[Paddlewise] Hands Across the Water (was Bush League)

>>No Bush Whacking, this is a paddle forum.<<

ralph said in response:

>>I wholeheartedly agree.  There are always two (or more) sides to any issue
and certainly none of them are germaine to a paddling forum.  My only child,
Jason, an Army sargeant, has gotten deployment orders.<< >snip<

Ralph, I hope you don't think I was "bushwacking." The original poster asked
for wisecracks, so I worded my reply as such, visa vis the whole "axis of
evil" thing and immersion apparel-less paddlers. Someone else highjacked the
post. Besides, we have enough Canadian politicians saying impertinent things
anyway. Bush promised awhile ago he was going to go after anyone remotely
associated with possible and potential terrorist threats. If you guys do go
in, just make sure you kick some ass. PLEASE send me Jason's Email -- I'd
love to send him my support and genuine prayers. I was a reserve "TKM" for a
few years. And after all, its these young guys we send in to do the dirty
business for the rest of us armchair quarterbacks.

Now back on topic, more or less. I do worry about our respective borders
remaining open. Off topic discussions could come up with a host of reasons
why things might get restrictive after any post-invasion occurrence.

I paddled over to Jolie's a couple of months ago. It was such a hassle with
officialdom (Jolie wasn't too bad, hee, hee). I phoned ahead, spending
significant time with a wonderful, professional lady at Friday Harbor
customs. She took down _a lot_ of information, then told me that without
precedent, I could paddle from Vancouver Island over to Roach Harbor without
having to take the extra half day (which would have been without landing!)
that it would require to show up at Friday Harbor -- which is on the other
side of the island (I'm not Kirk). She said most paddlers just take the
ferry, especially in winter. In summer, Roach is staffed with a customs
representative. All I had to do was phone the moment I arrived at Roach
Harbor. I'd done these crossings before, sometimes taking the ferry to
Friday Harbor (but only so I could come back across the same day, targeting
rough conditions when it was far easier to aim for Vancouver Island, rather
than the other way around; sometimes I hit Oak Bay, sometimes I'd hit Island
View beach, then call for a ride). Back in the good old days, hardly a
question was asked if you bothered to inquire. Now kayakers run drugs,
illegal immigrants pour through holes in the borders (including watery
ones), and certain food substances are severely restricted -- to name a few
things.

The crossing went well once the Pacific Northwest finally escaped
geographically wide inversion layer of the preceding week. Slack tide was
the half way point (I've learned the hard way to do crossings efficiently,
though that can be more boring). I was wearing 3mm neoprene and a breathable
drytop, clocking almost 5 knots across the deep water section. I was fairly
stiff climbing out of the kayak and only slightly warm, clambering up the
meter high dock -- especially difficult with a flesh-eaten leg gone numb. I
hobbled over to the phone with cramps . Oh no! I'd left my wallet in the
minivan with the wife unit and waving kids. Oh boy! I used third party
billing, thanks to a quick confirmation from my mother-in-law. The fellow
who answered wasn't impressed. He put me on hold for fifteen minutes, then
came back with a long speech and list of questions:

"Who gave you permission to do this? This isn't right. You have now had a
chance to interact with the islanders!"

"Sir, I sought permission earlier in the week. I was simply to call you for
some kind of clearance number."

"What kind of vessel are you in?"

"A 17-foot kayak, yellow deck, white hull; I have no criminal record, no
fruit, and no illegal contraband."

"How many people are on board?"

"Sir, it's a one-person kayak. I am alone. I have arrhythmias, I'm dizzy,
and I'd like to call my host."

"What color?"

"I already told you, yellow over white, and I don't have a registration
number. All relevant information was forthrightly given to the person who
authorized this procedure. Do you not have it written down somewhere,
please?"

"I'm alone in the office today, it's busy. Did you say yellow over white,
huh? What is the name and address of your host?"

"Jolie, uh, Smillouwits. I don't know the address, she is supposed to coming
to get me when I call."

"How do you spell that? Where does she work?"

"Sir, I don't have the spelling. I don't know. She lives at Lyme Point.
Maybe S-M-I-L-O-W-I-Z-C, or maybe C-Z, or -S. I already gave all this
information. I think she makes crafts."

"How big did you say your vessel was? Do you have any alcohol?"

"Sir, its a kayak, a Nordkapp, a narrow British kayak. I only have clothing
and rescue/safety equipment and water stored aboard. My hostess is providing
the booze."

"Well. I'm not happy about this. Here's your number, make sure you write it
down. Next time I want to see you and your identification here, in person,
in Friday Harbor."

Whew! I slipped back into the cockpit, the custom's number already smudged
beyond recognition from drips of water and damp hands. I slid of the high
dock, stern first (to protect the rudder assembly) burying the entire stern
and my torso to armpit depth. A couple of locals clapped, shouting they'd
never scene that before. I shouted out that I was Canadian. I'd show this
manoeuvre to Dave in Astoria once before (much lower dock). He was sure I'd
flip over. The trick is to _plan_ on going over (sort of), pick the side you
want to lean to, then brace to that side with a forward trailing-brace as
you cascade backward.

Gordin was supposed to come over with me, but had business at the last
minute. I was kind of glad he hadn't come, lest the pair of us being frisked
for homebrew, but how was I supposed to meet new paddlers cold turkey --
Gordin was supposed to be the gregarious one? Jolie and crew came down to
meet me finally. I was expecting frump-woman. Was I wrong.

The WKC crew had a glib, but altruistic vibe that resonated deeply in the
heart of this hardened cross-border paddler -- imparting to me the deep
sense of kindness and joviality of my neighbours and new friends. The
weekend went well with stories into the wee hours of the night -- Scotch and
Moose Drool beer providing the loquacious latitude to continue.  I wondered
if the other paddlers accepted my stories with credibility -- something
Canadians are generally known for -- but a made somewhat difficult when
accounts are condensed over one or two nights by the fireplace.

I was last to turn in, along with one of the other paddlers who had to pack
it in for the night (and who was one of those paddlers who had an apparent
uncanny ability to have progressed exponentially in his skill and
appreciation of the finer points of watermanship). I just love it!Canadians
do party harder, though, eh. A dramatic moon setting itself across
shimmering Spieden Channel left an indelible impression and an understanding
of how fortunate my hostess was, to be situated where she was amongst the
San Juan Islands, with freedom at her doorstep -- something that was fought
for and cherished by my American neighbours here south of the 49th.

We had a great day paddling around the very unusual Spieden Island with its
menagerie of exotic game dashing about the denuded flanks along the island's
southern exposure. The conditions were frightfully boring, as was the tidal
movement that day but, I had paddled amongst these islands before, impressed
with the magnitude and might back in my youthful zeal of days gone by, days
when I never bothered with friends -- or custom officials.

I had fun paddling backwards and hand paddling forward, feeling muscles that
had gone on vacation during my months of recovery. I used rotary-cooling to
let the cool seawater moderate the new drysuit's perspiration clamminess,
took pictures of Jolie in her Welsh Princess, and chatted with the men. One
guy, a _real_ big dude, had an incredible tale of medical-crisis survival,
which put life into acute perspective once and for all, for me. I'd lost a
lot of money taking the weekend off. Yet, money couldn't buy the happiness I
was experiencing -- despite the summer-like conditions and lack of action.
And I'd saved $50.00 Cnd by not taking the ferry.

Back at the beach, I played at rolling, swim-towing, reenter-and-rolls,
paddlefloat re-entries (foredeck and reardeck). I broke some front rigging
mounts, which was as good a time as any to find structural weaknesses in the
Nimbus straps (way more leverage off the foredeck than stern). It was the
first time in my drysuit, making all the manoeuvres somewhat different than
with a wetsuit/drytop combo. I wanted to stay in the cold water forever,
never having had the luxury of dry insulation technology before. While it
"felt wet" while in the water because of compression, I was in fact
completely dry. An ice-cream headache and some intrinsic dizziness convinced
me to pull ashore finally, but not before Jolie challenged me with a
BCU-style brace-recovery (the one where you have to go over to one side
completely and recover without sweeping). Let's just say I needed to work on
it a bit more. She didn't.

The next morning blew up cool and choppy out of the east. My hostess was a
bit concerned -- if she only new about some of the former games I'd played
out on Haro Strait. The "Big Dude" offered me a ride down to Roach, to save
me some time. The heavy Nordkapp slipped its moorings suddenly, hanging
precariously off the forward roofrack as we motored downhill toward the
marina. I held on to the stern, standing on the back bumper as we pulled
into the slip way.  He offered to give me his thick paddling gloves to
battle the cold chop ahead. I couldn't accept his generosity, and knew
instinctively that the seas would abate once the sun reached full splendour.

To make the crossing more interesting I took aim at the Anacortes ferry
pulling out of Sydney. I'd toyed with her in the past, amongst the swirling
channels between the islands off of Sydney (always vectoring away before
close quarters, of course). I paddled flat out, amazed at the comfort level
afforded by the drysuit. The wicking properties of the insulation kept the
skin-to-polypro contact free of moisture. I was glad though, that it wasn't
a warm spring day. The 3/4 inch neck tube helped ventilate during the faster
sprints. A strong destination-side ebb swept me away from my trajectory.
Just as well. The ferry steamed by, off to the north.

I landed on the sand spit, off the northern tip off Sydney Island. Now I was
cold. Perhaps Gore-Tex wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all (I
bought the suit more for rough water play, Gore-Tex not being absolutely
necessary in breaking seas and surf). I plucked my cold butt down on the
forward hatch after stretching, splaying my legs to each side while the
world stopped whirling. I had one of those "wet-less" cries big boys are
known for, as I thought back to months prior when I had made passage out to
Rum Island -- my first paddle after hospitalization -- where I had sat
gazing across to the San Juan's, having realized then that I hadn't been
ready to paddle over to Jolie's at that point. Now it had been a reality. I
started thinking about my next goal -- a nighttime paddle in storm-force
conditions...something I'd thought about while lying in the burn unit after
talking long-distance to my old friend Vince.

A real chill suddenly ran down my back from condensing moisture. It was time
to pull out my cell phone. Oh wait, that was with my wallet. I paddled over
to one of the few boaters out that winter weekend, and had the skipper hail
my wife with directions to meet me at the Port Sydney dock. When I arrived
at the dock, I wasn't supposed to land until getting clearance from Canadian
customs. Without the cell phone, I had to go through the Coastguard on a
patch-through:

"Come in Canadian Coast Guard, this is Kayak One standing to off the Port of
Sydney, inbound from the San Juan Islands. Request clearance procedures.
Cell phone not available."

(This was the first time I've actually talked to the CG on my VHF, and I was
a little too "official" myself).

"Kayak One, go to channel Two-Two Alpha, stand by please"

There was a mini-drama unfolding off the spit where a boater had lost
engines and was being taken away by the current. A commercial vessel gave
chase, and secured a tow line. It was all very interesting. Fifteen minutes
later:

"Coast Guard, this is Canadian Kayak One, CAN YOU HEAR me? Have you
forgotten me?"

"Kayak One, you are coming in LOUD AND CLEAR, sir; we are here in Victoria
and have an antenna in your vicinity!"

(Oops!)

"Here is your patch to customs at Victoria Airport. Go ahead."

"This is customs, what is your name and purpose of your trip? What kind of
vessel are you in? What are the names of the people on your chase boat?"

"I'm solo sir. I'd like to put to shore. I'm returning to Canada. I have
nothing to declare. I need clearance."

I desperately wanted to hit shore, jump out of my drysuit and into casuals
before my wife arrived. But no, the questions continued:

"What kind of kayak is it? What brand and make? Colour and length please."

"Sir, it's a 17-foot yellow over white Nordkapp."

"What's a N-O-R-D-K-A-P-P. What is yellow over white? What is that?"

"Sir, it's county of origin is England. It was a rather famous boat in its
time. I'm Canadian. I have no criminal record. I'm not carrying fruit or
booze. It has a yellow deck with a white hull, you know, yellow over white.
I'm tired and cold. I'm communicating with my VHF in one hand while side
paddling in a current under the wharf. Could I get a clearance number
please?"

"Uh, oh, okay, yes, thanks for the history lesson; I suppose your hands are
not too free. Tell you what, phone us as soon as you get home and we will
give you a clearance number. You are free to land."

Thank you! I rushed to shore, hauling the kayak up to the turn-around,
across massive stepping-stone boulders and crushed blocks of granite. Oh how
I love a strong hull slicked-up with a plastic keel line. No sooner had I
brought up the rest of the paraphernalia, than my wife pulls up. Darn! She
steps out with the kids.

"Hi honey, your safe. How was it? I was so worried at first when that
skipper called."

Then silence. Then:

"Um, what are you wearing? That's not your wetsuit. That's A DRYSUIT! How
much WAS THAT? When did you buy that!?

Yes, I was BUSTED!!!


Doug Lloyd  --  (who's mother-in-law recently handed me her phone bill,
wondering what the third-party charge of $52.00 was for. Well, so much for
saving ferry fares).

Take care everyone.
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