August 28, 2008: Kodiak, Alaska

While growing up on Kodiak it seemed like there was nothing to do. The scenery failed to impress, the wildlife was standard issue, and exploring the WW II bunkers was positively boring (there's only so much concrete one can look at). Occasionally something moderately interesting became crammed in the rocks on some beach after a good storm, but when the novelty wore off after a few minutes, what else was there to do? Look at flowers? Exactly my point.

Perhaps it is because I have been gone for more or less 15 years, but things seem far more interesting these days. It's exciting to watch someone catch their first fish,

It may be a spawning humpy, but it was still Diana's first fish!:

the beaches look pretty in the rain, and fresh bear tracks in the mud add an extra shot of adrenaline more effective than coffee to my morning run.
I thought I had seen and done most things in Kodiak. But the locals are inventive and new technology has fostered new hobbies. I couldn't believe it when my mom told me that a family friend was snorkeling with some regularity. Snorkeling? That's only done in Hawaii or some place within spitting distance of the equator. Needless to say, the water surrounding Kodiak Island tends to be a few degrees colder than tropical locales condusive to snorkeling. I was aware of a couple of hardy souls that surfed in the area, but surfers are a rabid bunch that would paddle behind an icebreaker in the Arctic if they thought they could ride the wake. Besides, surfing by definition requires staying on top of the water in contrast to snorkeling which involves intentional, full-body submersion. Wetsuits only keep one warm for so long and don't do anything for the face. Try putting your head in icewater and see how long it is before you get a headache. Snorkeling in the Gulf of Alaska ranked right up there with pitching a tent next to a fresh bear kill -- insane.

Enter the new and improved drysuit. The last drysuit I had worn was during a summer job working for Alaska Fish and Game counting fish. We wore them in glacier fed rivers to clean weirs (a structure we would build across rivers that prevented the salmon from swimming upstream until we opened gates to count them) of debris and they were terrible. It was like wearing a couple layers of Tyvek that would tear as soon as a person came within 10 feet of anything sharp. We called them wetsuits because we would be soaked within minutes of flopping in the water. That was the Dinosaur Age of drysuits.

Today's drysuits are impressive testaments to technology and human determination to stay comfortable in water temperatures that would send walruses south for the winter. When I tried on my rental drysuit at a local dive shop, I was surprised to find it was almost comfortable and looked like it could withstand a couple swipes by a bear (or, more appropriately, withstand a shark attack -- sharks, especially salmon sharks, are appearing with greater frequency as Alaska water temperatures rise). The real test for me was would my fingers, toes, and face stay warm?

We arrived at our chosen beach on a classic damp Kodiak day, suited up, and jumped in.

Not exactly Hawaii conditions:I knew it was going to be different from snorkeling in the tropics, but I didn't realize how different. I had fished for halibut and thrown out a subsistence crab pot or two on the waters around Kodiak, but sitting in a boat on the surface of the ocean I might as well have been 3,000 miles away from the scene happening below me. The waters are cloudy in the summer because they are literally teeming with life. Tiny life. Plankton and algae and mini bits of other organic matter swirled in the currents and I suddenly realized why these waters are so productive. All this life in miniature supported all other life in the ocean; it's the base of the food chain, and it is one massive base.

Not everything is in miniature, however. Mats of monocrhomatic seaweed swayed gracefully with the gentle swells, while bright red and orange starfish slowly stalked even slower prey. Rocks and boulders were covered in irregular patches of salmon pink algae across which sea urchins marched like small porcupines. In contrast with tropical fish, many fish here tend to be camouflaged, requiring sharp eyes to discern their forms among the rocks or sand. I might not even have noticed the large school of needlefish swimming nearby -- so perfectly did they blend in with the color of the water -- until they swiftly changed course, flashing me with a shimmering curtain of silver.

I was enjoying myself so much I didn't notice that I was warm. All of me. Fingers, toes, and face included. And I stayed that way the entire time. The drysuit was a marvel and I felt like I could have stayed in the water all day. Except for the minor drawback that I couldn't just pee in the drysuit like I could in a wetsuit. Well, I guess technically I could, but my clothes would be rather stinky and I didn't really want to go down that path. Despite that small detail, it really was a blast to be facedown in the chilly waters of the Gulf of Alaska looking for crab to pick up for dinner. Trust me when I say that snorkeling is not just for the tropics anymore.

Happy snorkelers L to R: Diana, me, and John