How Do You Work These Things?

Last weekend Todd Wright came to Old Quarry with some students from St. Michaels College in Vermont, where he's the Director of the Wilderness Program. On Saturday I joined them for a paddle out to Gooseberry Island. The students had varying levels of experience. Kyle had been to tide races in Scotland, but for Molly, it was her first time in a sea kayak. Like the others, she learned quickly.

On Sunday, in a downpour with strong winds predicted, we went around Whitmore Neck. I wouldn't otherwise have been paddling that day, but as often happens, I was glad to be out there. And the Whitmore Neck route worked well for a day with sketchy weather:  a bumpy start followed by stretches of calm water- even a little current.

 
Monday though, looked even windier; it seemed like a good day to check-out Bagaduce Falls. Without much fetch, the wind has little effect on the conditions there, but it's a fairly contained environment for everyone to hone their skills. Nate and Rebecca joined us.

We often share the Bagaduce launch with shellfish harvesters there to tend their oyster growing operations. In exchange for a few parking spots, we provide them with entertainment. We arrived a little before the ebb went slack- about four hours after low tide in Castine- and the current reversed direction. Just before the new moon, the tide range spanned about twelve feet that day, so we could expect some strong currents.  But we launched into slow-moving water and traversed the eddy lines again and again as the speed increased and standing waves began to form.

We played around a bit. Most of us got some practice capsizing... which also gave us some rescue practice. Every now and then people (often kayakers reluctant to learn rescue skills) ask me if I've ever capsized. It's true that, while tooling about on flat water, I'm not too likely to tip over (though I've certainly done it). You get the sense that for some paddlers though, the edge of their boat is a scary place, beyond which lies disaster. The moment a wave- or just a shift in weight- dips that edge further into the water, they are no longer comfortable in their boat. Therefore, they don't learn to turn by edging. They remain stiff, balancing firmly in the middle of their cockpit, perhaps relying on a mechanical rudder to turn their boat. This is why we teach edging and bracing to beginners.

But it's also why getting into a place like the Bagaduce is great practice. If you capsize enough, it's far less intimidating, and it becomes easier to learn. It saves time if you can roll, but on just her third day of paddling, Molly seemed to lose the fear that keeps plenty of far more experienced paddlers from advancing their skills and having more fun.

Soon it turned juicy enough that we moved downstream, giving the students a chance to get a feel for the current in more forgiving conditions. Without the adrenaline rush that often accompanies paddling in the current, I suddenly felt tired. I reached for the Clif Bar in my life jacket pocket and found the pocket open, the Clif Bar gone. Oh well, soon enough we took a break on shore and had some more substantial food. Just enough to get back out there before the current subsided. Then, in the roiling current just below the bridge, I noticed something colorful surface beside me. I reached out and found the errant Clif Bar. It had been recirculating for an hour or two but still tasted as good as it ever would. We played a bit more. Todd caught a wave and stayed on it for a good long time, weaving back and forth over its surface before finally dropping off its back.

Then, as the current died-down before the flood switched to the ebb, Todd challenged us to try something different- anything: eyes closed, backwards... standing-up. Once again, we explored our usual boundaries, capsized often, and had a blast.

 

 

The ebb picked-up quickly. Nate and I stuck around for a bit more fun as the wave train built below the bridge, but by then I didn't have much energy for it. I watched the waves for more Clif Bars, and when none materialized, decided to call it a day.

Thanks to Rebecca for many of these photographs.

Between a Wave and a Hard Place

Explaining rock gardening is usually a challenge, but explaining it to the medical staff as they’re preparing to sew-up a gash in your face is especially trying. Actually, it’s not so difficult: “we like to paddle among the rocks... sometimes with a wave or two coming through.” When the nurse practitioner gives you that look, it seems a little more explanation is in order. “It’s fun,” you offer, “really.” Easy to explain. The tough part is making it sound like you’re not a freakin’ idiot.

This post should have been simply labeled “The Porcupines.” It would have detailed an outing in Frenchman Bay: me, Nate and Rebecca on a day forecast to be a bit breezy and rough, but turned-out to be fairly calm with that magical amount of swell coming-in from the south. Three gargantuan cruise ships sat at anchor with a constant stream of water taxis whisking passengers back and forth. A perfect day to play among the rocks. That’s what we did. A good time was had by all, etcetera, etcetera.

(click on these photos to see them big)

On the southeast corner of Sheep Porcupine, Rebecca and I watched Nate ride into a rocky cleft and disappear through a passage in the back. Looked interesting. A minute later he emerged, pointing seaward. I tried it out, coasting in on the back of a wave and caught the fading force of the next wave as I made a sharp left turn through the rocks at the end. I found myself in a shallow pool, sheltered from the brunt of the action: plenty of room to turn around and get pointed back out.

By this time, Nate had landed and climbed atop a nearby rock. He had his camera out and I paddled back out through the slot.

I enjoyed it so much the first time, I turned around and watched the waves, waiting for my next opportunity. It’s entirely possible that having a ready photographer made another run even more attractive. I wanted to ride-in just on the back of the wave, to avoid getting surfed full-force into the rocks. So I rode-in, but... maybe my timing was off. The wave got away from me and it coasted ahead into the slot as my momentum halted and the water sucked-away beneath me and I went down, down, slipping between what were now exposed rocks.

Usually when the water gets sucked-out beneath you like that, it’s a sign that the next wave is building, probably a good bit bigger than the last one. But there’s not much you can do about it. Did I brace for impact? Maybe. I think I still expected to be pushed forward- or at least, hit from behind.

Instead, the wave hit me from the side. All I experienced was a big impact and then I was underwater, upside down. When the turmoil subsided, I felt calm. I thought to myself “that wasn’t so bad, I got through it.” I set-up for a roll and realized that half my paddle was gone. And yes, something about my face felt different. I rearranged the remaining paddle half and tried to roll with it, but another wave came-in and dragged me through some rocks. There wasn’t even room to roll. I popped-out and found myself in that vulnerable spot, sandwiched between the boat and the rocks, with more waves coming-in. I pulled my feet-up, not wanting to get stuck there, and managed to float/crawl into the slot at the end. Then Nate was there, making sure I was okay, tracking down the halves of both my paddles (the spare had come-off the back deck as well). It seemed like a good time for a break.

We dug-out the first aid kit. Nate and Rebecca tended to me. I held a pad to my face for awhile, until most of the bleeding had stopped. Nate poured me a cup of hot tea. It’s funny how those small gestures- a cup of hot tea, a bite of chocolate- can be so comforting. We went over what happened, tried to figure it out. Nate thought I’d miscalculated the wave angle all along, which is probably the case, since he saw the whole thing. I had a gash on my upper cheek and a smaller cut just beneath my eye. Turns out out I was lucky.  

 

We continued on to Burnt Porcupine and played around a bit more. The swell had increased. We figured this out when Nate came close to getting clobbered in The Keyhole. We proceeded with a bit more caution than before.

 

Nate had to get back. I gazed at Long Porcupine, wanting a bit more, but we talked it over- and Nate called his wife Casey, a physician, and we received some expert medical advice- get it looked at sooner rather than later. If stitches were necessary, it would need to happen soon. We paddled back to Bar Harbor in light rain. After we’d carried the boats up from the beach, Nate and I walked to where we’d parked. This part felt a bit surreal. The waterfront sidewalks were crowded: cruise ship passengers, tour busses- just people everywhere. In our drysuits, we get plenty of funny looks, but with the oversized bandage beneath my eye, we may as well have been dressed-up as pirates. Actually, that would probably be pretty normal in Bar Harbor. 

At the hospital in Ellsworth, Casey took a few minutes between appointments and took a look at my wound. She thought stitches were probably a good idea. Unfortunately, an Emergency Room visit started at $400, and, since we are uninsured, that gave me pause. We ended-up at a walk-in clinic called Primary Health, where they did a great job stitching me up.

A pricey miscalculation: a broken paddle, a lacerated face and some bruised fingers. Still, not a bad day of paddling. It was fun. Really.

Thanks to Rebecca and Nate for photos. Special thanks to Dr. Casey Hanson at Maine Coast Memorial Hospital for suggesting further treatment. And I'm especially grateful to the upbeat and entertaining staff at Primary Health for fixing me up: Lisa Grant, Ellen Pileski and Vicki Alley.

The Season Winds Down

A few days ago, Nate and I led what would probably be our last guided trip of the season. We had a group of fifteen- travelers on a package-deal bicycle trip that shuttles them by van between various attractions on the Maine coast. They sleep in upscale inns, eat at nice restaurants and bicycle in choice locations. We provide the on-the-water entertainment, taking them on a short kayak tour, usually out to Russ Island and back. Probably the most important goal of these trips- just slightly lower on the priorities than bringing them back safely- is getting them back to their vans on time. Their day is tightly scheduled: places to be, wine to drink, etc. The customers pay quite a bit for these trips.

This excursion started like they usually do. I paddled over from Stonington Harbor and met Nate. We pulled tandems off the rack, arranging them on the beach, and piled life jackets on the picnic tables so when the vans arrived we could get everyone outfitted quickly. Nate pointed to a chart on the outside of the building and outlined a probable route. I said “walk this way,” and for the last time this season, strutted one of those Monty Python silly walks toward the water.

After everyone chose a cockpit and we’d explained how to sit in the boat and how to adjust the foot pegs and pedals, Nate and I went around and helped everyone get fitted. This is where you start to see what sort of clients you have- who’s going to figure it out on their own, and who might be difficult. Most of them are older than us, and less flexible. We tell them to look inside the cockpit first so they understand where the pedals are. But there’s always someone who wasn’t listening. We’ll stick our heads down between their knees to see what’s going-on and discover that their feet are a good foot beyond the footpegs or vice-versa. Then when they complain that it’s too tight a fit, we tell them - probably the second of many times- to sit up straight.

Foot pedals are a hassle. Far be it from me to be dogmatic, but most of our problems guiding people arise from the rudders and foot pedals. Of course, with a 19’ 6” boat with a 28.5” beam, the rudders come in handy when people want to turn. And in a two-hour trip (that’s 2 hours including the time it takes to get ready on shore) we’re not going to be teaching any maneuvering skills.

When the pedals were all sorted-out, Nate and I did a quick tag-team “in the unlikely event of a water landing/out of boat experience” talk. We kept it quick and streamlined; you can usually sense people getting impatient, wondering how necessary all this talk about capsizing is. Someone asked “how often do people tip over?”

I looked at Nate, remembering the last time. “A couple times a season,” he said.

We launched boats as fast as we could, Nate gave an on the water paddling lesson, and soon we were a big, clumsy flotilla ambling across Webb Cove. Nate and I kept busy, making suggestions: “turn your paddle over,” “bring your rudder back to the middle,” “try sitting-up straight,” etc. By the time we skirted Indian Point, the questions began:
“Have you lived here all your life?”
“Where are you from / how did you end-up here?”
“What do you do in the winter?”
 “Who owns that house?”
“How many people live in Stonington- do you know everyone?”


I answered the “lived here all your life/where you from” question four times in a row.  It’s a lot like the tedious part of working in a small town art gallery, except that you’re simultaneously watching for lobster boats and trying to keep the group together. But, as people like to remind me, at least we were kayaking. Imagine getting paid for such a thing.

Everyone survived. We made it back in time.