Off Arch Rock, Newport Beach, CA I put in my kayak from North Star beach in Newport back bay about 7:00 a.m., frightening a sandpiper who runs off squeaking and feigning a broken wing. Its OK momma, I won't touch your eggs. It's cool and slightly foggy, perfect for some leisurely paddling before the hordes of Sunday boaters come out. The fish mongers wife waves at me - as she always does - while I pass under the Pacific Coast Highway bridge. Someday I might just stop at the small fish shop she runs and learn her name. Jesse? No, Lorenne. Maybe Agnes? Probably Roseanne. Undecided on a fitting name for her I return to thinking of her as the fish mongers wife. Will she find that amusing or be miffed if I tell her someday? Its inane thoughts like these that run through my head as the glide of the hull and the quiet splash of the paddle wash away a weeks worth of anger and frustration of the rat race. I'm starting to warm up now and get my stride. All the little aches and pains which have been a nuisance all week have mysteriously vanished. Damn I feel good! I pick up the pace and meet a sailboat motoring out of Lido Reach. They're an elderly couple; he with a big walrus mustache and pork-pie hat. She looks a bit like my aunt Eva. "Going out" she calls? "I think I will." "He won't go far in that bloodly little piss pot" says the walrus. "Oh Harry, he can hear you!" "He's still a bloody fool." I'm wondering who the bigger fool is, me, or them with their anchor tied to the davits, no warp in sight, and their sail covers still on. What happens if his motor konks? I'll read about it in the funny papers, I guess. As I pull away from them I can still hear them squabbling. Exiting the entrance channel I see a dozen or so neoprened surfers looking disgusted at the lack of substantial surf at "the wedge", a popular surfing spot. The ocean is indeed quiet today with hardly any swell. I point my bow 110 degrees and pass the beautiful homes on the distant shore of Corona del Mar. Just off Arch Rock I run into a school of porpoises. At first I think it's a tidal swirl, mistaking their curving backs for the lip of shadow of a breaking wave face. They vaulted from the water four times, each time gaining momentum. On the fourth plunge the sea became a seething mass; from nearly flat calm it was suddenly a boiling cauldron as thousands of small fry skittered in panic across the surface. For an instant I seemed to be heading for a sheet of molten silver, then it was oily smooth again. A flash of white from the sky, a splash of a projectile hitting the water, the birds have arrived. I don't know my birds so don't know what they are, spear-beaked missles hurling themselves into the sea with closed wings and out-thrust head. There are about a dozen of them and where they came from is anybody's guess, for a moment ago there had been none. They appeared as if by magic, coming in from all sides and angles and the little bomb plumes of their dives spouted all around me. They don't seem to be disturbed by or notice my presence, maybe because my kayak is so low profile in the water, or maybe this feast was just too much to pass up. One dived so close that I could almost touch the plume of spray. He came up with a fish in his beak, gave it a quick washing, turned it head first, swallowed it whole, then took off for another run taxiing clumsily with feet and wings laboring at the surface of the sea. It's over almost as quick as it started and only the carnage from the massacre - fins and blood - remain to convince me I haven't imagined it. There's also small, brown, aerated floating lumps that weren't there before - porpoise poop? Enough excitement for one day, I head back to the harbor and find the going a lot tougher. Tide or current, or both, it takes me almost twice as long to return and only by looking at landmarks on the shore do I have evidence that I'm making headway. By the time I make my turn into the entrance channel the swell has increased and small wavelets are slapping the side of the hull. As I pass the fishmongers hut she comes out and scoops up a pail of water. On her apron is the name ELLEN. Hah! We wave and I say "Hi, Ellen". Perplexed for a moment... she twigs to the apron; "Oh this is my daughters, she comes down and helps out a couple days a week". I hesitate to satisfy my curiosity and what can I say: tell me your name and cease being the fishmongers wife? Sensing my hesitation as reluctance to continue our conversation, she smiles and wishes me a good day. As I'm loading the boat on the jeep, like a song in my head that won't go away, I'm still trying to fit a name to her. Betty? Audrey? Nicholas Von Robison -- October 24, 1999 *************************************************************************** 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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