Wilderness Surfing In Canada

Cold Waves, Big Wildlife, and Zero Crowds

We’re on the dock by first light. The sky over Lone Cone Mountain burns orange, and wisps of fog drift among the ancient cedars and spruces that stretch all the way to the high tide line. The clatter of surfboards, wetsuits, fishing rods and camping gear wakes a noisy pair of black oystercatchers. Their bright red bills flash as they squawk and wheel overhead.

The outboard roars to life, the only sound in town at this hour apart from the oystercatchers. Lines are thrown, the boat eases from the dock, and as soon as we clear the harbor, I pin it and trim it. We weave through sandbars, kelp beds, and rocks scattered across the inner waters of the sound. I’m grateful for my years guiding whale watching tours here. Familiarity with these waters is the difference between freedom and folly.

We pass one of the longest continuously inhabited First Nations villages on the West Coast. Two bald eagles circle above the emerald water, scanning for salmon. Their nest sits atop an old tree on Dead Man’s Island, where Opitsaht villagers once placed their dead at low tide to be reclaimed by the sea and reunited with the killer whales.

The VHF radio crackles as I check the latest marine forecast. Last night’s buoy readings showed a solid long-period swell and a prediction for offshore winds at a secret reef break up the coast. Conditions change quickly out here though. Big tides, wind shifts, and fickle swell patterns keep you guessing. The first part of the trip is through sheltered waters, but the final stretch is wide open ocean—remote, exposed, and unpredictable. The forecast still looks good.

The sun rises over the Mariner Mountains, revealing a maze of commercial crab traps on the sandbars. I thread a narrow route between a half-submerged rock on my port side and a sandbar just beneath the surface on the starboard. I trust my landmarks more than the GPS, which can be off by meters in these parts. Even after running this route hundreds of times, I still hold my breath through the tightest spot. That rock has eaten more propellers than I care to count.

With the worst of the channel behind us, I crack the thermos. The tide is low and black bears are out, flipping rocks for crabs along the shoreline. Sure enough, a mother and her cubs appear, completely absorbed in their hunt. We kill the engine and drift within twenty feet. We can hear her crunching each crab. Eventually, they move along the shore, and we fire up the motor again.

Out past the islands, we see a humpback lunge feeding. Their numbers have surged in recent years, to the point where they’ve become navigational hazards in summer. A season ago, I was guiding a whale tour with Italian guests when a full-grown humpback breached directly in front of us. At 25 knots, with twelve passengers on a rigid hull inflatable, I swerved hard as the whale twisted mid-air off our port bow.

Its massive pectoral fin came down like a guillotine, missing the passengers but smashing into the console beside my head. A 6-inch gouge in the aluminum ceiling, a bent steel radar arch, and barnacles in my lap were all that remained. I radioed it in and finished the tour. Out here, danger doesn’t always come from where you expect it.

We round Sharp Point and the wind hits us like a wall. Gale force and dead offshore. Rough water, but perfect for the wave we’re hunting. We pull on cruiser suits and brace for the open ocean sprint. Forty-five minutes of bone-rattling chop and rolling swell. When our backs and kidneys can’t take another second, we see it: plumes of spray off the tops of overhead waves, groomed by the wind.

There’s another boat already anchored in the channel. We watch a surfer drop into a pitching peak, disappear behind the curtain, and reappear as the wave spits. He hooks a cutback, riding it down the line while his buddy rigs a fishing rod on the boat. I set the anchor, tying the stern line to a thick piece of bull kelp. The lull between sets is long enough to confirm the anchor’s holding. Out here, if your boat drifts, you’re in real trouble.

I pull on my 5mm suit, boots, and gloves, then slide overboard and paddle toward the reef. This is wilderness surfing. There are no roads to these waves. Other than chartering a sea plane and waiting days for a pickup, the only way in is by boat. These breaks are remote, powerful, and unforgiving. One mistake and you could be done.

The few surfers who make it here are skilled, self-reliant, and tight-knit. They know the dangers: overturned boats, lost anchors, engine failures. They know the rarity of these conditions, and the near-impossibility of finding these spots without insider knowledge. Secrets are closely guarded. A couple of beers at the pub won’t get you anywhere. Even with the GPS coordinates, it takes the right swell, tide, wind, and courage.

The waves here rise abruptly from deep water and unload on shallow reefs. Wave selection is critical. Every drop is a gamble. You think about how far you are from help. How long it would take to get within radio range. How long a rescue would take. Not many surfers have the chops or the means to get here. Those that do, aren’t looking to share.

And yet, here we are. Just us and a few others, surfing alone in the wilderness. No towns, no roads, no noise. Just perfect waves and complete immersion in nature. Surfing becomes more than a sport out here. It’s survival, self-discovery, and deep presence. The payoff for all the years, gear, and sacrifices suddenly feels justified. You don’t just ride waves. You earn them.

After a few hours, we paddle back. The kelp is thick and dragging. We’re cold, exhausted, and hungry. I’ve been checking the boat from the lineup, making sure it’s still where we left it. The anchor held. We hoist ourselves back aboard, strip out of suits, and pull on warm clothes. My hands are numb. I manage to start the outboard and we exhale in relief. Camp is still a half hour away, and the seas are building again.

We ride in silence, letting the hum of the engine and crash of waves do the talking. At last, we arrive at a small bay with a steep cobblestone beach. Everything has to be paddled in. Cold wetsuits go back on. Gear gets loaded into dry bags and carried ashore. We set up camp quickly. Food goes in a tree to keep it from the bears. Wolves are known to check on tents too, but exhaustion is stronger than fear tonight.

The wetsuit hangs, still wet. I check the radio battery and listen to the forecast—tomorrow looks good. We build a fire and heat up salmon I caught earlier. Cold beers go down easy. We laugh over wipeouts, swap stories, and watch the sun fall into the Pacific. The stars come out in force, more than I can ever remember seeing.

Later, I wander into the woods for a bathroom break. It’s instantly pitch black. The forest is alive, dense, primal. Out here, everything is growing, decaying, feeding something else. It feels like stepping back in time.

I return to the fire and sit facing the ocean. Smoke drifts offshore. If it keeps up, the waves will be just as good tomorrow. We talk like surfers do, about travel, about risk, about how it all feels. We don’t say much about the day itself. We don’t need to. The shared silence says it all.

Out here, in the wilderness, in the surf, with no one but your crew and the ocean, these are the moments that matter. The ones you’ll carry for the rest of your life

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