MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Summer 2019

67 The helmets were for paddling along the base of 100-foot cliffs with loose stone above, which is especially important when you’re mostly staring down, entranced by the rocks and fish in the clear 30-foot depths. They were also for paddling through a sea tunnel and into a sea cave, dreamlike immersions into cold and dark on a hot and muggy blue-sky afternoon. Back on the zodiac, Stanley, who started Ocean Quest in 1997, told us about the island’s geology and history, including the four shipwrecks, sunk by U-boats in 1942, that primed his start as a diving outfitter. These days, his tours span the region, everything from whale-watching to iceberg-spotting to snorkeling, and they’ve added a few SUPs to the kayak fleet. As we circumnavigated Bell Island, past towering pinnacles of layered rock, Walsh let me in on a secret. In the morning, I woke at dawn in our rental on the edge of St. John’s and drove to a nearby town. Walsh told me where to catch the incoming swell—and made me promise not to disclose the location. Newfoundland’s few dozen hardcore surfers, he explained, are a guarded bunch. Under grey skies, I squeezed into my wetsuit and paddled out into a crescent of breaking waves cresting at about five feet. The water was tricky for a rookie surfer to read, but the rocks on the beach felt surprisingly forgiving when I wiped out and got head-over-heels washing-machined in the shallows. Eventually, alone in the surf, no lineup or audience to distract me, I started to catch rides consistently. My outings on Conception Bay and at the nameless beach break convinced me that Newfoundland, already a kayaking paradise, could develop an incredible SUP scene. This conclusion was reinforced by another brief paddle, which may not have been technically legal. After scanning busy St. John’s harbour for container ships or offshore supply vessels in transit, I scrambled down the rocks beside our place, stepped onto my board and took a few strokes. The historic hillside city was scattered to my left, Signal Hill loomed above, and eastward, through the Narrows, the Atlantic Ocean beckoned. LISA GREGOIRE