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