Although I have been kayaking for years but never dared to venture too far into open ocean. There are many reasons, all of which lead to timidity–don’t have the right gears (a dry suit is said to be a must-have), don’t know how to read currents, don’t want to do it solo, etc.
But having a boat of my own suddenly changes all that. When Jeff heard that I haven’t paddled Othello since I acquired it in July (which was largely engineered by him anyway), he let out a cry that I could overhear through ZR’s cell phone–on the other side of her head, no less, “What a shame!”
Yet it seemed that the shame felt more on him than me, after all. Mid last week, Jeff told me of a pending trip to the San Juans with his b-i-l Scott, and “you are welcome to join us”. Still a little apprehensive, I decided to stick my neck out for this one. The night before, SX mentioned that I was going on an “adventure”, I thought it was a little over-played: how adventurous could it be?
The trip actually started the night before when I scrambled all over the house to find the scattered gears. Suddenly, the living area smelled like neoprene. And loading the boat turned out to be the most straightforward task. For the first time in years, I felt the urgent need to compile a checklist -
Boat, paddles x 2, boots, socks, gloves, float, pump, spray jacket, spray skirt, wet suite, PFD, sun glasses, hat, sun screen, whistle, toilet paper, lunch, water, snacks/trail mix/power bar, dry cloth, towel, sandal, wrist watch+compass, iPod+earphone, dry bags x 2, car rack, boat strap, cell phone, ID
Counting on Jeff to have – map, tidal table
I had some work to finish so had just four hours of sleep. Then left early the next morning with a light breakfast. ZR did most of the driving for she was to bike around Lopez by herself on that day. When I woke up from a deep nap, raised myself from a laid down passenger seat to look out the window, we were already at the Washington Park in Anacortes.
It was a beautiful day. The blue ocean was calm and flat, only the strong smell of sea reminded me of the kind of water we were about to get into. And the initial sailing was no different as on lake. In fact, I never saw ocean being so quiet. The lack of waves made the continuous water surface a vast span of silky blue. When my orange-colored paddle slid below the surface, it was as if a knife cutting through.
We were a bit late to catch the current sweeping north. Still, we had little trouble cross the busy shipping channel and hit our first stop–Strawberry Island to the west of Cyprus Island. Strawberry was Jeff’s favorite, for good reasons. Once part of the Cascadia Marine Trail, it is now a deserted island outside of Park Service’s purview due to budget cuts. Jeff’s beloved outhouse (ever time he mentioned Strawberry, he marveled at the size and cleanness of that outhouse) is now gone, lifted out by a helicopter last year. A sign now says “no camping”.
But as if some woman are born to be trophy wives, Strawberry is there to be camped, in my opinion. It is tiny, quiet, fully forested, with an open view to the west. We took a walk through the forest among madrona trees. Many of them are shaped by the winter storms–barks peeled up and branches leaning inland. Its south end sticks out like a mini-peninsular, with huge boulders bulging up and out, over looking a loud and choppy sea stirred up by strong currents over what must be a rocky bottom. When we paddled our boats away, we passed hundreds of sea birds crowded on the rock like statues, feathers dancing wildly in the wind. Reminded me of the Bedouin women ululating T.E. Lawrence leading their men to battle the Turks.
What came next was perhaps the hardest part of the trip. Suddenly, everything seemed wrong: my back started to hurt, the wetsuit was too tight, I started to bunk, my groin felt sour after sitting in that position for so long and having to transfer every stroke to the foot pedals. Suddenly, a sense of panic kicked in, for no other reason than feeling exposed and being surrounded by the elements. At the same time, my legs were enclosed in a tight hull and I had only a tired upper body to propel myself forward. The distance seemed grew by the second and a second seemed to become a minute.
The sense of dread took away any fun on that part of the trip. I don’t remember much at all other than the hope to find an excuse to stop, to get on shore, to tear down the straitjacket wetsuit. But I also know that we have to circle around the Cyprus Island by 2pm or we may well lose a favorable current heading back.
The salvation came in the form of lunch. We did stop at a small cove on the east side of Cyprus right around its northern tip. I could hardly get of the boat as my legs were half dead. With an urge like a guy just out of a desert finally reached a well, the first thing I did was tearing down the wetsuit. Steam came out of my body as if being steam-ironed all over.
After devouring a prosciutto sandwich (the best ZR ever made), I laid back on a rock under the sun. Gradually, I felt everything would be OK after all.
The return trip was much more fun. Since we were on the east side, the afternoon sun hung behind the ridge on the island. Lights filtered through a dense forest, shining into emerald-colored water. When Jeff and Scott came out of the shadow of hill and glide through the sunlight, their silhouettes wore a blinding edge of light from the reflections.
The last challenge was to cross the shipping channel again. It was about 4pm, and a steady wind whipped up a choppy sea. There were white caps all around me. I grow a little nervous and asked Jeff whether this was normal. He smiled and said, “while, this is the ever predictable Northwest afternoon wind”. He was right. There was really nothing to it. We crossed the water, dodged a monster looking ferry and peddled into a setting sun.
Just came back from a day hike to the Carne Mountain near Leavenworth. It was a pleasant surprise (I admit I am at the same time pursuing and abusing the sense of “surprise”). Larch trees are at their peak and, just like my last trip to the Enchantments, all the larch trees seemed to hide in a high mountain basin. This means we traveled for hours with nothing to see, but once we stepped across a threshold—the rim of the basin, suddenly we were in a different realm.
We thought we got what we were here for in the middle of the basin and were almost ready to turn around. Another couple coming down from the nearby summit told us enough to keep going. Thanks to them, we got much more than what we expected.
As I soaked myself in the view, Rachmaninoff’s second symphony got in my head, and I just couldn’t shake it off. However I think about Rachmaninoff, his music does conjure an expansive imagery. And a sense of unreserved devotion. That is how I felt at that moment – I was as naked in front of nature as it is to me. It was a wonderful feeling.