[Paddlewise] (long) The Cape Of Many Holes

The Cape Of Many Holes

The last town in America is a loose collection of small wooden buildings
reeling over the remains of its ten thousandth year of incorporation.  But
there
are many in town who say they have been here all along and that no date marks
their coming or going, just the occasional surprise of an ancestor's
possessions reappearing to them to remind them of an even more distant
antiquity.  My
small group paddles to the Cape Of Many Holes, where its cliffs show the
inevitably losing struggle it wages against the Ocean. A struggle barely
notable in
our lifetimes.

As the breeze rises I recall exactly what it is I want to find on this
journey, for I will need it as encouragement when the breeze strengthens and
my
resolve needs answers. The Cape is storied and I will bring one back for
myself
about this place to footnote it under those that have spoken of it for
centuries. The small swell begins to rise more fully as we feel the water
losing the
influence of its inner passage and rise up as the ocean we've come to paddle
in.

I look back at my companions, my wife and a good friend, to see them darting
between rock groups, minimizing their exposure to the wind. It feels good to
break in a cove, a slot canyon on the sea, mossy redoubts and leaning spruce,
the kelp twirling under our static blades. Muscles regrouped we sprint back
out
to sea to find our breeze has passed, heading south, to pull the dying
needles and weak limbs from more distant trees. The sea is calm but rolling,
only
tossing the nearer the rocks I place myself. My friend and my wife choose a
passage, a failed arch, whose shadow is constant on the water under their
hulls.
Mine is a perfectly round stone the size of my small living room with no more
space for the mussel's and barnacles competing for the last of the granite.

Well, I thought it was perfectly round. Riding the Swell-O-Vator around its
girth I fail to notice it's a perfect cutout for landing an unwary paddler. An
oncoming swell washes onto the trough leaving me high and ninety nine percent
dry. Only a thin veneer of water under my hull enables a quick turn of the bow
into the swell for the lashing I know to be on the way. I jam my paddle onto
the rock, protecting my bare hands from the shells, to complete the turn. A
stately four or five footer rises, burying my bow in foam, and though I do not
see it, green water is somewhere under the surface as my bow stops it's dive
and I launch and begin my descent back down my temporary hill onto the sea.

It's still a fight, as the waves here are coming from more than one angle, as
a brace into one gets me mowed down by another. But in the last moment my
paddle holds, the waves subside and my back rises over the hull, I dig in
again
and sprint out to sea a few yards to clear the area. I look a little wet to my
wife who cheerfully asks if I'm ok. More than that, I answer laughing the
laugh of having not paid the full price of stupidity.

We tour the labyrinth of caves, stacks and slotted passageways. Noting the
entrances lead to caverns and grottoes and secondary exits. The swell is
broken
down and the high ceilings cause no alarm. There are beaches in the pocket
coves that we break on and drink water and relax. The island in the distance
is
aglow with afternoon light signaling our expedient departure. We have seven or
eight miles left to paddle and though the wind is down we want it still to be
light when we reach camp.

The race along the south of the Cape Of Many Holes is awash with omni
directional waves and persistent foam that mimics the moss in the forests
along
shore. It is a steady mat, broken only by the rearing gray water underneath. I
float for a time, just bracing, measuring my speed along the stacks and rocks.
It
seems about a knot and a half, maybe two. A yachtie once told me that all the
water from our inland sea drains along this shore, prolonging the ebb and
reducing the flood. Nevertheless, I dig in when I'm wobbly, brace when going
down
and keep an eye out for my companions. The Needle frames them neatly; a
hundred and fifty foot monolith with smooth columnar sides and a beautiful
swell
crashing at its foot.

We lose the tidal influence of the race, but begin another kind of race as
the light ratchets down and we begin a five-mile crossing to where we think we
will camp. My energy reserves are low and it retards my progress. My wife is
firmly in the lead and my buddy and I raft up for a quick snack. Its stated
220
calories are gone within three swell patterns and I quickly recede back into
my hypo caloric pace; in the back, happy, but not impressing anyone. The stern
seas are four to five feet but I manage to catch few rides.

I scold myself for allowing my self to bonk when the next headland grows
rougher. It's name, That Which Should Be Walked Around, is a beautiful place
of
300-foot cliffs, offshore reefs, rocks and boomers. I ride a swell into an
oncoming swell climb its frothy peak and brace into a rebounder from my left.
My
knees rattle a bit more when it happens again in a few yards. I quietly wonder
to myself why it was not named The Rapid That Lasts All Day, but I think That
Which Should Be Walked Around is more expedient. My friend points inland and
we
set up for a cove that is calm and sandy.

We line our boats into a watery path cleared of boulders for thousands of
years by those here first. Their canoes could land and launch more safely than
other beaches, as the headland blocks most of the swell and their labors
provided no stones in their pathway. The headland above served to spot whales
or
enemies. There are no whales, enemies or boulders in our path as we drag the
boats
up the kelp rack and onto the sand.

This morning we keep the tents erect and paddled to a point in the distance.
A failed promontory ravaged for an epoch or two by the ocean, it lies broken,
as one would find a skeleton among dunes. We probe beyond the first rack into
the bucking wash framed by a second rack. I can tell my wife hates this as her
crinkled brow is looking for the exit signs. We find it and relish the clean
blue swells with sandy bottoms and an easy ride to shore for lunch.

Returning to camp our idyllic cove is set to spin cycle and we enter with far
greater concern. My wife is surfed forward and trips in the clapotis several
yards in. I'm committed to my line inward and wish her the best; Oh, the
romantic in me. I choose the greater part of the wave and surf toward a wall
knowing that the wave is diminished the closer I get allowing me to turn down
wave.
My friend is towing my now swimming wife to calmer water and I arrive to help
her back in for the short paddle to shore. We laugh over rum drinks, naming
the cove Mrs G's Washing Machine.

It is our last morning and we launch into the immediacy of chaos and begin
our trip back around That Which Should Be Walked Around.  Climbing forward,
surfed from astern, bracing on rebounders from right and left I head a bit
more to
sea enjoying the bluer water more until my head catches up with my heartbeat.
In deeper water I feel less effects of the rip that is draining the bay to my
right. I relax enough to pull my surf shirt from out of the holes it's worn
into my underarms. I can feel the scab breaking as the pile of fabric and
seams
is drawn from the wounds. I dislike no one enough to wish this shirt on. I
tuck my elbows close to minimize the sting and slowly stroke away from the
agitated headland waters. Dear shirt makerb&.

It's good to have the swells behind us as we set toward shore. The sun is
high and the blue sky a stranger to most hours of the day here. It is a simple
landing completing a simple trip. We are able to etch the walls of rock and
water of the Cape Of Many Holes more firmly into our minds and experience the
power that causes explorers to note and people to remain for thousands of
years,
if they were ever absent from this place at all.

Rob G
who named no one and hid the names for you to discover it yourself
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