[Paddlewise] Trip report: Cutthroat Island

It wasn't much of a real trip, as trips go.





It was journey.  Albeit a short one.





The Magellan hadn't been wet for many, many weeks.  All the usual excuses
apply; none of them worth weighing.  But it was time.  The need had been
growing, the guilt gnawing, and the smiles from the belly lacking.  It was
time.





But my rational mind needed an external purpose.  





Son #3, aged 14, had enjoyed one of those lingering moments of childhood over
Christmas vacation.  He and his buds, all good kids, had slipped off in a
canoe onto the NE Fla Intracoastal marsh and discovered an island.  It needed
boys.  It needed naming:  Cutthroat Island.  And it needed to be camped upon.






Four sets of parents, also perhaps with lingering thoughts of childhood, gave
their consent.  The mission was on.  I was fortunate enough to watch Josh and
three friends literally paddle into the Florida sunset, shakily embarking from
collapsing marsh dock.  The single pine tree of Cutthroat Island offered a
beckoning silhouette.  The canoe held Eric, Wyatt, and Bryce, and all the gear
deemed vital by young, excited minds.  Josh paddled solo in his red Savage
Scorpion, with his favorite Christmas present: the Leatherman.





(The usual parental concerns were engaged, if not spoken.  The island really
wasn't that far away, maybe 400 yards from the marsh put-in, and wonder of
wonders, it came equipped with a cell phone.)





The weather forecast loomed favorable.  Knowing I was long overdue for a
paddle, I suggested that, in the interests of civilized contact, I might even
make the one mile paddle from the public boat ramp in the morning with Sunday
doughnuts.  (Spoil 'em while you can!)  But it wasn't to be.





After the late evening check-in with parents, the next call was at 7:30 am.
"Are you coming with doughnuts?" said a voice between chattering teeth.  It
had rained.  They were cold.  Home fires sounded mighty good, and the island
was abandoned posthaste.  Got Josh home with boat and gear, heard glorious
descriptions of high adventure, and watched proudly as he cleaned off boat,
paddle, float bags, pfd.  





"I can't find my Leatherman."





The intervening weeks have had a nagging pall hanging over them.  Millennia
come and go, school resumes, daylight's short, and then there's soccer.  Dad's
busy.  And no Leatherman.  If it were only a possession.  But it's more, you
know.





And the Magellan still wants to explore.  Looking out my temporary office
today, working too many Saturdays, seeing the glassy water of the lagoon
around our island ninth green, I knew it was time.  And I had a destination.
Cutthroat Island.  





Such a good feeling to hoist the heavy plastic to the ancient surf racks on
the not too young Bonneville.  A little macho swagger in my drive to the boat
ramp.  Not many trailers in the lot, maybe all the powerboat fishermen are
getting chores done so they can watch local Jaguars whup Titans tomorrow.
Things are looking good.





I always stretch, you know.  But today it hurt more and felt better than it
had in a while.  Rotate.  Extend.  Gaze at the lazy pelicans on the pilings,
sunshine with a light SE breeze.  High tide, starting to ebb.  I feel a smile
building.  And then I'm in the boat, stroking.





Ah!  How could I have been so foolish?  The motions came back fairly well,
maybe a little too much arm, not enough torso.  Out into the intracoastal.
Not an engine in sight.  Heading 015, cap'n, wind to the rear quarter, bit of
a tide ride.  I can see the lonely pine of Cutthroat Island faintly to the
North.  





I hear an engine, and see the source.  Get to test my meager skills against a
small wake.  No problem.  Arms a little tired, but hey! what do you expect you
old desk jockey.  The pine grows on the horizon.  The tide helps.  A few more
boat wakes, but I mimic the wading herons and ignore them.  The following wind
sways the marshgrass, pelicans cruise and light.  The smile is almost out,
Cutthroat Island is off the starboard bow.





Think back to when a vegetated pile of sand 75' x 30' deserves to be called an
island.  I scoot the boat through the grass onto what might be called a beach
and set foot on dry land.  Perhaps going not too boldly where no grown man has
gone before.  A path runs from end to end, helter skelter between the
waist-high scrub oaks and tall grass.  A homemade ladder extends up to the
lower branches of the pine tree (Lookout Pine?).  Flotsam and jetsam of prior
explorers, including the young heroes aforementioned, unfortunately dots the
landscape.  High water marks show the tide  range and crab homesteads, but
elevation reaches perhaps six feet.  Not a bad choice for our campers.





I explore.  It doesn't take long.  Some evidence of dietary priorities
surround the remnants of a campfire.  And then evidence of intent, at least,
to gather trash for removal-a trash bag.  I examine the contents.  Campbell's
soup can.  Ramen noodle wrapper.  Leatherman.





So I smiled.  





All the way back.  Discovered that a few weeks off is definitely not good for
the strength.  And when you get weak your technique suffers, which makes it
harder.  Could feel the tide against me, small as it was.  But it felt so
good.  Dealt with a few boats, but mostly watched the birds and the water.
Stroke.  Lean, stroke.  Hmmm, good.





Saw a couple of dolphins cavorting.  Thought of Jacques Cousteau, mimicked his
accent out loud:  "Ze dolpheen, he is a verry luccky creetur, all he do heez
whole life is eat and maake luuv..."  Thought of #1 son, the rock-climbing
Hokie down for Christmas.  Put him in the boat for first time, ocean on very
calm day, he paddles around pier to return and advise me that dophin have now
swam underneath my boat, he was chasing them.  And, then, health nut that he
is, twists the knife, looks at me pointedly and says, ya know, Dad, you could
paddle to work almost every day.  He's right.  





So I chased the dolphins, laughing by now.  Finally finished up the last few
yards with a sprint to the dock.  Such a short trip.  So sore.  So wonderful.
Got the Leatherman, dad's a hero.  I might never go back, but I wouldn't have
missed a trip to Cutthroat Island.











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