Paddlewisers, Below is text for the trip report. If you would like to see a map and photos with the text, go to <A HREF="http://hometown.aol.com/pirateseakayaker/fandf.html">Northern Four Channel Islands Crossings</A> or http://hometown.aol.com/pirateseakayaker/fandf.html Enjoy! Duane Fog and Fatigue--Northern Four Channel Islands Crossings by Duane Strosaker Even though we were about to start the most dangerous crossing in Southern California, we were breaking our own rules by disregarding the weather forecast and launching late, which was going to put us in the middle of the thirty-mile channel during the afternoon winds. Never before had I been so scared about a crossing. My sea kayaking partner, Jim Gabriel, and I never intended to launch from Gaviota State Beach on the mainland as late at 9:45 a.m. But when it comes to the business of crossing channels by sea kayak, weather dictates. We were already delayed one day by thirty to thirty-five-knot winds, eight to ten-foot swells and six-foot wind waves. The National Weather Service seemed to have trouble predicting when the high pressure system creating this havoc was going to dissipate. At first, ten-knot winds were forecasted for the next day, and then overnight it was changed to fifteen to twenty knots. Winds of fifteen to twenty knots may be fine for coastal paddling but not for a crossing as long and unpredictable as ours. We called the crossing off for a second day. Or so we thought. That morning the calm in our campsite, famous for strong winds, didn't match the forecast. On my VHF marine radio with a weather band, we periodically listened to the report from the weather buoy in the middle of the channel. Over the morning the winds subsided from twenty-two, to fourteen, to twelve, and finally to ten knots. Based on the report from this single buoy and our instincts, we felt the National Weather Service, despite its various scientific methods, over predicted the strength of the winds for the rest of the day. We scrambled to break camp. When we launched through the surf late that Sunday morning, September 17, 2000, we couldn't see our destination. San Miguel Island was somewhere out there behind the haze. It wasn't long before the oil rig Heritage, nine miles off the coast and just a mile off our course, came into view. Using the oil rig in front of us and the mountains at Gaviota behind us as a natural range, I checked for drift. Like usual in this area, the ocean current was going up the coast. We ferried thirty degrees to the left to stay on course. By noon the oil rig and us were enveloped in fog. While we could still hear the fog horn from the oil rig, I did a final weather check. The latest forecast was the same, fifteen to twenty-knot winds, but the buoy was still reporting ten knots. Despite the fog and forecast, we committed ourselves to the crossing. For over six hours we had only one to three hundred yards of visibility in the fog. Every hour Jim turned on his GPS to get the bearing and distance to San Miguel Island. Based on this information, I guessed the ferry angles and steered with my compass. Normally, we would've rotated navigational duties, but Jim had a waterproof video camera mounted on the front deck of his kayak, and the electronics interfered with the magnetic field. Halfway across the channel, the bearing that Jim called out indicated we were now drifting in the opposite direction. I dipped my hand over the side, and sure enough, the water was colder. We had reached the ocean current that was farther offshore and heading down the coast. Now we ferried thirty to fifty degrees to the right to stay on course. The fog complicated matters in the shipping lanes. We hoped any ships would be giving the required long blast with the horn every two minutes. In case one wasn't blasting the horn, we listened carefully for engine noise. We also watched 360 degrees in the small radius we could see in the fog and hoped we wouldn't see a huge steel bow coming at us. Fortunately, we didn't encounter any traffic. The worst problem with the fog was psychological. I had to keep reminding myself that San Miguel Island was looming somewhere in front of us. Also, instead of the bright Southern California sunshine we were so used to, there was gloom all afternoon long. The forecasted swells were eight feet. They looked more like ten feet. Coming from our right, the swells appeared like walls as they emerged from the fog. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of mess even just twenty-knot winds would make out of the large swells. Despite the calm conditions we were having, I wasn't able to relax. I knew the conditions could easily and quickly become rough. I kept wondering why the National Weather Service stayed with the forecast of fifteen to twenty-knot winds. What did it know that I didn't? It was a mistake to disregard the forecast. This channel deserved a lot more respect than that. At 5:00 p.m. the winds increased to around fifteen knots. The water became choppy and waves occasionally washed over our decks. We still hadn't seen San Miguel Island through the fog yet. The sun was getting closer to the horizon. With the decreasing air temperature and frequent splashing of water, I became cold and put my paddle jacket on. Jim was working so hard to keep his kayak going straight that he didn't need his paddle jacket to stay warm. His kayak had an adjustable skeg, but no matter how he adjusted it, the kayak kept getting turned to the left by the large swells coming from the right. I had it easier with my rudder deployed. We didn't see San Miguel Island until 6:45 p.m. We popped out of the fog and there it was. It must have been visible for more than a minute before we noticed it spread out before us. After nine hours of paddling, it was a beautiful sight. We could see all of Cuyler Harbor and also the west end of Santa Rosa Island, where we were crossing to tomorrow. Having been denied sight of the islands for so long, we savored the beauty of them while we still had what little sunlight was left. We landed on a sandy beach just as it became dark at 7:45 p.m. With the sun down, the fog dissipated, and the night became unbelievably clear. Our campsite atop a hill was a great vantage point. The lights shined beautifully at the oil rig Heritage that we passed by during the crossing. We could even see the lights on the pier at Gaviota State Beach across the channel. With the clearness and lights, the channel seemed deceptively small. After setting camp in the dark, we weren't about to break it in the dark also, so we didn't launch on Monday until 8:45 a.m. Once again, we had fog. Visibility was two hundred yards at best. We didn't even see Prince Island in Cuyler Harbor as we left San Miguel Island and headed for Santa Rosa Island. Last night Jim mentioned that his left forearm was sore from all of the corrective strokes he had to take. This morning he had his forearm and wrist wrapped in duct tape for support and took ibuprofen. When we began paddling, he said he wasn't experiencing any pain. It's amazing what a little duct tape and ibuprofen can do. I had my own injury to worry about. During this twenty-three-mile day, I was experiencing left shoulder pain. Every hour Jim turned on his GPS to get the bearing and distance to Carrington Point at Santa Rosa Island. I used my compass to steer. We ferried into the current going through the three-mile passage between San Miguel and Santa Rosa. Along the north coast of Santa Rosa, we stayed well clear of the shoals and reefs. It was depressing having the fog hide the north coast from our view. All we could do was listen to the surf crashing on the island. As we rounded Carrington Point, we came into Becher's Bay, which was clear from the fog. After being in the fog for so long, it was uplifting to see shore and be in sunshine. But we couldn't relax yet. Gusts of around twenty knots were coming down the cliffs that lined the bay. With everywhere else so calm, I was surprised to be hit by the gusts. I would hate to image the strength of the gusts coming down from the cliffs on even a moderately windy day. About halfway down the bay, Jim and I landed safely through three to five-foot dumping surf on a sandy beach at 2:30 p.m. Jim stayed with the kayaks while I looked for the campsite. When I came back, I told Jim that we should paddle our kayaks one hundred yards up the beach to make carrying the gear to the campsite easier. Jim said his forearm was too sore to launch and land again. I didn't realize until then how serious his injury had become. He took more ibuprofen for his forearm, and I took some for my shoulder. Our injuries were beginning to make me wonder if we were going to be able to finish this trip. When the alarm sounded on my wrist watch at 4:30 a.m. on Tuesday, thinking about the long thirty-two-mile day that laid ahead was almost unbearable. We broke camp and were ready to launch at 6:00 a.m., but it was still dark and there was still three to five-foot surf dumping on the beach. With the darkness we couldn't see the sets coming in to time our launch between the larger waves. Jim wanted to go for it, but I wanted to wait until we had some light to reduce the chance of getting tossed backwards on the beach. Fifteen minutes later it was still dark and I was tired of waiting, so we went for it. Both of us launched without getting wet. Our visibility on this day was good. Two miles was a lot better than one to three hundred yards. But we still didn't see Santa Cruz Island for a few hours. Jim turned on his GPS every hour and called out the distance and bearing to the west end of the island. I used my compass to steer. A direct crossing from Santa Rosa to Santa Cruz would've been eight miles, but we took an indirect route of around ten miles to avoid the area of turbulent water that extends two miles from the west end of Santa Cruz. This turbulent water is famous among local mariners and is know as the Potato Patch. It is caused by converging swells and currents, and overfalls occur there even on calm days. We ferried into the current to avoid being drawn into the mess. Jim had his wrist and forearm wrapped in duct tape again and was still on ibuprofen. Again, he said his forearm didn't hurt while paddling. It was only in camp that it really hurt, but it was obvious that paddling was making it worse. My shoulder pain was gone, but now I had left forearm pain. On the water, I wrapped my wrist and forearm with duct tape, but I wrapped it too loosely and the tape became even looser when it became wet, so it didn't give me any support. I ended up adjusting my paddle stroke by keeping my wrist straighter and opening my fingers more as I pushed. The pain was gone in a couple of hours and never came back. Along the first half of the north side of Santa Cruz Island, we were able to see the coast and still had calm conditions. There were dozens of sea caves along the way. One of these caves was the famous Painted Cave, which is the largest sea cave in the world. Because this trip was about crossings, we didn't expend any time and energy to locate and explore the cave. During most of the second half of the north side of Santa Cruz Island, we felt like we were on another crossing. We were paddling point to point, and the coast was over three miles away in the area of Prisoners and Chinese Harbors. With two miles of visibility, we didn't see land most of the way. The winds had increased to around fifteen knots. We had following seas that were moderate at worst, but they still made paddling tedious. Jim's kayak was broaching, so he had to take a lot of corrective strokes. With my rudder I didn't have to work as hard as him. We landed at Scorpion Ranch, the only authorized campsite on Santa Cruz Island, at 3:15 p.m. Both of us were fatigued, and Jim's forearm was swollen. For the day after next we had planned to cross forty-three miles from Anacapa Island to Santa Barbara Island. Then in the following days, we would have to cross thirty-two miles to Two Harbors on Catalina Island and another twenty-two miles to the mainland. I felt too fatigued for the forty-three-mile crossing. Jim said that with his forearm injured, he didn't think he could perform a rescue. Santa Barbara Island would have to wait until next year. We slept in Wednesday morning and launched for Anacapa Island at 8:45 a.m. With ten miles of visibility, we were able to navigate without a GPS or compass for the first time on the trip. Including a four-mile passage, we paddled the nine miles to Frenchy's Cove on Anacapa by 11:00 a.m. We landed and had lunch there. Our plans were to camp overnight on the island, but with the weather so unusually calm, we decided to cross fifteen miles to Channel Islands Harbor on the mainland that afternoon. We launched at 11:35 a.m. and were safely in the harbor by 3:20 p.m. Needless to say, the trip was grueling. I often asked myself why I was doing it. Thoughts of not doing any more difficult trips occurred. Yet, like so many times before, once the trip is over, the next challenge beckons. *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - All postings copyright the author and not to be reproduced/forwarded outside PaddleWise without author's permission Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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