6 . . . and Warming Up

My eyes opened themselves around six a. m. on the sixth day I need to kill before going up to Katmai, and I was instantly thankful for that. Yesterday there were 30-40 knot afternoon winds and a gale warning on the bay, and I feel sure that today there will at least be a small craft advisory, probably starting at 1:00 and lasting through midnight.

(Stops to check).

There is!

So, if you want to take a bay paddle, you'd best get started early; and if you want to go up around to Aquatic Park or Crissy Field because you are bored with crossings to Alameda, you'll do best to get going before the forecasted 3.7 knot incoming current starts to peak around 9:00 or so. That is, unless you really, really relish paddling against current (which, to be honest, I do not).

My paddling trip is a vacation, and I expect to have a whole lot of fun, and relaxation, and great times. At the same time, I know from experience that paddling a kayak around places like Prince William Sound or Naknek Lake is no game. The water is all very cold, and the weather is occasionally very ugly, and generally, after you paddle into the wilderness, there is nobody at all around to help. So, in preparation for a trip like this, I do my homework with GPS and maps, buy and get familiar with all the necessary gear for safe camping and travel, and -- like this morning and many days recently -- I get out and make sure that me and my foldable boat are in good paddling shape:



A few weeks ago I took a morning paddle from Crissy Field out to Pt. Bonita. I didn't pay proper attention to the marine and tide forecasts, and so I got what I deserved: the ocean swell was coming in big from a direction that ran it all the way up to Points Bonita and Diablo, creating really wierd reflected "clapotis" waves a full half-mile out from shore; at the same time, a really strong ebb current of 5+ knots was gushing out the gate, creating mean spilling waves as it ran right against the west wind. I ended up doing a little dance of trying to stay as far as I could out of that current without going too far into the chaotic clapotis zone, and it took all my attention and energy to make forward progress (on the home run) while staying upright. Often, a steep swell wanted to surf me, and in happier conditions I would want to surf it. Not that day.

That was some good practice.

The real sea kayaking holy grail, to my mind, is to travel the actual ocean coast of Katmai and further down the Alaska peninsula, ducking into bays to camp but otherwise braving big open sea swells and super-fickle weather. I'm not there yet, and I know it. But wouldn't it be cool?

I once had a good friend give me a wee bit of shit about "commitment." At the time he was needling me about refusing to wait in a line for food, but I understand the larger context: I'm not married, I don't own a house, and I am not "committed" to the usual committed way of life you find among folks. But since that day, it has occurred to me a few times that there are other kinds of commitment that I am pretty good at. He should have been there, and felt what I felt, when I was setting off in to a box canyon with class III rapids on the Kukaklek branch in a 10-foot inflatable boat carrying all my possessions, 50 miles away from anything even remotely resembling help. Once you're in the canyon, you are committed in a unique and powerful way. In a similar vein, I got deeply committed last year at Katmai by paddling 15 miles ahead of a bad weather forecast, knowing that I need to get out early if I was going to get out at all -- and that, once out, I wasn't going to be getting back until the storm had blown itself out. Isn't that commitment? It felt like it.

At any rate, trips like this give me something to focus on and commit to, and they definitely get me motivated to crank up my paddling game. That can't be all bad. In fact, sitting around on an early Saturday morning in Aquatic Park watching cute joggers and drinking thermos coffee after a five mile counter-current paddle is a decidedly good thing.



And this kind of goodness is just a small harbinger of good, good things to come, when I paddle away from all cuties (carrying coffee though, of course) and focus on the beauties of big fish, open wilderness, and real freedom and adventure.

Putting it in those hyperbolic terms just makes me more impatient. A dinner party and a keg of Blue Heron pale ale are going to help me forget about it tonight, for a while. And then the countdown will continue!