We were a motley crew. Martha and Joe in their newish wooden yaks, me in my long-thrashed cargo barge, George in his newly-beseated Solstice, the sleekest of the lot, all followed by the 6 hp 12-foot aluminum skiff. Up the east side of the island, threading amongst oyster flats and dodging the shallows. Loon here, loon there. Pintails galore. Heron or two. Slow oyster barge wending south.
Fighting the tide and the wind, gradually at first, eventually head-on, real wrist-challenging stuff. Joe lags, and as I drift back, he explains that he is experimenting with his boat. I wonder if he realizes that if we do not head the island soon, we will fight the tide both ways instead of just one? I coax him out of the heavy current in the channel and we work the mild eddies along the shore, catching up to the others, the skiff now out of sight and around the point.
Across the shallows the chop is short and brutish, slopping us around. Beaching at the skiff, we all get wet in grungy swash, laughing at our ineptitude. Mary and Link, skiff people, have a fire, and have explored the midden ground, locating a scraper and some worked bone (human?). P B and J, crackers, slam down a juice and a candy bar, and relaunch ... that tide window is closing! Martha and Joe discover the value in quickly closing the cockpit, a lesson in wet lapness.
Now the ten knots is at our rear quarter, forming over-the-deck wavelets to annoy the rudderless and wet us all, top to bottom, from paddlespray. Punch it out, work the chop, as the skiff takes a couple over the stern and Link works the handpump.
The island's cliffside shows the effects of nine feet of winter rain, one slump so large it takes some of the island's "ridge" road. Others are slumplets.
George and Joe lag, Martha jets ahead, and the skiff disappears, leaving me alone but in sight of the others. This is a peculiar kind of isolation, in which I can see the others stroke, and wonder at their mental state, extrapolating from their body language what they think. Looks like Martha will be complaining -- she is paddling on one side only. For George to be this far behind, his seatback must be killing him. (The next day he is first to the takeout: "I'm not gonna be last to the beach two days in a row!") Joe is an enigma, perhaps watching birds, maybe experimenting again, or possibly scared shitless, his first experience with a following sea. I dawdle, but the laggers lag further, and Martha gets smaller in the distance.
As we round Jensen Spit into gentler water, Link comes up on 16 and I tell him we are all in sight of camp, where he and Mary have already hauled out the chain saw to make rounds from windfall. Eventually, we drag our tired arms up the beach, a tough fifteen miles, and barely ahead of the falling tide.
Pot luck progressive eating commences, mixing mega-garlic bread, fresh tabouli, chips and salsa, with a crunchy vegie stir fry, chased with cheese and crackers, steak, and Jello cheesecake. Who dreamed up this menu? Certainly not a nutritionist!i
The night is clear, with a gigantic moon, illumination for several bladder forays -- too much wine! Herons grawk and swash slaps as the tide rises and falls again. In the morning, the Bay is empty, and Joe and Martha swap lies about birds, Joe claiming 8 loons in half an hour. We hear them but can not see them. Instead we opt for a hike up the road, inspecting the slide.
As the tide approaches maximum, all launch, and George is gone, beating the skiff home around the south end of the island. Other campers are at Pinnacle Rock, several thousand dollars of nylon decorating the beach, and a few kilobucks of glass and plastic shoring up the gravel.
At the ramp, George is exultant, a mood which carries over to "round food" in town. George is on a healthy kick, so his is salad, the rest of us, pizza and beer. Debriefing commences, and plans for another Bay foray jell.
The boats are smiling.
--
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR
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