Re: [Paddlewise] 1-10-1

Craig Jungers wrote:
> On 11/2/07, Doug Lloyd <douglloyd_at_shaw.ca> wrote:
>> 
>> Do paddlers who mature in years through our sport give more, or less 
>> thought to cold water immersion risks? I see more and more advanced 
>> paddlers out there dressing less and less for immersion, relying on 
>> skill, dressing more for comfort and air temps.

> Dave Kruger had an interesting tale about paddling with some old cronies
>  on Willapa Bay that, I think, illustrated some of the same attitude. 
> It's hard to teach someone anything when they think they already know 
> everything.

That incident (from May, 2006; reprinted below my sig)is a classic example 
of what you and Doug are concerned about, except that my cronies are pretty 
much the antithesis of "advanced paddlers" (except in age, of course). 
Very difficult to get them to chage their ways.  One fished as a salmon 
troller for several years, and developed his attitude that way.  Different 
mind set.

-- 
Dave Kruger
Astoria, OR
--

> These guys are old.  Older than I am anyway, by a few years, and they
> both came to paddling at very mature ages.  One is a neophyte, the
> other, a veteran of trolling for salmon, years ago, off the coast of
> Oregon, running river bars daily, and now and then launching off the
> beach at Cape Kiwanda.  Dory fishing in halcyon times ... the glory days
> of plentiful Chinook and coho.
> 
> They like to camp for several days each spring in Willapa Bay, on the
> west coast of Long Island, and spend their time telling lies, eating,
> hiking the trails, and sensing the arrival of growth, renewal, and
> newness.
> 
> I sometimes join them for a night or two, pushing my boat around the
> south end of the island the four miles to camp, a route which is
> somewhat exposed to southerlies and front arrivals, but usually a
> mellow, easy shot. Returning to the Refuge ramp is the same, in reverse.
> 
> Most of the time.
> 
> This spring, they had planned to hole up for four nights.  They are
> slower on the water than I am, so I elected to come out for their third
> night, expecting to return alone on day four, leaving them to enjoy the
> last night  and come home on day five.
> 
> Didn't happen.
> 
> Cadging some of their coffee and bogarting the aroma of their breakfast
> ham and hash, I snuffle down my granola and yogurt, hitting the VHF for
> the weather.  Oof.  Huge cold front coming, but not until the next day.
> Today's forecast: a small front with mild wind and storm, but not bad.
> Tomorrow:  all hell breaks loose: gales on the bay; heavy seas against
> the incoming tide on the exit route; rain, heavy at times.
> 
> I strike my tent, grateful I will escape the nastiness, and they discuss
> whether to wait out the storm in camp and delay exiting for a day or
> two. Eventually they elect to leave early, family obligations pushing
> them forward, and join me in the pack-up ritual, made leisurely by a dry
> bay, not wet enough for us to leave until noon.
> 
> Their boats are heavily loaded, with bulky deck loads aft, as we shove
> off into ten knots of head wind paralleling shore, a half knot of
> current at our backs.  Fifteen minutes later, I elect to grab as much
> lee as I can, and edge towards shore, shouting they should follow.  They
> persist in a straight line course, and soon I am paddling slowly half
> the time, and paddling in place the rest, waiting for them to catch up.
> 
> The wind rises some, generating small whitecaps.  George is a little
> faster and follows my lead near shore, so he and I are together,
> watching Larry flail with his home made paddle, short of blade area, and
> short of cadence and effort.  I realize it will demand at least two
> hours to cover the remaining mile and a half to our turn point, and dig
> in, grumbling "this always happens when I paddle with these guys!"
> 
> When I next turn around to look back, George is headed out from shore,
> away from our track, going across the wind, and drifting rapidly
> backward. What???  He's hearing-impaired, so I turn downwind and catch
> him.  He shouts he can't turn up wind, even with his rudder full over
> while sweeping on the downwind side, so I get down wind of him, and bump
> his nose back upwind.  He regains course, as I curse leaving my tow rig
> in the truck.
> 
> This happens twice more, with George having to turn the "wrong" way and
> use his strong side to regain the heading.  Larry continues to work
> away, out in the wind, despite shouts from me to "come in near shore for
> some lee."
> 
> After three hours we reach a sheltered beach, 200 yards short of our
> exposed turn point, and I share my food bag, suck down water, and
> discuss how to get around the point:  hug the shore for some lee, and
> then sprint around the point.  They nod, indicate they are warm but a
> little tired, and bail water from cockpits ... the consequence of leaky
> sprayskirts.  After twenty minutes of rest, I shove them off, pause to
> stuff gear, and look up, to see Larry headed out away from shore, and
> George dutifully following, into the brunt of the wind!  Arrgh.
> Following them, I make the air blue around me.  Aaaagh!  There goes
> George again, arcing downwind, his tail-heavy yak leecocking, until
> he completes the circle the wrong way and falls in line behind me.  I
> sigh with relief, and slow-paddle toward the point, now and then
> glimpsing back at Larry.
> 
> In twenty minutes George and I have squeezed past the point, through
> some mild clapotis, and George turns with the wind, around the corner,
> headed home with a tailwind assist.  I wait, bouncing in the chop.  And
> wait. And wait. And curse that absent tow rope.
> 
> Another twenty minutes and Larry finally clears the point.  We both use
> the tail wind and following seas to push us home, gradually gaining more
> lee. In another half an hour we cover the remaining mile and hit the
> ramp, George extracting gear.
> 
> I go get my truck, and bring it back, unpacking and extracting as the
> rain picks up ... to see Larry bailing at least two gallons from his
> cockpit ... and then another gallon from his rear compartment.  I ask
> him, "What's this?"  (Actually, it was more like "WTF?!")
> 
> "Oh, the rear hatch leaks a bit."
> 
> "Yeah, it did the last time I paddled with you in heavy seas ... five
> years ago."
> 
> "Well, I haven't gotten around to fixing it."
> 
> Silence.
> 
> [Note:  I like these guys.  They are friends of mine.  We have good
> times in camp.  I've done half a dozen easy flatwater cruises with them,
> and enjoyed those ventures.  I've cajoled them about packing gear,
> practicing rescues, and paddling smart.  But, I'm not getting anywhere.
> Some day, I think I'm going to read about them in the paper, and I hope
> it will be of a successful rescue ... and not a body extraction.  I
> think this is the last time I will go anywhere near them on the water.
> Stick a fork in me -- I'm done.]
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