[Paddlewise] Wes's request for essays and such

Wes said;

> Another great one, Bob. I sure like reading good trip reports, essays,
and
> the like on Paddlewise. I've contributed a few over the years --
although
> not much this year as I haven't written many of them this year -- but
> would
> sure like to see others take a swing at it. We used to have several
people
> that contributed good stuff fairly often, and I'd like to encourage
others
> to take it up and share their experiences.

I don't claim to be much of a writer, but it's Friday, the office is
having a Christmas Pot Luck luncheon, and other than that, not much work
will be getting done.  So, I took a few minutes and came up with this
quick and dirty little tale, for your amusement.  I hope I'm not
embarrassing myself by posting such dribble compared to posts such as
the good Reverands.


In the spirit of answering Wes's call, here goes..........


Blackbeard in the OBX
----------------------

Today, like many mid summer days in North Carolina's Outer Banks, will
be painfully hot, with temperatures easily teasing the 100 degree mark.
It will also be plagued with high humidity, creating sauna like
conditions from the slightest of exertions.  But, that's later.  At the
moment, it's sunrise, and the temperature is a seemingly cool 85
degrees.

I'm alone at the put-in.  The sun is rising and the waters are still and
silent as I prepare to slip my boat gently into the water.  Almost
concurrent with the bow breaking the mirror smooth tranquility of the
water, a variety of fowl spring to life in the surrounding marsh,
frantically taking flight, creating a general sense of panic.  The
timing didn't go unnoticed, but is purely coincidental.

Then again, the timing may not be coincidental. These waters are known
as the Graveyard of the Atlantic, and have taken many ships and many sea
going souls into it's depths.  It's also the old stomping grounds for
Blackbeard the Pirate.  A man who became legend, and some will say the
legends are still being written.  This is where he came to "lay low" as
the saying goes.  The waters can be treacherous to those who are
unfamiliar with them, and the many islands, cuts, bays, marshes and
maritime forests offer ideal places to hide.

Could the birds sense something that my human brain can't recognize?  Is
there a threat nearby that I am unaware of?  Will another chapter of
local lore be written today?  It's silly, really.  The year is 2003, and
there is plenty of civilization just a few miles away.  I'm the victim
of an over active imagination, a child's sense of wonderment in an adult
body.  

A few strokes to get comfortably into the water, then I can pause to
adjust a strap here, tuck in an object there, and turn on the GPS
strapped to my deck. The boat is still gently gliding forward when I
lift my eyes from the deck and notice, for the first time, a body of
thick fog that has rolled in.  Within a few breaths, I'm capsulated in
the fog, with visibility limited to no more than a few feet beyond my
bow.

No.  This isn't within my comfort zone.  I need to get off the water.
My navigational skills are marginal, and I'm generally unprepared to
paddle in fog.  I turn the boat around, and paddle a few strokes.  The
take out should be no more than 20 to 30 yards away.   I paddle a few
strokes and glide.  Then, a few more strokes and glide again.  Where is
the take out?  I wasn't that far away when the fog rolled in.

A couple more strokes, and I begin to hear voices.  Faint voices,
speaking English, but in a strange dialect.  Images begin to appear.
Just their silhouettes - nothing more than misty shadows, really.  As I
get closer, the fog thins, and I begin to see more clearly, but I'm in
disbelief.

As quickly as possible, I do a few sweep strokes to turn Starboard, and
punch my boat into the marsh grass.  I'm sure nobody saw me.  Well, I
hope nobody saw me.  I'm in shock.  Who are those men and what are they
doing out here?  Their cloths, and their boat - they look so strange.
But I've seen one of them before.  Where have I seen him?  Yes, that's
it.  An art gallery with a nautical theme in Kill Devil Hills, a small
town on the Outer Banks.  I recognize him.  He's Blackbeard!

I try to think, but I can't.  I try to reason, but I'm frozen.  I try to
make sense out of nonsense, but I'm incapable.  I've mentally shut down,
partly out of fear, partly out of confusion.  I look around and I don't
recognize my surroundings.  I couldn't have paddled more than 50 yards,
but I'm in a strange place.     Am I in a dream?  Am I imagining that
I've gone back in time and stumbled upon Blackbeards hiding place?  

The water around my boat erupts!  I'm getting wet and the calm waters in
my front are becoming chaotic!  Ahhhh, fish jumping.  My gliding boat
took me over a school of fish in shallow waters, and they're scrambling
to safety.  Gliding boat?  Wait, a moment ago I was pushed up into the
marsh grass!  I look behind me and the put-in is getting smaller and
smaller in the distance.   "Welcome back to reality" I tell myself.  I
grab a quick drink of water, take a last glance around me, check to
ensure that the GPS is tracking my movements, and then, with a deep
breath and a smile, I try to regain the peacefulness I had a moment ago,
and continue with my wild fantasy of paddling with Blackbeard the
Pirate.
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