tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64159802024-03-13T04:00:21.811-07:00kayak adventuresAdventures and misadventures of a sea kayak guide in Mexico, the Northwest US, and around the worldGinni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comBlogger127125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-83264008141908189522020-08-15T16:03:00.001-07:002020-11-30T16:09:40.503-08:00Training Trip<p> <span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9HmInhgCr7U/X8WJMeddtYI/AAAAAAAABHM/lvywxUKPEmQVw7wfGItoXZY7ap9lBUmPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/7561SunriseSea.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="2000" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9HmInhgCr7U/X8WJMeddtYI/AAAAAAAABHM/lvywxUKPEmQVw7wfGItoXZY7ap9lBUmPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7561SunriseSea.3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’m training to cross the Sea of Cortez in a kayak this coming October. Each weekend I go out for a slightly longer paddle than the weekend before. Though I’m paddling towards a goal, I’m as much using the goal as a motivating excuse for getting out there as I am using these outings to prepare for a future event. Participating in the present moment is the real practice here.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">This past weekend I paddled north from Loreto. It was an exploration as well as a training, since I haven’t paddled this coast in at least 15 years. Friday afternoon took me 13nm up the coast from Loreto to San Bruno, the mouth of a large estuary. Crossing the Gulf will entail a a few island hops followed by a long section, so I’m practicing doing a moderate day followed by a long one. That pattern also gives me a night of sleeping out under the stars, which is nourishment for the soul.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The best information I could find to carry on my deck regarding this coastline was a photocopy of the chart surveyed by the USS Narraganset in 1873 and 1875 which showed the mouth to an inlet clear and open. A lot can change in 145 years, especially in geologically volatile Baja, and especially at the mouth of an estuary! <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It was getting on towards evening when I completed the stretch of mountainous coastline north of Isla Coronados and arrived in the vicinity of San Bruno. A crescent bay of a quarter mile’s width with a small hill on the northern point was the first break in the mountains. Waves from a 1-meter SE swell dumped dirty and powerful on the steep sand beach. Beyond the hill the coast was a long expanse of breakers, spilling more gently but without a clear channel and with the probability of partially submerged remains of trees scattered throughout. The tide was high and would be low in the morning when I would leave the beach around 4am and I did not relish the prospect of trying to find passage through an unfamiliar estuary mouth in the dark in the morning. So I chose the dumping breakers on the steep beach. I watched the waves crash for several long moments, then chose a location and paddled the last few strokes on the brown hump of a wave as it collapsed in gritty foam and shot up the beach. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I leapt out and anchored the kayak against the greedy pull of the retreating wave, but my feet slid back with the wave and the kayak in the gripless slope. The next wave filled the cockpit with a slurry of beach and sea and the ocean growled its malintent. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">It wasn’t graceful, but I eventually managed to wrestle my kayak from the waves and deliver it to dry level beach. A pack of coyotes pulled at the carcass of a sea turtle next to the half-buried branches of a surf-sanded tree. A palapa and a motorless panga stood at the north end of the beach without signs of activity. I walked around my end of the beach, climbed a high sand dune to try to see the estuary but didn’t learn much. The dune cast a lengthening shadow where I determined I’d make my bed. I also determined where I’d prefer to launch in the morning if the swell was still up, after watching the breakers for a while to memorize where the underwater rocks were. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The contents of the kayak went into 2 Ikea bags and I carried them to my camp. Moving the kayak was the next puzzle. I didn’t relish the idea of floating it to move it down the beach on account of the hungry breakers. Then it occurred to me that I had a set of wheels in the back hatch which I had used to get the kayak to the water in Loreto, and then forgotten about. I laughed with joy at my good fortune and giggled a little at my forgetfulness. I wheeled the kayak over to my camp, tied it up to the sturdy branches of a tree sticking out of the sand, and left the wheels on for convenience and flexibility in the morning.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">A peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich was my dinner as the light faded. On these trips I travel as light as possible. No stove, no cutting board, no kitchen. Boiled eggs, cans of tuna eaten with a spoon out of the can, granola bars, nuts, dried fruit, pre-made bean burritos and peanut butter sandwiches form my diet. I can eat them in the kayak.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I prepared for the morning, sealed up the kayak, and set out the ground tarp, the Therm-a-Rest, and a thin sheet, anchoring them all with rocks or sticks or water bottle against the breeze. I wrapped my pathetically small clothing drybag in a pillowcase. After removing from the drybag my sleeping t-shirt, a small towel to get the sand off my feet and Moose, it only contained a pair of socks, a warm hat, a spare shirt and a sarong. All together they didn’t make much of a pillow, but enough.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Jupiter appeared first. Then Saturn. Antares. Arcturus. Altair. Vega. Spica. Deneb. There is something comforting in recognizing and greeting these lights in the sky. The dimmer stars filled in. Scorpius. Big Dipper. Cygnus flew above me, the giant swan in the shape of a cross, wingtips raised. For a while the axis of the swan was the same as mine. As I stretched out my arms to reflect its shape, I thought of my dad. The cross: so central to his beliefs, to his being. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">“Dad, what do you know now?” I asked the sky. ”Where is your spirit?” Just then a brilliant shooting star coursed across my view.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Whether it was the wind, or the anticipation of paddling 35nm the next day, or thoughts of mischievous coyotes, I had trouble falling asleep. But the night was beautiful. As the tide dropped sometimes waves would begin to break before they smashed the shore. They make a certain higher-pitched hiss when they break early. I picked up head up to look, and saw a bright glow. The bioluminescence was outstanding! From 60’ away, the breaking wave was the brightest thing in my little universe. Again and again, I would hear the hiss, look, and smile.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The Milky Way slowly pivoted. Scorpius crawled along the mountains. Cygnus flew a different direction. Finally I fell asleep, and woke suddenly out of a dream that everyone had packed and departed and I was left behind. It was 3:01, nine minutes before I’d set my alarm to go off, reasoning that I could get away with 10 more minutes sleep because 3am sounded too early to get up. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Because I had 9 minutes to spare, I took the luxury of slowly eating a boiled egg and half a sandwich while still sitting on my tarp, listening to the waves in the dark. Out to sea, the white light of a fishing boat shone. Another light appeared slightly above it, and I tried to make sense of the perspective. The new light was reddish. It started to grow. So did my smile of recognition. The crescent moon. The whole of it wasn’t yet up when it disappeared behind a cloud bank. Just a moment it had peeked out, and I had been sitting there looking, as if I’d been waiting for the show. Moments like this make it easy to feel alive when living outside. Alive and connected to some larger meaning or script.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I paddled north through a sea of tiny lights. Horizontal lines glowed and dissipated to my left, the breakers of the San Bruno estuary. I gave them a wide berth and paid close attention to the shape of the swells approaching from the right so I wouldn’t get caught out by the breaking of a bigger set. Occasionally the rounded cone of Isla Coronados caught my attention with a start, tricking my eye into thinking it was a large, dark wave. In the dark, I paddled by sight, but also by the sound of the breakers and the feel of the shape of the waves as they passed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The moon cleared the low cloud bank and Venus followed shortly after. Over the next 2 hours I watched the slow-motion drama of Venus overtaking the moon. The moon moves eastward relative to the constellations to complete its path around the earth every 28 days. If you have the patience to watch it when it’s near a star or planet, in an hour you suspect there’s been some change, and 2 hours are enough to see for sure. The moon clearly rose first, and by sunrise, Venus had climbed higher than the moon, or more accurately, the moon had lagged behind Venus and the rest of the sky. What a privilege to have watched it, and all the more so from a kayak.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Even in the dark, it was hot enough to be sweating as I paddled. On my hourly break, I wanted to jump in the water to cool off and have a pee. Large creatures feed in the night. My awkward thrashing to return on top of the kayak will surely signal to them that I am lame, easy prey and fit to be removed from the gene pool. I am understandably nervous about jumping in the water at night. Just as I reached the hour, small manta rays called mobulas started leaping out of the water around me. Nobody knows for sure why they do it. Competing for a mate, shaking off parasites, just plain fun. But they don’t do it to avoid predators. They gave me the confidence to do my own jumping.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Later, on my return, something large did follow me. Twice it made a large splash just behind my kayak. The second time I turned fast enough to see something brown in the water, like a sea lion, but it never breathed. Shortly after, something hit the back of my kayak from underwater hard enough to make the kayak shudder and push the partly deployed skeg up into the kayak. That hour I did not jump into the water.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The final approach to Loreto wasn’t nearly as spectacular as the previous week’s dolphin escort through bioluminescent nighttime waters, a special treat. These last few hours were rough, in the 110-degree heat index of the August afternoon, but I made 35.5nm since morning, and 48.75nm overall. Next week we’ll shoot for 40nm nonstop and 55nm overall.<br /><o:p></o:p></p>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-87738935402316942382020-07-19T11:19:00.003-07:002020-07-19T11:40:13.069-07:00The Persistence of Light<span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PFKihbSuwKE/XxSOfIpYMfI/AAAAAAAABC4/vdt8lT7XxIQu9JUO75rgLI1niDAEMb8qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2000/7135PlayaRojaPinnalceReflection.3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1334" data-original-width="2000" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PFKihbSuwKE/XxSOfIpYMfI/AAAAAAAABC4/vdt8lT7XxIQu9JUO75rgLI1niDAEMb8qgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/7135PlayaRojaPinnalceReflection.3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>The sun departed leaving an orange glow above the Loreto mountains. Ahead, Isla del Carmen blushed her final farewell to the day. I pointed just north of her two prominent peaks, paddling through bouncy seas. A gentle breeze met me from my right. Dark shapes of waves occasionally broke the horizon. Above a low bank of clouds ahead, Jupiter popped to life.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As the sky darkened, sounds of town faded behind me. Cars, dogs. The lights persisted, the measured white march of the waterfront Malecon. The tall blink of the marina’s lighthouse. Red and blue flashes of police cars paced the waterfront, trying to send people home so the virus could enjoy the quiet night streets.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Slowly stars appeared overhead. The shapes of islands grew indistinct. Saturn appeared below Jupiter, and the two aligned to point to the low spot where I was headed. Zero-nine-zero on my compass, though it was too dark to see it. The sky pointed the way.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My paddle stirred up glowing creatures in the water. Random individuals lit up in protest at being tossed up on my deck in droplets of spray. They were too small to see, let alone put back in the water. Splashing water onto the deck to rinse them off just stranded more of them, so I left them to their fate. Occasional whitecaps shone a blue-white as they broke. Swirling footprints marked my wake.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Behind me, the Loreto mountains stayed lined up with the stern of my kayak, telling me I was not drifting off course. The final glow faded behind them, and they disappeared, obscured by the harsh lights of town. Somewhere about halfway across the 9nm crossing, when I could no longer see the mountains, I realized that the faint smudge in the sky north of town was the comet Neowise, which I had been hoping to see. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I paused my paddling to listen to the waves talking around me. They have subtle, burbly voices. I heard something ahead, a steady hissing. Like a river or a tide race, or waves on a distant shore. The shore was still too far to hear, so I filed that sound in my head and kept paddling, ready for it to be a channel of current, or wind, or just the way the breeze was accumulating the sounds of the burbling water. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The star Altair balanced Jupiter and Saturn on the other side of my destination, giving my direction a feeling of symmetry. In the darkness, Jupiter left a wide swath of reflection on the choppy water, a path of soft light leading from me to the amorphous darkness of the island. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As tempted as my heart has always been to follow the path of reflected heavenly bodies on the water, my head reminds me that they are an illusion. A trick of faint light and perspective. “Like love,” retorts my broken heart. I don’t bother to form words in reply. Paddling is my answer. I stay my course, to the left of that path. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">As my kayak moved through the waves, water on the deck occasionally caught the faint light of Jupiter at just the right angle to make it shine. Overhead, the Milky Way angled brightly across the sky, with the giant hook of the Scorpius’ tail firmly lodged in the heart of it, tugging it towards the west. A distant cloud bank flashed with lightening, a common summer Sea of Cortez phenomenon, too far away to worry about, but fun to watch.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I was about 2 hours into the crossing, the wind picked up, straight on my nose. It increased quickly. Peaks of glowing whitecaps became prevalent. They turned into rows of glowing waves. The deck of my kayak lit up like party lights as it pierced wave after wave, the deck rigging illuminated by the little creatures that got caught in it. Spray off the bow rained steadily on my face. Perhaps I was wearing the glitter as well.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My glowing footprints kept moving aft, which I took as a reassuring sign. Other than that, I couldn’t tell if I was actually moving forward. The kayak felt heavy and slow, though I had hardly packed anything for the island overnight. Just bars, nuts, and dried fruit for food. Water, a sleeping pad, a sheet, and trusty Moose. A few shreds of dry clothing not even enough to make a decent pillow. Toothbrush and harmonica. Basic safety implements, and the collapsible kayak trolley that got me to the water. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">Isla Cholla lighthouse on my left and a distant headland on my right together formed a gateway that did not want me to pass. They seemed to stay exactly where they were. I tried the tactic of alternating several short powerful strokes to get speed, then 2 relaxed strokes to catch my breath while sustaining the glide. The lighthouse and the headland were unimpressed. I ignored them and counted 100 full strokes before checking again. Maybe, just maybe they were giving me a little. I counted 100 strokes 3 more times. The gateway was letting me through, grudgingly. Gradually, the height of the waves began to diminish.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I approached the blackness of the coastline where my eyes could make out nothing. Carmen had grown tall against the sky, but I couldn’t tell how close I was to the shore. The absence of a moon let the faint lights take the stage-- the Milky Way, the bioluminescence, Jupiter’s reflection, the comet—but made it hard to find the beach I was headed for. Nor, for the wind, could I hear the waves on the shore which I often rely on to discern rocks from sand. Nor could I smell the night air descending the arroyo and wafting the scent of desert plants over the water, indicating a beach.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The gusts started to hit. The wind was crossing the island and dropping with random whimsey. A gust from my left tried to steal my paddle. I grabbed it back. The entire surface of the water lit up in the gust, leaving the kayak a dark spear in the middle of a sea of dancing blue-white. Breathtakingly beautiful and a bit frightening at the same time, as that dark spear skittered sideways through the light.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The only aid to navigation in this area was Punta Cholla lighthouse, 3nm to the northwest. The folded layers of hills on Isla del Carmen make it hard to read the skyline at close range, much harder than it is from a distance, or than reading the single ridge of Isla Danzante.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I knew within less than half a mile for certain where I was, and thought I knew within a couple hundred yards. I also knew that from here to the north there were 3 wide, accessible and hospitable beaches, as well as 2 rough beaches that would work in a pinch, before I reached the protected cove of Balandra, which itself had several places one could pull up a kayak and call home for the night.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I knew there were rocky reefs along here between the beaches. Still, I was surprised then my paddle struck a shallow rock. I was trying to parallel the shore until the cliffs backed away from the water, without being able to really make out either the cliffs or the edge of the water. While dancing with the gusts. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">My headlamp was the top thing in my day hatch. I’ve knocked it off my head into the water before, so no longer paddle with it there, and I was glad to not have had it around my neck while being bathed in salt spray. I have also tried to use it to find a beach and found that it illuminated the moisture in the air at close range and told me nothing about the coast, while killing my night vision for a while. So I left it in the hatch. I could do this. Control in the gusts, slow squinting progress between. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">The cliffs seemed to back away. A steady dark line with a faint lightness above it suggested a beach. I crept toward that line. The kayak surprised me by stopping gently on the shore before I reached the line. The line, it turned out, was wet sand of a recent high tide. No matter. I was on the beach. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I glanced to my right as I stepped out of the kayak and saw silhouetted the familiar pinnacle of Playa Roja, with its osprey nest crown on top. I smiled. I was one beach north of where I’d intended, but had no thought of getting back on the water. There was a symmetry and poetic justice of landing here. On a prior night crossing, I’d been shooting for this beach and landed instead at the one just south. Tonight I’d done that in reverse. The two are close enough to swim between, with one cliff and one reef separating them, so landing at either after a 9-nm crossing in the dark isn’t so far off the mark.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">I moved the kayak up the beach, weighed it down with rocks, and tied it off before unpacking my few things. The kayak quivered in the gusts like it wanted to go back out and play. It was 11pm. I was ready to lie down and admire those faint, persistent lights above as I drifted off into contented sleep. <o:p></o:p></p>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comLoreto, Baja California Sur, Mexico26.0117564 -111.3477531-2.298477436178846 -146.5040031 54.321990236178848 -76.1915031tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-17410799751361096312018-06-17T16:33:00.000-07:002018-06-17T16:33:00.140-07:00Dolphin Galaxies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YVIgFJTdho8/WybvW271lII/AAAAAAAAAog/9J-ji2gi7RUzL8WvFW_Z_CtuEI2mNRckgCLcBGAs/s1600/0766EarlyLight.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YVIgFJTdho8/WybvW271lII/AAAAAAAAAog/9J-ji2gi7RUzL8WvFW_Z_CtuEI2mNRckgCLcBGAs/s320/0766EarlyLight.3.jpg" width="320" height="213" data-original-width="1600" data-original-height="1067" /></a></div>Sometimes you just need to go. Get outside. Sleep under the stars. Remember what all the computer work is for. <br />
<br />
So I did. At about 7:30 in the evening I shut the half-done projects into my laptop, their cries for attention muffled by the closing of the lid. I put the kayak on wheels and loaded the sleeping essentials into an Ikea bag, along with a few granola bars, some nuts, and dried fruit, and headed out the driveway. Locked the gate behind me, and pulled my kayak down the middle of the street, as you do in Loreto.<br />
<br />
I love living in Loreto, a block from the water. The hotter it gets into the summer, the earlier I’m going paddling or running each day. Now I go before sunrise, and even then often drenched in sweat. It’s a little fresher after the rain this week, Loreto’s first rain in 8 months.<br />
<br />
The sun is setting over the mountains now, casting a last red glow on Isla del Carmen 9 nm to the east. My destination. I’ve become comfortable finding more familiar beaches by ear, bioluminescence and skyline silhouette in the starlight. But this part of the island I travel less often, and only once before have I paddled directly from Loreto to there. I’m not exactly sure which peak to aim for. So I guestimate a little to the south and know there are several options to my left once I reach the island.<br />
<br />
But I’ve a ways to go. I empty the Ikea bag into my kayak, and pack the wheels into the hatch. I push off the beach and become amphibian. A live performer is torturing some chords at the waterfront Hotel Oasis where guests sit at outdoor tables draped in white linen. It’s all-you-can-eat clam and oyster night. The sounds and lights of Loreto follow me into the dusk. <br />
<br />
Swells are coming from both north and south, almost opposite each other, making for a syncopated rising and falling as I paddle less by sight and more by feel. A light headwind keeps me cool.<br />
<br />
Isla del Carmen turns blue, then black. I notice a shadow moving back and forth on the deck of my kayak. A crescent moon hangs over my shoulder, bright enough to cast a shadow. A couple of planets keep it company. Stars come out, lighthouses blink in the distance. The Southern Cross slowly cartwheels back below the horizon.<br />
<br />
I hear the splashes of fish on occasion, but these are bigger, and more persistent, and coming from all around, almost like the churning water of a tide race. I stop paddling to listen. The staccato exhalations of dolphins accompanies the splashes. I see one dark crescent break the water beside my kayak. They are behind, in front, and many to the right. I alternate between paddling and listening. Between excitement and gratitude, my smile another beaming crescent in the night. How can the presence of other beings bring such a flood of joy?<br />
<br />
Big splash to the rear. I turn to see another leaping high in the moonlight. “Whoo-hoo! You are beautiful!” I declare. <br />
<br />
I wonder how they know exactly where the surface of the water is to take a breath in the dark on a wavy night. I wonder what they see of stars. I wonder if they can see anything through the thick brilliance of the bioluminescence streaming past their faces. My paddle sends galaxies spinning out beside my wake. I wonder what the dolphins know of galaxies.<br />
<br />
I’m about halfway, a little over an hour into the crossing. Isla Danzante’s distant blink and the silhouetted cone of Isla Coronados are on either shoulder. My path is crossing the line between them.<br />
<br />
I will hear the dolphins off and on for the rest of the journey, until I also hear waves breaking on the rocks of Carmen.<br />
<br />
There I am alone. I feel alone. There is a tall rocky point in front of me. Not a good place to sleep. It’s 10:30pm. I know there are reefs along this side of the island, so I keep a cautious distance from the point as I head north, listening. <br />
<br />
I have a headlamp hanging ready but turned off around my neck. It’s not strong enough to cut the humid air all the way to the shore. I have a GPS in my day hatch, with a familiar beach already programmed. It felt like the responsible thing to do before I left. But I don’t need it.<br />
<br />
The waves change tone. The air smells slightly earthier. I head closer. This beach will do. I pull up the kayak, float myself for a bit in the sparkling water, then make my bed as the moon sets behind the mountains. The mountains are invisible, another darkness in the darkness. The moon disappears tail first into the darkness without touching the lit horizon of Loreto.<br />
<br />
I lie down beside my kayak and look at the clouds of light swirling half-mixed with the darkness as the Milky Way rolls off Scorpius’ tail just above the peaks of Carmen. I look until my eyes can’t look any more, and then I dream to the sounds of water.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-27094916500935281422016-05-18T18:09:00.000-07:002016-05-18T18:14:13.997-07:00Hot Honeymoon, New York City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4PRN7VJW_rE/Vz0SdI_dp7I/AAAAAAAAAlc/QYnaGueQc6oqAlTjQR0AZN4wB3WVfWgKgCLcB/s1600/4643FireLadder.tall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4PRN7VJW_rE/Vz0SdI_dp7I/AAAAAAAAAlc/QYnaGueQc6oqAlTjQR0AZN4wB3WVfWgKgCLcB/s320/4643FireLadder.tall.jpg" /></a><br />
Five minutes after we returned to the hotel, Henrick and I smelled smoke. We were weary from walking all day: 3 hours in the World Trade Center observatory and memorial and 3 more hours walking back from there via the High Line and busy streets to Pod 51 Hotel, on 51st Street. We’d been refreshed by a good dinner and were ready to put our feet up and relax.<br />
<br />
I thought the smoke came from our air conditioner, so I turned it off and opened the window to stick my head out. Below us was a restaurant and their back door stood open just under our window. Smoke drifted out. Were they smoking something? It didn’t smell very tasty. There were sirens outside, but this is New York City. Sirens all the time. They couldn’t be for us.<br />
<br />
Henrick stepped out of the bathroom and into his shoes to investigate, but came right back. The hall was full of smoke and the fire alarm just started. <br />
<br />
An announcement cut through the beeping, “This is not an emergency, but please evacuate the hotel using the stairways.” <br />
<br />
Most of our possessions were already in our small day-packs. We’d traveled light on this 3-day honeymoon in the city. We shoved the rest into the packs in just a few seconds. I put my shoes back on, grabbed my headlamp (always the prepared camper), and we slunk low and quickly through the dark smoky hallway to the stairs, with shirts over our mouths, and eyes squinted. Others were descending as well. The stairs were well-lit and not so smoky.<br />
<br />
Black-suited firemen dragged a hose into the entrance as we filed out. They were headed through a door to the adjoining Salvation Burger restaurant. It was about 8pm with the last daylight in the sky. <br />
<br />
Red fire trucks parked in the street with their lights flashing. Firemen strode purposefully about. Police and fire vehicles blocked both ends of the street with their multi-colored light shows. The nearest truck extended a ladder up the front of the building but nobody went up, and nobody leaned out waving handkerchiefs from windows above. Smoke began wafting out of an 8th floor window. People gathered in the street to look. <br />
<br />
Henrick and I chatted with a young Brazilian woman Natalia from the apartment across the street as we watched the action. More trucks arrived. Two firemen dragged a litter of first aid supplies and implements of destruction up the street. More yellow suits strode past carrying long crowbars and axes.<br />
<br />
A friend of Natalia joined us and pointed out the owner of the burger shop, a woman in a white chef shirt. She was enjoying great success and notoriety in the city with her restaurants, of which this was the latest, open just 2 months. Kitchen fires are fairly common in the industry, according to our local informants. Natalia’s friend had lost her home and belongings to a kitchen fire in the restaurant below her apartment.<br />
<br />
Firemen’s names reflected in yellow on the tail of their long shirts, a design modification since 9-1-1. “All these trucks may seem like an over-reaction, but this is what they do now,” she said. “They’re prepared for anything.” Steel-framed gurneys loaded with first aid supplies stood ready in the street attended by yellow-suited EMS responders.<br />
<br />
After about an hour, the excitement slowed down. The smoke had quit. Hoses were being dragged back out and folded. The ladder lowered. The white-coated kitchen staff was herded away by a tall fellow, perhaps to be grilled. The owner still chatted with a tight knot of people near the restaurant. Our new friends and other spectators wandered off. <br />
<br />
Cleanup looked like it would take a while for the fire crew, and not many were actually working on it. Henrick and I headed for someplace to sit, and the pub a few doors down looked inviting. The emergency lights flashed through the pub windows giving it a reddish disco feel. We nursed our beers for about another hour until the disco ended. <br />
<br />
The street was still blocked, and a crowd assembled around the hotel, which was blocked and attended by an officer. A couple waiting said they’d been informed that there would be rooms arranged for everyone, and that they would get more info soon. Who knew when “soon” would be.<br />
<br />
With everything we had on our backs and no worries, we wandered off in the other direction to find another pub. Might as well enjoy the evening! We sipped our beverages peacefully on sidewalk chairs between the noisy bar and the busy street, discussing life’s endless topics for another hour and joking about our hot honeymoon.<br />
<br />
The last flashing lights quietly extinguished and drove away. Taxis began entering our street. The hotel lobby was still bustling when we returned, so we went up the stairs to see our room. In the hall there were some chunks of drywall and debris. One door near ours had been broken into. Other doors stood open, including ours. The room next to ours had a hole smashed in the wall. Our AC unit had been pulled from the window and lay askew on the floor. The room smelled slightly smoky, but was otherwise quite liveable. We decided we could stay, but would ask for a discount.<br />
<br />
“What’s your room?” asked the clerk.<br />
<br />
“227” <br />
<br />
“We have a room for you in another hotel a few blocks away and the taxi fare is covered,” said the clerk. <br />
<br />
We were impressed. Considering what Henrick and I had just discussed, though, this seemed more dramatic than necessary. I said, “We’ve just been up to see the room, and, if it’s permitted, we could stay there. The AC is on the floor and it smells a little smoky, but not too bad, and we can step over the AC. We were just going to ask for something of a discount.” I didn’t say it was to cover the bar tab while we’d waited, but that’s the amount I was thinking.<br />
<br />
The clerk excused himself and ducked into an office. He returned to double check with us that it really would be ok, and then tell us that we could have the night for free. What’s not to like? That was worth several times more than what I’d asked for. There was a bagel store around the corner that I had my eyes on for the morning’s breakfast, and we didn’t feel like relocating, really. Believe it or not, we can both be homebodies, and we’d bonded with our tiny room whose closet of a bathroom reminded us of an apartment we’d shared for a month in Orebro, Sweden. We returned happy to our little nest.<br />
<br />
After the fire, the restaurant would obviously be closed for a while, and the hotel had some repairs to do, but nobody had been hurt.<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m5ADNoM_Jug/Vz0SkbFv6iI/AAAAAAAAAlg/yXOofL2udCUfIFoBmHQc06yoxZgXX_ywACKgB/s1600/4653FireTruckPod.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m5ADNoM_Jug/Vz0SkbFv6iI/AAAAAAAAAlg/yXOofL2udCUfIFoBmHQc06yoxZgXX_ywACKgB/s320/4653FireTruckPod.3.jpg" /></a></div>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-33314594253599757292015-10-29T08:52:00.001-07:002015-12-16T04:13:35.989-08:00Whirlwind East Coast Tour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nsnbf_JzeKU/VjI_L6noEPI/AAAAAAAAAkw/pqJD_lbUQb8/s1600/3607MaineCoachingSQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nsnbf_JzeKU/VjI_L6noEPI/AAAAAAAAAkw/pqJD_lbUQb8/s320/3607MaineCoachingSQ.jpg" /></a></div>In September, I rototilled the garden with Kyleen, packed Baby Blue the Wondertruck with kayaks and gear, dropped Henrick off at the airport for his trip to Sweden, and headed south. I drove, Moose navigated. <br />
<br />
We recalled to each other the stories of summer. How Henrick’s workshop grew daily from the ground up. Kyleen’s shipping container and the work to make it into a home. How Henrick and Kyleen worked together so well and the little farm family gelled. It was a summer to savor as the miles rolled by the window.<br />
<br />
At the border we met up with Maddie. One day and $3000 later we picked up the legally imported kayaks at an unmarked house behind a restaurant and continued south to Surf Camp, then Loreto. Between unpacking and moving in, we made time to SUP the Loreto waterfront at sunrise, and to enjoy one sleepless night on Rattlesnake Beach watching the lunar eclipse then paddle to Danzante Island and back in the morning. Two days after arriving, I was on the bus for a 20 hour ride back to the border.<br />
<br />
Next stop, Maine, where I learned how much more I have to learn about coaching. “Coaching” is a car I’ve been driving for nearly 2 decades. I know how to work it from the driver’s seat and how to negotiate traffic. In Maine, we looked under the hood. What makes the engine run? We kicked the tires and studied the tread. We asked ourselves what’s important for a young driver to know for their general competence; what’s useful for a depth of resourcefulness?<br />
<br />
We were learning to develop coaches. The course was BCUAB Tutor Training and Level 1 and Level 2 Orientation. For the first time I learned about the Kolb model of experiential learning, which is fundamental in education. <br />
<br />
My coaching has been largely seat of the pants. Gut sense and logic. How is the flow going and is it time to change the pace? Can they handle one more challenge? What worked well last time? What can I improve? The idea of progressions and covering the learning preferences of visual, auditory, and kinesthetic have long been incorporated. The exciting thing about this course was that there are so many other lenses through which to look at the learning and coaching process. Binoculars, microscopes, telescopes, infrared, x-ray… Then the challenge is to identify what is the most important for beginning coaches, without overwhelming them with theory. Paddling is a physical activity after all. John Carmody, Steve Maynard, Todd Wright, Bonnie Perry, and I put our heads together, guided by Steve MacDonald.<br />
<br />
Maine was fall colors, stone houses, and dining together with the clink of ideas on the plate. Ideas surging cold and salty over rocks with students riding on them.<br />
<br />
Next stop, Georgia. White sand beaches and screened-in porches, and spray lifting off the clash of waves in Tybee Islands’ triangle in the wind. Oysters on the table pried open with fingers and savored with the long southern vowels of conversation. <br />
<br />
I cut Georgia one day short for an impulsive detour to the Bahamas. Travel, while exciting, can leave one homesick. Not for the house particularly, but for the comfort of familiar companions. Henrick was a stone’s throw off the Florida coast, closer than we would be in a long time, especially since we didn’t actually know when or where the next visit would be. His schedule had him welding and pipefitting from 8am to 8pm every day until the project was complete, no weekends. But he still had 12 night hours! He was just as enthusiastic as I at the thought of a 2-night visit.<br />
<br />
Maybe I don’t have to say how refreshing it is to just hold each other and tell stories of our recent days. To be enveloped in acceptance and tenderness. At gatherings of people I often feel like a bit of a social misfit. If I’m there to coach, I do my best and like to think I do a good job. I enjoy that. But the insecure little girl inside struggles in social situations. After 3 weeks of social situations… Henrick, for his part, wasn’t terribly inspired by rebuilding the laundry facilities on the humbly named cruise ship “Celebrity Infinity”. We were each other’s salve, and each other’s celebration.<br />
<br />
There’s a romance to sailing across the Pacific, to meeting up on various continents and islands when we can. In the spirit of it, a 2-night fling in the Bahamas just fit perfectly! The second night Henrick’s supervisor gave him 4 hours off. We celebrated at Lucaya harbor with Matterhorns of pina colada, live music, and even a little dancing. What mattered most, though, was just being in each other’s company. I’m still smiling.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ws6-f-rkEWs/VjJAvVQICTI/AAAAAAAAAlE/sCGIIhI1aoQ/s1600/3765HappyHenkNCruiseShip.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ws6-f-rkEWs/VjJAvVQICTI/AAAAAAAAAlE/sCGIIhI1aoQ/s320/3765HappyHenkNCruiseShip.3.jpg" /></a></div>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-60188885837862997632015-03-01T14:58:00.000-08:002015-03-01T14:58:36.951-08:00Great Barrier Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8zzu62Hd1JQ/VPOW6x8AdXI/AAAAAAAAAjE/tjlC33CoLto/s1600/1180165HenkPetrel.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8zzu62Hd1JQ/VPOW6x8AdXI/AAAAAAAAAjE/tjlC33CoLto/s320/1180165HenkPetrel.5.jpg" /></a></div>Sailboat Misty is looking a little sad in the boatyard, with the dust and rust of neglect from these many months away. Henrick shimmies up the stern and sends down the ladder. Once we’re aboard, the memories flood back. Palm paradise beaches. Deep ocean blue. The smell of baking bread to the music of the Be Good Tanyas. Where went the struggles and seasickness, the wind shifts in the night and storms at sea? The memories are all idyllic. I long for the islands again. <br />
<br />
We plan to paddle around Great Barrier Island together on this visit. The Barrier, as locals call it, protects the Hauraki Gulf from Pacific Ocean swells. Auckland is located deep within the Hauraki Gulf, along with a number of other smaller islands. <br />
<br />
Henrick sharpens a knife for our trip. Angle grinder on metal. The sound and smell of young love. Creativity, beginnings. Marina Seca boatyard in Guaymas, Mexico. <br />
<br />
We raid the diminishing larder—dehydrated egg powder and cheese, pasta, couscous, a jar of peanut butter.<br />
<br />
The next day, we catch a ride with Dave, a friend, to Auckland for the ferry. With our kayaks on the car deck, and us on board with several dozen other passengers, the Sea Link catamaran leaves the harbor. We pass the Maritime Museum where Hokulea was tied up when we arrived last week. The catamaran is the replica of a traditional sailing canoe which started the renaissance of Polynesian navigation and cultural pride, We pass giant freighters being loaded by long-necked cranes. Sky Tower stands above it all. <br />
<br />
The ferry pushes against an incoming tide out of the harbor and into the larger Hauraki Bay. We can’t see The Barrier from here. Eventually the Coromandel Peninsula comes into view. Four and a half hours later we arrive at Tryphena Harbor, GBI.<br />
<br />
After a fine dinner at Tipi and Bob’s Waterfront Lodge, we check weather websites. We measure distances, calculate times, look at tides, decipher the currents from the tidal diamonds, and decide to set out counter-clockwise.<br />
<br />
12 January<br />
The first crux move is rounding the south end including Cape Barrier. In the morning we will have some 2-3 knots against us and against a 15-18kt wind. Great for surfing, but perhaps less than ideal for our first day and a committing cliffy coastline.<br />
<br />
We set out at the stroke of 11am, which is still a little early for the current. We outsmart it by ducking into Sandy Bay, about 3 nm into our journey, and pass an hour by eating lunch and exploring of this tiny, uninhabited cove. The tide runs out and turns around to push us along nicely in much calmer waters. A fat SW swell enlivens the coastline. <br />
<br />
At 4:30pm, we carry the boats over a low-tide beach and walk them up a shallow stream to the Medlands Department of Conservation campsite. Friendly neighbors, a refreshing cold shower, and a fine dehydrated dinner make it feel like home.<br />
<br />
13 January<br />
Onward up the coastline, we pass more sea caves. mostly guarded by churning white sea. A little blue penguin swims between us with a punk “hairdo”. Surfing into a kayak-wide channel in the rocks at exactly high tide, we enter a creek and paddle the rest of the way up to Harataonga campsite. <br />
<br />
We return to the sea later to snorkel and see a tremendous variety of seaweeds (there are 66 recorded species around the island). We also spot a few fish, and a group of little hovering cuttlefish that change color with their mood. To warm up, we lie down in the shallow stream. Heat emanates from the streambed in some places. It smells slightly farty, but the warmth is welcome. There are mineral hot springs on the island, the last vestiges of a volcanic past. <br />
<br />
Henrick and I walk part of the coastal trail for a view out to Rakitu Island and a stab at cell phone reception and a forecast, which we succeed in getting. It’s perfect for the next few days. The Kaka native parrots squawk and fly into the sprawling trees above us.<br />
<br />
14 January<br />
As islands on the horizon tend to do, Rakitu calls to us. We paddle out the next morning and follow the coastline closely with our unloaded kayaks, relishing the Romany handling again. Caves, rockhops, close-up views. The southern tip of Rakitu is a breathtaking Rhyolite dome formed about 8-10 million years ago as part of volcanic activity in the area. A basalt islet nearby is the only known basalt lava on “The Barrier”. <br />
<br />
15 January<br />
Before the rest of camp is up, we glide down Harataonga stream past the Blue-Winged Teal, a New Zealand endemic locally known as Pateke. Once past the dumpy half-meter break, we cruise along the coastline, watching the wind slowly build. It’s still closer to 10kts, but with the forecast E 20kts, we decide not to land at Wairarapa to avoid having to paddle back east again. <br />
<br />
Rangiwhakaea Bay, our target, is little over an hour away, and we’re reasonably sure we can land there in the forecasted conditions. We hope so because the next stop is four hours further, around the Needles at the north end. Henrick finds the bouncy conditions challenging as we round the point towards Rangiwhakaea Bay, and I worry about tomorrow, with its long exposure and the building swell. <br />
<br />
We investigate three coves in Rangiwhakaea Bay and choose Kirikiri Beach, facing east but tucked behind its own modest point. A venerable Pohutukawa tree shelters us from the sun on a small rocky beach. The east wind flaps our laundry hanging from the Pohutukawa branches. A creek trickles through the forest to pool behind a berm of rocks and forest debris. The streambed itself has been bulldozed by some great force, leaving bare rocks, sand bars, and broken trees strewn in its widened path. We will see dramatic evidence of the June 2014 storm at almost every stream we observe, from here on around the island.<br />
<br />
16 January<br />
The swell is indeed bigger this morning. We don’t need to open our eyes to know. Besides, it’s still dark when we awake. The early start will let us launch before the tide drops too much and breaks more of the swells coming into our mini-bay. We time a quick beach-break launch off our steep beach, skirt up in the “safe zone” of deeper water a few meters off the beach while waiting for a lull between sets, then power past the point, where the waves start their outer break.<br />
<br />
Henrick launches first, and disappears in the big, disorganized sea. It’s a steep, rocky coastline, which sends the waves’ energy back at various angles to cross the incoming swell. <br />
<br />
Now THIS is the sea, I think as we paddle. So long as there is no reason to fear for our safety, I love a rambunctious sea. Henrick is concentrating, but doing well. I stick close. <br />
<br />
Another reason to leave with the dawn this morning is the current around the Needles. Deb Volturno, Paul, and Natasha circumnavigated a few weeks before and said they were surprised at the force of the current near the north end, and how quickly it changed. Yesterday I studied the tidal diamonds on our nautical chart. Of course there is no diamond right where one wants it, since nautical charts aren’t made for kayakers. Diamond “B” is several miles west and “C” is about two thirds of the way down GBI’s east coast. Off the Needles themselves, the chart indicates tidal rips of 2-3kts in either direction. Since we paddle at just over 3 knots and realize how the current can affect the sea state, we do want to pass with minimal current, and in our direction if possible. <br />
<br />
It’s not simple; the direction at “C” changes a couple hours before the direction at “B” and the directions of current spin around the compass, so it’s not “in” or “out”; it’s more complex. The best I can figure, we will paddle north up the east side with the current, round the Needles against less than half a knot (opposing a 1.5 to 2 meter swell), and paddle down the long, exposed west side with current building in our favor. We may be 4 hours at sea with no landings. Thankfully, the wind leaves us in peace.<br />
<br />
There is a gap that would cut off the Needles and Aiguilles Island, and save perhaps an hour. I check in with Henrick. Because Tom the guitar-playing fisherman at Harataonga campsite told us that it’s not a real circumnavigation without the Needles, Henrick is determined to go the whole way. We’re perfectly on schedule, the conditions are lovely, and I am not inclined to leave any rock unexplored, so we go for it. <br />
<br />
I take photos of Henrick paddling past the spires. Sometimes he’s in the photos. Occasionally a swell swallows him completely. Buller’s Shearwaters stream past us. Some wheel around for a second look. Several pop over a swell gliding low and find themselves beak to bow with our kayaks. They hang on nearly meter-wide wings, steering with the subtlest shift of weight. <br />
<br />
The moment of rounding the tip of the Needles is brief and exciting. Smooth faces of the swells stand up when they meet the current. Occasionally the top meter or so tumbles in a roar of white. They are deliciously surfable for a few waves, and then we’re past. A fishing boat bobs in the much-reduced swells on the west side. Our adrenaline slowly subsides, but the flow of shearwaters past our heads does not. <br />
<br />
Other birds mix in the flow of shearwaters. Something half the size and mostly grey. Something all dark—perhaps one of the Black Petrels that nest on Mt Hobson, The Barrier’s highest peak. Around the west side we encounter Little Shearwaters. They run along the water with outstretched wings before taking flight. We like them, though we’re not sure why. Perhaps because of their technique, or their petite size.<br />
<br />
On Aiguilles Island we spot a tiny cobble beach that occasionally has a brief window of opportunity for landing a kayak. Since we’re almost halfway through our 4-hour paddle, and have heard from several sources that there are absolutely no landings remotely possible on the upcoming segment, we decide to try to land.<br />
<br />
The swell must have been teasing us when we first saw the landing, for it gives no chance for a while after that. Powerful dumpers with cross-surges caress the beach roughly and slap against firm boulders.. Finally I see a moment, and dart in, leap out of the kayak and hold it fast as the surge recedes. Next surge, I drag it up with the water, then scoop up the stern in my arms and pivot it uphill. Henrick has zipped in as well, so I grab the bow of his boat and we stagger up the loose cobble (called shingle in NZ) under the weight of the kayak.<br />
<br />
Relief break, a couple bites of salami, and we ready ourselves for the escape. Patience eventually pays off and we’re back on the water, feeling a little like we got away with something.<br />
<br />
We wander among sea stacks. The gap that Deb and friends had passed through must have been at a higher tide, a smaller swell, or both. Today the swell wraps around the west side and meets the incoming east swell in a crashing white zipper. We are two hours before low tide at neaps.<br />
<br />
Slightly further south from the gap I spy light through a passage. An arch leads into a gap to the other side where there is a deep cove, unnamed on our topo map. We’ve been told this is a reasonable landing and from which one can climb a hill for VHF reception and a forecast. We passed it by because of the swell direction and size, the interest of time, and because we felt reasonably confident in our good forecast and the steady conditions we had. In calmer conditions and with higher tide, this slot looks like it could be a great sneak. <br />
<br />
Today, I watch as the other side of the slot explodes with every wave. A surge finds me in the slot—it was just a matter of time. I backsurf my way out up to my elbows in white foam, making the necessary zigzag turns between rocky walls, and feeling sheepish, like I’d just gotten away with something else. Henrick was just around the corner, so he only saw my exit. I’m really not a daredevil in remote places like this, and I don’t want him to worry.<br />
<br />
“Cliffs of Doom” is how someone described the 4-mile stretch between the Needles and Miners Cove. Here a 250- to 300-meter high ridge follows the coastline, almost completely unbroken by streams. The cliffs are made of ancient sedimentary rock deposited some 150 million years ago. The formation underlays the island and predates the volcanic activity that created most of the rest of The Barrier about 18 million years ago.<br />
<br />
Miners Cove, our destination, is a disappointment. It’s wide, protected, and shadeless. Somehow I just don’t like the vibe here. Was it the mining history that left scars in the spirit of the place? Was it the treeless valley? Was it just my mood being influenced by the good bang I took on my shin before leaving the beach this morning that makes it painful to walk or sit on the beach? We eat lunch and agree to explore further. <br />
<br />
On our way out, we stop by a motor yacht for an updated forecast. “Take a Break” was doing just that before heading up to the Needles to fish. They offer us water as well, but we carry plenty.<br />
<br />
We paddle through Ahuriri point. The Barrier and its associated islands have great arches that make shortcuts through points. This one is a little shallow on the exit, which makes it fun riding the surge through. A pretty beach meets us on the other side. In the center of it a tall grey stone stands over the waving grass. A marker for something. Something Maori perhaps. Beside it is a green DOC sign declaring the place as Ahuriri Beach. No fires, dogs, or camping. <br />
<br />
The next beach is a winner. No signs at all. A fresh water lagoon has formed behind the beach. Piles of torn up trees and fresh berms of gravel and dirt with young plants tell stories of dynamic changes in the 2014 storm. Nine hundred centimeters of rain in a day, is the statistic I recall someone telling us. Nature is impressive.<br />
<br />
The lagoon is deep enough that we can’t stand. We portage our kayaks to it, paddle across, and set up home on the far side. Up the hillside we get fresh water. At every campsite we’ve drunk from stream after purifying. The water is always a little cloudy, probably because the sediment is still sorting itself out after the storm exposed raw earth.<br />
<br />
Henrick walks the low tide rocks along the shoreline in the evening. My shin still throbs so I’m completely content to relax and watch the world from here.<br />
<br />
17 January<br />
I could stay here another day. That’s the beauty of having too much time to do a trip! We spend the morning under the pohutukawa trees on the hillside, reading and listening to unfamiliar birdsong.<br />
<br />
We eventually decide to paddle away. The luxury of choice. Around noon we set out. After the next major point, we see no beaches good for camping until almost Whangaparapara. Thankfully, DOC has an official campsite near Port Fitzroy. <br />
<br />
Fitzroy is supply central for a healthy boating population which enjoys the inlets and islands nearby. We stop in the port, pick up a few more supplies at the store and enjoy a couple of burgers at the burger shack on the waterfront. Kids jump from the tops of pilings along the wharf. Tourists sunbathe on a dock in the bay. Tied between the dock and shore is a big log. Kids take turns logrolling, solo, or in groups, splashing into the sun-gilded water as we eat our early dinner.<br />
<br />
Akapoua campsite is best accessed at mid to high tide since the storm washed rubble and trees out of a nearby stream. We and the camp host have the place to ourselves on his last night of being on duty. We also share the site with a half dozen Pateke. It’s hard to imagine they are rare. Here, they are not shy, and they are not nice to each other, with one going as far as to grab another’s tail. They patrol around our kayaks, hopping on the deck, peeking in hatches. The sand flies are not shy either. Banded Rail, another rare bird, runs around the campsite. This is the best campsite for birding. Tui and raucous Kaka wake us in the morning.<br />
<br />
18 January<br />
It’s just a couple miles to Smokehouse Cove, a haven for cruisers that we’ve been told repeatedly about. We manage to make it into a journey of 10nm by circumnavigating Kaikoura Island and its neighbors including Wellington Point, the westernmost part of The Barrier.<br />
<br />
Facilities at Smokehouse Bay include deep tubs for hand-washing laundry complete with old-fashioned ringers for squeezing water out of clothes. Fishermen may smoke their catch in a large smokehouse. A woodstove can also heat water for a bath of shower. A girl is swinging from a rope tied to a grandfatherly Pohutakawa tree when we arrive. Her mother studies for her radio license in the shade at a picnic table below. They’re Swiss and traveling with the rest of their family on a catamaran anchored among the dozen other boats in the bay. <br />
<br />
We eat lunch. I walk up a trail to get cell reception for an updated forecast. Henrick is chatting with some other cruisers when I return with news of more good weather for a few days. The cruisers say that Emmy of Great Barrier Marine Radio asked about us that morning during the 7:45 weather on channel 1 . “Take a Break” reported we were alive & well, last seen in Miner’s Cove. It’s good to know folks are looking out! We’ve been unable to get Emmy’s broadcasts on our hand-held radio, so the cell phone has actually been a better source for forecasts. Sometimes it takes hiking up a hill, but we’ve had sufficient reception everywhere except in Rangiwhakaea Bay on the NE side and Miners Cove on the NW.<br />
<br />
At 3pm we leave to scour the coastline for a campsite. Wanting an early start through the Broken Islands, we’re reluctant to go back to Akapoua campsite. For 6nm we poke into every inlet and mangrove swamp. In many places along the coast, but especially in these coves, we notice slips where the storm rain loosened hillsides and they slid down into the water. In some cases communities of trees remain somewhat intact, just a little crooked and at a little lower elevation.<br />
<br />
Tide is rising. Many places look good, but won’t in 2 hours. Finally we settle in against the crumbly cliffs of Red Cliff. A log makes a seat, and Henrick’s kayak makes a fine dinner table. <br />
<br />
We set the tent up against the cliff and wake to another high tide in the morning just a foot away from our nylon front door. Thankfully mussel farms in the long inlet protect us from the wakes of passing boats.<br />
<br />
19 January<br />
The Broken Islands offer too many options! They express the island’s volcanic past, with rubbly breccias, lava flows, and layers of ash. Since the period of the ice ages, about 2 million years ago, river-carved valleys were flooded by a rising sea, creating these islands out of former hilltops. We weave our way randomly through their many gaps.<br />
<br />
On remote Mahuki Island we duck into an inlet for a snack break and discover a house and little dinghy tied up. We don’t stay long and don’t see anyone. The rest of the island has gannet colonies above the cliffs.<br />
<br />
Bowling Alley Bay has been recommended to us for camping, but we want to make it to Whangaparapara today. Good thing, too. Bowling Alley Bay beaches have bowling-ball size cobbles. Or almost that big. There is sand offshore; perhaps it washed out in the storm. We lunch on one cove and actually manage to doze off afterwards draped over those cobbles. Beautiful anchorage, though. A few dolphins exit the cove as we enter. <br />
<br />
We coast another 6nm to Mangati Bay where there appears to be a nice beach. We didn’t land, as we’re too distracted by the Bottlenose Dolphins playing and leaping. From scarred old veterans to little babies, they swim around as we float. They like to leap out and back flop, exposing white bellies. I put on my mask, wondering how they might respond if I took a peek within their element. It only takes one dip, sculling with my paddle, and three dolphins come by to have a close look. I hear their squeaks. <br />
<br />
At the end of a 16nm day, we land at The Green DOC campsite, deep inside Whangaparapara. A small grassy campsite is all ours for the night. A magnificent horizontal pohutukawa tree lines the waterfront, grounded by at least 4 trunks. These trees put out aerial branches that become new trunks if they reach the ground. <br />
<br />
“I hate these trees,” declares Henrick as we move the picnic table out from under it. Pohutukawas drop their red flowers on everything. But they are beautiful in their exuberant flowering and shady sprawl. <br />
<br />
I’ve thought that if I were a tree I’d like to be a pohutukawa. Their structure creates the opportunity for a whole community of plants and animals. Epiphytes cling, birds roost, vines twine. Kayakers sit below. Almost every lunch we’ve eaten on this trip has been in the shade of a pohutukawa tree. If I were a pohutukawa, though, I’d be sure not to drop my flowers in Henrick’s dinner.<br />
<br />
20 January<br />
A relaxing day of reading and a walk to Whangaparapara peak. We keep a good sweaty pace and beat the estimated time posted on the sign (1hr 10mins) by an incredible 40 minutes. Still, I think we’ll skip the 22km round trip hike to Mount Hobson. <br />
<br />
Upon our return we find we have neighbors; two groups of hikers. This campsite is walk-in or boat-in only, which reduces the traffic. This site has more mosquitoes at night than any other site we stayed at. So long as we stay in the tent we’re protected and can listen to the droning whine of their hoards with detachment. <br />
<br />
21 January<br />
I have found a way to make 2-year oatmeal appetizing: have as the only alternative 2-year old egg powder and “dog food” (flavored soy protein). We’re making ourselves eat through the food stores that remained on the sailboat after our Mexico to New Zealand crossing in 2012. We do reward ourselves at night with a delicious dinner at Tipi & Bob’s. Tom the fishing guitar player with the radio show who we’d met at Harataonga campsite recommended the Reef & Beef, so I have to try it. <br />
<br />
Our waitress at Tipi & Bob’s also has a show on the local radio station and knows Tom. Actually Tipi & Bob’s underwrites Tom’s show. The waitress tells us of a tavern owner up the hill who records open mike sessions at his tavern and sometimes plays the authentic local music on his radio show. That’s as genuine “Barrier” as it gets!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zzd3l6I_pAA/VPOYJBsADEI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/hZodeecIEQw/s1600/1170761BetweenBoats.4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zzd3l6I_pAA/VPOYJBsADEI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/hZodeecIEQw/s320/1170761BetweenBoats.4.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5BvVS0h9kF8/VPOYKH6vmyI/AAAAAAAAAjc/Q_5Cezb9vjM/s1600/1170852Rakitu.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5BvVS0h9kF8/VPOYKH6vmyI/AAAAAAAAAjc/Q_5Cezb9vjM/s320/1170852Rakitu.5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2SzXtcRWprM/VPOYJXv4mDI/AAAAAAAAAjU/HoxHeGqPNP8/s1600/1170922foam.6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2SzXtcRWprM/VPOYJXv4mDI/AAAAAAAAAjU/HoxHeGqPNP8/s320/1170922foam.6.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-id0eRPAdVUg/VPOYMYnPQ5I/AAAAAAAAAjo/DBhUYCu9CZI/s1600/1170941CliffsHenkReflectin.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-id0eRPAdVUg/VPOYMYnPQ5I/AAAAAAAAAjo/DBhUYCu9CZI/s320/1170941CliffsHenkReflectin.5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wISEj10yZAQ/VPOYNQ_kxdI/AAAAAAAAAjw/6ce9AgEvH6s/s1600/1170975UsOnGrass.7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wISEj10yZAQ/VPOYNQ_kxdI/AAAAAAAAAjw/6ce9AgEvH6s/s320/1170975UsOnGrass.7.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qoaF4XcdZck/VPOYPiCxxiI/AAAAAAAAAj4/pie_8XWsXvE/s1600/1170993LookingOut.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qoaF4XcdZck/VPOYPiCxxiI/AAAAAAAAAj4/pie_8XWsXvE/s320/1170993LookingOut.5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JYyp_UC-U_k/VPOYRWJrgRI/AAAAAAAAAkA/4Bs6ZuaTkHQ/s1600/1180089Kirikiri1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JYyp_UC-U_k/VPOYRWJrgRI/AAAAAAAAAkA/4Bs6ZuaTkHQ/s320/1180089Kirikiri1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Resources: <br />
• Emmy Pratt Great Barrier Marine Radio channel 1 7:45am 6:45pm? Phone 09 4290 281<br />
• Margery (manager) Tipi & Bob’s Waterfront Lodge in Tryphena Harbor. Water access with steep concrete ramp, picnic tables, restaurant. Margery@waterfrontlodge.co.nz 09 4290 550.<br />
• Sea Link Ferry<br />
<br />
Campsites we stayed at (there are more):<br />
• Medlands DOC campsite (Carry into shallow stream or long carry direct to campsite at low tide)<br />
• Harataonga DOC campsite (may be able to paddle all the way in at high tide, or may require some carry to get into stream; stream paddle-able)<br />
• Freedom camping Rangiwhakaea Bay; Kirikiri Beach <br />
• Miner’s Cove (big, flat, tree-less)<br />
• Freedom camping just around Ahuriri Point<br />
• Akapoua DOC campsite (best access within 3 hours of high tide)<br />
• The Green DOC campsite (at least 1 meter of tide recommended)<br />
• (Bowling Alley Bay very rocky—may have changed in 2014 storm. Would not recommend camping. Mangati Bay may be another option, close to Whangaparapara)<br />
• DOC sites $10 person. First site will charge an extra $5 person for not having reserved ahead, or if you change your dates. Thereafter, there are no extra fees. These are to encourage pre-booking, which they also understand may be difficult when kayaking around. There was plenty of space in mid-January.<br />
<br />
Crux moves:<br />
South end. (We went counter-clockwise) Tidal diamonds on nautical charts extremely valuable info for planning this. SE-facing Rosalie Bay was not a desirable landing in 1-meter SE swell, but a tiny NE-facing cove between Haupapa & Shakespeare Point offered a pit-stop in lower tide. No camping here. Sandy Cove offered good shelter for a last break before committing to the paddle.<br />
<br />
North End. Tidal diamonds B & C invaluable for extrapolating currents and inferring conditions around the Needles. We rounded (counter-clockwise) 5-6 hours after Auckland high tide, on neaps. May be able to land in a NE-facing cove on east side of point and climb hill for forecast if the swell isn’t big NE. At lower tides and swells of over 1 meter, the gap shortcut may be inaccessible.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-9276022774371667822014-12-27T14:20:00.000-08:002014-12-27T14:20:40.311-08:00Not in Prison<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eY9M_OqKoyI/VJ8vGwQ6fNI/AAAAAAAAAik/-pbPqVuPTL8/s1600/170369DZmorning.8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-eY9M_OqKoyI/VJ8vGwQ6fNI/AAAAAAAAAik/-pbPqVuPTL8/s320/170369DZmorning.8.jpg" /></a></div>La Ventana, Danzante Island, 11:20pm<br />
<br />
Exactly one hour after launching from Ligui beach, I am sitting on my sleeping bag at La Ventana beach on Danzante Island. Clouds hide the stars, but the gibbous moon shines through. Jupiter flirts with the sea, now reflecting brilliant, now shy.<br />
<br />
I’m alone, except for Moose. Left Mom & Dad in cell block 2, cell number 2517a. They’re comfy in their luxury. I choose a pebble beach, the sleepy sound of waves on the shore, and the open sky. This is my luxury. This is where my heart lives.<br />
<br />
I wake to watch the sunrise. Last night’s show at the “prison” was a rendition of Cats with people crawling around on stage in black tights with tails and ears. It was probably good exercise for them, and a way for the guests to pass the time while eating dinner. However, this morning is my kind of show. <br />
<br />
Sunrise lights wispy clouds on fire over Monserrate and Santa Catalina Islands. I watch from my sleeping bag on the pebbles of Danzante. Add drama with some falling rocks tinkling down the cliffs behind. Syncopated music of the waves. I’ll join in on the flute when I’m done writing.<br />
<br />
The changes are subtle but constant. The game is awareness. My pleasure this morning is to not be distracted from the game by making breakfast. Just being present with the sunrise. This is the sound of my cup filling.<br />
<br />
This is the sound of flute music resonating off the canyon walls. <br />
<br />
Does rock have a memory? Can their crystals reorganize like those in water based on the vibrations around them? Harmony or disharmony. This mini-amphitheater of rock and water and sharp desert plants has watched moments of drama and comedy of my life play out over the years. The stage hands know all. It has watched the pelican show. Again this morning: six, then nine, the one more, then dwindling again. Dive. Float. Flap flap, fold, and dive heavy again. Back and forth across the beach as a pack.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AW6uAiqSNn0/VJ8vKxoWv-I/AAAAAAAAAiw/UR0Cfw5GI8A/s1600/170351pelican%2Bsun.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AW6uAiqSNn0/VJ8vKxoWv-I/AAAAAAAAAiw/UR0Cfw5GI8A/s320/170351pelican%2Bsun.5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The wind line moves in, back out, then in again. A sailboat cruises by under a downwind genoa. Santa Catalina disappears into moisture and dust in the atmosphere, Monserrate almost goes too. Whitecaps peak up. <br />
<br />
I lie here content after an exploration up the south canyon, up to the scree and the dike at the top, capped by a layer of loose cobbles. Cormorants glide by, beaks in the air. I should return to the prison and visit with my folks. I want to see them, just don’t want to leave. It’s been 2 and a half action-packed months of guiding back to back trips, and this is my first morning to lie here in the sunrise. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A71zjcvRkms/VJ8vOQYA4eI/AAAAAAAAAi4/-IA5dsvMHKk/s1600/170408Pegapega.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A71zjcvRkms/VJ8vOQYA4eI/AAAAAAAAAi4/-IA5dsvMHKk/s200/170408Pegapega.5.jpg" /></a></div>Just a few more breaths and I’ll load up the boat. <br />
<br />
Just a few more <br />
<br />
deep <br />
<br />
breaths.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-51187011025798452972014-11-09T08:35:00.000-08:002014-11-09T08:35:33.259-08:00After the HurricaneThe desert after a rain, it's cliche. But here are some Baja plants and animals that don't mind! <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gWzQSGSvz7U/VF-VLvMovRI/AAAAAAAAAiM/sNMa7gfEFi0/s1600/160570GreenSpider.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gWzQSGSvz7U/VF-VLvMovRI/AAAAAAAAAiM/sNMa7gfEFi0/s400/160570GreenSpider.3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PQi0_FrOtn4/VF-VNIFNcAI/AAAAAAAAAiY/SrH2YMg8i08/s1600/160591SpiderBee.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PQi0_FrOtn4/VF-VNIFNcAI/AAAAAAAAAiY/SrH2YMg8i08/s400/160591SpiderBee.3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cvk-od8MH1g/VF-VMsl2OqI/AAAAAAAAAiU/_p0fO7Co3Do/s1600/160584MalvaRosa.4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cvk-od8MH1g/VF-VMsl2OqI/AAAAAAAAAiU/_p0fO7Co3Do/s400/160584MalvaRosa.4.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6K2STlB8r_k/VF-VH8iWLnI/AAAAAAAAAhs/P4Yn-lRo6IM/s1600/160416NewCholla.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6K2STlB8r_k/VF-VH8iWLnI/AAAAAAAAAhs/P4Yn-lRo6IM/s400/160416NewCholla.3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4J5mb1qxn74/VF-VIA-09zI/AAAAAAAAAhw/zucMqxDbqis/s1600/160462UnadeGato.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4J5mb1qxn74/VF-VIA-09zI/AAAAAAAAAhw/zucMqxDbqis/s400/160462UnadeGato.3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AYyoN77N3Ec/VF-VFG397eI/AAAAAAAAAhY/VxEkW-s9ULM/s1600/160394FatPricklyPear.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AYyoN77N3Ec/VF-VFG397eI/AAAAAAAAAhY/VxEkW-s9ULM/s400/160394FatPricklyPear.5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pijAI2huQXA/VF-VKsCYpiI/AAAAAAAAAiA/aeKwZ9JTbU0/s1600/160568InsideButterfly.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pijAI2huQXA/VF-VKsCYpiI/AAAAAAAAAiA/aeKwZ9JTbU0/s400/160568InsideButterfly.3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lzzokBfuntI/VF-VEKcYCsI/AAAAAAAAAhI/MKwFR1oL-bQ/s1600/160380SwtPitayaha.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lzzokBfuntI/VF-VEKcYCsI/AAAAAAAAAhI/MKwFR1oL-bQ/s400/160380SwtPitayaha.5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9uCfZYgvPq0/VF-VE09mzuI/AAAAAAAAAhU/la_ZkIC1e80/s1600/160359AgaveOpening.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9uCfZYgvPq0/VF-VE09mzuI/AAAAAAAAAhU/la_ZkIC1e80/s400/160359AgaveOpening.5.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zQfa5Yv9NNI/VF-VB0nJpuI/AAAAAAAAAhA/nNC-UGZf9UM/s1600/160290FishhookRocks.3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zQfa5Yv9NNI/VF-VB0nJpuI/AAAAAAAAAhA/nNC-UGZf9UM/s400/160290FishhookRocks.3.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_yEM2SXZ5mg/VF-VHHvS2-I/AAAAAAAAAho/YCic34wBgNY/s1600/160407Mesquitegull.4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_yEM2SXZ5mg/VF-VHHvS2-I/AAAAAAAAAho/YCic34wBgNY/s400/160407Mesquitegull.4.jpg" /></a></div>Trips have been keeping me busy this season. For Baja trip stories and photos please see the <a href="http://seakayakbajamexico.blogspot.co.nz/">Sea Kayak Baja Mexico blog.</a>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-47490763750901559892014-01-21T22:35:00.000-08:002014-01-21T22:35:28.315-08:00The Making of a Kayak Nerd<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wg8Njsyg8fE/Ut9jXWCZz5I/AAAAAAAAAfM/R1Dlo6LkU8E/s1600/80789kayak+nerd.6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wg8Njsyg8fE/Ut9jXWCZz5I/AAAAAAAAAfM/R1Dlo6LkU8E/s320/80789kayak+nerd.6.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Early in our relationship I asked Henrick if he was into kayaking. <br />
<br />
He replied, “I’m not a kayak nerd.” <br />
<br />
<i>Enthusiast</i> was how I translated that.<br />
<br />
But he did get a Romany so we could explore island coastlines together on our sailing journey across the Pacific. On the rare occasion that he asked a kayak-related question, I had a 1-sentence opportunity to answer. But if I kept my mouth shut I could sometimes look over to see a perfect imitation of the bow rudder I’d just been using to play around the rocks, and I was content.<br />
<br />
Paddling together in Patterson Inlet of Stewart Island, the southern bit of New Zealand, my favorite Swedish kayak un-nerd said something that about knocked me over.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3bzKSf0UpEI/Ut9jh3XcmfI/AAAAAAAAAfU/NPlYrntyFO8/s1600/80722after+pic.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3bzKSf0UpEI/Ut9jh3XcmfI/AAAAAAAAAfU/NPlYrntyFO8/s320/80722after+pic.5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
“I should get a kayak to have in Sweden.”<br />
<br />
I enjoyed the sound of that for a moment before teasing him. “Be careful—you’re starting to sound a little nerdlike.”<br />
<br />
Reviewing photos of our NZ trip, I can see the subtle beginnings of kayak nerd-dom. The headgear is the first sign. After a properly windy day, he switched from a baseball cap to something with a homemade strap. Then the cold, and he bought a snug cap with earflaps. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y125pLJFfTA/Ut9mbTiuDfI/AAAAAAAAAfo/Xc6ms8Kgx0c/s1600/80420navigators.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Y125pLJFfTA/Ut9mbTiuDfI/AAAAAAAAAfo/Xc6ms8Kgx0c/s320/80420navigators.5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
There’s the wearing of kayaking gear in public places. He’s been photographed wandering around small, uninhabited islands in kayaking gear. That’s the first step down a slippery slope.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--RgGa02aRBI/Ut9jtXeZo2I/AAAAAAAAAfc/EQGQfCTivvM/s1600/80462Native+Poser.8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--RgGa02aRBI/Ut9jtXeZo2I/AAAAAAAAAfc/EQGQfCTivvM/s320/80462Native+Poser.8.jpg" /></a></div>As the un-coach of my favorite kayak un-nerd, I’m impressed at the skills he’s acquiring and the conditions he’s willing to tackle with me. Pelting rain and katabatic winds down off the mountains in Milford Sound. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ltYiuUIOwHo/Ut9h4FUOjxI/AAAAAAAAAek/kJtLOoxx-DQ/s1600/80102Milford+Henke.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ltYiuUIOwHo/Ut9h4FUOjxI/AAAAAAAAAek/kJtLOoxx-DQ/s320/80102Milford+Henke.5.jpg" /></a></div>Motoring onward into 20knot winds on Stewart Island. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GHTBHREpyeo/Ut9h31graII/AAAAAAAAAeg/X1UMKO5XNsU/s1600/80539upwind.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GHTBHREpyeo/Ut9h31graII/AAAAAAAAAeg/X1UMKO5XNsU/s320/80539upwind.5.jpg" /></a></div>Shooting through tunnels on a swell. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oR9I2qqh61s/Ut9iFTuvoVI/AAAAAAAAAew/_nJMcU1JWdA/s1600/90206wave+cave.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oR9I2qqh61s/Ut9iFTuvoVI/AAAAAAAAAew/_nJMcU1JWdA/s320/90206wave+cave.5.jpg" /></a></div>Playing in a little tide race in Marlborough Sound.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y50ckLGQYGk/Ut9iFhXrUQI/AAAAAAAAAe0/JdoUoh8ketE/s1600/90253tide+race.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-y50ckLGQYGk/Ut9iFhXrUQI/AAAAAAAAAe0/JdoUoh8ketE/s320/90253tide+race.5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
He even displays enthusiasm for heading out on the water. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1K_920igEAg/Ut9hmM64yMI/AAAAAAAAAeY/Hn8ett5ltBw/s1600/90277Lookout.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1K_920igEAg/Ut9hmM64yMI/AAAAAAAAAeY/Hn8ett5ltBw/s320/90277Lookout.5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
But the clincher was washing dishes at 12-Mile Delta outside Queenstown. We camped one site away from the spigot, but he carried the dishes the other direction to the lake to wash them. Like a good kayak nerd.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wtez6y4vPuI/Ut9jIR6S9nI/AAAAAAAAAfE/6_vl-zbucq4/s1600/80568dishes.9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wtez6y4vPuI/Ut9jIR6S9nI/AAAAAAAAAfE/6_vl-zbucq4/s320/80568dishes.9.jpg" /></a></div>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-17023809953181167422014-01-03T02:04:00.001-08:002014-01-03T02:04:39.921-08:00Milford Sound and a Little Wind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oAIayn7FJKM/UsaKo0BStiI/AAAAAAAAAeI/5YzHx22IwDI/s1600/80218Milford+Henke.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oAIayn7FJKM/UsaKo0BStiI/AAAAAAAAAeI/5YzHx22IwDI/s320/80218Milford+Henke.5.jpg" /></a></div>On the evening of the first day of 2014, Henrick and I shared a 495-piece puzzle of boats in a harbor with a pair of cousins from Nelson and Belgium. We finished just minutes before Gunns Camp shut the generator down and we all left the common hall for our respective dorms to sleep to the music of rain on the roof.<br />
<br />
In the morning Henrick drove “Scooby Doo” the Subaru to Milford Sound and I shot photos out the rain-spotted windows. Over the pass, through the long, dark tunnel. Spectacular waterfalls tumbled down the sides of mountains. Snowfields played hide-and-seek with the clouds above us. <br />
<br />
The Milford Sound Lodge was full for the coming night, but they did have the forecast: Severe gale warning with NW wind by late morning, and drenching rain. Following 2 days: NW gales and more rain.<br />
<br />
At 11am the rain was still unmolested by the forecasted wind, so we launched our kayaks down a cobble bank by the car park and paddled past the cruise boat harbor. Bowen Falls blasted wind and billowed spray across our path. To Henrick I said, “I’ll try crossing it. You can learn from what happens to me and decide.” I edged into the blast and scooted across, eyes squinted tight against the pelting drops.<br />
<br />
Mitre Peak, 1683 meters above the sea level of the Sound, was Henrick’s inspiration for wanting to come to Milford Sound. The shy mountain only disclosed its kneecaps this day, as swirling grey skirts and white petticoats veiled the rest. Cruise boats were still dwarfed by the mountain’s kneecaps. <br />
<br />
We paddled along the north shore, some 40 meters out, along the flank of Cascade Peak (1209m), Water poured over grey rocks, through tenacious tufts of flax and ferns, between clumps of forest. Watching the vertical creeks tumbling down I thought it best not to paddle too close, lest the water loosen some rocks. I hadn’t yet verbalized the thought when we heard a shot and a crash. A big splash bloomed up in front of us against the shore. We didn’t have to discuss whether to stay offshore.<br />
<br />
A peak rose triangular and steep between the main channel of the sound and Harrison Cove. “The Lion” shook greytone clouds about its head like a mane. Wind began to texture the Sound. Forty-five minutes into our paddle, we rafted up to share beef jerky and a sip of water. A German paddler in a red plastic sea kayak passed us on his way to the underwater observatory. I was sorely tempted to go there too. Or to get a closer look at the roaring waterfall at the end of Harrison Cove. Or to paddle 20km to the sea.<br />
<br />
But there was the forecast. There was our simple preparation for just a short paddle. There was Henrick getting cold in wet gear when he wasn’t paddling to keep warm. Our margin for error was thin. Sometimes the wisest decision is the hardest. We turned back. Our first goal was already accomplished: paddle on Milford Sound. Only the second goal remained: return safely. We weren’t likely to see much different scenery if we went further. Just more vertical mountainsides tasseled with white cascades, as if they were draining the clouds directly into the Sound. More twisted trees, proud in their creative postures against the rain. More raindrops cratering the water. More wild clouds cavorting about the peaks. The mind can only take in so much drama and beauty at one time! <br />
<br />
Ancient, craggy trees overhung grey rock along the water’s edge as we rejoined Milford Sound’s main channel. Wind-swell picked up, followed shortly by the wind itself. Tailwind with surfable ½ meter waves. Heavy rain dropped miniature cannon-balls into the metallic surface of the water, kicking up rings of splash and giving distant waves a white outline. I fell behind taking photos, then surfed a series of waves to catch up.<br />
<br />
Less than half a mile from the car park, the wind saw us escaping and picked up for real. It plummeted straight off Cascade Peak to pick up whitecaps right at the shore and blow them across the Sound, trying to carry us away too. We angled into it, edged into it, and paddled with focus. Gusts lifted fat drops right off the surface of the water, somewhere around 25kts. It rained down, up, and sideways. <br />
<br />
A bend in the shoreline gave us a momentary respite before crossing Bowen Falls’ blast zone again. We paddled into it together, Henrick on my left hip. I was too busy clinging to a wild bronco of a paddle to get a photo of Henrick emerging from the spray on the other side, but he looked dramatic. We admitted that we were not only wise to have turned back when we did, but a little lucky as well to have accomplished our second goal.<br />
<br />
Off the water, we headed straight for the Milford Sound Lodge for a warm shower, hot drinks, and some food. A posted notice warned of the pending road closure due to hazardous weather: 100km gusts and more heavy rain expected. In the lodge parking lot a guy’s hat blew off and flew into the forest like a frightened bird. The forest danced, flinging colored leaves about like confetti. Camper van doors slammed open or shut of their own volition. Pedestrians walked hunched into the wind with hoods drawn tight as rain streaked sideways. People in the lounge sank into comfy couches, ordered hot coffee, and watched Mother Nature’s show.<br />
<br />
We hit the road and blew all the way back to Invercargill a day early, but happy to rest and dry out.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-3313541842120080862013-12-08T20:59:00.000-08:002013-12-08T20:59:15.888-08:00A Journey of Curiosity<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wY3RH9GRVzs/UqVKDUKnI2I/AAAAAAAAAc8/fIWUPQaxCFs/s1600/70088SSanti+stern+rudder1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wY3RH9GRVzs/UqVKDUKnI2I/AAAAAAAAAc8/fIWUPQaxCFs/s320/70088SSanti+stern+rudder1.jpg" /></a></div>The bow of a kayak leaves a crease in the gravel as it pushes back from the beach. Nine others slide seaward as paddlers tuck in legs, stretch spray skirts over cockpit coamings, and check moving parts. The paddlers glide along a coastal cliff, passing between rocks in a graceful slalom.<br />
<br />
A small white gull paddles with folding feet to hide behind a miniature rock island. A white kayak sneaks up and pauses for a closer look.<br />
<br />
“It has a dark dot behind its eye.” <br />
“Bonaparte’s Gull?”<br />
“Don’t see them much around here.”<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
The kayaks glide on. Wild fig trees cling to rock walls with long pale toes. Cacti dig their roots into creases. Cliffs rise sheer. High above, the frigates lounge on crooked wings and watch as little darts of color stitch the rocky shoreline into a memory.<br />
<br />
Rocks structure our world. They cradle our beds, define our landings, funnel the wind, hem the sea. Plants and animals, too, have relationships with geology. Shelter. Support. Mineral sustenance.<br />
<br />
I am paddling the coast from Loreto to La Paz, along the Sierra la Giganta mountains, for 10 days with 9 other people including Anna, who has been so moved by the expressive geology that she’s on a mission to make a guide for paddlers. She has inspired me with her enthusiasm. We’re not specialists in anything except curiosity, but onward we go, asking questions, taking photos.<br />
<br />
Along the edge of the sea, rocks expose themselves. In their breaking, eroding, dissolving, re-sorting, they show their weaknesses and demonstrate their strength. The sea opens to a page, and we try to read the stories of the rock—the crooked, massive, tiny, colorful stories. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-To3GtciQFrY/UqVKbDjM-QI/AAAAAAAAAdE/KKWZjRgfnqI/s1600/60406Aguillio+rocks1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-To3GtciQFrY/UqVKbDjM-QI/AAAAAAAAAdE/KKWZjRgfnqI/s320/60406Aguillio+rocks1.jpg" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fazkqXYymHA/UqVKreh_n9I/AAAAAAAAAdM/EmYgBY6X0Mo/s1600/60589rockpillow1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fazkqXYymHA/UqVKreh_n9I/AAAAAAAAAdM/EmYgBY6X0Mo/s320/60589rockpillow1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VTDKKEXujI/UqVL12QGLmI/AAAAAAAAAdg/prfjmC0-rhk/s1600/60918Ramon+cliffs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2VTDKKEXujI/UqVL12QGLmI/AAAAAAAAAdg/prfjmC0-rhk/s320/60918Ramon+cliffs1.jpg" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJ6UhgFFszA/UqVKspw9WzI/AAAAAAAAAdU/Igyo58TTxfE/s1600/60680colorful+cliffs1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TJ6UhgFFszA/UqVKspw9WzI/AAAAAAAAAdU/Igyo58TTxfE/s320/60680colorful+cliffs1.jpg" /></a></div>Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-15223896068531382992013-11-21T09:01:00.000-08:002013-12-08T20:59:59.961-08:00Driving by Emotion on a Rational Grid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pium673O_Vw/Uo47824DGrI/AAAAAAAAAZY/JmFKWBmzkrs/s1600/60038rock+balance.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Pium673O_Vw/Uo47824DGrI/AAAAAAAAAZY/JmFKWBmzkrs/s320/60038rock+balance.5.jpg" /></a></div>“We’re not going into business with you because we won’t make any money,” a wise and slightly greedy business person once said to me. <br />
<br />
Business should be planned, structured. Numbers crunched into place. But I do what I do for a living because I love it. <br />
<br />
Is this an infraction? I’ve been driving by emotion on a logical grid. I’ve never completed any market research or followed a 5-year plan. There are so many variables that I don’t really know how, and things keep changing about 1.5 years into the Plan.<br />
<br />
But I do know that if somebody comes along who is passionate about an idea complimentary to what I’m passionate about, it can go a long way and be an enjoyable ride. Somehow, I’m still eating. Still camping out under the stars. Still playing on the sea. Still traveling, even too much sometimes. Still working with amazing people. Still finding myself completely blown away at where this circuitous route has led. Awash in thankfulness at the peaceful end of another day.<br />
<br />
A waxing moon just past half-full centers itself between canyon walls. Lightening blinks on the eastern horizon. Waves pound and grind beach pebbles into sand. <br />
Jim plays the harmonica. Santi accompanies on well-tuned kayak bungees and some kitchen equipment.<br />
<br />
We celebrate Sarah’s birthday with chocolate brownies from the Dutch oven, and start a game of stacking rocks. Balancing a tower. Building bridges. Constructing castles. Two leftover birthday candles grace the turrets, but blow out in the breeze, their horizontal flames flickering for a moment like flags.<br />
<br />
People drift away. I walk down a row of kayaks, colorful in the moonlight, checking that everything is secure. Cocoons glow down the beach, campers bedding down. Near the kitchen, the guides and I make our nests. After 9 years, Marcos’ Big Agnes pad has finally outlived the repairable stage. “Marcos, why does your tarp have a valve?” asks Santi. And we all giggle for a bit.<br />
<br />
Loreto to La Paz. My first trip of the season. Marcos’ first trip with Sea Kayak Baja Mexico. The adventures don’t end when we get off the water.<br />
<br />
Ten days of kayaking south. Five hours driving back. Fifteen minutes from the house, the clutch breaks. Marcos inserts a socket in place of the broken plastic, and limps it home. The next day, the mechanic across the street modifies a part he finds in town, replaces the broken one for about $25, and we’re shifting again. There are just some things that flow in Mexico. Living by heart, creativity, and hard work is one.<br />
<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-40987147523468961452013-09-19T13:40:00.000-07:002013-09-19T13:40:40.129-07:00RecalculatingEugene, OR<br />
(music) “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot…” was playing from the Ford dealership loudspeaker as I walked across their expansive blacktop towards the service department and my truck. I laughed out loud. The morning had started with a visit from AAA to jump-start the battery and tell me that the alternator was shot and that I should get straight to a service station before my battery charge ran out. They wouldn’t tow my truck with kayaks on top. <br />
<br />
I left the truck idling on a slight slope when I returned the Motel 6 key and returned to see fluid pouring out of the back end. Gasoline. I raced through early morning Eugene traffic to the Ford dealership watching the battery charge level wane and the gas gauge drop as I left a trail of damp highway in my wake.<br />
<br />
It turns out the battery and the alternator were both worthy of replacement, and somebody had cut the filling hose to my gas tank in an attempt to siphon fuel during the night. The fuel hose cost over $300 and needed to be overnighted from Sacramento, another $50, and another night in Eugene. Total repair bill over $1000.<br />
<br />
Recalculating. (in the longsuffering tone of the GPS navigator). It wouldn’t be a trip to Baja without some adventure. Breathe. Forgive.<br />
<br />
I need forced stops like this to reconnect with the human side. To pause and breathe. Just be. There is no reason to hurry through to the other side of the moment; there is just more waiting over there. Life seems to make these stops happen when I don’t. They’re generally less expensive when I do it willingly, though. Someday I’ll learn!<br />
<br />
It could be worse. I was near enough to a shop to drive myself there with the bad alternator, and didn’t have to leave 4 kayaks beside the road, or more likely stay with 4 kayaks while I watched my truck get hauled off. <br />
<br />
Could be better. If I’d have driven further last night maybe nobody would have tried to siphon gas and cut the hose.<br />
<br />
Could be worse. Nothing was stolen from the overloaded back of my truck, or from the roof. All that makes $350 look like pocket change.<br />
<br />
Could be worse. At least I have money in the account to cover the Ford bill. Unsure about covering the $3,500 importation bill, the $900 in kayak parts waiting in San Diego, and the approximately $1000 in fuel, food and hotels between here and Loreto. But 2 more people are signing up for the Loreto to La Paz trip. Funds seem to trickle in just when needed! Sometimes I stress out a lot about money, but today I’ve decided not to.<br />
<br />
I go for a walk to Delta Ponds where a nature trail winds through a park.<br />
<br />
Yes, it could be much worse. The late morning sun feels good. Ground I’m sitting on is soft and dry. I sink through the levels of relaxation, breathing slows. Mind wanders, free from its short tether of focus. Sounds float down from the forest and from a distant construction project. Sunlight filters through the canopy. Ducks clear wakes through the lily pads.<br />
<br />
A week before leaving home, I had another cancer scare. After a few follow-up tests, the docs decided there wasn’t enough evidence to go on, and that I should return in 6 months for more testing. I will. Meanwhile, with that clearance, I (over)loaded the truck, and headed south, taking it as a reminder to live well and be thankful.<br />
<br />
I have this breath that I am breathing right now. It is a gift. As a bonus, I should still be able to get to the border in time to import the kayaks and get to Loreto before running my first course.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-72196131100828293742013-08-02T08:21:00.000-07:002013-08-02T08:21:17.905-07:00The No-Garbage Theory of Chicken Spirits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jPpuHTO3-K0/UfvN6wyFoQI/AAAAAAAAARw/lAnXKRpQw-8/s1600/30540white+chx.5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jPpuHTO3-K0/UfvN6wyFoQI/AAAAAAAAARw/lAnXKRpQw-8/s320/30540white+chx.5.jpg" /></a></div>Nothing disappears. I looked into the yellow and black eye of my chicken as she gasped, and the presence departed from that eye. Where did that breath just go?<br />
<br />
I read somewhere of “primitive” cultures without the concept of trash. Where resources are a closed system. <br />
<br />
In our lives, garbage goes to that magic place called “away” and new things keep appearing on the shelves. But that’s an illusion. Everything goes somewhere, everything comes from somewhere. <br />
<br />
So where does a chicken’s spirit go? Or it’s breath, if you don’t want to grant chickens a spirit. There is something in there that is alive, then it isn’t. <br />
<br />
I had a hard time killing this chicken. She had chickenality, which is personality with feathers. But she was a meat bird, I rationalized, of a hybrid breed that will usually die of a heart attack if let live much past its prime butchering age. Besides, somebody was eating the laying hens’ eggs, and that behavior is not to be tolerated in the coop. It was just her time to go.<br />
<br />
I cradled her in my arm as she looked around and told her I’d love to meet her again someday, when she’s not the chicken and I'm not the farmer; when we’re more equals. And then I stuffed her gently but firmly into a bucket, pulled her head through a hole in the bottom, and cut her jugular. <br />
<br />
I held her head down so she wouldn’t flop out of the bucket as she expired. I apologized, and I sobbed. A chicken takes a long time to completely expire. The eye is lucid, then it blinks. It fades, then returns briefly. The body jerks. One has eons to think and to feel while standing there, knife in one hand, chicken in the other, burgundy blood dripping.<br />
<br />
If spirits “come into this world” and go out of it, where is the spirit warehouse? <br />
<br />
There was an energy that was trotting around, pecking, scratching, flapping. Now it hangs limp in my hand. Physics gives us the “law of conservation of energy” which says that nothing disappears. That chicken’s breath has gone somewhere. The energy in the flesh has not gone anywhere yet, though it will eventually become part of three things: my body, my activity, and my composting toilet fodder. Poop will become dirt, and then nutrients taken up in a tree. My body, too, will eventually become dirt, taken up by plants. My activity makes body heat and moves resources. So our legacy is dirt, and the things we move. Plus spirit.<br />
<br />
One can follow nutrients around. But spirits? Can they appear, like new toys on the shelf, and go, like garbage hauled off in the truck? Then where is the factory, and where is the dump? Or is it the recycling plant? There must be a circle of understanding big enough to encompass the resource flow of spirits. <br />
<br />
If rattlesnakes can register the heat left in a mouse’s footprint, and physics can split atoms, should we not be able to measure a spirit and follow its trail as it departs into thin air? Maybe spirit is air itself. It animates a body, and then it stops entering it, and takes that heat back into itself. Is God in the air? Is God the air itself? Is God the Warehouse of spirits? Or is God the warehouse Manager? Or is God just a word for things we can’t measure but need to believe in?<br />
<br />
The next steps made the chicken less resemble the entertaining creature I knew, and more resemble food. Scalding, plucking, removing head and feet. Eviscerating. During the final step, I noticed that she was developing chicken testicles inside that body. Sorry, little rooster. Life is full of surprises.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-10238670761462228292013-02-12T02:40:00.000-08:002013-02-12T02:40:53.956-08:00We Crossed an Ocean <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IYRe5SpFvb0/URobSD4XADI/AAAAAAAAARI/IcEWEEJQ6Bg/s1600/3023last%2Bmotor5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="232" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IYRe5SpFvb0/URobSD4XADI/AAAAAAAAARI/IcEWEEJQ6Bg/s320/3023last%2Bmotor5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
We crossed an ocean. It really just hit me today. Misty’s sails are down and folded under a tarp on the deck. We’re motoring towards the ramp where we’ll take her out of the water tomorrow.<br />
<br />
We’re headed into the wind and little whitecaps, but if I look back, the sea appears calm. The backs of waves always look smoother than their faces. So it is with journeys. <br />
<br />
Each moment is just a moment, wherever you are, whatever you’re doing. Just one day you look back and you’ve crossed an ocean. Moments of tension or struggle flatten as they recede into the broader story.<br />
<br />
Was I really there? There’s an unreality to it. But it’s a valid question. WAS I really there—in each moment, present? Am I really here? Is contemplation a removal or a deepening? If I were truly, deeply here, would I be writing about it, or just breathing it?<br />
<br />
Short sleeves in the afternoon sun. Glint off Misty’s bare boom. Wind in our faces. New Zealand flag whips its tattered end in a sky only 2 shades a lighter blue. Motor growls deeply. “Mutiny” the dinghy bounces in our wake. White sails tilt across the horizon near and far. Two people fish from a tiny motor boat as it bounces radically in the waves. Forested hills and bright grassy slopes pass slowly. Paihia. Russell. Whatiangi .The birthplace of English-speaking New Zealand. <br />
<br />
Cape Brett and Cape Wiwiki lie hazy in the distance. This is the bay we entered after crossing from Tonga. It was a clean slate then. Now it’s crisscrossed with memories like the tracks on our GPS. <br />
<br />
We crossed an ocean. It’s an emotional realization.<br />
<br />
At the same time, we built a relationship. Hands down, the harder of the two. At least in crossing, you know what direction you ought to go most of the time, and you have a map, a GPS, or a nautical chart. Still, each moment is only a moment, just the same. Only looking back do you see the sum of what you’ve built, and hold it even closer to the heart.<br />
<br />
There’s something profound in what it means to have a boat. Something about freedom, and the cost of exercising that freedom. It’s not a fancy freedom, but it did get us from one continent to another.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BQ7KkyBxRXk/URobcXe1lVI/AAAAAAAAARU/PM0NWF1RRxs/s1600/2186two%2Bsail5%2Bcopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="270" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BQ7KkyBxRXk/URobcXe1lVI/AAAAAAAAARU/PM0NWF1RRxs/s320/2186two%2Bsail5%2Bcopy.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
It’s a different dimension, living on the sea. A calendar with elements of wind, tide, climate, and swell, and less attention to hours, minutes, and appointments. It’s perspective. Seeing the land as little green punctuations in a vast watery openness, instead of seeing the sea as a fringe of blue between the beach and the horizon. Living at the mercy of the weather, even on anchor and in the middle of the night.<br />
<br />
I take a final dive in for a bath at sunset in Kerikeri Inlet. El Condor Pasa plays on the stereo, on flute and native instruments, nostalgic in the fading light. The New Zealand waters test one’s resolve for bathing, to be sure. Henrick is loosening the rigging for tomorrow’s haul-out and removal of the mast. He says he feels sad, too. The end of a year of travel together, and a journey we’ve been preparing pretty much since we met almost 4 years ago. We will depart separately for who knows how long or where we’ll next see each other. If I think about it I can’t keep from crying.<br />
<br />
“Goodbye My Lover” sings James Blunt. Little things to do for tomorrow. Dinner. They keep me sane right now.<br />
<br />
End of a trip. End of our year. Like the end of anything, a life. What did we do with it? Took our floating home across an ocean. How does that fit into the big picture of anything? Only Time has the clues.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-67399071850007749282012-11-14T14:56:00.000-08:002012-12-25T15:09:40.486-08:00Passage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T-b8aZM6s30/UNoveliZtSI/AAAAAAAAAPE/RRj83yAmfGY/s1600/5454rollerfurling%2Brain2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="240" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T-b8aZM6s30/UNoveliZtSI/AAAAAAAAAPE/RRj83yAmfGY/s320/5454rollerfurling%2Brain2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Nov 5<br />
We’re sandwiched between 2 low pressure systems, one chasing us out of the tropics, and one preparing to welcome us to New Zealand. The ride is getting rougher. We’re heeled over now and leaping through the waves, trying to hold onto our SW course as the wind veers slowly against us.<br />
<br />
We set off November 3rd from Tongatapu, among the last of a flotilla of cruisers headed for New Zealand. According to Bob McDavitt, New Zealand weather guru, those of us leaving now should just miss the worst of it.<br />
<br />
It’s an infamous, dangerous thing from a distance. Whatever it is, the New Zealand crossing included. As you approach the challenge, you find more folks who’ve done it before and survived. Then you come to the edge yourself, get a running start for nerve, and jump. You find yourself swimming among peers. Suddenly it’s not a big scary thing looming ahead, but daily challenges you rise to meet.<br />
<br />
That is half. The other half is that we are more resilient than we think.<br />
<br />
The traditional canoe Hine Moana set out a couple hours after we did, but we haven’t seen her. She can move at more than twice our speed and may have passed in the night. At times I thought I saw the crab claw sails cutting through the darkness, but those were just phantoms of sleepiness in the wee hours of my watch.<br />
<br />
Rafts of floating pumice part as Misty plows through. Henrick scoops them up in a bucket. Other cruisers have them piling up on the deck. Lightweight and white, some have tiny barnacles riding on them. Several are bigger than softballs. Somebody on the radio mentioned a volcanic event a few months ago in the Kermadecs, a group of islands east of New Zealand. <br />
<br />
I am sitting on deck lubing strap buckles and working them and looking at swells when a big white bird catches my eye. ”Albatross!” I cry out mistakenly. It’s a masked booby or a gannet at a distance. Henrick has already seen one for real, and I’m trying hard to catch up. <br />
<br />
East and SE swells cross each other at tight angles, breaking the swell in to segments. Like shadows at night from two cabin lights overlapping on the wall, swells both pass through and affect each other. Light is waves, too, after all. <br />
<br />
We pound and rise obliquely into the swell, moving along with the flock of southward cruisers. Astarte, some 18nm ahead of us tonight, is the closest neighbor who checks into the Drifters Net. How fun it would be to see the whole white-winged migration from space. Some, like us, use wind-steering, and our courses curve with the wind changes. Others on autopilot follow a straight bearing. <br />
<br />
Nov 6<br />
25 degrees 03 minutes south. 179 degrees 42 minutes east. The sea gets rougher. There is no sleep.<br />
<br />
1am<br />
In rough seas I comfort myself with thoughts of home. The flat, solid green of field, The predictable rows of garden. But the backlog of farm work and business that awaits my return looms over my mental wanderings like a wave about to crash, and I find no refuge in those thoughts. There is no backlog of work, I tell myself. There is only now. I return seek refuge in the gale. In acceptance of the present. The hiss of water past the bow. Wind moans in the rigging. Waves slam and shush over the deck.<br />
<br />
Tension grips my neck and back from trying to hold the wind-steering together from sheer willpower. Occasionally the windsteering arm disconnects and the boat goes astray. I anticipate the pregnant, peaceful pause. Then the shudder of sails, the unwanted jibe, and violent careening of the boat. A couple of times we go so far over that water gushes up the sink and flows into the galley shelves. Illogically, I try to shove it back down with my hands.<br />
<br />
But willpower won’t help. I try to relax and accept the risk. There is no tension except what I hold onto. There is no backlog but what I create.<br />
<br />
The whole boat shudders as a wave slams the hull and showers the cockpit. Slowly I learn to listen and accept. Over the sounds of wind and water, something clunks in the cupboard, and rain drills on the hatch. The anchor chain rattles in its metal tube. I listen, amazed at the punishment a sailboat can take. Ridiculously overpriced hardware seems worth every penny now. I roll with the boat in my berth, relax, and try to grasp that we are actually moving towards New Zealand through this messy, heartless expanse of sea and sky.<br />
<br />
On the morning Drifter’s Net, the people around us estimate the wind at 40knots. We don’t have a gauge, but it gets uncomfortable enough that we decide to pull over at the next hotel. Clean linens, a warm shower, room service, and a good night’s sleep sound so tempting. There will be a painting over the bed, a red sailboat on a lake with the sun shining on it. I fixate on that painting.<br />
<br />
The Pacific Drifters Net becomes family. The voices, the boat names, the single-digit reading of coordinates. We follow positions and snippets of story.<br />
<br />
The Rose. Her captain broke his leg stepping onto the dock in Nuku’alofa, and he flew home. His wife’s father flew in, losing his luggage along the way, to help her sail the boat to NZ. They were joined by Falcon, an energetic young man raised on his parents boat. He had paddled up to Misty in Vava’u in his Marquesan outrigger and wanted to learn to sea kayak, so we swapped for an hour or so, chasing boat wakes and rolling about in the harbor. Now Falcon’s parents wait on their boat in Tonga, listening for The Rose’s progress and Falcon’s eager voice. He checks in one morning with a chuckle in his voice and reports their sea conditions as ”bigger than every one else’s!”<br />
<br />
The flock moves along, blind dots on a grid. Some faster, some slower, some easting, some westing, some nearing each other. A boat within 10nm we can’t see from the deck. Curve of the earth, cloudy horizon, rain. They don’t show on the radar either as the seas create too much interference. We grope along, reading coordinates and bearings off to each other over the VHF radio when we’re close. We discuss forecasts, complain of the rough seas. Of course we complain of the calm winds when those come, too, but that is not now. Among the boats nearby, at least one crew member from each one is down with the queasies, which puts me in good company. It’s comforting to hear others complain, somehow. We don’t feel so alone or so wimpy. <br />
<br />
My favorite complainer is Michael on Astarte. ”Welcome to the southern ocean,” someone tells him, and he replies with petulance and enthusiasm, ”I don’t LIKE the Southern Ocean!” He complains with such wry gusto that I actually enjoy suffering with him. <br />
<br />
Nov 7<br />
Our standard night watch on board Misty consists of one person checking the GPS and looking outside every 15-30 minutes, depending on the situation. It’s so rough tonight that we latch down the companionway hatch so we can’t go out. We’ll take our chances. Everything is sealed, but still water manages to force its way in. Tonight our routine is lying awake and listening, and hourly scooping out the bilge.<br />
<br />
We get pushed hard over several times. Once, some clothes on one berth leap the isle to land on the opposite berth, just in time for a gallon of water to weasel its way through the dorado vent and douse the clothes, pillow, berth, and me. I flip the pillow over, push the clothes away, slide a little further down in the berth, and close my eyes again.<br />
<br />
Not content with hurling water at us, the sea pelts us with rocks. Floating pumice rocks that we thought were so cute bobbing along like marshmallows in the calm seas now hammer like hail on the cabin top as waves break over. Under just a reefed staysail we drift along at 2.5 knots, except when gusts lay us over then suddenly scoot us along at 6 knots or so.<br />
<br />
Sometime in the night the VHF radio comes to life. With its close range, nobody is usually within talking distance, but we leave it on just in case. The New Zealand Air Force is calling a boat called Adventure Bound to change course in response to a mayday call some 50nm away from them. I recognize Adventure Bound’s name as the vessel closest to our stern at the last Drifter’s Net. We clearly hear the Air Force, but nothing from Adventure Bound, so they must be over 20nm away. Evidently they are responding, judging from half of the conversation.<br />
<br />
A sailboat called Windigo either rolled or took a knockdown. Interesting terminology, ”took a knockdown.” As if it were something you might order in a restaurant. ”I’ll take a knockdown please, with a side of fries.” <br />
<br />
The cool, clear voice of the Air Force radio man says that Windigo’s crew had sustained injuries, and a plane had dropped a life raft. My throat tightens with the thought of the injured crew riding out the night in these seas in a raft.<br />
<br />
We carry on. Henrick snoozes in exhaustion. I lie awake listening, rolling, thinking of Windigo, and believing in the sturdiness of the boat around us. Wondering what else there is to believe in right now. And trying to relax enough to keep my insides inside.<br />
<br />
The AIS alarm beeps, alerting us to the approach of Aquamante, a sailboat we saw at an anchorage in Tonga. I hail them on the VHF before the AIS loses track of them. In response, a brilliant white strobe catches my eye in the ever-moving dark sea. It’s the captain on deck waving a powerful spotlight. After spotting them, I turn on Misty’s spreader lights, illuminating our deck and lower rigging. Aquamante responds via radio a few minutes later to see they have a visual on us as well. <br />
<br />
After that, if I look steadily in the right direction, I can occasionally make out the green of their tricolor through the moving mountains of water. They pass in front of us towards the west. We keep in contact for a couple days, as far as the VHF signal stretches, and swap weather information.<br />
<br />
Santa Paz passes behind us later in the night, headed west as well. By morning we’ve closed in on Astarte, who hove-to through the night.<br />
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<br />
Nov 8<br />
Wind drops into the 30s overnight, but gusts still make us wary of raising more sail. That, and the thought of Windigo. We’re still under just a reefed staysail. During the morning check-in, one cruiser wishes he could take a road grader to the waves and flatten a path to New Zealand. I believe he would have some traffic behind him if he succeeded.<br />
<br />
Henrick is sicker than I have ever seen him. He’s throwing up stuff he ate back in 5th grade. We engage in the team-building exercise of bailing the forepeak bilge. I stick my head down into the sloshing confinement to dredge up a bowl full of bilge water and pour it into the toilet, balancing the movements of the boat with the tilt of the bowl. Henrick stands over me in a better position to pump out the manual toilet. Holy water. Bended knee. We take turns hourly in each position. <br />
<br />
Miles pass tortuously below our hull as waves crash over the deck. We wait for time to pass, seas to subside, the green tide of stomach bile to recede. Miraculously there are still 2 kayaks on our deck. Two wash buckets went missing from the cockpit. If that’s all that goes missing, I’ll be thankful. I feel more guilty for polluting the ocean than sorry for their loss.<br />
<br />
The struggles bring us closer to people we hardly know. The Drifters Net is an emotional and informational lifeline. A congregation of believers. The ritual of coordinates and sea conditions. Peppered with occasional humor. There is news of staysails ripped, autopilots broken, propane tanks washed overboard, floats lost, injuries, the rescue underway.<br />
<br />
Adventure Bound is still pounding upwind, making less than 2 knots, with 30nm still to go to the 2-person crew of Windigo, thought to be in the life raft, and expected to still be there for at least 15 more hours. Seas in the area are still building, with winds clocked steady in the mid 40s, gusting into the 50s. New Zealand keeps an Air Force presence, circling overhead until needing to return for refueling and being replaced by another flight.<br />
<br />
My emotions are worn thing and I find tears running down my cheeks as I listen to the captain of Adventure Bound, sounding exhausted and frustrated. Emotions must be high there, too.<br />
<br />
More news on the net: Obama reelected. Pot legalized in Colorado and Washington. That feels so far away.<br />
<br />
Normally when cruising, like many others, we seek solitude. But on this passage, the camaraderie that began as entertainment has become elemental.<br />
<br />
Beyond the Drifter’s Net, there are groups of friends who have schedules of checking in with each other. Astarte invites us to listen when they check in with Victory, whom we’d met in Tonga, and Superted, who was already far ahead in their sleek 50-something foot boat that was named by one of their kids after a teddy bear. Victory took 20cm of water in their bilge through their engine air intake because they were heeled so far over. Before discovering and stemming the flow, the captain had asked his wife to gather their ditch kit and be prepared. I could picture her face from the one time we’d met. She was getting a haircut on the back deck of their boat from Astarte’s Barbara, and laughing at the joyful, rustic luxury of an open-air haircut. Again, those thin emotions almost get the better of me.<br />
<br />
The washing machine continues its agitate cycle on the other side of our brass-rimmed portals. Water, bubbles, water, bubbles. A swell lifts us with that weightless tilting feeling, then shoves us hard to starboard. I don’t lie in the berth so much as I lie on the side of the hull. Henrick has the floor this time, with mattress and blankets wedged between the berth and the seats. He can’t fall off the floor, not even heeled over.<br />
<br />
Sometimes we think we hear voices beyond the hull. A chipper Australian woman chatters from the bookshelf, perhaps a ghost of Misty Past, or the working of a line in a block on deck. I can almost make out her words. Children chatter in the gurgling of a wave.<br />
<br />
Electric blue swells with frothing crests look like so many houses with frilly latticework eaves. We could drive Misty into the garage like a car, park her there in the still darkness, and rest. But she just keeps bobbing, or sometimes tripping, over them, and going on.<br />
<br />
Electric blue swells with foam-streaked flanks are great running beasts. Nature in breathless stampede. Slow motion captures the quiver of flesh, the flex of muscles, the height of withers. Only the spray of breath is in real time as it takes to the air and shoots several meters forward. The immense, ponderous blue herd in the sunlight is utterly beautiful.<br />
<br />
In the night I peek out the portal at the dark beasts galloping drunkenly past my nose, and they glowed blue fire. A storm-tossed mane, a lathered neck, a snort of breath, all bright with life-fire of bioluminescence.<br />
<br />
The secret is not to resist. When the beasts ram and pounce and claw at Misty, and throw her on her side, don’t resist. Just accept. Sideways is the new down. Lie down if possible, and let the energy flow through you like silken seaweed in the stream. Let it knead you, slow and elastic, like dough, against the walls and hull. Let go the control you don’t have anyway. I search for tension and let my mind massage those places into acceptance. Face, shoulders, belly. Life is a ride on waves of energy, some days more literally so.<br />
<br />
In the night, we, Astarte, and Marungaru all come within a couple miles of each other. Henrick is out of commission, very sick. Pale with red cheeks, unable to keep water down, or stand up for long. The radar, distracted by the big seas, doesn’t pick up either of the other boats. Thankfully, Marungaru has a crew of 4 and a constant watch, and Astarte has a policy of constant watches on deck too. They agree to keep a lookout and VHF radio contact. I peek, listen, and catnap, and can let Henrick sleep.<br />
<br />
Marungaru calls about midnight to say they have us in sight. Between then and about 2am, all 3 of us share some intimate sea space. We turn Misty two clicks downwind on the wind steering to alleviate the crunch. Marungaru passes ahead, a green dot occasionally appearing above the crests of black monsters. <br />
<br />
I have a hard time getting Misty back on course, so Henrick goes out to tweak the wind steering. He comes back in, slides the three companionway boards down into their slot, pulls the top hatch shut, and latches it. Seconds later a wave crashes over from the stern quarter and forces a few gallons in around the companionway hatch. Salt water washes down the wall over the electrical panels and baptizes the navigation computer, which dies. That was an expensive wave, but could have been a whole lot worse if Henrick had still been out there, and the companionway open.<br />
<br />
We eventually resume our course, and Astarte crosses in front of us towards the west. I don’t see them, but we keep in radio contact with our coordinates.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Nov 9<br />
Morning and the sun is out. Great shining swells still roll by, a little further apart, and a little less steep. Spray is no longer strewn from every wavelet. Twenty-five knots and 3 meters of swell, roughly. Henrick’s feeling better. He puts up the mainsail, triple reefed. In raising it, a number of pumice rocks fall out of the folds. The waves had lodged them up there when they broke over Misty’s cabin top. Now we’re leaping along at 5-6 knots, occasionally more in the gusts.<br />
<br />
I start to clean up the saltwater and scum that has found its way into unlikely places. The galley shelves are first. <br />
<br />
News on the net in the morning is that Windigo, battered and taking on water, is in the company of a merchant ship, and 7 New Zealand air force flights took turns monitoring the situation through the night. We often heard them over our VHF. The Windigo crew had not used the life raft, but stayed in their boat. Adventure Bound’s 2-person crew were exhausted from pounding for a couple of days into conditions reported as 40-55kts of wind and 10 meter seas. They were requested to stand by, too. They are anxious to get on their way and a bit frustrated at how much resource has been required to remedy Windigo’s folly of having too much sail up in a gale. A New Zealand warship is also racing to the scene at 30kts, as reported by sailing vessel Aka at 30kts, whom they passed in the night.<br />
<br />
On a happier note, traditional sailing canoe Hine Moana weathered the storm, moved up in the pack, and is especially enjoying the sunshine, since they have to hand-steer on deck with no shelter, day and night.<br />
<br />
There are lies, damn lies, and forecasts. We listen to Gulf Harbor Radio in the mornings, occasionally catch Russell Radio in the evenings, as well as snippets of weather fill during the Drifters’ Net. Michael lets us know what’s on Astarte’s grib files. No matter how much we all discuss it, the weather does its own thing in the end.<br />
<br />
Today I learn that Astarte is a Phoenecian goddess of passion & love. Michael and Barbara renamed the boat years ago in Florida in a great ceremony. Bit by bit we get to know our passage neighbors as this whole migration bounces and glides south. Michael faithfully relays our reports to the Drifters Net because our SSB signal isn’t strong enough, probably because of a corroded ground connection. Henrick doesn’t want to disconnect it and run the chance of fouling it up worse while we’re out here. As it is, we’re having fun with Astarte, promising a cold beer for every relay. They get a giggle out of it, too.<br />
<br />
Bits of humor--somebody reporting calm and sunny in the midst of the gale. Frustration shared--Catharpin Blue can’t hold the course they want, but neither can the rest of us. Expectations--Superted is disappointed with their 7 knots of speed. He takes a good teasing for saying that (most of us would be thrilled!). Helpfulness-- people relay information from neighboring boats whose SSB radios have failed. <br />
<br />
When boats reach port, it’s like they fall off the end of the earth. Names we heard twice a day never get mentioned again. Slowly, the community dissolves. Perhaps we’ll meet someone on the dock or pub or in the marine store when we get there. But lives will go separate ways, each carrying a piece of memory of the NZ migration of 2012. The Windigo rescue. <br />
<br />
Henrick and I enjoy a dinner date once we feel like eating again. We share the slip-sliding adventure of cooking hash browns and eggs, both wearing socks now to stay warm. Socks don’t grip the floor at all. Now we grope for toe-holds and places to wedge the feet as we move about. We put on some music and enjoy the companionship. No showers in a week. Separate berths. Not the most sexy dinner date, to be sure. But a nice, close feeling that runs much deeper.<br />
<br />
How to cover the leftovers? The plastic lids have escaped. I recall hearing them leap from their cubby one night and scuttle across the floor. ”Huh,” I grunted, deciding that at least they wouldn’t fall off the floor, and with that, fell back asleep and forgot about them. Henrick recalls seeing some errant lids and shoving them somewhere, but can’t remember where. So it goes. A good cleanup will reveal a lot, I’m sure.<br />
<br />
The rough weather hit before I could cook the soaked garbanzo beans, resulting in an accidental sprouting. I’m not sure I like sprouted flavor better, but it was an interesting experiment. It makes the incorrigible gardener in me want to soak all kinds of beans to see how they sprout.<br />
<br />
Nov 11<br />
Adventure Bound wants to change their name. Suggestions? Wimpy. Chickadee, Lilly Pad, Light Airs, Three Stooges, Inept, The Flea, Frayed Knot. Henrick suggests his longtime favorite boat name ”Slacker”. For now they remain Adventure Bound, and are at last free to head for Opua. <br />
<br />
The Windigo crew remained on board their boat until the New Zealand warship arrived and hoisted them in a sling aboard for warm showers, good food, and medical care. They left the boat adrift, which concerned the next fleet of cruisers who were making the New Zealand migration.<br />
<br />
Tints and solvents in the paint locker swim about in 4” of salt water. Cleaning that is this morning’s project. Gentle seas, a purring motor, and a pile of rusty cans and plastic bottles. The bag full of rags is hung to dry like a gypsy caravan in the wind. Latex gloves flutter on the line like so many energetic musicians playing a blue piano sky. It’s not a project you hope to repeat often, but the doing of it is a pleasant activity together in the sun and cool air of 30 degrees south latitude in the middle of a wide, gently rolling sea.<br />
<br />
Nov 12<br />
The wind dies. Then blasts again. Like a car, zero to 20 in 60 seconds or less. From every direction on the left side of the compass. Black squalls lay us over on our ear. Petrels cartwheel by. Gigantic rainbows smile upside down over us. Our course looks drunken. A western detour. Southing. Then back to the east, the line on the GPS wavers every few miles. It looks like we’re trying to carve a pretty scalloped pattern on the sea. Last night in the calm, we drifted in a nice hook back towards Tonga. Then caught some wind and started a SE run in the actual direction of our destination.<br />
<br />
Life is pleasant on board if you’re not fixated on getting somewhere. Sunset dinner in the cockpit. Homemade biscuits. Watching the sun set repeatedly as the swells make and remake the horizon. Two green flashes in one night. Clear as a bright green crayon as it sets, rises, and re-sets.<br />
<br />
Nov 13<br />
The race is on! The race for who can come in last from our fleet of Tonga-to-Opua cruisers. There are 3 of us straggling about 150nm from Opua, all with engine issues. Ours slowly lost power, and now won’t exceed 1900rpms even when the throttle is all the way down, so Henrick prefers not to use is until we can solve the issue. The competition is Morning Cloud, who runs on 2 out of 3 cylinders, and Astarte, who has a long list. Neither of them wants to go by engine either, until absolutely necessary.<br />
<br />
Morning Cloud is a 36’ 50-year old wood boat with Selwin and Joanne aboard, and centuries of sailing experience. Astarte is 42’ of fiberglass, cruising continuously for the past 2 years. Misty of course is 36’ of red-hot steel, almost 50 years herself. Michael puts his money on Morning Cloud for first in. Morning Cloud may win the award for most congenial for calling to ask if we need a tow as we approach land. I believe their engine is in worse shape than ours.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Nov 14<br />
Less than 50nm to go to Opua under the anemic light of a partial solar eclipse. We take turns looking through Henrick’s welding helmet. First a nibble from the top left corner. Eventually a yellow crescent. The wind bites cold in the lack of sun.<br />
<br />
”I see New Zealand!” calls Henrick. Just as I pop my head over the torn dodger cover, a great white spray launches up from the bow. I duck back down but Henrick, too involved with the distant smudge of land, gets soaked. We laugh. Somehow, the trio of solar eclipse, sighting of land, and dousing of sea seem a perfect welcome.<br />
<br />
Meanwhile, inside the cabin, long droplets of water stream from the center hatch onto Henrick’s berth. Good thing we’re arriving soon. We stave the leak as best we can and put a towel on the bed to absorb the rest. Our speed is good, and we’re too thankful to be arriving to care about a little water now.<br />
<br />
The luck of our position, further west of Morning Cloud and Astarte, allows Misty to make a straight shot into the Bay of Islands, while our neighbors have to tack. We make it to ”Q”, the quarantine dock as dusk falls. Morning Cloud comes in shortly after. Astarte pounds along into short, brutal seas, making 2 knots for another day before her steering cable disconnects itself in protest. Michael reconnects it, and eventually they, too, enjoy a long awaited arrival at Q dock.<br />
<br />
Adventure Bound makes it in some days later. They receive a hero’s welcome for their part in the rescue, which they downplay. Some big-hearted cruisers arrange a free marina berth for them to rest and recuperate, and a number of donations from related businesses. <br />
<br />
Their arrival completes the passage of the fleet that left Tonga just before the first big gale of the 2012 New Zealand passage season. A number of us caught the corner of that gale, but Adventure Bound and Windigo got the brunt. Unless you count those who stayed in Tongatapu. They recorded winds of 65 knots, plus gusts, in the anchorages. Boats pulled anchor, dinghies flew through the air. It was never a named cyclone because of a technicality. It formed its strength from winds aloft instead of from convection, according to Bob McDavitt, New Zealand weather guru who was in Opua for the All Points Rally, welcoming cruisers to New Zealand.<br />
<br />
All in all, we’re glad we left when we did, and thankful to be in sheltered waters now. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WVpqap-D5jM/UNow7-xJJDI/AAAAAAAAAP0/k7B1cKPnIdo/s1600/5539both%2BQflag2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left:1em; margin-right:1em"><img border="0" height="234" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WVpqap-D5jM/UNow7-xJJDI/AAAAAAAAAP0/k7B1cKPnIdo/s320/5539both%2BQflag2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-4148253698803629082012-10-30T18:40:00.000-07:002012-11-23T18:46:25.867-08:00Kayaking Tonga<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--cgwBWVASdA/ULAzxGFfbsI/AAAAAAAAAOo/WDnVY-VKcFY/s1600/5001vaka%2Blofanga3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="278" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--cgwBWVASdA/ULAzxGFfbsI/AAAAAAAAAOo/WDnVY-VKcFY/s320/5001vaka%2Blofanga3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
Tonga is like space. It’s hard to find a good map or nautical chart of Tonga for the same reason it’s impossible to sketch the galaxy in its proper scale, see it, and still have it fit in a book. Or even a room. There is more distance than substance. <br />
<br />
The Tongan universe is organized into solar systems of island groups. Vava’u, Ha’apai, Tongatapu, which we visit in that order. During a 19-mile paddle among the Ha’apai group, the simile of space ccurs to me. I leave our anchorage and head toward the longest island on the horizon, which I believe is the final destination, Ha’afeva. <br />
<br />
Navigation for the day is pencilled on my kayak deck in degrees and nautical miles: <br />
270 8<br />
217 11<br />
<br />
I scour the horizon and nearby sea for Lofanga Island, which should be smaller and closer. I hope to stop there for a break, about halfway. It should be slightly north of Ha’afeva. But my compass seems to be a little off, and my eyes blind. <br />
<br />
About a mile out from the anchorage, I crawl forward on my deck and open the front hatch to be sure the repair kit has not slid forward under the compass. Nope. But it does sit at a slight tilt towards the south, a southern hemisphere phenomenon. Then I turn on the hand-held GPS that I carry for emergencies. If I need Henrick’s help, I can tell him my coordinates. It’s virtually impossible to see a kayak on the open sea. I’ve been within a quarter mile of him, told him my bearing from him, and still been invisible. I can see his sail clearly at 2 miles in most conditions, and up to 8 miles in calm seas with clear air or a solid dark background. This GPS has no chart of the area. Last night I entered the two waypoints of Lofanga and Ha’afeva. The two dots and the triangle that is me sit in a blank screen. But it’s enough info to confirm that my compass is not wrong; I was.<br />
<br />
Blame it on the vagueries of our shipboard GPS, the dearth of detailed printed charts aboard, and the 8-16 degree discrepency between the ship’s compass and the GPS, but the fact remains that I was mistaken. The island I’m seeing is Lofanga, and Ha’afeva is far beyond the hazy horizon. I actually cannot see it until 3 miles after I leave Lofanga. It’s a small feeling, paddling fervently on a compass bearing towards an imaginary dot beyond a blank horizon, but we’ll get to that later.<br />
<br />
Islets and reefs glide along my horizon, appear, rearrange themselves, and disappear. They are nameless mysteries. Behind me a vertical white smudge moves along the dark line of horizon which is Uoleva Island. A sailboat heads out. It’s not Henrick since he won’t go until after I reach Lofanga. He calls me every hour on the VHF to check each other’s progress.<br />
<br />
The east and south sides of Lofanga are cliffy, according to the shipboard GPS. I choose to head around the north side of the island, a longer route, but more likely to find a landing. Sneaking through the reef between breakers of slightly less than a meter, I cruise along the shore until I see a small dugout canoe with an outrigger tucked under the branches of a tree. Elation! I beach the kayak next to it. Light blue paint, red paint, just small patches left, and those peeling off. A stick rests in the canoe with a plywood oval held to one end with a bent nail. The paddle. A 2x6 board rests across the narrow dugout opening. One must sit above the canoe since the width would not even permit a child’s hips. Legs only fit one in front of the other. Various colors of string bind the outrigger to the canoe. <br />
<br />
I follow a footpath inland to a clearing planted with banana trees and taro. A kettle and a shirt hang in a tree branch, but I see no people. I paddle further around the coastline of craggy volcanic rock etched by the sea, topped with grass brilliant green in the sunlight. Palms and jungle trees beyond. Tiny inlets, pocket beaches of tan sand. I nose into one and hear a chirpy squeaking. The trees hang dense with ripe fruit bats. Gigantic brown pears with golden faces. They fuss at each other until one drops from its grip and flaps away with thick hawk-like wings.<br />
<br />
Another dugout outrigger on another beach. Bare wood, with just a hint of black paint in spots. The paddle is an old plastic blade, cracked in the middle, bound to its crooked branch with black rubber. The trails here lead to a clearing moguled with unmarked mounds of white sand. The graveyard. One grave at the base of a red-flowering tropical tree is covered with plastic flowers and has an engraved headstone. <br />
<br />
EPALAHAM VAIVELA<br />
AHO 24, 10, 98.<br />
SIONE VAIVELA<br />
(arrow pointing right) 1998<br />
<br />
With this, I no longer wonder if there is a permanent population on the island. Around one more rocky headland, I see a moored motorboat, plus two on the beach, apparently pulled up for repairs. A girl runs up a grassy clearing towards a village. Eaves and corners of roofs peek out of the foliage. I don’t think the girl saw me. There are no signs of anyone else at the waterfront. I am torn--it’s time to move on if I will keep to our planned schedule of meeting up at Ha’afeva while we still have good light for anchoring. Besides, I’m alone, carrying an obscene amount of expensive borrowed equipment, compared to the local standards. <br />
<br />
Historically, Tongans were notorious raiders of other islands and passing ships. Not to mention their cannibalistic tendencies. The ”Friendly Islands” were misnamed by Captain Cook when he was invited to a feast, without realizing that the feast was supposed to be a trick to capture and eat him. It failed due to internal disagreements among the planners.<br />
<br />
I linger a few moments, see nobody, and reluctantly raise my sail and paddle away, still feeling torn. Next time I might have the chance to visit a village, I promise myself, I will carry something as a gift. Food, or something I can part with. To that I am faithful.<br />
<br />
But first, I must get to the rendezvous with Henrick, 11 miles towards a perfectly empty horizon. Oh, the faith that ocean travel requires. Conditions are ideal for paddling, if not for visibility. Complete overcast with a light drizzle. Quartering tailwind of 8-12kts. Ocean swell from the NE about 2’, and wind waves E about a foot. Just a mellow day’s cruise. I swim every hour to cool off, just before turning on my radio to listen for Henrick. I can see him most of the time, over my left shoulder. Sometimes I have to stare at the pale horizon for a few minutes before picking out the sail some 3 miles away and closing. It’s reassuring to see him out there, heading towards the same featureless haze. Is this somehow like life? We set a course we hope will intersect and work our ways expectantly towards a future we can only imagine?<br />
<br />
Suddenly we’re there. I study the reef as I approach, and decide to shoot what looks like a gap in the worst breakers. It saves me almost a mile, and provides the needed adrenaline to bring me home. Henrick takes the long way and meets me at the anchorage, just minutes apart.<br />
<br />
It’s an odd phenomenon. Going there and ending up here. But it happens every time. The distant, mysterious unknown becomes the present. The unnoticed. The boring. So we plan the next adventure. Do we even have to go, or is planning the real satisfaction? Oh, we must go, or we are but dreamers. Or worse. Failures. Or.... Is the enduring quest, the biggest challenge, the lifelong goal simply to notice the present? Would we still go adventuring?Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-14207402719723645962012-10-25T21:47:00.000-07:002012-12-27T21:51:11.587-08:00Quick Visit to a Freckle<br />
<br />
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<br />
The sea was building up an uncomfortable multi-directional chop that required a lot of effort to keep the kayak moving in the direction I wanted to go. So I decided to stick with Plan A, and let Henrick pick me up beside Tokulu Island instead of paddle the last 10nm to Nomuka Island. I had already paddled about 10nm and visited a couple small Tongan islands.<br />
<br />
Tokulu is just a freckle on the chart with a 39’ navigational tower on it and a reef completely encircling it. I arrived some 30 minutes before Henrick would, and thought I’d go ashore just for kicks. Pattern-less breakers on the reef kept my anxious attention until I reached the lagoon. I’d come in with the wind behind me, and knew that unless there was an escape on the other side, my exit would be challenging. <br />
<br />
I beached quickly. Wearing all my kayaking gear, I ran up the sand into the edge of the forest. I happened into the long unused entrance to a trail, or more like a tunnel through the tangled growth, curtained by spiders. I raised my arm in front of my face, and plowed on to the base of the aluminum tower, then up.<br />
<br />
I saw Henrick approaching, and a few other sailboats skimming the horizon. Wind tousled the tops of palm trees below the tower. A reddish reef encircled the little island. Hollow breakers dumped hard on the fortress of shallow coral. To the NW, where I’d snuck in, there was more randomness to the break, revealing a deeper, more broken section of reef. From the tower I could see a dog-leg channel barely wider than a kayak. If I could find it from water level, it would provide enough depth for my paddle to get a full bite with each upwind stroke.<br />
<br />
Down I climbed as fast as I dared, and hurried to get back on the water. I was halfway out the channel, fighting hard against the wind and waves when the radio crackled with Henrick’s voice. He was approaching the island and couldn’t see me yet. I asked him to hang on until I got clear of the breakers. <br />
<br />
As I neared the boat, Henrick turned the engine on and pointed Misty upwind. I paddled alongside, tied the kayak on a line, and scrambled up over the railing. We hoisted the kayak on board. I tied it down, and off we sailed, swapping stories of our brief solo journeys.<br />
<br />
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Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-87498802549315553212012-10-25T21:41:00.000-07:002012-12-27T21:45:31.294-08:00Trading<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oAjLetEATYs/UN0xk3NdqQI/AAAAAAAAAQY/rjOG0MskYrM/s1600/5030Vilis%2Bgarden4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="254" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-oAjLetEATYs/UN0xk3NdqQI/AAAAAAAAAQY/rjOG0MskYrM/s320/5030Vilis%2Bgarden4.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
It was a mission to turn New Zealand contraband into some tropical fun.<br />
<br />
I landed my kayak through wind-driven breakers at the foot of a row of palm trees. Just beyond the palms, the Tongan island village of Ha’avefa collected concrete houses with corrugated metal roofs. A small flatbed truck with a young family inside drove across the grass to park overlooking the sea. Though the island was only half a mile wide, there were some vehicles. I pulled 3 one-gallon ziploc bags out of my hatches and carried them into town.<br />
<br />
Our South Pacific voyage, which had started in Mexico 6 months earlier, was about to head for New Zealand, land of strict biosecurity regulations. Much of the well-planned long-storing food we carried on board would be confiscated on arrival, so I was on a mission to trade the offending food items for something we could use up before arriving in New Zealand. In the bags were dried beans, dates, whole cumin and coriander seeds, textured vegetable protein, nuts.<br />
<br />
Fences of corrugated tin roofing and crooked posts protected small yards from roaming pigs. A few skinny papaya trees grew in corners, and an anemic mango or two. A stunted breadfruit tree waved its lobed leaves like giant green hands. Down one road I saw promise: a cluster of healthy banana trees in a garden of bounty, canopied by a majestic breadfruit tree. A man in a button-down shirt, ankle-length skirt, and flip-flops tinkered with a small motor in the shade of the banana trees.<br />
<br />
”Malo e’lelei”, I said over the decorative concrete fence. He turned off the motor and eased himself closer to the fence. Most Tongans speak some English. He listened patiently as I explained that I had some foreign foodstuff to trade if he could spare a few bananas and perhaps a papaya.<br />
<br />
It was only later that I realized that the garden belonged with the most well-kept house in town. He was the minister of Ha’afeva and the surrounding islands. His wife Maria was away in Nuku’alofa, the capital, visiting one of their children in boarding school and doing some errands. Nuku’alofa is a full day trip by local motorboat, a low wooden and fiberglass contraption with partial cabin top not high enough to stand up under, and wooden benches along the side. The trip must be a penance of sorts, in the choppy seas that can blow up around here.<br />
<br />
His garden didn’t lie. Vilitonu, the large and soft-spoken minister, was a tender of plants as well as parishioners. He loved the idea of planting the beans to see if they might grow, and the coriander. ”Thank you for bringing more flavor to our kitchen,” he said slowly as we sat in the living room among upholstered couches draped with bright lengths of fabric. I sat comfortably on the wood floor since I was still wet from kayaking in the wind.<br />
<br />
After a chat, I followed him back to his happy garden, his wide feet slapping softly in their rubber flip-flops. He cut a bunch of green bananas with a machete and handed them to me, still dripping white sap from the cut. A tall, hearty papaya tree got a good poking from a long stick until a football-sized fruit dropped to the ground. The papaya was just starting to blush yellow through its green skin. Finally, he led me to a row of shoulder-high shrubs that had been regularly trimmed of their pointy-lobed leaves. Like Saint Peter on judgment day, he tenderly chose this leaf, that leaf, and not that one, thoughtful yet decisive. He handed me a fist full. Like spinach, or kale, or Swiss chard, they were to be lightly steamed until just wilted before eating. <br />
<br />
There have been moments when I keenly miss the communion of plants in my home garden. The foray into Vilitonu’s tropical oasis was tonic to the spirit as well as nourishment to the belly.<br />
<br />
The next day I returned with Henrick to visit with Vilitonu. We walked across the island from the protected anchorage on the other side carrying another delivery of foreign food and things that might grow. <br />
<br />
The day after that, I set out early in the kayak to explore some nearby islands on the way to Nomuka, the next anchorage some 20nm away, with the last New Zealand contraband in my hatches. Many little islands along the way are too small to have protected anchorages, so kayaking is the perfect way to explore. A few islands have villages, satellites to the central Ha’afeva. <br />
<br />
I stopped at an uninhabited one, in a pocket of sand between sharply eroded limestone formations. A sandpiper of some sort poked among the crags. It climbed and hopped within a couple meters of me, unbothered. In the rocky holes hid crabs, scratching and clambering back from the advancing camera. The hillside behind rose too steeply to climb, too tangled with jungle growth.<br />
<br />
I left the island and crossed over the protective reef. Just as the water began turning to deep-water blue, a sea turtle sniffed the air. It saw me trying to sneak past and dove, flying down, down below the kayak. A pair of white terns looped over the palms of the little island. Icons of freedom and playfulness.<br />
<br />
From there I headed another couple miles southeast to an island called Tongua, according to the shipboard GPS. The locals call it Tomua. I approached over a long shallow reef. Two figures waded, then bent over, straightened, put something in a bag. The first, a teen whose gender I could not determine, stared, but hardly responded to my greeting or smile. The second, perhaps the mother, beamed a most welcoming smile. There are moments when the universe feels in balance and nothing else matters. Such was the warmth in her face at that moment. I smiled back from the depths of my heart.<br />
<br />
”Malo e’lelei”, we exchanged greetings. Then we had no more words in common until ”Bye.” No matter. They were picking urchins. They were just beginning, or it was tough going, judging from the emptiness of their bags. I wished them well, whether they understood the words it or not, and paddled on.<br />
<br />
Around a curve in the coastline, a village came into sight. Green fields were crossed by the occasional dark pig or white goat. A few low-profile motor boats moored in shallow water. Wood and corrugated tin houses. Footpaths. <br />
<br />
In Tonga, as in the rest of Oceania, boats have always been the way to get around. Exploration, settlement, trading, raiding. Outriggers, double hulls, sails for distance, paddles for day trips. This British sea kayak, though its roots anchor in the cold northern reaches of the planet, fits the tradition of human- and sail-powered boat travel for visit and trade.<br />
<br />
Motors power the modern Tongan inter-island vessels. Not everyone has a boat, but everyone who leaves the village must travel in somebody’s boat.<br />
<br />
Here the boat isn’t peripheral or recreational. For those who operate their own, there is a common understanding, a language of the sea. It is something one will always have to share with the newly arrived visitor. Freddy met me on the beach in front of a huge tree. In very good English, he introduced himself as the captain of the sea cucumber fleet. <br />
<br />
”How is the sea today?” he said as if he were asking about the health of a relative.<br />
<br />
Sea cucumbers processed for the orient are the basis of their international economy, and a wide-leafed grassy plant softened by soaking in salt water was sold locally for bedding and matting. Of course he knew Vilitonu, the minister. Right there was the church, across the field.<br />
<br />
Freddy gave me a walking tour of the village. Like many homes, most of these had a sheet hung in the front doorway, and no door. The breeze blew through to the back doorway opposite. Inner walls and doors hardly existed. Many people smiled and waved from their places in the shade, and some kids ran up to the fence to look and smile. The most striking thing that shaped this community was the complete lack of motor vehicles. Footpaths wove unstraight lines through the grass, People and animals walked about or lounged in the shade. Things were done or moved by hand.<br />
<br />
Freddy, like Vilitonu, was well traveled, having been to the US, Australia, Asia. His cell phone chirped almost constantly in his pocket. He answered usually with a few sentences in Tongan and hung up.<br />
<br />
Two women sat beside a fire under a sprawling tree and worked at making some food. Tan piles of long soaked bedding leaves sat along a fence to be prepared for sale. Two young men lounged in the shade on a backyard trampoline and greeted me in good English. Pigs sprawled in dusty hollows under the eves of an abandoned shack. <br />
<br />
The village, said Freddy, was growing. It had some 300 people, if I remember the figure right. We returned to the beach. Before I pushed off for the next island, I pulled out the last 2 Ziplock bags with the remaining contraband. Dehydrated vegetables, soy protein, cous-cous, and a few other bits. Appreciation for a fine tour. He seemed genuinely interested in it, and I left feeling satisfied with my first two village trading efforts in this remote Tongan island group.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-37782477521224114792012-09-20T17:46:00.000-07:002012-09-20T17:46:10.745-07:00Bora Bora<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DC3X-3_VZoU/UFu3xk5L9bI/AAAAAAAAAOM/q2Ag7ex6LLY/s1600/4403lagoonsailing.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="236" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DC3X-3_VZoU/UFu3xk5L9bI/AAAAAAAAAOM/q2Ag7ex6LLY/s320/4403lagoonsailing.1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
They say the best kept secret of French Polynesia is the lousy weather. It can certainly be exciting! Last night we got some of the hardest rain I’ve ever seen this side of northern Australia. Wind gusted over 30kts, heeling Misty over on her side at anchor and straining the anchor line snubber. Blue lightening seared the sky.<br />
<br />
It’s been 4 months and a day since we arrived in the Marquesas, and we’ll be heading out of French Polynesia in a few more days. The hurricane season is at our heels and we have 2,500nm to go to New Zealand.<br />
<br />
The last week at Bora Bora has been one of those slow, uneventful weeks that you look back on and are surprised at all that happened.<br />
<br />
We ran aground inside the lagoon, within meters of a channel marker (on the proper side). We were headed into the sun and there was no other side mark. Just a reef. The GPS was utterly worthless inside the Bora Bora lagoon. Worse, actually. It inspired false confidence. But Misty’s steel hull proved its mettle here as we rested, embarrassed but unhurt, until a helpful local with a big motorboat pulled us back off. We weren’t the first.<br />
<br />
In various excursions, I paddled almost completely around the main island of Bora Bora, and around some motus within the lagoon. We pulled our kayaks up on an old, sharp reef and drift-snorkeled through a waterscape of fantastic formations and colorful fish. We hung under our kayaks with masks on to look about at other reefs and at the hulls of some boats. Henrick is designing his next boat, and is perpetually on a mission to study hulls he likes.<br />
<br />
I’ve concocted several uses for a stubby cooking banana. Our garden tour guide in Raiatea gave us a stalk of these, which we hung under the solar panels off the stern of Misty. They ripen at a rate of about 10 a day. The progression looks cool, but keeps the chef hopping. Breakfast smoothies, happy hour banana coladas, banana-coconut-chocolate cake. They must be cooked first, so I slice them lengthwise and fry them, then blend them with a little milk for smoothies, or oil for cake.<br />
<br />
According to our tourist literature, Bora Bora is supposed to have a mini maritime museum of model boats. Its location differs on our various guide maps. We’ve asked nearby residents, fishermen, and outrigger paddlers. Only one paddler had even heard of it, and said it was somewhere between this point and that one. We looked about twice from our kayaks along the shore, which is where the road and the buildings are because the rest of the island is so steep, but saw no sign of a museum. Almost all yards have a collection of old boats. Fishing skiffs, solo outriggers, 6-person outriggers, open canoe outriggers. So we’ve experienced a museum of sorts anyway.<br />
<br />
We did catch another performance of the sailing acrobats we’ve been playing tag with since Mexico. They are professional performers who now support themselves by doing shows wherever they go and passing around collection tins. The couple does two shows on board their yellow boat in an evening. One is a comedy. They are rookie sailors knocking each other overboard -almost- or ending up dangling on a boom out over the water, or stringing each other up by the rigging lines. Ignorantly working against each other to make everything go wrong. Very Tom & Jerry. Done to cartoon music and quite funny. <br />
<br />
The second show is a romance, with breathtaking acrobatics done hanging from 2 thin sheets of fabric strung up from the backstay, among other stunts. In Raiatea, the shows drew cruisers, charter yacht renters, local families, and their energetic children. We happened to be tied at the dock on the far side of the island when we saw their poster up in the grocery store. For a couple of days we hunted around for a bicycle or scooter rental or bus schedule to get us there for the show since we were headed the other way with our boat and didn’t want to go back around. No rentals anywhere. No public bus system. Asking at a local hotel for nonexistent bicycles, we ended up carpooling with the owner, who was going to see the show anyway. We were thankful since we’d missed their show in Loreto, the Marquesas, and Tahiti.<br />
<br />
On Bora Bora, we finally tasted the famous local Poisson Cru, or raw fish and veggies in coconut milk . Very tasty. We picked up more baguettes at the local grocery store. I wanted one of the outriggers for sale there too, but Henrick vetoed that. Baguettes and outriggers at the grocery store. I like this place more and more.<br />
<br />
One of the reasons I like French Polynesia is also one of the reasons we MUST go. The French influence. Baguettes, brie, and red wine. Never mind visa limits and impending hurricane season, I’ll need a new, wider kayak if we stay too long.<br />
<br />
Boat chores must be done before we head out. We cleaned the hull with a green kitchen scrubby to remove the mini ecosystem of slime and crusty things and restore a hydrodynamic surface. Little fish take great interest in the particles we set free in the water. We dive repeatedly and try to swim close enough to the hull against the current to get some good scrubbing leverage. One day when I jumped in for a scrubbing session, the visibility was less than 6ft. A cool current moved through, and within half an hour, the water was crystal clear. I could see the anchor and its chain coming off the bow when I swam behind the 36’ boat. <br />
<br />
We don’t mind the occasional “lousy” weather. When it’s windy and rainy, we call it good “cozing in” weather, and enjoy the excuse to curl up with a writing project or a boat model to work on.<br />
<br />
Henrick has some great photos of our Bora Bora adventures at onvoyage.net. <br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-40934858787696189512012-09-12T17:04:00.000-07:002012-09-20T17:40:54.391-07:00Bora Bora Crossing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9St1EIZgkyw/UFu3aZ2L3pI/AAAAAAAAAOA/eD5Q5V5BChg/s1600/4371stowed%2Bsail.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="320" width="234" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9St1EIZgkyw/UFu3aZ2L3pI/AAAAAAAAAOA/eD5Q5V5BChg/s320/4371stowed%2Bsail.1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Puzzle: How can you launch and land in the same place and paddle in just one direction in between, other than around the north or south pole?<br />
<br />
I think Taha’a to Bora Bora was the longest open water crossing I’ve done without stepping stones, 20nm from reef pass to reef pass, but 25nm from launch to land. I set out at 7am, stepping off Misty’s deck down into my Romany.<br />
<br />
The forecast was mellow. It had to be or Henrick would disown me. “You’ll have to find another ride to New Zealand if it’s rough and you paddle anyway.” He was worried about not being able to help if something did go wrong.<br />
<br />
The hairiest moment came within the first 2nm, before I was out of the Taha’a lagoon. I glided lazily around a point in flat calm water to see the orange freighter headed my way. Since I was already in the channel, I pressed onward, but with more focus. Little did I know that freighter and I would meet again.<br />
<br />
White breakers curled over the reef on both sides as I paddled out the pass. A grey form caught my eye in the clear water. A 5’ black tip reef shark ghosted up along the kayak, then undulated away. Brown and red-footed boobies picked off fish that the dolphins drove to the surface along the outside of the reef. I caught a good view of one leaping dolphin, and it had 2 pink patches on the side of its belly. <br />
<br />
The faintest breath of wind patterned the water, moving with me, offering no relief from the heat. I paddled slowly and deliberately. Even so, my body temperature rose until I felt sluggish. Bora Bora’s volcanic peak beckoned in the distance. Sun lit the neon blue water all around. The skirt lay bunched up in my lap. I unzipped my PFD but left it clipped. Dipped my arms, my hat. Drank water. At 16 degrees south of the equator, the tropical sun can be brutal. Air temperatures were somewhere in the high 90s.<br />
<br />
Eventually I developed a routine. Six minutes before the hour, give or take, I slipped into the warm water and floated, holding onto the kayak. It cooled my temperature down, let me stretch, and have a pee break if necessary. Back on the kayak, I had a snack and turned on my radio to listen for Henrick’s hourly call.<br />
<br />
I did finally take off my PFD and set it between my knees or clipped it on the front deck, depending what I was doing. I understand the risks, and hesitate to provide rationalization, because it’s not something I recommend. Solo paddling a 25nm crossing eliminates many safety nets. On one hand, solo crossings, like many indigenous paddling traditions, relies heavily on personal skill and the judgment of whether or not to go. Gizmos to prolong life may just prolong suffering, and the outside help you call in has a good chance of never finding you. This encourages one to manage risk with heavy emphasis on prevention.<br />
<br />
I know personal skill and judgment have limitations and can both fail. It is with humility and awareness that I set out. I did carry a VHF and have a regular communication plan with Henrick. Not that I relied on this as a safety net. More of a comfort and a way to revise the meet-up plan on the other side. Why not a safety net? It has many weaknesses. It was nearly impossible for him to see me at any distance, especially without my sail up. I could see him from perhaps 4 or 5 miles away in the calm seas. I started with about a 7nm lead, so we did not have visual contact at the start, and later there were several sailboats on my horizon. Even if I told him I was in trouble, and my compass bearing to the sail I thought was his, he was not guaranteed to find me. He certainly couldn’t find me if I couldn’t guide him to me.<br />
<br />
Another weakness was that my VHF was clipped into my PFD. This is not a weakness when my PFD is clipped to my person. When it’s clipped to my boat, losing them both was my thin veil between here and the next realm.<br />
<br />
Body temperature wasn’t just about comfort. It was safety too. In 6 or 7 hours of steady physical work, one can dehydrate, sweat a lot, lose electrolytes, and make it difficult for the body, to complete its mission, or the mind to make good judgments. Hence the hourly swim and snacks as well as frequent drinks and easy pace.<br />
<br />
A couple hours into the paddle, a swell reached around the north end of Taha’a and crossed the south swell I’d been feeling since the pass, making combined seas a gently undulating 1.5 meters. After three hours, the SE wind tried a little harder. The texture on the blue, blue surface lumped up and almost made whitecaps. The sail held its shape when I put it up. Barely. Extremely slowly, the wind increased to about 10kts with lazy whitecaps. I took every advantage of it.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t see a sail behind me on the horizon yet, but a cream-colored blob seemed to be approaching.<br />
<br />
“I don’t see you, but do I see a freighter?” I asked Henrick the next time we talked. <br />
<br />
“Yes, there’s a freighter in front of me and headed your way,” he affirmed.<br />
<br />
Not again! The freighter grew an orange hull beneath the cream-colored bridge as it neared. I kept an eye over my shoulder, and it passed uneventfully about a half mile to the south. <br />
<br />
I saw a faint white smudge on the horizon back in the direction of Raiatea and Taha’a. Then I saw 2. Henrick reported that he was motor sailing and gaining on the boat in front. It’s bad form to motor sail past a boat that’s just under sail when there is enough wind to sail. So he cut the motor and took it as a sailing challenge. Besides, the motor is loud, while sailing is peaceful. <br />
<br />
Bora Bora’s peak got closer, and the hills of Taha’a faded away behind. The white breakers on Bora Bora’s reef appeared when I was on top of a swell. Then they were visible all the time. From the SW corner of the reef, it was still another 3.5nm to the only pass, in the middle of the west side. A post marked the reef’s SW extension. Some current compressed itself around that point, against the wind and my traveling direction. This made conditions lumpy but delightfully surfable.<br />
<br />
Several motorboats patrolled the outside edge of the reef, fishing. One red boat motored over, approaching cautiously. I slowed down to talk. A lone Polynesian fisherman greeted me in Tahitian and asked in English if I just paddled over from Taha’a. <br />
<br />
“Yes,” I replied. Counting on my fingers, I added, “5 hours.” I still had another hour to the entrance through the reef. Any respectable outrigger would have beat me to that point by at least an hour.<br />
<br />
The fisherman smiled broadly and said, “Congratulation! Welcome. Do you want water?” He held up a bottle.<br />
<br />
I reached behind my seat and brought forth my own bottle, my third one. “No. Mauruuru. I have water.” I pointed to his boat and asked, “Good fishing?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, yes!” he replied. We took our leave. I caught a little swell to ride, and looked back to wave goodbye. He flashed his broad white smile and raised a hand.<br />
<br />
At one point I contemplated surfing over the reef into Bora Bora’s lagoon for a short cut. There was a section where the breakers were less than 2’, while all around they broke at 4 or 5’. I dropped the sail, sealed the skirt around the coaming, and zipped up my PFD. I eased closer to watch. What I couldn’t tell from the outside was whether there was enough water over the reef to float once I was inside the waves. Sometimes I just saw a rust-colored berm after a breaker passed.<br />
<br />
Chances? Seventy percent says no problem. Just ride over with the swell. Twenty percent says I lose significant gel coat on the reef, or crack the kayak between the force of the breaker and the resistance of the reef, probably on the second breaker if I don’t make it completely through on the first. Five percent says I lose some blood in the process. My home is still an hour and a half behind. I’m meeting him near the pass. Inside the lagoon will be no swells to ride. And I still have time to kill. <br />
<br />
In the end I decided the thrill of conquering the reef wasn’t worth the risk, and that the subsequent paddling would be boring, negating the thrill anyway. So I continued to the pass.<br />
<br />
Once inside Bora Bora’s lagoon, I dawdled downwind for half an hour to explore the motus (outer islands along the reef), then tacked back and forth up to our meeting spot at the old yacht club, in a cove on the main island. I tied the little Romany up to a mooring ball, went for a celebratory swim, then sat sideways in the cockpit with my feet in the water to have a snack and watch Henrick expertly negotiate the pass under sail.<br />
<br />
I released the mooring ball so he could tie up. I climbed onto Misty and we pulled the Romany up, landing on the very same sailboat I had launched from in the morning. Thus answering the puzzle.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-11291885050271075022012-09-05T16:01:00.002-07:002012-09-05T16:01:33.774-07:00More Birds!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAULOxOyAMg/UEfZkFY3mEI/AAAAAAAAANE/Sm2pfVsooH4/s1600/7061lTuamotu%2Breed-warbler.1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="251" width="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SAULOxOyAMg/UEfZkFY3mEI/AAAAAAAAANE/Sm2pfVsooH4/s320/7061lTuamotu%2Breed-warbler.1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Since I posted the bird stories, a kind Tahitian contacted me to let me know the more common name of the bent-nosed reef poker is Bristle-thighed Curlew (Numenius tahitiensis), teu'e in Tahitian. It breeds in Alaska and winters on tropical Pacific islands.<br />
<br />
He also identified some other birds I’d photographed but not written about. The Tuamotu Reed-warbler (Acrocephalus atyphus) is pictured to the right. It lives only in French Polynesia and was photographed on Tahanea atoll. Thanks Yvan. <br />
<br />
If you would like to comment on any entries, or edumacate me on any factual errors you’ve caught me at, my email is ginnical@yahoo.com.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-67634997202214375842012-09-01T15:24:00.001-07:002012-09-01T15:24:20.067-07:00Tahiti to Moorea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-84zkqIWYNDA/UEKK7nUAqfI/AAAAAAAAAMs/pkJ1BowHpJQ/s1600/7414kayaksailgood4blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="257" width="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-84zkqIWYNDA/UEKK7nUAqfI/AAAAAAAAAMs/pkJ1BowHpJQ/s320/7414kayaksailgood4blog.jpg" /></a></div><br />
This is how most nautical disaster stories begin—it wasn’t quite the weather we wanted, but we had to go anyway. <br />
<br />
When we sail I often watch the sea and imagine paddling in it. However, 2,500nm crossings are more than I want to tackle in a kayak. The Tahiti to Moorea crossing, at 17nm, was finally within reach.<br />
<br />
In an area of SE trade winds, it was an odd forecast: winds ENE up to 20kts. Swell east, turning south and building to 3 meters. The following days forecasted bigger swell and more wind, plus we’d checked out from Tahiti and needed to leave by Sunday. The forecast really wasn’t THAT bad, we reasoned, and the day dawned calm.<br />
<br />
I started out at 9:30 and Henrick was to follow an hour later in Misty. If I kept a 3.5 knot pace with breaks, and he 4.5 to 5 he should catch me about 3 hours into what, for me, should be a 5 hour crossing and him around 4 hours. We could adjust to each other for the last hour, or pull the kayak on board. <br />
<br />
I carried a VHF radio and a GPS so I could know my speed and read Henrick my coordinates so he could find me if we didn’t see each other. I didn’t expect him to see me, but I should see his tall sail. However, it’s a big sea out there.<br />
<br />
Leaving from the western side of Tahiti, we’d be sheltered for a little while. But this wasn’t just shelter; there was NO wind. A long 4ft south swell crossed a shorter, steeper 3’ NE swell, making for gentle, non-rhythmic lumps.<br />
<br />
When I called Henrick on the radio at 10:30 to tell him the conditions and my progress, it was a pleasant morning leisure paddle, full of daydreams and watching for seabirds and occasional motorboats. When I called him the next hour, he could barely hear me. He’d gotten a late start and I a 5nm lead. There was marginally enough wind to put up my Flat Earth Kayak Sail. South, the wind was, not even creating whitecaps. It soon turned west in my face, light enough to just be refreshing.<br />
<br />
I took down the sail, and entertained my self by surfing the NE swell, which had gotten steeper. Warning sign, but still no wind line in sight. Speaking of sight, there wasn’t much but water and sky in sight much of the time because the combined swells were bigger out of the lee of Tahiti, and obscured all but the tops of the mountainous islands. I heard three motor boats coming up behind me long before I could see them. I remember thinking that, while these big seas were fun now, a strong wind could raise the excitement factor exponentially, perhaps too much.<br />
<br />
As long as the sea conditions allowed, I ate the food and drank from the water bottle stashed in my day hatch, leaving the snacks and hydrator in my PFD for when I could no longer access the hatch without risk of flooding it or capsizing. I had just climbed back into my kayak from a refreshing dip when the sea got splashy. Little chop. I looked up from getting myself situated, and there wasn’t just a wind line to the NE, there was a mean whitecap texture to it, and it was approaching fast. Just enough time to seal myself up and hoist the sail. Now I was cruising--5 to 6 knots. The wind built fast, achieved all of the forecasted 20kts in a belated rush, and soon I was catching uninitiated surf rides of 9 knots. Henrick wouldn’t catch me at this rate. <br />
<br />
The third time we talked by radio, I was bracing with one hand and keying the radio with the other when I could, still flying along. New plan: I would continue ahead and we’d talk at 1pm. I could already see the streaming spindrift from the giant breakers on the Moorea reef about a mile ahead, when I was on top of the swell enough to see anything.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later I almost surfed into a motorboat I hadn’t seen over the swells. Three Polynesian fishermen wore surprised looks as I zoomed by under my little kayak sail, and waved. Whenever I rose to the top of the swells, I’d check the line of reef break to my right and search to the left for Henrick’s sail. I thought I saw a thin vertical line of white. How I wanted that to be Henrick’s sail! Flying along was fun, but I wanted the company, and the security. And photos!<br />
<br />
I turned upwind and dropped the sail. Ate a bite of snack and had a sip of water. It’s essential to keep the engine fueled before it runs low in these conditions, this far out. From the near corner of the Moorea reef, we had 6nm to go to the pass, and then probably another half mile into the lagoon to anchor. With this wind direction, the final push would be upwind, after potentially 2 more hours of paddling.<br />
<br />
I felt great. Energized by surf. I thought if I can keep that pace, I could match Henrick, even have to slow down for him sometimes. I could paddle back to meet him and enjoy the rough stuff together, before we rounded the reef and maybe lost the surfable waves.<br />
<br />
I paddled back towards the fishermen, which was also in the direction of Tahiti and where I thought I saw Henrick. Io ora na, I greeted them in Tahitian. They spoke no English, so I mimed to ask if they see a bateaux in the direction of Tahiti. Three necks craned from a higher vantage point than I had, and one man cried out and pointed. They agreed. Bateaux. French is the trade language of these parts. Thankfully, “boat” is among my limited vocabulary. Maitai roa! I exclaimed. Good! And thanked them in Tahitian. The smiled and waved, looking a little concerned.<br />
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I paddled back in the direction of a pointy mountain on Tahiti, since I only rarely saw the thin white line of the sail. Ten minutes later, the wind died. I could see it to the north, sparkling the water. But here just swell and wind chop. I took the excuse to jump in again. It gets hot when the wind isn’t blowing. And I rethought my impulse to paddle back to Henrick. If the wind died and he motored, I’d never keep up with him by just paddling. Sailing my kayak was my only chance. So I conserved energy by waiting. Stretching. Looking about. The strong wind returned and I paddled slowly into it and the big swells to hold position. <br />
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The fishermen motored by to see if everything was OK. I gave them thumbs up and a big smile. One pointed at the sailboat, and mimed a question if it was coming here. I nodded enthusiastically. Then they motored away towards Misty, passed close enough to see Henrick wave, waved back and motored away. This Henrick told me later.<br />
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One pm and the radio crackled. “I see you!” I replied. Over one swell, I actually saw the red hull below the sail. Relieved that it was the right sailboat I was looking at. <br />
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“I don’t see you” came the reply. No surprise there, since I’m a lot smaller. I looked at my compass and pointed my kayak at the boat. 90 degrees. <br />
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“I’m 270 degrees from you, less than half a mile out.” I said. “I’ll put up my sail.”<br />
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I snapped photos of him coming closer, then turned and surfed along, taking photos with one hand and bracing with the other. He snapped photos of me too. When even one swell came between us, I couldn’t see him at all, just the sail. Directional control for both of us was challenging enough not to want to get closer. Misty’s mast swung in all directions in the crazy swell. Waves would pivot the boat and the wind-steering would slowly bring it back. The kayak sometimes took off in a direction not completely of my choosing, and once at speed, capsizing was my only option to stop quickly.<br />
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Now I had a speed to match. Henrick still had full sail up on Misty and was doing almost 7 knots. The wind dropped slightly and I had to paddle full out between surf rides, and sometimes during the surf. After a half an hour or so of the intensity, he pulled ahead and I could feel my energy waning. I took up my radio to call him and ask if he could reef the sail or turn upwind to let me gain a little on him. In the moment of releasing the paddle with one hand and glancing down, a wave knocked me over. Under water. Tired, not wanting to get left behind. Wit’s end. Time to exit. I reached for the loop on my skirt. <br />
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I did what?! Stop the music! <br />
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Suddenly my mind turned back on and talked reason to me. “Bailing out of your kayak will make a bigger mess. Don’t exit, just roll up. You have plenty of air. Be calm and do it.” So I did.<br />
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The sail flopped to the side, the radio dangled from its tether, Misty pulled ahead. I gathered the sail and bungeed it. Picked up the radio and heard it crackling. Henrick asked if I was OK.<br />
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“I’m fine,” I panted, still out of breath from the long sprint.<br />
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“Do you want me to wait?”<br />
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“Yes, please!”<br />
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From here my world got calmer but Henrick’s went a little wonky. Motor on, turn upwind to reef, crazy lumpy sea. He took 2 reefs in the sail and went back on course. Somewhat protected by Moorea’s coral reef, we could travel near enough to shout to each other over the engine which he left running so he could help me if needed. At one point the preventer line from the mainsail flopped into the water and caught in the propeller.<br />
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We paused so I could clear the line from Misty’s propeller, a good excuse for another swim and a little break. For Misty, a critical repair before she could go by engine again.<br />
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So it wasn’t really a disaster story, just moments of excitement. Both nearing our limits of skill and coping, both pulling through in the end.<br />
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We cruised along in the slowly calming sea and dropping wind. I could keep up, even maneuver about and take photos of Misty with the verdant spires of Moorea in the background. Eventually, the wind died altogether and my sail flapped. I took it down. Henrick motored along at 4 knots for the last mile and I focused on paddling technique and breathing. Mantra: one more mile. <br />
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We entered the pass together, snapping photos of each other in front of perfect , peeling Polynesian waves.<br />
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-4383194522159218502012-08-23T15:19:00.000-07:002012-09-01T15:21:48.223-07:00Bouyancy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zEYIFJDuSdQ/UEKKVnKJG6I/AAAAAAAAAMg/PuSwuh2Degs/s1600/4098MistyfromTahiti4blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="256" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zEYIFJDuSdQ/UEKKVnKJG6I/AAAAAAAAAMg/PuSwuh2Degs/s320/4098MistyfromTahiti4blog.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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“Shells sink, dreams float…”<br />
-Jimmy Buffet<br />
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I used to think there were 2 separate circles: Possible and Impossible. <br />
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Just out of college, I worked at Fred Meyer for pennies over minimum wage. Clipping coupons, living cheap, and barely having the money for a tank of gas to go hike the mountains on the weekend, I hated the slavery of money. Hated being stuck. Then I met Dan. In a year, we quit work, got married, and started bicycling across the country. We took 11 months, and stopped to work along the way. That trip was the beginning of my change of mind about “impossible”.<br />
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What if Possible and Impossible overlapped? Or, more radically, what if they are the same circle? What if all that is impossible is possible, depending on mindset?<br />
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It’s been said that even the longest journey begins with one step. Just sticking out one foot, and trusting the weight to it. How often is that step left untaken because it is believed impossible? <br />
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Impossible: I can’t because ______ . Job, family, home, debts, distance, gravity.<br />
Possible: How? Sell this, restructure that. Where do I start? How much time to allow? How much helium does it take to loft a dream? <br />
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With Henrick on Misty, we were never completely ready to start our voyage. Always one more project to tackle, one more webpage to update. After pushing the departure date back several times, we just left.<br />
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Strip “I can’t” to the bare naked fear underneath, look at it bravely, tenderly, in the eye. You can choose your priorities. Or let fear do it for you.<br />
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There have been nights on all my intrepid wanderings when I would have traded adventure for a place to call home, a secure roof. Even a steady job. But I’ve made choices, and they have their rewards, too. <br />
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“Forgive the moment,” say some philosophies. Accept what is. Change what you choose to and embrace the rest. All other options involve resentment. <br />
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On our present voyage, I can hate the sea for bouncing us around. Grumble at Misty for being such a cork. Resent my stomach for its pathetic sensitivity. Or breathe and look for a horizon, in the distance or within. The down times are opportunities for regeneration.<br />
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When Misty was in the boatyard, we had written on the wall, “Anything is Possible”. Below that, “No matter what happens, it’s OK.” Life without fear. Is it possible?<br />
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Possible is a pool. You can dive in. Move your limbs in all directions. Leap like a dolphin. Float on your back and make snow angels in pure liquid. Once you get the feel for the water, once you trust it, it supports you. Movement is refreshing. Possibilities, invigorating. <br />
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Impossible is the sinking pool. Weight belts of fear. Flailing of ineffective movements, vertical clawing at the air for salvation.<br />
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Often I wake up and dive into the wrong pool. The Polynesian internet connection for which I paid $70 for 20 hours is counting down but not working. There’s so much piled up computer work that I can’t breathe, let alone go for a paddle. This morning a migraine fells me, and I can’t even look at a computer screen.<br />
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OK, recalibrate. I can breathe. I can breathe deeply, with awareness. I can feel the knotted muscles of my face, and untie them. Feel the tension in shoulders and relax it. The squint around my eyes. The fist in my belly. Breathe. Unwind. Feel the light Tahitian breeze coming in through the hatch. Hear the surf on the outer reef, a passing siren, and Henrick working on his blog.<br />
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Forgive the moment. Accept what is. And find the buoyancy again. The journey of a lifetime begins with one step. This one.<br />
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Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6415980.post-23689747357269848452012-08-22T17:28:00.000-07:002012-08-21T17:46:30.733-07:00Birds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FPoKlpG9WRs/UDMQFlzQ_rI/AAAAAAAAAIk/EtzaWVKyQSs/s1600/4376petrel%2Bprobablyclose4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear:right; float:right; margin-left:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="226" width="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FPoKlpG9WRs/UDMQFlzQ_rI/AAAAAAAAAIk/EtzaWVKyQSs/s320/4376petrel%2Bprobablyclose4.jpg" /></a></div>
I started photographing birds on our crossing from Mexico to the South Pacific because looking for them gave me an excuse to stand in the cockpit and stare at the horizon for hours, which was a good antidote to seasickness. Then I realized that photos were great aids for identification. One could zoom in closer with the camera than with the eye. The photo would hold still long enough to study markings against the Seabirds book. The challenges of taking clear photos of a flying bird from a moving boat, with the dynamic background of the sea, kept me trying.
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On anchor in the Marquesas I fell in love with the flocks of little white terns and their aerial maneuvers. Sun caught them dancing against a dark background of verdant hillside or grey full-bellied cloud. But I couldn’t get a satisfactory photo.
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With the mission of capturing their carefree spirit in pixels, I went ashore with the camera on the atoll of Makemo. That started a tradition of wandering about on scraps of land in the South Pacific and photographing birds, and other things that caught my eye.
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The following posts are vignettes about some of the birds photographed. For more photos, please see the bird post on Henrick’s blog (link on left)
Ginni Callahanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02901001278774218454noreply@blogger.com