It’s rugged out here. We’re alone and far from civilization, hunkered down on the wild and remote western coast of New Zealand’s third-largest island. It’s intimidating and scary. The full force of the Southern Ocean is rolling under our kayaks. The swell is slowly growing, looking angrier by the minute; the wind is strong and gusting. It’s getting big, really big – and we’re not stoked. We’re getting beat down, slowly growing more and more exhausted as the wind hits us head-on, 40 knots of bitterly cold southerly right in the face. It’s tough to make progress. Conversation has stopped; there's no point. Voices can't be heard over the roar of the ocean. Critical shouts pointing out obstacles are thrown towards the group, but most are lost or misunderstood. The massive rollers moving in from the southwest are smashing our laden boats around before crashing into the West Coast bluffs and refracting back, creating a turmoiled mess of water.
I feel like I'm continuously about to flip, and with every big set, I get pushed closer to the unforgiving cliffs. These waters of the Southern Ocean have come alive but are inhospitable. We are in our element, maybe, running the gauntlet trying to pass 10 km of
