Three Days to Guerrero Negro

Abraham Levy is kayaking the entire coast of Mexico. He has already completed the Caribbean side and now paddles some weeks south of Tijuana.

Ginni Callahan is taking a two-week break from guiding and coaching in the Sea of Cortez to surf with Dave at their favorite break on Baja’s Pacific coast.

January 9, 2008, Abraham paddles by the surf camp too far out to see, lands some miles south at a fishing village, and begins to set up camp.

In the village, Nacha and Sergio are preparing fish tacos to sell at the surf camp when they notice a brilliant yellow and orange kayak pulled up on the beach across the road from their house. They invite the handsome, travel-worn kayaker in for food, hear about his mission, and bring him to the surf camp, along with their fish tacos that evening, to meet some other kayakers.

At first he doesn’t look familiar, but his journey rings a bell. Yes, the guy paddling around Mexico. He was mentioned in a Canoe & Kayak magazine given to us because of a feature on Ginni. We swap notes on coasts we’ve both paddled, gather information on new places, trace our fingers along nautical charts by the dim light of our headlamps. Questions, answers, English, Spanish. The energy builds like a wave.

“Que remas?” I give him a tour of my Romany kayak. Abraham follows with video camera. Then the interview. Como se llama? Ginni Callahan. Donde estamos? At Rancho San Andres. Que piensas sobre este viaje? Sounds like fun. I want to go!

It was an offhand remark on my part. But a serious invitation followed.

Just after sunrise the next morning, a dirt-encrusted blue pickup lumbers over the rocky road towards the fishing village of Santa Rosalillita carrying one light green Romany kayak on the roof. David has decided not to paddle three days to Guerrero Negro with this ambitious young man, and Ginni, yes.

Nacha and Sergio serve us all a warm breakfast of eggs and beans and tortillas and homemade salsa. Some fussing with gear, some goodbyes, and Abraham and Ginni take to the sea, each with their own style of entry.

It’s a two-foot beach break, dumping all at once onto a moderately steep, scalloped beach. Abraham puts his kayak in the low spot, on the sand, enters, and inches forward with his hands until a wave meets him and he can paddle through the little break. Less traditionally, Ginni waits at the bow of her kayak on a slightly higher hill of surf-rounded cobbles until a medium-sized wave washes up to the boat. She pulls it down with the retreating water, hops aboard on her belly like a surfer to paddle a few strokes past the breaker zone, sits up, and slides her legs into the cockpit.

“Nunca lo he visto eso.” I have never seen that before, says Abraham. It was one of many firsts.

Santa Rosalillita falls behind as we head towards the distant point. The coast between Santa Rosalillita and Guerrero Negro is not a part I’d choose to paddle this time of year. January brings the biggest swell and chance of the worst winds. The route has few landings and miles of steep beaches that are completely exposed to the predominant NW swell. One landing is a surf spot they call The Wall. It’s where surfers go when they want to catch the biggest waves.

Abraham sets a good pace and evidently enjoys having someone to talk to. We drift toward whichever side I’m on as I try to keep the boats just far enough apart to avoid hitting paddles on each others boats at the exit of each stroke. We talk the whole day, and there is much to learn about each other.

He loved beaches as a kid and wanted to know all the beaches in Mexico. What better vehicle than a kayak? He learned to paddle in rivers. Pursued sponsorship of his dream for four years before finally launching his expedition. Continued learning en route along the Caribbean, and the Pacific would teach him even more.

Even more than a paddling trip and a dream, this trip is his business. “If you want to do well at anything, you have to learn how to sell,” an uncle once advised. Abraham learned to sell telephones door to door. Trying to sell his trip to sponsors he discovered that nobody wants to support something little. Make it big; ask for lots of money. His success is grandly evident in the boat he paddles, brightly smattered with logos. The shirt he wears for interviews has his sponsors printed on it. The wall behind him at speaking events is papered in logos. “If you want to do anything badly enough, and you keep working at it, you can do anything,” he declares. That smile doesn’t hurt a bit either, I’m sure.

The sea is gentle with us, and after three hours of sociable paddling we approach The Wall. An old river mouth a mile in width, forms a NW point which magnifies the swell. Breakers begin tumbling well offshore because of the long rocky reef. Arrecife, in Spanish. The rolling of rr’s sounds like the rumble of surf at a distance.

We take turns being taller than each other on the lifting swell. “Soy mas alta.” “Ya no.”
“I know why they call this place The Wall,” says Abraham. “These are walls of water.”
There are also walls of rock on land, built by surfers as meager protection from the frequent winds, which mercifully forget to blow while we’re there. Ten miles is Abraham’s shortest day yet, but we have plans to surf in the afternoon.

Abraham, for all his miles, has never just gone surfing. Surf is a door for him to pass through between beach and sea. I, on the other hand, live on the beach and paddle the sea so I can find fun places to surf. So it is to be for the 3 days we paddle together to Guerrero Negro: two skilled paddlers with different strengths, different perspectives, different backgrounds, and different languages, yet plenty enough in common to relish the playful sharing of company.

If the wave is gentle and hard to catch, especially if you’re starting far down the shoulder, aim towards the breaking part of the wave to catch it, then turn and ride with it. Abraham learns quickly. On a wave too big to see his head as he rides it (from my perspective further out to sea) I can follow the trail of his kayak moving towards the peak, then back away in a perfect reading and riding of a wave.

Dinner involves some strange combinations. Freeze-dried Mountain House Sante Fe Chicken (his contribution), and Mexican staples refried beans, fresh avocado and tortillas (my addition). The world of the burrito has never seen the like. Abraham breaks out his camping luxuries for the occasion—a short aluminum table, a foldable plastic serving spoon, and a titanium spork. A pair of osprey watches us from their nest in a nearby datilillo, or Joshua Tree. The nest is much bigger than the spindly, bent trunk should support, which makes it look like a Dr Seuss invention.

Darkness brings the setting of a red crescent moon, then photo sharing. On my camera, we see shots of Abraham surfing. On his phone/camera/marvel of technology, we see his entire trip. Stars revolve slowly past this private showing of a very publicized trip.

The image in my mind that exemplifies Abraham Levy will never be seen by any other. With my camera in my pocket, I paddle for my own survival as we leave The Wall the next morning. I summit a wave, slide down the backside, and look over my shoulder for Abraham. Through the crest of the wave bursts an orange and yellow streak, water streaming off as it soars completely airborne into the morning sunlight. This man has the muscle and grit to make his dreams fly.

Scale is deceiving on the water, especially with the low sunlight angle of winter. Abraham, with his poor eyesight, thinks the hazy distant point which alone populates our southern horizon, is Isla Cedros, some 60 NM away. I disagree. The day will reveal it as we get closer.

Intensive talk of day one diminishes, as it usually does. Spanish practice switches to English practice. Abraham fishes and catches some Sargasso, but no fish. The wind picks up and then dies back down. Still we paddle. A gull inspects us so closely I almost whack it with my paddle by accident.

Shore is over 2 miles away, and we are an island. The island sings. It sings poorly in English. It sings quite beautifully in Spanish. Traditional songs, sad songs. Sometimes the island is quiet and moves slowly along its course. “You don’t feel so far away when you paddle with someone else,” says Abraham. This is the first time he has paddled with someone on his entire trip.

The headland turns out not to be Isla Cedros, but Morro Santo Domingo, a long rocky point with several little sandy beaches near the mouth of Laguna Manuela. Most of the pocket beaches have big surf crashing onto them, but we work our way around into more protection and find the perfect one under the lighthouse, whose position is mismarked on my nautical chart. Everything about the beach is right. It faces south so we can see sunset, sunrise, and tomorrow’s paddling direction. The sand is clean and lovely for going barefoot. Red rocks embrace the evening sunlight with a most satisfying hue. The flat sand at the top of the beach is just large enough for two kayaks, two tents, and a common eating area. A trail leads up the hill to the lighthouse. And, for the businessman, signal for the phone and internet actually work for the first time in ten days. We can sit on the beach and GoogleEarth the upcoming coastline. Who needs those old-fashioned nautical charts?

It’s quite an undertaking, kayaking the whole coast of Mexico, especially solo. In the Caribbean Abraham had to shelter from hurricane winds in a patch of mangrove, constructing a platform above alligator-infested waters for the night. Further north on the Pacific he had to crash land through big surf when winds made it impossible to continue. But he’d never seen anything like the mouth of the Estero de San Jose. Our destination Guerrero Negro is situated inside this bay.

Estero San Jose is one of several lagoons along Baja’s Pacific coast, most famous for the gray whales that calve and mate here from January through March. Laguna Ojo de Liebre, Laguna San Ignacio, Bahia Magdelena.

As we approach Estero San Jose, the entire horizon is house-sized breakers. They tumble and tumble without getting closer to the coast. Two forces collide to make it thus: swell and current.

Earlier that morning could tell that the swell is building on our beach below the lighthouse by the tremendous crashing of waves on our eastern rocky point. “Such power without malice,” comments Abraham. “Beautiful.”

Paddling towards the boca, the entrance to the lagoon, we follow a compass bearing of 170 degrees. We need this reference because we can only see land occasionally, when we are on the crests of long swells. Even from the tops of waves, we can’t spot the 2-mile wide entrance because of the flatness of the sandy coast and the height of the breakers between us and there. The primary view is green, undulating sea, and each other. We won’t know until we check the online report in Guerrero Negro that the swell was 19-22’ on exposed NW-facing beaches, which this is.

Current is the other force. Living on the beach, in the surf, one gets in tune with the rhythm of tides. I didn’t have a tide chart, but could calculate that if we left the beach at our usual 9 or 10 am, we’d fight an increasing ebb current as we tried to enter the bay around 1 pm. Having had experience at the mouth of another Pacific lagoon, I suggest we aim to enter before 11am, and get an early morning start. Abraham is young and strong and does not need to plan around tides, so we leave at 10.

The bocas of Baja’s Pacific estuaries are notorious for their power and their shifty channels. I have the only nautical chart between us, and it shows four light towers, none of which still exist. This is the opening through which much of the world’s salt was once exported, so I envision something tamer, something less… well, less Baja. The horizon of tumbling white houses extends well over a mile out to sea. There is no visible channel of deeper smooth water. Breakers from the current meet the breakers along the sandy beach where more big swells trip over themselves and fall into a white froth. It’s a bit more than I have prepared myself for, so I adjust my mental calibration of “gnarly landing” as we approach. About then the wind begins building and pushing us shoreward.

“Plans?” I ask the man whose trip I have been invited on. He seems surprised by the question. “You’re the guide,” he says, as if my certifications mean more than his experience.

I have been working on a plan, which we both execute cleanly, though I wish for a ready camera once again and miss a fun shot of a small orange and yellow kayak in front of the open mouth of a hungry wave. Between sets of very big waves, I surf a shoulder-high one in to the shore. I look over the back of it and see that image, then hear the wave break, and see him skimming along broadside with a mighty fine brace keeping him just in front of its gnashing teeth. Once inside the bigger breakers, we paddle parallel to the smaller inshore waves for about 15 minutes until we think we see the entrance, take a quick look about from shore, and spot a channel to follow into the mouth. Mission accomplished, except for a few small breakers inside the mouth and 2 more hours of paddling against the current to meet David for our ride into town.

As it is with travelers, the sharing of a path, however briefly, has its influences. Abraham gleaned some skills along the way. For me, another piece of the Pacific coast is mapped in my mind. Before the forces of the sea, I am again as ever, humbled. Yet have gained in a feeling of peaceful confidence. I have been stretched and challenged and found myself capable, though at the end, mortally tired. The experience has broadened my awareness of what is and can be the business of kayaking, though to guard my heart and soul, I don’t even want to think about it. On some level I agree with Abraham’s uncle that you have to sell to succeed; I just don’t want to live my whole life that way. Not much of it at all, really.

Paddle on. May the sea be gentle with you!

Follow Abraham's trip at http://www.abrahamlevy.com
see photos at http://www.columbiariverkayaking.com/pixntales.html#grono

12-step Program for those aspiring to run a Mexican Kayak Company

1. Admit you have a problem.
2. Accept that the rules, requirements, and personnel responsible for them will change regularly.
3. The amount and consequences of the change will be proportional to how much time, energy, and resource you have already invested in doing things the old way.
4. Laugh.
5. Cry.
6. Comply.
7. Pay.
8. Borrow Money. (This step may precede step 7)
9. Learn that “mañana” does not mean the day following this one. It just means “certainly not today.”
10. Repeat steps 2-9.
11. Repeat steps 2-9 a few more times.
12. Review step 1.


Hi Friends & Family!

We’re actually hoping to cross the border today, for real, into Mexico with our kayaks and gear for the first Sea Kayak Baja Mexico season. We’ve been at the border for a week working on what we thought was already in order (really we knew it couldn’t possibly be that easy; we just didn’t know WHAT the challenges were going to be. This is what makes it so exciting!). We will gladly accept any prayers, good thoughts, sacrifices etc. that you may be willing to offer up in support of this folly. Repeat step 4 often!

Lots of love and good humor!
Ginni & David & 11 dusty kayaks

Swim

5/4/07
Baja Hwy 1

The challenge of forming a company in a foreign country where over half of the working population are civil employees supported by the fees, permits, registrations, and bribes of your tourist-based enterprise is taking its toll on both of us. Work up north is closing in from the other side. We leave our new Mexican partner with some alternatives to “just make it work for now and we’ll fix it right in November”, jump into the already packed Toyota Corolla and head out of Loreto just before sunset. Cue the dust, billowing backlit among cardon cacti as the car dwindles into the mountains. Pop in a tape that has “freedom” in the title of every song on it.

The immediacy and opportunity of the road infect our spirits with lightheartedness. We begin rebuilding positive momentum and the fundamental joy of simply being, and even being together.

Sunrise is a good start. We awake on Playa Escondida. A fat moon one day past full has marked time all flea-infested night and now waits over the western mountains. Under its light and the first blush of the coming sun I succumb to the desire to swim out to the nearest island in the glassy Sea of Cortez.

Leaving my towel and clothes just above the wet sand on the surf-softened shell fragments, I wade barefoot into the sea. It’s a little cool, but comfortable.

The surface of the water reflects the colors of the sky as they mature in to peachy orange and turquoise. I can see my hands extend in front of me under the diaphanous colors. The moon, too, floats behind a transparent curtain of water colors. Pink clouds waft across its bright face.

It feels good to move, stretch, loosen up after days of computer work, bending to pack, sitting in a car, and sleeping on a sloped beach. It feels particularly good to be gliding through the water as absolutely naked as I was born. No suit to billow in the water, no bulky mask to fog or grip my head. No fins to rub. Not even a hair band to keep the tresses from drifting across my back or under my arms on the crawl stroke. Just me and the sea and a brand new day.

I could see David walking the beach for interesting fragments from the sea or the indigenous people. It’s our new era—co-owning a Mexican company as a means to the dream of instructional sea kayak expeditions in Baja. Somehow the dreams are always cleaner than the work to birth them. If it were easy, would the accomplishment be so sweet? The challenge is to remain human and to stay in touch with the fundamental, simple pleasures of just being and being together in places that we love.

Last Islands Trip

Was it an omen when we discovered on the first night that we’d forgotten to pack the coffee? What could be worse to forget, except perhaps toilet paper? Or maybe the prevailing omen was one of resourcefulness and kindness when David paddled the coffee out to us the next morning through the rare Sea of Cortez fog.

I didn’t think about it until almost the end of the trip, but if plans hold their course, this was my last Sea of Cortez Islands trip that I will lead for my employers of 8 years, Sea Kayak Adventures. On this route I have spent most of my last 8 winters, on the beaches of Carmen and Danzante Islands. My next trip is the La Paz 10-day, and that’s it for the season. Next season I hope to be busy with my own trips in new areas, and gently close the book on an era of paddling giant double kayak/barges and making extravagant meals. A change to look forward to while still feeling nostalgic, and a little nervous about braving the new. But at the beginning of this trip, its significance had not yet dawned on me.

When my well-coffee’d group finally launched into the fog later that morning to skirt Danzante Island, we were accompanied by a pod of dolphins. They passed directly beneath some of the kayaks. Leisurely we cruised together along the rocky coastline while mystery clouds poured into the creases between hills. Fog played hide and seek with silhouettes of odd desert plants on the ridges. Dolphins stuck their noses in the air to look around. Slapped the water with their tails. Circled back with apparent curiosity. The white darkness of fog moved behind us on the water, and sun bathed our happy aquatic procession.

One afternoon on southern Carmen Island we all hiked inland from Playa Blanca to see if we could find the fabled Indian well. There is a shell midden at the beach being eroded by recent storms, and a guest on my trip years ago found an arrowhead on the beach. An Indian well would make sense here. Except for the flat marine shelf we were on, and the proximity of the sea. Curiosity had all of us in its grip, so we followed the south rim of the arroyo naming, photographing, fondling and sniffing plants along the way. The arroyo below us was thick with foliage. Mesquite trees and giant torote reached up to the level of the rim. Palo verde clung onto the sides tenaciously.

A little barrel cactus torn by some torrent or wind clung to the rim’s sharp soil by one filamentous root. One of our party wanted to pick it up and “save” it, though she didn’t know what she would do with it, exactly. That instinct to give suffering things a hug.

We were a group more experienced in administering hugs than kayaking. Eight women in or near their 60s, woven together by threads of friendship and friends of friends, though none knew everybody. Plus one young couple and a middle-aged pair of fun-loving best friends. Derek from the couple and our guide Mario were the only men, but they managed. The eight women were all fit and spirited. Well versed in rolling with the surprises of life. Motherhood, grandparenting for many, travels around the globe. At least two had fought breast cancer and won. Several owned their own businesses, one donating much to cancer research. Now they were tackling the new challenges of a kayak camping trip with grace and humor. For some it was their first time in a kayak, ever. And it was the first time for all of them on an archeological expedition to find an Indian well on a desert island.

Mario walked ahead, and called my name. I left the pitied barrel cactus and those who wanted to hug it and followed the sound of his voice. At the top of the pouroff, just above what would be the waterfall had there been water running, and overhung by trees, was a hole about 4 ft around with fine gravel at the bottom. Decades or centuries after its creation, after untold storms had carried debris into it, it was still deep enough to hold significant water after a storm. Mario lowered himself in, marking the depth, scientifically, at one Mario and a half.

On the fifth day we awoke after a full night of westerlies that had been preceded by southerlies, and both Mario & I suspected north wind within the next days. We changed plans. After a morning hike and early lunch, we crossed to the protection of Punta Coyote. Except Punta Coyote was occupied, so we continued to Rattlesnake Beach with a fun 10 knot following sea. The mesquite-bordered campsite at Rattlesnake where my friends Dan & Heather stayed two years ago was vacant, as was the entire south end of the popular RV beach. So we landed and made ourselves at home. So many layers of memory and experience there for me. Klaus & Parvin’s newly vacant site was the next one, where Derek and Michelle pitched their tent. Bunny put up her tent in the subtle arroyo mouth where David & I slept out on the beach together for the first time. Where the Giggle Girls pitched among the mangle dulce bushes, I used to park my truck when I left on short personal trips, except the year Paul and Alisa were camped there.

As we set up the kitchen in Dan & Heathers site, I wrapped myself happily in blankets of warm memory. Somebody requested for Happy Hour entertainment on our final evening together that Joan and I do some voice & flute duets. I put my flute together and was trying to remove enough popcorn from my teeth to play when I turned to see 3 people entering the edge of the campsite. I waved, then recognized them. Scott and Cara. And Hans! The one responsible for introducing me to kayaking and Baja ten years ago. The one whose fault I was here at all. The inspiration for this life I lead. This is the moment when the soundtrack should do something dramatic. These vortices of energy and time and people just don’t do this except in fiction.

I visited Hans and Scott and Cara that night after my crew had fallen asleep. We retold old stories and caught up on news till the southern cross and scorpius came up. A new memory to snuggle into and smile when the cold wind blows.

The next morning, as planned, and just after coffee was ready, Joan and I faced the Sea of Cortez where Danzante Island’s silhouette glowed pregnant with a sun about to rise, and we harmonized Morning Has Broken. She and I, both recent breast cancer survivors, shared that bond and a general affection for each other. We became one energy for a moment in the music and the first glow of morning. The sun peeked up, a reflection widened on the water, sparkled, and everything came together on this last morning, to the soundtrack of voice and flute.

Thus a magical ending of an era, and a fitting beginning of the next.

Saved by a Leaky Boat

The trips began as most do, obediently following its itinerary. Then the wind picked up. This was a group with itchy feet, not wanting to sit on the beach, but preferring to challenge the wind. So, figuring we could always get back to Punta Coyote from Rattlesnake Beach, we cruised a mile downwind to walk a storm-scoured arroyo. The short paddle was in an area relatively protected by the hills of Puerto Escondido.

The excitement began when we launched to return. Digging into the wind was tougher than people expected, and after half an hour we’d put only a few hundred yards behind us. Some people were wearing down, and periodically somebody would lose their angle into the wind and struggle to turn back into it. I towed two doubles from the back of the group to the front, and looking at the big picture, decided it was time to surrender and take the group into the beach. Walking the kayaks up the beach was our pre-discussed back-up plan. The situation would be easier to control, and risks greatly reduced if we walked the kayaks up to the headland, then paddled the short, more protected crossing.

One guy in particular was upset and wanted to continue paddling, but the majority was relieved and saw the sense in it. Dan thought I was singling him out to go to the beach as a punishment for something since I sent him and his wife and their friends Chris and Regina in first, but they happened to be closest, and among the strongest, and I figured they could help others land if they were on shore. Discussion in the wind was not an option; it was one of those rare times for orders. He didn’t hesitate, but he sure got a lot of mileage out of grumbling about it afterwards!

All landed safely, we regrouped, briefed on safe walking of kayaks along the shore—keeping boat between self and shore, and not passing anyone in the line and in so doing putting them at risk of your kayak hitting them. Slowly, the parade progressed to the end of the beach, where a fateful green panga waited. A panga is an oversized rowboat with a motor used for fishing, tourism, and pretty much everything in Baja. Pangas are usually white with blue gunwales, but this one was painted green on the outside.

One gal was so pooped she wanted a hotel. No more wind, no more beach camping, no more paddling. So there were the 2 extremes: one wanted to keep paddling, and one wanted to go home. Friends of both told me later that they are just that way—one flighty and tried to cancel trip twice before it even began, and one (from New Jersey—I should make allowances) always challenging the “rules”. He was the one most often asked to put his shoes back on.

There we were in the wind, fifteen tired, hungry, paddlers facing a quarter mile more wind across the opening to Puerto Escondido. I was opening my mouth to organize a sheltered rest and gorp snack while the rest of my brain tackled the short crossing—partners to switch, strategies and angles… Lino caught me and said, “I know the guy who has that panga. We can find gas from someone on the beach, and take people to camp in the panga.”

I looked at the group, at the panga, and at the wind, and something clicked. To the group I announced, “We’re going to see if we can find gas for the panga while you rest.” A cheer went up. I suggested some places to sit out of the wind, and walked down the beach with Lino.

We chatted about options on the way. My raw left foot started to bleed from the rubbing of my sandal. Option one: We could haul the tired people in Panga, paddle the others, and then tow the kayaks. All that would take time and we’d be late for lunch with hungry tired people. I wasn’t sure about towing the kayaks—what damage we’d do in the wind. The trip was over the next day and we could get a pick-up right where the kayaks were if we wanted to keep the panga and ride out in the morning, which was option two. Or, option three, we could bring camp and lunch to the people where they sat on Rattlesnake beach. But there was no good place to camp where we were. And we did not want to retreat back down the beach to the open spaces and need to paddle back into the headwind again, with a forecast of stronger wind the next day.

Considering the forecast, the tiredness of the group, and all other factors, we decided on option two. Shuttle people, the rest of the food, and all loose gear back to camp in the panga in two shifts, and leave the kayaks in the care of the RVers “Honey Jim” and his wife, both kayakers themselves, and their Rottweiler dog. Back at camp there would be snorkeling opportunities and a single kayak to play with if people wanted in the afternoon.

I asked Lori to wait until after lunch to make a decision on leaving for a hotel. After lunch, Lori did still want a hotel if we could get a taxi and a ride out. We felt we needed to make one more trip back to the kayaks to close them up and tie them together just to feel better about leaving them, and we could take Lori and Glenda (who would go with Lori for support) to the ramp and call a taxi. We could also call SKA house to change our pickup location to Rattlesnake Beach. And make troops happy by bringing back some beer. This part was a secret.

The troops were crashed in their tents or sitting with a book or taking a relaxing walk along the coast. They were ready for some down time. We had challenged the conditions, and met our match. Spirits were generally good, except for grumbling Dan whom nobody took seriously anyway, least of all his wife who’d been in the front of his boat unable to open her eyes for the salt spray. Rest was welcome.

So Hilary held the beach front while I went with Lino and the girls, called a taxi, and walked with the girls to the beer store while we waited for the taxi. They said they’d had a great time, just were ready to sleep in a hotel and take a shower. One more night on the beach, they explained, couldn’t add any more to their experience. Sometimes I just don’t know what to believe about people!

There was beer at the store (which there hadn’t been the afternoon before when Lino and Jim paddled for it), and I sent beer, ice, and the girls in the taxi, which arrived as we reached the store, back to the ramp to deliver beer and pick up the girls’ stuff. I asked the taxi driver to take them to Hacienda Suites, but wait to make sure they had rooms there, or take them to a place with room availability.

Then I ran next door to the internet room to call for the Rattlesnake Beach pickup the next day, and began running back to the ramp. I hailed a passing VW van of yachters for a ride back, met Lino at the ramp, rode to Rattlesnake Beach to close and tie up the kayaks, then quickly back to the group on Punta Coyote. The afternoon jaunt was a mini-adventure involving a panga ride, walking, running, a taxi, and hitchhiking, all in the space of an hour and a half.

The New Jersey contingent of our group, up from their naps, was walking towards the lighthouse when we returned in the panga. We exchanged waves, then continued on to land at the beach, brought up the beer and ice, and got the lowdown on the walkers. Julie, one of our sprightly old ladies, had walked that way while the others napped. She came back reporting that she’d walked around to the side where the yachts anchored, and successfully begged a beer.

“Did you have to show your boobies?” one of the Jersey girls asked.
“Yeah, but you’ll do much better with yours because they’re young and perky,” Julie replied.

Upon hearing that report, the Jersey crew started their hike, wives in tow. That’s when we returned with our surprise cold beer for Julie, the big storyteller, to enjoy first while we laughed at the gullibility of the others and what they would do for a cold brew.

The next morning we panga’d people and gear out in three trips, the first of which I went on, helped unload gear, and rode back with Lino to facilitate the next trip. On the return, at his request, I sat up front to keep the bow down while Lino captained. The early morning sun gilded his straw hat, strap hooked under his brown chin. His full lips were relaxed but stoic, eyes obscured behind sunglasses--mirrors of the morning. Behind him the spray from our boat arched, our white trail stretched through the whitecaps, the red mountains rose impartial. Behind the last light blue bench seat Lino’s sandaled feet stood ankle deep or more in water that was geysering up from the thumb-sized hole and numerous pin-pricks in the bottom. As the captain steered with one hand, his face and manner intent on the horizon, the weather, the future, and all things pertinent to the sea and sky, his other hand scooped water and flung, scooped and flung with a homemade bleach-bottle bailer.

The juxtaposition of chaos and calm, all contained in the light blue interior of our vessel, a cradle in the storm with its dark blue gunwales somehow delineating this patch of peace in the midst of a storm, became not a juxtaposition at all, but a small perfect piece of a larger picture. It was a microcosm of our situation. The team of Lino, Hilary and myself, with the helpful hands of our guests, worked together to execute the ever evolving plan (Plan Q are we up to now?) Managing resources, people, and time, with the wind whipping around our heads and somehow a core of quiet from which we reach out to steer, look ahead, and bail the leaky rescue boat. A metaphor of life itself.

So that was the exciting ending to a memorable trip that also involved the capsize of a guide in a double on a crossing (and uneventful rescue), being followed by a film crew in an inflatable as we landed from that crossing, and seeing a 10’ shark from a hillside on the final morning’s hike. And people wonder how it doesn’t get boring after ten years of guiding here!

Paddle On!
Ginni

Wandering

Surf Camp, January 2007

I set out along the road at a jog. I set out into the wilderness, the road being only the memory of passing tires on impressionable desert soil. Beyond the road the influences of consequence are wind and the paws of coyotes, whose tracks are then erased by wind. Sand piles up behind low shrubs, drifts in waves into ravines. It sorts into ripples and stripes of graytone, and remembers passing mice until the wind rearranges all.

There are also decomposing piles of shells from indigenous people long ago. All living things, in their task of being alive, move resources from one place to another, in their hands, their bellies, their shovels, or with their orders. The indigenous people pulled shells from the sea, ate the fleshy manufacturers of those shells, abalone, clam, sea snail, limpet, and mussel. They left shell heaps that are now, two hundred years after the last clamshell was scraped of its flesh and tossed away, composting into mounds of calcium-rich earth. Plants grow out of the gray, fragment-littered ground.

Landscape passes at a slow trot. Sharp contrast of red hills and blue sky. In the distance, the sea dances white with wind and sun. Here it feels like wilderness. Like I am far from what gives modern humans the leverage to make indelible marks on landscape, make disproportionately huge movements in resources. Yet the simple movement of shells still shows, and I accept that this is just the way of things. Everything matters. And everything, eventually, is forgotten.

It feels good to wander. My feet mock intent, and turn left on a coyote trail, or follow a volcanic intrusion to the edge of the sea, or leap across low shrubbery and rocks in a straight line towards some unknown magnet only to turn again and follow the twisting rise and drop of the coastal trail. This feels alive in a way no obedient jog on the island road back “home” can be. There is something fundamental in wandering solo and totally unfettered by expectation (except eventual return).

I identify with the rocks beneath my feet and the wind in my ears. Minerals and matter that makes me was once rock, and will be again. With the wind I share breath and movement and cycles of in and out, draw and relax.

There is perspective in seeing only earth and sea and sky. In hearing only surf and wind and birds. In feeling the cool and warm of wind and sun. There is perspective in the endurance of the shell piles of the indigenous people. Simplicity and legacy; stories left by stone tools, hunger, and ingenuity.

It is human to wonder at ones own legacy and the frame of its endurance: the life span of friends and family? The decay of a homestead? The life of a tree? The time of literacy in a given language? The weathering of a rock? The recognition of a geologic deposit from some resource displaced? The survival of a species? The half-life of plastic and its determination to float in circles on the sea?

It is human, too, to ponder the value of a legacy at all. And the unavoidability of it. My legacy this week will be carved in the face of a wave. It lives but a moment and crashes on the sand. My legacy this hour is set one footfall at a time into the rocks and soil of a tiny coastal mountain range. My legacy today will be the sum of what I own divided by the total of my days, and the landfill it will eventually occupy.

Being out here makes me want to reduce that sum and allow more for wandering. For coming home into the freedom of spirit and feet. Being out here makes me thankful that I’m here at all, and in this moment, all else pales.

Paddle on, my Friends!
Ginni

Notes from the journey south.

My Dad once said that flying a jet entailed hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer panic. Driving I-5 can be like that, too. Hours of monotony through Oregon, and then we got a motel for the night in Medford, OR instead of tackling the icy Siskiyou pass in the dark. (Sheer panic averted). Sixteen mostly boring hours after starting out the next morning we found another motel near Hemet, CA. Not that we intended on going that far; we just couldn’t find a motel cheap enough for our tastes! On that stretch, however, we met our one big drama of the trip so far.

The gas gauge doesn’t work in our ‘87 Toyota Corolla, so we measure our gas needs by the trip odometer. Normally you can count on at least 300 miles to the 10 gallon tank. We’ve never loaded the car this full, though. Seven medium sized totes, six small totes, a car repair kit, one full size backpack, two small backpacks, a soft cooler, two kayaks, and a surfboard. Then there was the little or squishy stuff wedged in cracks: a pillow, an accordion, shoes, water bottles, jackets, a stuffed moose, and a stuffed seal.

On the first tank of the trip, the low fuel light came on at just 277 miles. Over the pass it lit up shortly after 250. In southern CA, everybody drives 80, so we went with the flow. In a long stretch of nothing, shortly after dark, the fuel light came on at just 245 miles. The main odometer was also about 7 miles from turning 200,000 miles. The race was on. What would happen first—would we run out of gas, turn 200,000, or find a gas station?

David dropped the speed to about 60, and we counted down. Passed an exit with no facilities. Next exit had fuel, but 2 miles away, according to the sign; most likely on Hwy 14 which was about to meet up with I-5 a few miles ahead. Odometer reading: 199,997.5. “Squeaky”, as we’ve taken to calling the little car on account of its noisy belt, hummed and squeaked all the way to the gas station like a champ! We put 10.4 gallons into a 10 gallon tank, and turned the odometer 200,000 on the on-ramp to Hwy 14 South.

Now we’re in Imperial Beach, staying at David’s roommate’s place which overlooks the Tijuana Estuary and beyond that, Mexico. Projects include changing Squeaky’s oil, re-roofing the addition to David’s mom’s house, outfitting some new-to-us kayaks, and other odd stuff. Estimated departure for Mexico—Tuesday.

Paddle on!
Ginni

Amazon Pirate

Not much reliable history has survived about the Amazons, so it is not surprising that some fringe elements escaped till now.

It is said they were a race of warrior women, much feared and fantasized about. So tough and single-minded they were that they removed one breast to better shoot their deadly arrows. Most were right-handed and therefore removed the right obstacle, but now we find evidence of a left-shooting combatant, known to us now simply as L.

We’ve heard that L was as fearless as any, taking even to the seas to pursue enemies, and occasionally to pursue such mundane things as food and beautiful sunsets. First she started in a one-woman boat she made of driftwood, but soon her maritime escapades grew to inspire whole fleets of salty sheilas.

Somewhere along the way our paddling archer L seems to have also lost her right hand, and replaced it with a hook, resulting in a truly pirate appearance and attitude. She took to the sea in whatever craft she could, calling her crew to action with a “ChaRRRRRRge the RRRRRascals!” or “CaRRRRRY on! And look lively now!” or agreeing with a hearty “ARRRRRRmen to that, Lasses!”

Truly, L was a sight to behold in the wild tossing of sea and wind, brandishing the hook and wearing the only left-handed Amazon bikini in miles—that is with the right side covered. Beneficiaries of modern technology we are to have digital time-travel cameras now (even though they are a bit fuzzy) and photographers brave enough to operate them!

The images that came back to us from the ill-fated photographer’s transmissions were few—just one peaceful moment while the pirate flag was being hoisted before our man was pulled from hiding and hooked to oblivion. We honor his sacrifice. If we can find another adventurous soul, we may try to capture L in a more festive moment.

Because they may be disturbing, the surviving images are hidden deep in a cave on an uncharted island. Treasure seekers must negotiate the treacherous pirate’s maze, designed to discourage all but the most determined. Neither journey nor photos are for the faint of “aRRRRRRRt”.

Treasure seekers’ hint: the pirates treasure map lies embedded among the tales of a notorious kayaker’s website. The most infamous kayaker on all of Puget Island on the Columbia. (or it will in a couple days when the pirates get around to hiding it there!)

Freedom Report

News the other day was good. No chemo, no radiation. Baja bound in 3-4 weeks! I’ve got an appointment Jan 9 with an oncologist to discuss “adjuvant” therapy, a word with too many harsh sounding consonants to actually sound therapeutic. I guess that is appropriate, though, as the most common prescription is a five-year course of hormone blocking Tamoxafin, which brings on artificial menopause and other fun things.

In a week the surgeon will remove the rest of my staples. At the last appointment she removed the drain tube (ahhh), but not before we got a good laugh out of it. The perforated drain tube runs internally for about 12 inches around the perimeter of the surgery site, then exits through a hole. From there a non-perforated tube hangs loose and ends in a fist-sized plastic collection pouch which safety pins to the attractive purple tube top I’ve been sporting for a week.

In the doctor’s office, I was instructed to undress and drape myself with some pastel shred of cloth. I had nowhere to pin the pouch… except for that one remaining nipple. Not wanting to be that drastic, I wedged the safety pin on there so it looked pierced, but wasn’t. Perfect fit. David agreed we should see what reaction we got out of my friendly surgeon. We were not disappointed.

Upon lifting back the cloth to inspect the healing process, she gasped and covered her eyes. I demonstrated that it wasn’t pierced by removing it. Still in shock, but laughing with the rest of us, she said, “My god! I knew you were tough but I didn’t know you were that tough!” I assured her that I’m not. We all giggled about it for some time. She was kind enough to remove the tube and some staples anyway.

As you can probably tell, I’m feeling quite good. Getting spunkier by the day. I went outside to do some light farm work yesterday when a scrap of sunshine broke through. Although we have some more doctor visits ahead, I feel the Baja momentum start to pull, and am drawn into its energy. Or maybe it’s Mom’s Christmas cookies that are bringing on the energy! If you’re around and want to come by for a sample, come quick!

As always, thank you for the prayers, healing thoughts, and good energy you’re sending my way. I don’t know how to prove or quantify it, but I am confident that it has been essential. Healing starts in the spirit!

Paddle on!
Ginni

PS I’m trying to sell one of the wooden kayaks I built, if anyone knows anyone interested.

Sales pitch--

“Well made Pygmy Arctic Tern 17’ with hatches and bulkheads, deck lines, and padded thigh braces. Seal Line rudder with solid, gas-pedal style foot pedals (operated with toes while the foot remains stationary). Custom touches such as mahogany tension rounds on hatch covers and matching, fiberglassed-on, pad eyes (the “inchworms” that hold on the bungees & deck line). Matching mahogany end toggles, too. Complete deck rigging for safety. $2,400. Parting with it because I could use the $$. Also available nice fiberglass Werner paddle $170 (230cm, big blade). Located on Puget Island, WA (between Longview WA & Astoria OR on the Columbia River). Ginni 360-849-4016”

Unwrapping

Dec 18 2006

I was an oversized Christmas present bound in a retro purple floral tube top, and it was time to unwrap. We waited till dark so I could see my reflection in the picture window since we don’t have a mirror in here. I turned up the heat, and David put on some sultry strip tease music. When faced with a lack of options, celebrate the one!

Off came the warm fleece with a shimmy of the shoulders. Around in a circle it twirled, and launched in a direction away from the propane heater. Then the long sleeved T-shirt. Ahh, there was the lovely tube top with drain tube and receptacle pinned to it. After repining the drain to my sweats, I seductively pulled open that luscious Velcro, slowly, slowly, with flirtatious glances at David, who ultimately helped me with the satiny shoulder straps and the gauze packing.

And there was our first full view of the work of that talented flesh artist, my surgeon. A line of gathered and stapled skin ran from just off my sternum to a few inches below my armpit in the subtlest of s-curves. A few inches down my side, the drain tube exited a tight hole in my body, secured there with one loop of thread through the skin next to it.

In this unveiling, we were the fortunate heirs of information from many who’d experienced it before. We’d heard how traumatic this first look can be, and we waited until we both felt ready. We’d talked in the days before, speculated, joked, peeked at the first few staples, and I’d run my hand over part of the new flatness to combat itchiness. We were as mentally ready as we could be.

We looked in the window-reflection, took close-up photos so I could see different angles, counted the 20 staples, tried my arm through a range of motion, studied the pattern of purple-yellow bruises, traced where the drain tube went under the skin, admired how smoothly the skin came together, and probed where the missing nerves interrupted the sensation of touch. Best of all, I got a thorough back scratch with the tube top gone.

“What do you think,” David asked about this marvel of modern medicine, my new body.

I grinned and said, “It’s pretty cool!”

…..

I am being sustained by the prayers and good energy of family and friends, and I thank you more than I can say with words.

Paddle on!

Ginni

Self portrait 4 days after surgery

Dec 16 2006

If I were to do a glue-together sketch of myself with photos clipped out of National Geographic, I’d start with a big oxbow bend of the Mississippi for a smile. On the canvas of my chest, the right would get Mt. Saint Helens, that beautiful if stubby mountain. The left would be railroad tracks across Kansas, heading off over the flat horizon like a giant zipper.

I haven’t actually looked at the whole picture yet, just seen glimpses of the incision edges stapled together, peeked at the tight bruised skin above the staples, and felt where the drain tube comes out under my arm. Unless I suspect infection, which I don’t, I’m in no hurry to unwrap the new me.

More interestingly, there was 40’ swell forecast on the coast yesterday, and the stormy winds had passed. David and I drove to the mouth of the Columbia in the late afternoon, and walked the paved trail up to the visitor’s center and overlook. A better view would be had from the lighthouse .75 miles up a hiking trail. So we went. I was careful not to slip on the wet trail, descended with smooth bending of knees to avoid jarring, and it was fine. We watched a freighter surf in over the bar.

Surrounded by spruce and the sound of surf and the smells of damp forest, I knew the decisions had been the right ones. Three days after surgery I was back where I wanted to be—outside under my own power. Thus, the oxbow smile today!

releasing the storm

Dec 15 2006

The storm hit in early evening with enough ferocity to make a 1-story cinderblock building tremble. Winds picked up as night enveloped the farm. The breeze found its way in the cracks, and candles fluttered. I held my breath for the impending power outage, then laughed because the power was already out.

Dusk had seen cedar shingles flying off the barn. Imagination had beams sailing overhead in dark. David went out to check on things and was gone a long time.

My bandage was irritating. I tried to scratch lightly underneath it. Felt corrugated ribs. Found where the drain tube entered, then followed it as it slithered along under the skin. My hand headed towards the stapled incision and a gust picked up. The building trembled, tarp flapped on the stove outside. The roof rumbled. My insides tensed as if trying to hold the roof on with willpower.

Late in the darkness came tragic thumping on the roof. A single thump at first, vibrating the building. Organic, like perhaps the owl had gotten blown from her barn perch and splattered on the milk room lid. Then multiple thumps. My mind ran out of owls and pictured shingles from the barn roof. Or clumps of grass ripped from the earth itself and launched upon the roof in a great muddy impact.

Winds rent the night as I sat with flickering candlelight in an unknown body-machine, mysterious beneath an itchy bandage. Curious and not curious at the same time. The picture window showed, in place of the farm, a darkened, rain-streaked image of my own face.

I could use that window and watch my reflection unpackage itself. Part of the primal, unfathomed night. The shuddering room, the womb. Splitting cocoon to reveal metallic, foreign newness. I started to peel the bandage.

I could do it. I could peel back that bandage, and a crack of lightening might rip the darkness. Might reveal the hands of Dr Frankenstein on the other side of the glass, working at my reflection with rusty tools. Hacking, sewing. Hair mad in the storm. Then darkness again. And the wolves of wind.

They leapt and chewed ravenously. Block walls hummed like a wingless 747 preparing for takeoff. Preparing to break the binds of gravity, headlong and wild.

Arrows of rain rattletattled on the roof and windows.

In the end, I didn’t do it. I left the mystery and the drama. I left the bandage, and slept in the surrender of exhaustion. Whatever pieces were left, we’d gather them in the light of morning.

The new adventure

The adventure is not always what you anticipate. In a slight detour, our kayak guide is temporarily experimenting with breast cancer. Here are some updates:

December 7

Requiem for Lefty

We’re celebrating tonight, though it feels funny to celebrate an impending mastectomy. The pathology report from last week’s biopsy led two doctors from two separate facilities to recommend a simple mastectomy without radiation, with chances of needing chemotherapy extremely unlikely. Both said I should be able to head to Mexico to guide in a little over 6 weeks. No radiation, no chemo, and yes Baja, in my book, are great cause for celebration!

I was so happy when we got home that I dragged David on a frolicking sprint over our jogging course :) For the first time since biopsy surgery last week, I feel like myself—I have energy! Whether last week’s slog was the weight of the unknown or simply recovery time, I don’t know and don’t really care. It’s past.

I’ll be having a mastectomy on Dec 12, with first follow-up visit on Dec 20. I will be able to rule out the minute chance of chemo for sure Dec 20. I’ll probably have drain tubes in place for about 3 weeks the Doc says, which would end early January. Then more visits to determine if I should start hormone treatment, and how I take to it, if so. Early Feb I’ll get back in shape physically, and head down to Mexico!

David is staying here with me, helping and inspiring in so many ways. We’ll travel south together as soon as I’m ready. I’m very thankful to be such a lucky gal!

I know the road isn’t over; it’s just begun, but I want to thank everyone who’s sent a thought or prayer or informative, encouraging word, or offers to help in various ways. One thing I feel more than ever is the connection with loved ones, a strong community of family and friends.

In case you’re interested, the pathology details are as follows: Ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS, a non-invasive cancer limited to duct tissue) extending beyond the limits of the biopsy sample in all directions. Because they don’t know the extent to which the cancer has followed the ductal system, they recommend mastectomy over a kind of blind lumpectomy. I’m comfortable with that.

In a way I’m lucky because this kind of cancer rarely makes a detectable lump or anything visible on mammogram or ultrasound, but I happened to have a cyst in that area which the doctors investigated sufficiently to discover this. They were surprised at the report because the two are not necessarily related. Being an aggressive DCIS, the doctor believes it was a matter of time before it managed to metastasize to other places. We will monitor the other half of my early warning system, Righty, over the years.

Because my personal goals are long term health and high level of function achieved as soon as possible and as simply as possible, I am opting not to pursue reconstructive surgery at this time, possibly never. It is most important to me to be active and strong, and if I look a little lopsided, well, that’s just character, isn’t it? I wonder if I could get away with wearing half a bikini top like a pirate’s eye patch?

Thanks for all your care and support.

Paddle on!
Ginni

Dec 12

The Pirate Emerges from Battle!

Back from surgery, a little lighter. Good spirits and ability to get around. Ran into paddling buddy Dan Haghighi as we were entering the hospital this morning. Just happens that he’s chair of surgical dept there. He told my docs to take extra good care, and checked in on me throughout the day, which was a wonderful reassurance and pick-me-up!

There had been some miscommunication in advance about pre-surgery time and procedure so that I missed having a radioactive tracer injected to aid in locating my sentinel lymph nodes for biopsy, but after consultation with my surgeon, whom I’ve come to know and trust throughout this whole journey, we decided to proceed as planned. The nodes were located with blue dye and all went fine. Blue urine afterwards was a little surprising until I remembered why!

I remember two things as I was waking up, but can’t recall which was first. One was Dr Dan touching my left hand and talking to me in a reassuring way. The other was waking up with a realization of what had just happened and feeling tremendous grief whereupon a nurse placed a tissue in my right hand. In a few moments I noticed a giant poster of what looked like a lush version of Baja on the wall with palm trees and a white beach, then surprisingly I noticed it again a few moments later, and realized my mind wasn’t as sharp as I thought it was.

Within moments I was in Recovery 2, the second stage, with David by my side. The surgery and recovery took about an hour 30, less than expected. Recovery 2 took about an hour as I battled nausea and a shaking of the legs when I’d let my body tense, which it wanted to do. If I consciously relaxed the shaking stopped. David read to me from the newspaper then from the book Five Acres and Independence. After I accepted some anti-nausea meds, I could actually engage in conversation and move my head and eyes. Shortly after that I refused a wheelchair ride, tapping out a little jig to prove I could stand ok, and walked slowly out to the car.

We’re home now, in the milk room of the old barn, with heaters and bolero music and warm soup and cornbread from my neighbors the Stockhouses. I’m very thankful for them and all the wonderful friends, neighbors, and family who have all been generous in so many ways!

Thanks so much for all your care and encouragement!

Paddle on!

Ginni

Goodbye party at the office

Dec 13 2006

A banner hung over the doorway. “Goodbye Lefty” All the body parts milled about the refreshment table. Lefty’s partner and best friend Righty had just finished making the farewell speech.

“Lefty, my bosom buddy, I’ll miss you terribly! I’ll have to keep abreast of matters by myself.”

Applause followed, and cries of “Goodbye Lefty, we’ll miss you, see you in the great by-and-by!”

But at the refreshment table the mustard heard other mutterings. Right Knee asked Left Knee, “Did you know Lefty very well?”

“No, just an occasional visit when the old boob stooped to say hello.”

Left Foot, who was prone to grumbling about his job as well as making odd rhymes, said, “That’s a little less weight I’ll have to freight, not that Lefty was ever too hefty.”

The Eyes, twins who never did anything independently, rolled together upon overhearing Left Foot. They agreed that the view would be different without Lefty in the picture, and would take some getting used to.

Gall Bladder was experimenting heavily with intoxicating concoctions and grew loose in the tongue. “Never met her, they keep me in the dark, you know. Maybe I’ll put in a bid for her window office. Still, it’s a shame the old gal’s going tits up.”

At a table, Lefty chatted with Spine, whom she’d never known very well since they worked on opposite sides of the complex. “Still,” said Lefty, “I’ve appreciated your support over the years.”

Skin had a big job, including contact with just about everybody at the office, except the Internal Special Forces. As a result of his constant protective duties, he was quite extended, but stopped in quickly to bid farewell. “Lefty, it sure has been great hanging out with you. Bon Voyage. I’ve got you covered!”

A chorus of Ribs twittered by. “We’ll be facing the world without you, Lefty. We’ll miss you!”

Al and his wife Viola wheezed out from behind the Ribs, “So long, Lefty. We’ve weathered the rise and fall of every breath together. All the best to you!” The rest of the lungs sighed in agreement.

adventures in homeownership

It's been a while, and here's why: I'm in love! And I've and have made perhaps the biggest commitment this life will ever see from me. She's 21 acres and full of potential. Some would day potential's all she's full of, except weeds & repair projects. But there's that eye of the beholder getting all starry. It's an island farm on the Columbia River. A 1920s house, half-renovated barn, beautiful chicken coop, back-to-back 2-car garages, and 400' of slough frontage in a cottonwood wetland from which one can paddle into the Columbia River. Keep it in mind next time you're out here looking for summer camping!

You know I, as a kayaker, appreciate moving water in its myriad forms. The latest being its effect coming out the nozzle of a pressure washer, and the hopes that today’s drainage project will actually flow in the desired direction. Thankfully it is raining so I can check.

The pressure washing got me carried away, as dynamic water often does. Intended target was the house. What a whole new attitude! Its no longer a dumpy old farm project, but an actual white house, kinda cute, at that. Then, power in my hands, I looked around. The concrete patio slab got blasted. The walkway to nowhere from the front door (discovered that it says 1940 on it). My crumpled but drivable car. The garage. The ladder. A plastic kids picnic table. Luckily there were no friends around that day, to get blasted or to try to stop me!

There’s been other exciting progress. There is plumbing, complete & new from the main valve to the repaired septic tank (and it even flows downhill now!). I could watch Justine’s new DVD This is the Sea Two while wallowing in a tub of hot water. Oh, the decadence! All the main floor bathroom fixtures are installed & working. Paint fumes emanate from the living room. New wires run upstairs to power lights & outlets, and 4 electric wall heaters are humming away. The garage doors have been saws-mosted* shorter in anticipation of today’s gravel.

*Saws-most? It was demoted from saws-all after meeting its match on a 4” cast iron drainpipe.

The snow sits on the Oregon hills across the river, and last night the frosty fog swirled around the legs of deer in the pasture. Best of all are the friends who’ve been coming by to be a part of it. Many, many thanks for the warm waters of friendship!

Simon films the big drop.

Survived: Anglesey sea kayak symposium

It’s over and Anglesey Sea & Surf Centre is quiet again. Was it real? A few signatures in my kayaking logbook and a lot of memories. Among the cacophony around the dinner table, we figured there were at least 10 countries represented at the symposium. Germany, Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, Spain, Switzerland, Iceland, UK, and US, among others.

The last day of symposium I went with Justine and Axel to film Sean Morley (who had paddled round the British Isles) playing in North Stack tidal race. The waves weren’t working well so we tucked around the corner to Parliament Cave. It had a minefield of rocks in its mouth, a west swell sloshing in, and a SE wind blowing across then howling down the cliffs to whip spray off the water.

Now, I like to play in rock gardens. And I’ve paddled with some talented and experienced paddlers in this kind of environment. But I have never seen anyone handle a boat and a wave through a rock garden like this guy. Especially not in an 18-foot racing-style Inuk kayak with a wing paddle. It’s the least manoeuvrable boat and the least supportive blade.

A swell crashes against a rock molar, bends around it and surges white up against the cliff, dwarfing a kayaker heading boldly into hungry pre-Cambrian jaws. He disappears behind the molar as the water drops, and my breath goes away with the wind. As the next swell splatters itself against the cliff, Sean shoots out smiling in front of a white tongue of water, but missing his hat.

In contrast, picture this paddler in her borrowed light blue Explorer LV in Penrhyn Mawr tide race that afternoon. The west swell pushes across the race and large waves break across each other in general mayhem. The little inside chute, however, sits at a different angle than the main flow, and takes the wind-swell directly against the current. This makes for the cleanest rides, but the chute is narrow, and surfing a few degrees out of alignment sends the kayak arcing into the eddy on one side or the other. If this arc is done with good velocity, the speed at which the rock in the eddy approaches ones bow is alarming. At one point I resort to the body drogue--lying down on the water to slow momentum. It works, but it’s a far cry from the birdlike grace Sean demonstrated that morning.

After the fun of symposium came a week of assessments, one for coaching and one for skills, both of which I passed, but there were moments I wasn’t sure I would. Five-star award is the British Canoe Union’s highest accomplishment for sea paddling skills and leadership. Because there’s none above it, they feel obligated to thoroughly test the candidates before passing them.

During the night paddle, I was asked to lead the group from T Bay to a nook in the rocks called Porth Diana. As we pushed off the beach into the wind, I noticed that behind us a distant aluminium plant chimney lined up perfectly with a triangle of lights on the roofline of a waterfront restaurant beside which the van was parked. Easy as a landing strip at an airport, I thought to myself.

The other 2 blokes had their turns at leading. At one point, we changed plans because the sea was too rough for our group. Up a more protected part of the coast, we passed some offshore rocks, and pulled into a cobble beach beside a haunted house—a rambling stone affair silhouetted on a rocky headland. Rowland our assessor asked the candidates to locate on a map where we were.

While he consulted with another person, I looked at my map, identified the offshore rocks we’d passed, noted the proximity of the coast road, and saw that the angle of the cove allowed a straight view of the lights of Porth Diana. Satisfied, I lay back on my kayak and looked at the stars. Cassiopeia. Leo. Familiar patterns in an unfamiliar landscape. Rowland finished quizzing the blokes and walked over to my kayak with its bow resting on the cobbles and stern lifting with the breathing sea.

I pointed up and said, “Well, the Big Dipper aims at Polaris, which is the north star. So that means,” I sat up and put my finger on the map. “We’re here.” Fortunately, two things were true in that moment: Rowland had a sense of humor, and I was right.

Fate has a way of humbling the confident, however. Chris led us somewhere else, and I was supposed to take us back to the launch. Remember the landing lights of the restaurant and the aluminium chimney. I knew we were in T Bay. I saw the chimney. I heard waves on rocks and manoeuvred narrowly around them in the dark. But I couldn’t find the restaurant next to which was parked the rather large and conspicuous van and trailer. The closer to the sandy beach we got, the more slowly I paddled, searching for some recognizable detail among the yellow street lights. Everyone slowed with me.

With my stomach in my throat and the beach approaching ominously, I thought I’d failed the night navigation. Finally, floating 10 feet off the beach, I had to admit, “Well, we’re in the right bay, but I don’t see the van and restaurant. Hmm. Let’s land here and I’ll have a look about.” Just as I said that, my eyes caught it—the van and trailer directly in front of me parked next to a darkened restaurant. Ah, some beacons are more reliable for navigation than others.

The final day of assessment tested skills in a nominal tide race off Rhoscolyn Head. Performing seals, my assessor called the drill. Roll over. Capsize, exit the boat, re-enter and roll up. Scramble. Put the skirt on a boat full of water and roll it again. Up to this point everything went smoothly. But with a cockpit full of water and hatches full of gear (we were prepared to camp out), I couldn’t get the boat to capsize. I could set boat sideways and hang my head in the water. I could balance brace with my back on the water and my head up looking around. I could flick the boat right-side-up from there with my hips. But I couldn’t get the dang thing upside down. I tried several times before the Man with the Red Pen conceded that no matter what happened, I could still get up even if I couldn’t get fully upside down with a swamped, loaded kayak.

I also had to demonstrate a T rescue, which Rowland in his wisdom set up thus: one symposium client who’d been the squeaky wheel all week wanted to show off his roll in the waves. Rowland was happy to encourage him to do so at this moment, and as he went confidently over, Rowland suggested I watch him. He didn’t come up. Not with his boat, anyway. With excuses aplenty. But he did give me the opportunity to demonstrate my rescue and gave Rowland and others the pleasure of watching him being rescued by one of those female types he’d been so condescending to all week.

Then I was to have someone else raft up with him while he fussed with his skirt and I towed them up current, down wind and down swell. That would call for a long tow line so they didn’t surf into me. Rowland kept pace off to the side. We’d be moving along nicely, then the line would go taut, and with an “Ooof!” I’d stop dead while he glided ahead chuckling.

“Now capsize, release your tow, and roll up,” Roland said. I did. “Reattach tow and continue.” I did. Did I mention that my boat was still full of water throughout this circus? I got the raft to a calm place behind a rock and unhooked the line. As I stashed my tow, Rowland the Torturer suggested that I just might have a fist-sized hole under the seat in my kayak and that I should find a nice slippery rock to pull it out upon and fix it.

So I did a bit of rock gardening in the slightly surging waters, made a graceful enough exit onto wet, seaweed draped rocks, finally dumped out the cockpit full of water, then pulled the loaded boat up, thankful it wasn’t mine, and that there was seaweed to ease the slide. Clear of the surging water on a narrow ledge up against a wall, I pulled out the repair kit and a towel. Wiped off the hull, slapped on some “gaffer tape” (duct tape in American).

“It’s got to stay on through everything else we do and be there when we get to the beach,” Rowland reminded me. A few more wipes, a few more slabs of tape for good measure. That patch stayed on through the rock-slide launch, the paddle home, and the next day’s tide race playing before I remembered to remove it. But before I jump ahead, the launch off the rocks was a moment of glory I’d like to share.

As I set about to drop the boat back into the water, the swells predictably got bigger. I scrambled out from beside the boat so I didn’t get squished by the waves, pulled it back up the rock a smidge, and paused to watch for a few waves. The tide was rising, and I didn’t know if the swell was now coming over some rocks that had previously protected me and I would just have to take my knocks, or if this was a large set I could wait out. I saw a moment of opportunity, and took it. I scrambled down, set the boat in the foamy water, straddled it, and paddled out backwards while inserting my feet into the boat and sideslipping to avoid a rock. A surge lifted me up over a shallow spot and I rode it in reverse out of the rocky zone without a scratch or splash, then put on the spray deck in calm, deep water. Whew. Who’d have believed that all those years of playing with waves and rocks and balance would ever pay off in an official kind of way?

Maybe one knows that one’s found ones calling when a lifetime of play becomes pertinent. Of course, no matter how proficient one gets, there are always the inspirational others with more experience, more style, or more guts. Always new places to see. That’s the beauty of it, and I’m leaving here thankful for the years behind, and for the years ahead.

Sweet Oregon surf. And... sunshine?

Unplanned Road Adventures

A few miles inland from the Baja Pacific coast lies a broad, windblown mesa. Highway 1 shoots across it in a straight line north, passing a military checkpoint. Six or seven scattered half-built concrete houses huddle in a forgotten community near the checkpoint. Pulled off in front of the houses sits a blue truck with 5 kayaks on top, the hood up, and one forlorn traveler sitting against the tire in the shade.

You may recognize this traveler from some previous adventures. It is me. As is usually the case, I am trying to convince myself that things aren't as bad as they seem.I was innocently driving up the hill from El Rosario, pushed the clutch to shift into 5th, and nothing happened. The clutch wouldn't depress. I coasted onto the dirt road in front of the huddle of hollow gray houses, and tried to think clearly.

Fluid? Check.
Fuses? Well, I guess that had been the problem with my reverse lights. Otherwise, Check.
Connections under the hood? Check.
Well, hmmm. Maybe I just need to push harder. CRACK! I break the rod which the pedal pushes through the firewall into the master cylinder. Now I know I'm sunk.I drink some water, eat some food, and try to think more clearly. Whatever the original problem is, I know I can't fix the secondary one myself.

So I look up "clutch" in my Spanish-English dictionary. "Embrague" This enables me to 1) curse at it in the appropriate language (as in `pinche embrague'), which cements it in my mind so I can 2) talk to a mechanic if I can find one.

I crawl underneath and discover that the hydraulic hose which is supposed to connect into the transmission doesn't connect to anything. Problem. Armed with information, but fearing a lack of locally available parts, I wander the potholed dirt streets to a house with laundry fluttering on a line in the wind. After some introduction, the occupants determine that I speak enough Spanish for them to be able to help me. Carla, a woman about my age, offers to drive me to the mehanics down in El Rosario, when her mother suggests the telephone. There is no phone book, so Carla calls the operator, who connects her. "What's the problem," she asks me."El embrague," I confidently declare.She looks puzzled but repeats it into the phone, then shrugs, says "I don't know either," and looks at me again.

"The thing to shift the gears," I say, miming the action. She relays this information and then repeats, "Oh, el clutch!"The mechanics say they'll be there right away. I walk back to my truck to wait.Mexican hospitality exists in inverse proportions to Mexican punctuality. An hour or so later, Carla drives up and says get in, we'll go look for them. I ride down the hill with her and learn a few things about the neighborhood. The houses on the mesa were built after some horrible flooding on the river by El Rosario, but people gave up and moved back to their homes in town when the floods were not so persistant as they feared. Land is cheap, and there are no building codes, so a house only really costs the materials and your labor to stack the cinder blocks. Easy come, easy go. Carla lives on the mesa with her parents, her husband and their 2-year old daughter, her brother, sister-in-law and their son, and a young man with a drooling smile and a crooked shock of short black hair, whose connection I never did figure out. The men work in seafood processing or at the gas station in town.

We follow a dirt road maze until it ends at a pile of overturned dusty cars, and Carla says we're here. If this were not omen enough, we find that the mechanics, Andre and Andre, one big and one skinny, are working on the pickup they intended to drive to see me.It's not as bad as it looks, I remind myself. Their shop was typical of rural Baja: a dirt yard with oil stains on the ground. Some shops have trees from whose branches hang whole engines. Some have holes in the ground for getting under vehicles. This one just has a handful of tools tossed in the back of a white truck, and two creative, determined and greasy men named Andre.

They get the truck running and follow us up to my lonely rig on the mesa. Under the dash, I show skinny Andre the broken rod. He uses my tools, which are much more comprehensive than his, and takes apart a few things that were never meant to be taken apart, much less reused. Eventually he pulls out two pieces of rod, one end plastic and one end metal. Big Andre turns them over in his hand and butts them together, saying to me "Chickle," as in Chicklets gum. I groan and shake my head. "Duck tape?" I offer. He laughs and nods.Skinny Andre climbs acrobatically out of my truck and says some things to Carla to tell me, but she doesn't know anything about cars and tells him to tell me himself. He says the rod is the problem and he's going to go work on it. I say, no, wait, there's more underneath, and show him the hydraulic line. He agrees that that is a problem as well.

While he's prodding about at things, big Andre and I discuss all the "American" words that have been adopted into Mexican automotive lexicon. Among others, there are clutch, wipers, hood, auto partes, and my favorite, mofle (muffler). Skinny Andre says that they needed to go look for parts, and would return in five minutes. "Dos horas," ammends big Andre. Carla smirks and nods. "Ensenada?" I ask about the location of parts. I considered contacting a friend in the states to bring me down the necessary bits over the weekend, but that seemed excessive and I lacked long distance phone access. I considered hitchhiking to Ensenada for parts myself, but that seemed intimidating."No," says skinny Andre, "Here in El Rosario.""OK, I'll be here," I say cheerfully."Five minutes," says Skinny."Two hours," says Big. And they leave.I go with Carla back to her house, chuckling together about estimations of time in Mexico. "Andre's right," she says, "It'll be two hours. That's what five minutes means." She says she'd known the pair of them all her life.

I pass the time with the family, switching TV channels between a melodramatic hospital soap and soccer. When the soap is over, news of the failing Pope. I find I can understand most of the Spanish. In fact, this is turning into a day of Spanish immersion, beginning at surf camp this morning with Jorge and Jandro's visit, and now incorporating family, automotive, and entertainment contexts. Carla's daughter wakes up and entertains herself and us for a half an hour by playing with mashed potatoes, and even ingesting some.

Eventually when we look out the window, the mechanics are back at my truck, and we walk over. Mexican punctuality also exists in inverse proportions to Mexican ingenuity. The Andres have a complete rod, welded in the middle, and now made entirely of metal, including the eye on the end. I am impressed. The other fitting doesn't work, and they have to work on it overnight. Meanwhile they think it best to move the truck away from the highway especially if I am going to sleep in it.

There is no way their little truck could drag my loaded one over the rough ground, so they intend to drive my truck by starting it in gear. Except that if the clutch isn't depressed, the engine won't start, and the clutch is still broken. No problem for these guys. Little Andre the stunt man gets behind the wheel. Big Andre pulls a rubber covering off a bolt and holds a cresent wrench under the open hood. I am supposed to close the hood when the truck starts moving (after Andre removes all body parts) so Stunt Man can see where he's going. With a few chugs and a few shouts, my truck is on its way, lumbering through the potholes to Carla's house.

I watch a colorful sunset over the mesa with silhouettes of vehicles gliding along Hwy 1 and stopping at the checkpoint. Somehow the experience of traveling feels very foreign to me right now, that on-the-road feeling I was expecting to live with for a few days. I am suddenly here, part of a community, and not part of a flow. Strangely, I don't feel anxious at all. Unplanned adventures can even be pleasant once one looses the expectation to stick to one's original plan.

I eat refried beans and quesadillas with Carla, greet the others as they come home from work, and crawl into my truck out front to read and sleep. The morning's sunrise is as spectacular as it is flat. Soon the sea fog threatens from the west, and a cold wind heralds its arrival. While waiting for Andre and Andre, I putter with the rod they created, and accidently assemble it into the truck. The clips are one-way, so once I stick it through the firewall and into the master cylinder, it's stuck. So I put it on the pedal mechanism, and find it's stuck there as well. Thankfully, I had stuck it in the right way.

Skinny Andre arrives animated with having thought about the clutch all night, wondering how to reassemble it and how to make the hose stick. I solved the first problem already, which he is happy about. He solves the second, and swears by it. "That will last, but fix the rod better when you cross over," he says, "because it may fall off the pedal."

We still need to fix the wiring so I could start the truck, however. The sensor doesn't fit over the welded rod. Big Andre hot wires it again, and I ride while Skinny Andre drives my truck to the electricians. He chatters merrily all the way down the hill. I think he is relieved to have conquered the clutch. We could tell we were at the electricians by the red aluminium Tecate cans resting in gregarious piles in the corners of the yard. "He tips `em back," says Andre. In about 30 seconds, the electrician clips two wires, and the truck will start in gear, out of gear, or anytime you turn the key.

"How much?" I ask. Skinny Andre says, "A hundred for the electrician, and a hundred for each of us."
"Pesos?" I clarify.
"Si."
So, after 19 hours of El Rosario mesa hospitality and about $30 of auto repair, I am on my way again.

Just so you don't think the saga ends here, the next chapter, were it to be written, would bring to life a night and morning, a few days later, in Eugene, OR where I wait in a nearby sports bar and a Salvation Army outlet while the entire clutch is replaced in a much less creative, more expensive manner. Now it should last for at least another five months!

Where's the next wave? Ginni plays in Penrhyn Mawr, in Wales.