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 *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
The Cape Of Many Holes Rob, Really enjoyed this one. Bob *************************************************************************** PaddleWise Paddling Mailing List - Any opinions or suggestions expressed here are solely those of the writer(s). You must assume the entire responsibility for reliance upon them. All postings copyright the author. Submissions: PaddleWise_at_PaddleWise.net Subscriptions: PaddleWise-request_at_PaddleWise.net Website: http://www.paddlewise.net/ ***************************************************************************
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