[Paddlewise] I knew better, but look what happened !

I've been canoeing since a kid, kayaking for six years, am always out
hiking, camping and x-c skiing the rest of the time. In other words, I
knew better, but look at what happened !

I write this in the hopes that it may prevent a similar experience, or
worse, for somebody who reads it & thinks a casual outing is, well,
casual.

After a wonderful day last Monday at West Point, shooting for 
the Discovery Channel for twelve hours the new recruits being 
inducted , and then picking up the film at the lab in midtown 
Tuesday it took two hours to get up to Ossining due to 
screaming t-storms and several accidents. The Saw Mill Parkway 
was closed for a few miles for one, must've been multiple 
vehicle. I might have taken this an an omen, but didn't.

In between these terrific storms it was sunny, as it was when I 
reached my friend's studio. He was waiting for a couple to come 
at 6 for an appointment, so while I was at the lightbox editing 
the West Point film he ran up to Peekskill and brought down our 
kayaks.

He suggested we go out on the river for an hour or so of casual 
drifting just to relax, so I did so at 6 thinking he'd be along 
soon, but as I kept paddling out into the center of the Hudson 
and turning around to look for him at the boat club he didn't 
show because his couple was an hour late.

Right above my head was the dividing line. Looking at the 
Tappan Zee bridge to the south & east it was sun, deep blue 
skies and cumulo-nimbus clouds like whipped cream, just to the 
north it was pitch black, like a charcoal sketch from Hell. 
Watching the lowest level of little individual black clouds, I 
thought I was safe, the front was moving north and east by the 
look of them, the dividing line was staying right above my 
head. Fooled me....

I reached Teller's Point, about 2 miles out of Ossining, with 
10 swans for company. The water was flat, barely rippled, the 
tide incoming at about 4 knots. I floated peacefully, barely 
paddling. When rounding the point, this is Croton Point Park 
which separates Croton Bay from Haverstraw Bay, the widest part 
of the Hudson, I saw the storm getting worse just north of me. 
Lightning streaks appeared north and east in what I'm guessing 
were 30-some miles long stretches, over Peekskill.I still 
thought I was safe, that it was moving north & east. It wasn't.

>From the other side of the point I could barely see the town of 
Haverstraw across the bay, it was nearly totally obscured. The 
sky was a giant blanket of darkness, the dividing line that was 
above my head a minute ago was far to my south.

I cannot describe the fury or the speed with which things 
changed. It was 7:30, Alan was just putting in looking 
desperately for me, the boat club members stood at the dock 
screaming at him not to go out. He did anyway, shouting back at 
them, "I've got to ! My buddy's out there !" He only made it 
100 yards and barely got back without capsizing. Grabbing a 
town policeman they sped up to Croton Point and slid all over 
the mud and rocks looking for me in the height of the violence, 
but could see no sign.

Meanwhile, the storm had come in like a frieght train and I was 
praying loud and hard for God to see me through this safely and 
get me back alive. A bright yellow motorboat screamed past me 
at full throttle running for the marina, he wasn't going to 
stop and see if I needed help in open water two miles from 
either shore with all Hell breaking loose. (That's a clear 
violation of law, I was later told.) I had turned tail to the 
wind, headed back to Ossining, but had only gone a few hundred 
yards when it decended on me.The skies were like a blender 
filled with oil, the water ran swirling in every direction, 
black and senseless.

I knew I was in deep trouble, I knew it was only a matter of 
seconds before I got thrown out of the boat. The wind came in, 
I was told later, at 53 m.p.h., turned me perpendicular to it 
and I braced as long as I could, then went over. I cleared out 
alright, surfaced and was in suddenly in 6' breaking waves with 
the kayak slamming me in the head as it kept on rolling over at 
about one revolution per second. I knew I had to get to the 
windward side of the boat, but I was unable to move as the 
paddle leash was wrapping around my right leg while the boat 
continued to roll, making it tighter. I gasped for air, the 
boat continued to roll with each wave and my leg started to 
raise up, sending me below.

I got clear of the leash, reached the stern and put myself at 
it, then quickly wrapped the stern line around my left wrist as I
knew if I let go of the boat I was dead. Those 6' waves were
breaking over my head, I was barely able to gulp breaths of
air in on the crests, it was black as night in the troughs.

I managed to stay at the stern, pushing myself up a little bit 
in the rising crests to ride them and breathe, kicking for my 
life. The rain came next, cold as ice, but the Hudson itself was warm, 
thankfully. If it weren't I wouldn't be here to tell you about 
it. I prayed and kicked, the wind howled, the lightning 
streaked all around me, the only relief from a darkness that 
had come like the turning of a switch. It was 7:40 p.m.

Fortunately, the weather was pushing me back to Ossining, I 
could barely make out the lights of Sing Sing on the shore. 
Alan was by this time scrambling around Croton Point Park with 
the local policeman, he tells me that he felt that I was alive, 
probably clingling to a beach someplace, but as the hour went 
by and things worsened he could only think of how to make the 
call to my parents, what to say to tell them I was lost.

I stayed at the stern, pushing it into my chest and PFD, riding 
it like a log on the crests, kicking all the while.After about 
half an hour the waves lessened to 3', the rain slowed to a 
halt. I tried righting the kayak, secured the paddle under the 
forward deck lines, bilged most of the water out, which took a lot of 
energy, but without a paddlefloat the possibility of re-entry 
was zero. All I could do was get my stomach up on the aft deck 
and one foot in the cockpit. Without a float and support for 
the other leg, when I tried to get it into the boat it rolled 
again. I tried three times anyway, eventually gave up on it and 
just swam towing the boat, or when I got tired, raised up a few 
inches on the stern and pushed it ahead of me.

It rained again, I started to feel colder, but the wind had 
diminshed so the waves were less. I kept kicking and soon saw 
that I was indeed closer to shore, but the light was failing 
now as it was well after 8:30. I righted the boat, hauled 
myself up on the aft deck and rested, though still kicked. I 
had begun to shiver uncontrollably, but as soon as I got up 
on deck I was warmer, only my knees on down were wet. The 
shivering continued, but didn't worsen. I tried the whistle a 
number of times, but nobody was around to hear it. I felt 
better, I knew I'd make it out eventually, or felt that I 
would, so just stayed as I was and kicked for the next hour.

Meanwhile, the employees at the water treatment plant in front 
of Sing Sing had called in to the Fire Dept., I guess they saw 
me go out and not return, and after an hour and a half in the 
water, now close enough to shore to make out buildings, I saw a 
flashing light moving in an arc to my north about half a mile. 
It headed back to the boathouse then turned south and then 
towards me on instruction, I was later told, from somebody at 
the water plant who spotted me, how, I don't know as I had no 
lights.

They got me in their searchlight, called to me over the P.A. to
raise a hand if I could hear them, which I happily did, and in
a minute was getting a life ring tossed at me as I shouted to
the crew that I was unhurt, just cold and tired.

They lifted me aboard,lashed in the kayak and brought me back 
to the boat club dock. The E.M.S. crew arrived a minute later, 
as I was shakily setting foot on the dock. They retrieved my 
dry bag from the aft hatch, I changed in the ambnulance and 
answered questions, signed a waiver and was released.

Alan was white as a sheet. We loaded the boats onto our cars, 
went into the club for a cup of tea for me. It turned out the 
guys who pulled me out were waiting for me as they're members, 
and they're all firemen or policemen in there.

Call me Mr. Lucky, my guardian angel has waterwings, my prayers 
were answered. It has changed me, I can tell you, in ways I 
don't yet know of.

Lessons learned:

1) I didn't listen to the weather forecast, which predicted 
exactly what came, (including the tornado in Pawling) if I had 
I wouldn't have gone out at all

2) no paddlefloat, which prevented re-entry once it was calm 
enough to do so 

3) no learned and practiced roll, which I couldn't have done 
anyway in those conditions, but besides I

4) had no skirt

5) no strobe on my vest, it was here in the closet, safe at home

6) no flares or even a flashlight

7) no knife

8) I was in street clothes, the drysuit was also safely home in 
the closet. If the water were cold, I'd almost certainly have 
perished.

9)Tether the bilge pump in. I nearly lost it three times.

10)I was out alone.

I'm still shaken. When I got home the next night I watched a 
Trailside episode that taped while I was gone to try to relax. 
It was one of sea kayaking at Gross Morn in Atlantic Canada. 
Looking at the shapes of the boats, even on calm seas, just 
scared me. I had to turn it off.

The kayak is a 16' Baltic Mari 4, made in Estonia, high-volume 
and in fiberglass/composite. The paddle is theirs, too, a 
carbon-fiber one. 

Extrasport PFD worked well, but **only because the waist strap 
was cinched as tightly as I could stand it**. A mistake I think 
some make if they are novices who haven't actually ever been in 
the water in their vests is to buckle up and leave the waist 
straps loose, if tied at all. This will never do as the vest 
will ride up around your head like a chef's hat while your chin 
is at he surface of the water, if you're in rough seas you'll 
be swallowing a lot.
 
If anybody wants to write me to talk about this, please do.

Grateful beyond all words,

      ~Paul H.
phollerb_at_mail.burlco.lib.nj.us



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