up the face of the wave, its copper leaves splaying across the tube and over Moona. On her way out of the barrel, the outside of her rail catches an edge and she slams down on the shallow reef.

She comes up unphased. “Wow, thick wetsuits aren’t so bad when they break your fall.”

We all get waves. It’s not hard when the only crowd consists of bald eagles and a family of sea otters. Before we know it, the tide turns and the session is over.

We say our goodbyes, load into the van and start the long drive back to the ferry. I’m driving, lost in reverie, gently tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of my own thoughts when Christa shouts, “Black bear!” I quickly U-turn and pull onto a muddy shoulder. We jump out and scan the river beneath the road. Nothing. Only the ambient sound of water rushing over smooth cobblestone rocks.

Things around here appear in flashes, then they’re gone.