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. *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - All postings copyright the author and not to be reproduced outside PaddleWise without author's permission Submissions: paddlewise_at_lists.intelenet.net Subscriptions: paddlewise-request_at_lists.intelenet.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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