We descended a short flight of stairs to find dozens of brightly-hued plastic kayaks on the sand under the pier. Dripping with water and slouching not-quite vertically in their racks, they looked like surfers mellowing out after riding waves all morning. Our tour guide—I don't recall learning her name, so let's call her Susan—looked to be roughly 50, with that eternally youthful, uniquely Californian combination of sun-and-saltwater complexion, trim physique, performance sunglasses, and no-nonsense demeanor.

"Anyone want a divorce boat?" Susan asked. This is what the staff at Adventures by the Sea in Monterey calls two-seater kayaks, a moniker earned by their ability to quickly end romantic bliss on the open water. The couples among us dutifully declined, so a barefoot young lackey in cargo shorts plopped several single-person watercraft at our feet, which were clad in soggy neoprene beach booties. Back at the rental shop, Susan had already outfitted us with orange life vests and equally bright, nylon-coated "splash suits," which had tight elastic ankles, waists, and wrists to keep the sea safely out, and our bodies exceptionally dry, warm, and unfashionable for the next two hours.

One by one, we paddled off and began to glide peacefully over the kelp-filled waters of the Monterey Bay National Marine Sanctuary. The sun shone weakly as our group traced the shoreline, and I was glad for the body heat trapped inside my vaguely hazmat-inspired outfit. Our instructions had been very bare-bones—paddle left, paddle right, don't leave the bay for the ocean, yada yada—but the waves were so gentle and few, even those seemed like overkill. I'd been kayaking once before in the Caribbean, where the water was warm, shallow, turquoise, and filled with tropical fish, and where a cooler of Medalla awaited me onshore. The bay looked pretty placid too; how different could this be?

The sea glistened a stunning steel blue in the distance, but was clear up close and cold to the touch, with tiny creatures darting in between the giant brown seaweed ropes like aquatic shooting stars. We paddled in tandem behind Susan, who periodically stopped for quick lessons on resident wildlife or to point disapprovingly at graffiti on one of the town's historic sardine canneries. She encouraged us to seek out marine life for gawking, but reminded us of the steep fines for breaking the 50-foot rule. After all, we were tourists in largely undisturbed, federally protected habitat.

Throughout the day, harbor seals coyly poked their noses above the surface, then quickly vanished. One particularly social guy trailed our group for several hundred feet, acting like a puppy seeking dinner scraps or an owner's warm lap. A fuzzy sea otter floated by, carrying its baby on its belly. (Otters do nearly everything on their backs.) Playful critters seemed everywhere, and we wouldn't be fined if they flout the distance rule, Susan told us. Just be careful, she said.

At one point, we approached a large dock where loud throngs of California sea lions covered not just the rocks near the main tourist pier, but also the decks of anchored boats. By the time we could see them, we'd been listening to their boisterous wails for a good 15 minutes. Susan moved swiftly, and her kayak was often far ahead of mine. Watching these mammals sunbathe like landlubbers, I hadn't noticed my friends slip far away and leave me pretty much alone. Well, not exactly alone--the decreed 50 feet was safely between the sea lions and me, but their hounds-of-hell barking told me I was still far too close. These guys far outnumbered, far outweighed, and were capable of far more decibels than me. If I needed help, who could hear me?

My gaze locked on the loud-mouthed pinnipeds, I paddled slowly backwards. Then almost simultaneously, I heard a motorboat behind me and felt its foamy wake lift my kayak, setting me on a collision course with a bellowing chorus of sharp-toothed blubber (not to mention jagged rocks). One by one, they dove in the water right in front of me. Male sea lions can grow up to seven feet long and can weigh up to 1,000 pounds, and their plunges made the surface even choppier. I didn't dare look below. By the miracle of some ancient human instinct, I stayed calm, though my mind raced:

If I capsize, I'm a goner.

&%^$# boat!

Are those bite-marks on their fur?

Man, I never felt this scared back in New York.

Sea lions eat fish, squid, and octopus—not people. Sea lions eat fish, squid, and octop...

I got to safety rather quickly, rejoined our group, and after my heart stopped racing, enjoyed the rest of the tour. My upper body got plenty of exercise, and I even discovered soreness in my legs and abs the next day. (Mental note: I can get a full-body workout sitting down!) Although Caribbean sands were far away, we located a few beers and collapsed into chairs.

I look back at my harrowing escape, and to this day, I'm glad I overreacted. California sea lions may sure look cuddly and playful, but the truth is, in large groups, barking like heck, they can be pretty darn scary...almost as scary as careless motorboaters.

Thank god for that 50-foot rule. It doesn't just protect the wildlife, but novice outsiders like me too.