Ironbound Island

It was a calm day off of Bar Harbor, just a mild swell as we paddled three miles directly to Ironbound Island, on the other side of Frenchman Bay. We didn't have any big plans; we thought we'd get out there and meander back through the Porcupine Islands. As soon as we arrived at the southern end of Ironbound though, we noticed that the mild swell was making some big splashes when it hit the steep, rocky shore.



Some days are all about paddling some miles, others are all about the distractions you find along the way. Oh boy, I love those distractions. We paddled below the cliffs, winding our way among the rocks, letting the swell lift us and drop us. Sometimes you maneuver into an interesting spot and that unexpected big wave comes in. Sometimes the water beneath you just...



... goes away. Fortunately, many of the ledges are padded with seaweed.



Sometimes there's not much to do but wait for that next wave to come and get you.




But hopefully, when it gets you, it doesn't really get you.

Here's a link to the Southern Maine Sea Kayak Network Message Board, where there are some interesting thoughts about seal-kayaker relations.

Naskeag to Swans

As the crow flies, Naskeag Point is about seven miles from Stonington, and not much more if you paddle there. A few days ago though, Rebecca and I strapped the kayaks on the car and drove there, which took us the better part of an hour. We were meeting Peter (see Bartlett Island) and a few other friends we hadn’t yet paddled with. Nate had chosen instead to work on his sailboat. It was a good day for scraping paint on a sailboat: bright and sunny, temps in the high 60’s, not too much wind. If I had a sailboat to work on, or a lawn to mow, that’s what I would have done, but since I don’t, there was little to do but go kayaking.



We met Peter, Barbara, Kim, Karen and Jim, making us a flotilla of seven. Like any blind date, you find yourself checking the others out: what sort of boat they’re paddling, what they’re wearing, in short, do they look like they know what they’re doing? This time, the answer was very obviously yes. We’d met Barbara at a pool session, where she’d been practicing Greenland rolls, which she also teaches. Karen is the proprietor of Castine Sea Kayak Adventures, while Kim was once a guide and instructor at Sea Kayak Georgia. Jim is the owner of Rose Bicycle in Orono, and trains for riding 300 miles in a single day.

Having become accustomed to the simplicity of solo paddling, I have done very little kayaking in a group. If I were to learn anything from the day, it might be something about the dynamics of group paddling. Should a leader be appointed? No one seemed to want the job, so we would govern ourselves loosely; we were all captains of our own boats.

Karen established who had what safety gear- we all seemed to have phones, VHFs and some emergency supplies. This enabled us to split up if anyone wanted to go faster or farther than the rest. It was a day off for all of us though, and we took a liesurely paddle across Jericho Bay, chatting as a mild tailwind pushed us toward Opechee Island.



How do you paddle in such a group? We usually kept a fairly tight formation, since we seemed to have a lot to talk about. I occasionally looked around to see that we were all accounted for, only to see that the others were doing the same.



After a long lunch break on a small, ledgy island, we wound our way among a group of small islands off of Swans Island. Our only uncertain moments came when we all seemed drawn toward different islands, but eventually we ended-up moving in the same general direction.


At the mouth of Casco Passage, where the swell from the west hit relatively shallow water, we enjoyed a wavy, turbulent crossing, which was perhaps the highlight of my day. As we returned to Naskeag point, we all seemed to have a bit of energy still, so we went around Harbor Island and reluctantly called it a day.


Did I learn anything about group paddling? I was certainly inspired by other paddlers, whether by graceful Greenland technique, elegant handling in waves or the ability to non-lead a group of leaders.

Postscript: it turns out that we did have a leader; I just didn't know it. I guess that's a skill in itself.

At the End of the Day

I close the gallery at five. If I don’t dilly-dally too much (food, sitting down & saying “gee I’m tired,” etc.) I can be on the water by six. Maybe earlier. Sunset is at 8:15, and twilight lasts at least a half-hour, maybe more. And now the moon is full. So I have at least two or three hours for evening paddles, and lately, I’ve been making the most of that time. One evening I did a ten-mile loop, George’s Head to Saddleback Island, returning at sunset past three schooners anchored off Hell’s Half Acre. Another evening’s route circled some western outer ledges and Ram Island, with seals trailing just behind for miles. Last night I went around McGlathery and Gooseberry Islands, returning as the full moon rose.

I feel very lucky, but admittedly, there are moments when I lament that I don’t have more time. As I rounded Scraggy Ledge, the water surface was calm, and I’d spent the last four miles paddling in a comfortable, quick rhythm, not thinking about much, and there, miles away, Saddleback Light rose up from the horizon like a challenge. The far end of Isle au Haut was right there. I knew I could do it... if only it weren’t nearly dark and instead had a day ahead of me.


I guess the funny thing about this is, how obsessed I’ve become. I’m vaguely aware sometimes that my perspective of the importance of sea kayaking versus all other things has shifted. At some point, I came to a conscious realization that there’s almost nothing I would rather be doing with my evening than getting out in the kayak. Yes, there are movies and other events at the Opera House, and yes there are invitations to potlucks and other social events. Once upon a time, I liked to keep the gallery open into the evening. If I stay on shore for these things, I often end up talking to people about kayaking, all the while wishing I were out there instead.


This is hard to explain. Trying to rationalize it makes me feel like a convert to a weird religion watching as your listener’s eyes glaze over. Eventually, you try to avoid those conversations. And what’s a good way to do that? Just go paddling instead.

Snapshots

May 24, Stonington Harbor. Rebecca gets out her camera to shoot some lobster boat bows. She uses these photos as reference for paintings. These close-ups of boats at the waterline started in 1998, in Greece, and in a way, are a big part of what brought us to Stonington. While she moves among the boats, taking pictures, I practice rolls. The water is in the high 40's now- much more tolerable than when it was in the 30's. A porpoise moves around the harbor, exhaling rythmically.



May 29, approaching John Island. Fog. Nice. And then off of Sand Island: some rocks, some waves.





May 22, Buckle Island. We've taken a bunch of photos at these rocks. I expect we'll take many more. And I think we've had this same sunset before as we paddled back into the Thorofare.


Lately, we've had a lot of nice after-work paddles. We don't get onto the water until after six, and usually get back by 8:30 or so, a little after sunset. I had a nice run there for a bit, not missing an evening. It was going so well, I almost felt bad about it, as if maybe there's something else that I, as a responsible grown-up ought to be doing, but I quickly got over such feelings, reasoning that you just have to get out there while you can. When it rained, we paddled in the rain. When it turned windy, I chalked it up to good practice. But then came the last four days... four dry days: social events, marginal weather, a movie, a meeting, work, cleaning the apartment. How is it that I sometimes lose perspective and let these things interfere with paddling? The kitchen floor is gleamingly clean, but you don't want to read about that, do you?