Our First Lake Ontario Crossing
From Toronto to St. Catharines – Summer 2024
Two friends, one lake, and fifty-four kilometers of water.
A story about endurance, trust, and the quiet moments that test what we’re made of.
We came together to Marina Quay West early in the morning, but already one hour behind schedule. The sun was up, and the air had that warm summer heaviness that promised a long day ahead. The lake looked calm — almost too calm — stretching wide and flat under the light haze.
We unpacked our gear and started inflating the boards. It took time, and neither of us rushed it. We checked our packs, adjusted the straps, looked over the route, and made sure everything was tied down. By the time we were ready, the marina was quiet except for the sound of air pumps and the hum of the city waking up behind us.
We pushed off through the Redemption Channel, steady and focused. The first stretch was smooth. The wind was on our side, and the boards moved well. It felt like the lake was giving us a fair start.
After about ten kilometers, we stopped for a short break — a few snacks, some water, and a quick swim. The water was warm and clean, a good refreshment to the system. When we climbed back onto our boards, Toronto was still visible but already fading into the haze.
That was the moment it hit us: there was no turning back. The lake was open, wide, and waiting.
We pushed on after the break, keeping a steady pace of about 4–5 km per hour. We relied on the Garmin compass and what little we could see of the horizon, constantly checking each other for signs of fatigue. At first, the wind was manageable, but after a while, it began to shift sideways, nudging the boards off course and making every stroke heavier.
We switched to kayak mode, dropped low, and dug in, each stroke taking more effort than the last. The Windy App promised calmer wind in a couple of hours, so we chose to trust it. It felt like a small gamble: we were already tired, but turning back wasn’t an option we wanted to consider.
Slowly, the lake began to soften. The chop smoothed into gentle corridors, and the boards glided more easily again. We stood up when we could, stretching and letting the calm water guide us. The rhythm returned — paddle, glide, paddle, glide — and for a short while, it felt effortless. We stopped again for water and a quick snack, taking a moment to reset before pushing forward.
The sun started to sink low, casting a red glow across the lake. Dave joked, “Red sun at night, sailor’s delight,” and we both smiled, though the calm didn’t last long. The Windy App had predicted 20 km/h headwinds after sunset, and just as expected, the wind returned, stronger and colder this time.
We had about ten kilometers to go, and the night made it feel longer. We switched back to kayak mode, leaned into the wind, and pushed hard. Dave’s navigation lights ran out of battery, leaving us without much guidance except for the faint glow of a distant lighthouse. Every minute felt slower, every stroke heavier, but we kept moving, one paddle at a time.
Then a fishing boat appeared to our right. “You need help?” someone called out. We yelled back that we were fine, and it disappeared into the darkness. A little later, the navigation buoys appeared, small blinking lights marking the shore. The lighthouse grew brighter. The wind calmed, as if the lake had decided we’d earned our passage.
When the boards touched sand at Port Dalhousie, we both let out a long breath. “Buddy… we did it,” I said. Fifty-four kilometers. Hours of wind, calm, fatigue, and focus. Our first complete crossing of Lake Ontario was done.
Standing on the shore, boards resting at our feet, I realized the lesson wasn’t about strength or speed. It was about trust — trust in each other, in our gear, and in the process. When the horizon disappears and the compass flickers, you keep going. You keep paddling. One stroke at a time.
