The Paddler Autumn/Fall issue 2017

ThePADDLER 50
We were on the water by 08.00
Saturday morning with a cool NW breeze
feathering across our skin. Blue skies, wisps of fog
and stoke for our quick Big Sur tour filled the
conversation as we packed our sea kayaks with
food, dry clothes, sleeping bags and safety gear.
Paddling along the white sandy stretch of
Garrapata Beach and around Kaiser Point, the
fog teased our visibility in an uncomfortable
dance of hide and seek. The steep Santa Lucia
Mountains to the east were our guides. Travelling
further south these 1,600 foot ridge tops
disappeared into another time.
Castle Rock, our first critical navigational mark,
emerged from behind a veil. Through dense fog
we began to make out rock pillars and a large
stone face rising out of the water – guards of
an ancient timeline of mountains and erosion.
The tall concrete supports of a coastal icon
rose up to meet the sun. We stopped for water
and calories under the Bixby Bridge; breathing
in the morning solitude shared with two
Common dolphins.
We surfed our first waves after rounding
Hurricane Point. Wind at our stern quarter,
boats picking up momentum, we began linking
waves together. Each swell increased our hull
speed, allowing us to pick up the next roller. We
were surfing to Big Sur and making excellent
time! Point Sur was our next target.
With winds blowing 20 knots, we approached an
obscured Point Sur. Blindly rounding the point,
we adjusted our heading to stay 100 yards off
the rock. The spit of sand on the lee side of the
landmark was a funnel for the gradient weather
patterns. It was windy. Really windy. We set our
course to 111 magnetic and continued surfing
towards False Sur, Swiss Canyon and the Big Sur
river mouth.
We reached our camp at 12.30 where raking
sand scoured a forgotten beach of lost shoes and
wrack. Seventeen and a half nautical miles in four
hours. This seemed appropriate for a travelling
surf session. We hauled our loaded boats high up
on the deserted beach and took stock of the
afternoon’s potential. Priscilla opted for a long
walk down the beach-of-searching-souls, while I
hunkered down behind my boat to read about
the birds facing into the afternoon’s gale.
I couldn’t remember the last time I was a human
being rather than a human doing. Deserted
beaches can do that do you. I read, I walked, I
collected a dozen shoes lost to their owners.
Who were these people and why did they all
lose their left shoe? This, I thought, is what a
human being does without Facebook, SnapChat,
Email or Netflix. We ask questions, we create, we
mark time by the sun, moon and tides… and
hopes of diminishing winds.
I hardly sleep at all but it didn’t really matter. The
stars are out; the Milky Way offering
opportunities of distant wonder – the wind too
seems distant from our protected lee. We point
our kayaks north and head home this morning. I
hope the paddle is enjoyable, I know it won’t
be… so does Priscilla. The small craft advisory
told us so and we… I …didn't listen.
We launch our boats in the Big Sur
river at 05.00
Guided by moonlight and pre-dawn stars, we
paddle a few lengths up river and edge our long
sea kayaks around to set up for the narrow
channel we need to thread for the final hard left
turn that will flush us into the ocean’s will. The
wind hits us a half mile from the confluence of
fresh and salt. We lean forward and dig in.
The rising sun lights up Priscilla’s X18. Her white
boat, a sunrise-orange bloom in the middle of
wind’s hand. The sculpted blue troughs and high
peaks speak of adventure, of challenge… of raw
grace. Looking deeply, I feel connected to the
moment… of the sublime. My mind looks
hopelessly towards our next objectives.
It is difficult for me to articulate. Words get lost,
just as one hopes the mind will, when the physical
body is pushed beyond assumptive limits. I've
never had to work so hard physically or mentally
in my 52 years as I have on this trip and we’re not
even half way home; in fact we’ve only be on the
water for two hours this morning.
By now, four hours into the slog, I am feeling panic
bubble up the back of my neck, floating all
rationale and calm up and out of some invisible
seam in my head. My mind, hardly wandering, is
gripped solely on its objective; gripped on
embracing the suck; gripped like my cramping