Shelter From The Storm Coronation Island by Bob Carter I dip my wooden blade into the familiar rolling waters of the Wrangell Narrows. Indeed I know these waters well. I feel the welcome embrace of the powerful ebb current. I see the tell tale ripples of the reefs and shallows. I sense the catch of currents of the back eddies. I pick out from past surprises where unpredictable waves breed and lurk. I meet the curious stare of harbor seals and the stern gaze of eagles perched on top of the channel markers as they greet me once again. So many times these waters have served as my shelter from the storms of Fredrick Sound and Sumner Strait. Yet on this trip from these sheltered waters I will go and venture into the unknown lands beyond the horizon. Most of the waters I paddle in Southeast are protected by Baranof and Chichagof Islands. From time to time though I dare to venture into the outside waters. Cape Omni on the Southern tip of Baranof, the Khaz Peninsula of Chichagof, The Maurelle Islands Prince of Wales. Now I face my biggest challenge as I embark on my wildest adventure, Coronation Island. Located South of Kuiu Island, Coronation Island thrusts up from the deep cold depths of the sea and defies the great Pacific Ocean with its high cliffs and deep bays. The maps reveals other names of legend and folklore roll through my mind like wind driven waves. Cape Decision, Gish Bay, Windy Bay, Helm Point, China Cove and the Southern cliffs. Mariners tell plenty horror stories about these outside waters. Wild and untamed. I raised plenty of eyebrows when I have told friends that I am going to Coronation Island. "In a kayak?" "If the weather allows." I reply humbly. Cold. The word most heard in these parts this summer. Officially the coolest summer since 1970. According to those in the know La Nina deserves the blame. Today the rain pounds and the wind breaths a cold breath. The heavy skies and the cold rain feels like fall even though the calendar says late July. Yet it is not this cold rain that concerns me most but a big storm that lurks like a tigress off the coast. Will she roll in and reek havoc or stay out to sea where few will feel her furry? Only Time and the winds will tell. Still she sings seductively. She calls me out of the safe arms of the Narrows and into her wild world. Her world of adventure. Yet I must remember adventure is but a shawl that covers her world of danger and risk. A Harbor Porpoise surfaces beside me, black and slick she breathes sharp before sliding back into the shallow water. Harbor Porpoise call these protected and sheltered waters their home. They live in this haven from the storms. Maybe I should heed their wisdom as the sky darkens and the rain begins to fall harder. I find myself having trouble settling into this trip. As I take my first strokes I am surprised by how heavy the boat feels and how unresponsive it reacts to sweeps and leans. Stuffed with three weeks worth of food and gear it is by far the heaviest kayak I have ever paddled. I did a test pack in my garage just to make sure the boat would hold it all. It took a shoe horn but I got everything in. I drop the rudder and even then my Arluk III turns slowly. I look up at the dark heavy clouds over head. Rain drops explode on the water all around me. Alas the wind and cold also conspire against me. If a trip begins in fair weather I seem to be able to handle whatever comes but if a trip begin cold and wet it takes some extra mental fortitude for me to get into the trip. I fight disappointment. I have waited so long to do this trip and now a storm may scheme against me. Something feels different out here. It takes me a while to put it together. The world abides so silent. I hear no Ravens calling, no Eagles cackling, even the Loons remain silent. These creatures live out here and with their senses profoundly attuned to their world. They know a powerful storm lurks on the horizon. They feel her power and furry growing. Indeed they will have to survive her temper and wind. All stay silent and humble before the storm. Having gotten a late start due to the tides I pull in after only 10 miles at December Point. In another quarter mile the Wrangell Narrows will widen and dissolve into Sumner Strait. My fore arms burn from paddling the heavy kayak. A small creek tumbles out of the alder and across the barnacle covered rocks. I catch myself making "cold decisions", standing there cold trying to decide what to do next. I need to get into my wilderness "decision mode" where the decisions flow quick and precise all moving towards survival. I plow thought chest high sledge grass and the thick alder looking for a semi flat spot. I find a lumpy camp site just back of the trees. It will have to do. Later as I crawl into my sleeping bag I experience back spasms from the heavy boat and the cold. I begin to reconsider the trip. If the storm moves in I will face high winds and possibly be stuck several days in a wet windy camp. I run through my options. I could cut the trip short and return to Petersburg or head up to Kake through Rocky Pass. I have waited a long time for this trip and wonder if I will ever get the chance again. Still I must make the right decisions not driven by desire or ego but instead by my survival sense. I must take into account my age and limited ability of my body to recover. I decide to push on and make decisions day by day. A lot can change out there; I just have to be ready for it. Perhaps the biggest challenge is if I do turn back early to still find a way to make the trip enjoyable and rewarding. Morning comes swiftly in the late summer days in Alaska. I am surprised by patches of blue sky as I emerge from my tent. I wonder if this is real hope or just sucker holes; a Southeast Alaska term for a hole in the clouds that tricks us into thinking the weather will get better? Fools gold in the sky? As I leave the Narrows I round southern tip of Woewoodski Island and turn West into the wind swept waters of Sumner Strait. In all seasons fierce winds fly through this strait colliding with the tides and winds of Clarence Strait at one end and the swells of the open Pacific at the other. Chaos amid the wind and waves is no stranger here. I immediately feel the bite of the unyielding wind. Judging from the wind ripples I'd say 10 - 15 knots Sumner's way of saying "welcome". Could be worse, the morning weather observations had 25 knot South winds at Cape Decision. Though the gathering dark clouds above hold back their rain it doesn't matter as my heavy boat tends to plow through the waves rather than over them. I live in the spray. I guess I will stay wet today. I swing wide of Kah Sheets Bay to avoiding the massive two mile wide tidal flats that lurk there. Too bad. My son is working for the Forest Service this summer and right now their crew is at the FS Cabin in Kahn Sheets doing some repairs. In the past he has joined me on my trips but now the reality of money needed for college trumps anything else. Also in truth this trip is beyond his current skill level. He needs a little more time in protected waters before being tested by the outside. Sumner Strait seems like a different world. As I paddle I cross various reefs and experience powerful back currents dancing rips, snaking eddy lines and gnarly tangles of kelp. Lots of popcorn kelp floats everywhere revealing the tale of churning storms ripping the kelp from the rocks and tossing it about upon the sea. The beaches in the distance appear as peaceful blankets of white sand. Unfortunately nothing could be farther from the truth. The white sand is actually piles of sun bleached logs hurled onto shore by angry powerful storm born waves. This South shore of Kupreanof looks like a landscape from another planet. The low lying land lies covered with undulating tortured rock formations. Eons of surf have sculptured this land as it slowly rose after being freed from the massive weight of 4000 feet of glacier ice that once covered everything. What little land lays swampy and covered with thick tangled alder. So far the choppy seas remain manageable but wet. However Mitchell Point looms. The map indicates many reefs and rocks lurking just below the surface waiting to join with wind and tide to creating havoc. Today will be no exception. As I approach the sea begins to dance wildly below me. Once predicable waves now turn crazy and heedless to the laws of nature. Despite my heavy boat I am tossed about. Two rogue wave roll out of the strait and head toward me like a pair of angry bulls. I time my strokes and set my boat to take them broadside. The heavy boat resists my effort to lean into the wave! I fight the ballast of three weeks worth of gear. I time my lean and brace as the first wave hits! Slam! The force surprises me and I have no idea how far I have slid sideways. Slam! I shake my head trying to clear the water off my glasses. More waves approach! My heart quickens. I feel the adrenaline rush through my veins. This is fun! Bring it! Currents swirl and grab at my boat. I hold my line. I put a little more ump into my paddle strokes trying to get in as many forward strokes in before I surrender momentum to a brace. More rogue waves roll in and test my metal. I hold on with grit and joy. Slowly as I round the Point the chaos and havoc fall back into the sea and the waves return to normal. I head into Douglas Bay allowing its contours to shield me from the building West winds. Moving closer to shore I spot a black bear ambling along the shore. He walks a bit then buries his noise in the heaps of stranded kelp hoping for a tasty surprise. Ahead of him a small stream snakes out of the forest and into the sea. I doubt he will find what he so hopefully searches for. The salmon are very late this year. In fact of all my trips at this time of year I am shocked that I have not seen any salmon. No salmon leap from the sea, no salmon fin on the surface and no salmon are bunching up at the mouth of the creeks! Troublesome for both beast and man. How will this bear survive the winter? Salmon are so critical to building up body fat to endure the cold fall rains and the long cold sleep of winter? How will the fishermen who depend on the salmon for income handle the high cost of diesel fuel for their boats and fuel oil to heat their homes this wet fall and cold winter? I watch the bear as he stands by the edge of the stream. His motionless stare tells me no salmon spawn yet. I hope for your sake the salmon come soon my friend. Fifteen miles, time to look for a home for the night. Topos typically do not give good reads on the size of tidal flats but I chose to use them because the nautical charts do not give good reading on where fresh water creeks flow in. I find a creek on the map and study the shore line hoping to spot it. I see a break in the trees and set my bow in that direction. I study the bottom. The stream up a head has a deep channel but I am still seeing bottom a long way out. Even though tomorrow morning will be a big minus tide, I prefer with the threat of storm to seek shelter in this small bay. Luckily I am able to find a flat spot back in the trees next to the creek. I set up camp with my new solo tent. It packed better into my stuffed boat than my normal double. I worry though, a new tent and untested tent in the teeth of a storm. The radio still indicates 25 knot winds ahead. More than once in my life I have laid in a tent praying the poles and fabric held up while the storm outside pressed the tent down on top of me. Time will tell if my new tent will meet the challenge. Later in camp when I shut off my stove I hear the welcome sound of water thrashing over rocks. The falling tide reveals a small cascade as the stream reaches the sea. I welcome the peaceful comforting sound. After dinner I wander up the stream to get water. I see the story again in the tracks in the mud. A bear has wandered down and stood by the stream. Judging from the depth of his tracks he stood there for a long time. Yet no salmon swan by to feed his belly. I worry the bears will become desperate and seek food elsewhere, including from my food bags. I sit and watch as dark rain clouds crowd the horizon. So far the storm holds off. I watch the clouds above and see a scud pattern. Cloudy moving in different directions at different elevations. Not a good sign! Back in 1984 while my wife and I were canoeing on the Seal River in Manitoba we watched scud clouds for three days as we were pinned down by cold winds screaming off the Hudson Bay. These clouds sharply bring back the memories. Radio says South 25 knots winds for Cape Decision tomorrow. 20 knots Southwest for Sumner Strait. Mentally I am beginning to shorten my route. My plans to circumnavigate Coronation will most likely be thwarted by the storm. Plan B becomes to reach Gish Bay on the North end of Coronation. Still no guarantees. If the winds come out of the South I will face a seven mile open crossing and at least three straight days head on into a hard wind. I am beginning to wonder if I have bitten off more than I can chew. I am not sure I have the physical abilities or if the weather does not improve the mental endurance to push as hard as this trip may demand, especially since I do not like the way the heavy boat handled in today's seas. I know I need loose hips will help me deal with large swells that build in the storm. Yet my boat still reacts sluggishly to my hip moves. As I ponder my future out here a loud raucous fight erupts in the trees above me! A Raven ventured too close to a roost of crows. Now with loud protests they chase him off toward the horizon. Knowing the mischievous nature of Ravens I figure he just got bored and decided to stir up the crows for some excitement. The crows did not appreciate the joke. As the sun begins to set a solitary Loon calls out. Her lovely call says goodbye to the sun until the morn. My spirit joins in her farewell serenade. Dawn awaken about 4 am. I wake long enough to reach out of my warm sleeping bag and click on the weather radio. "I listen as the automated voice cranks out the numbers. Cape Decision South winds to 25 - 30 knots with higher gusts. Sumner Strait 25 knots Southwest shifting to the East tonight! Arrgh! Seems my hope for better weather falls like the tide. I rollback to sleep foolishly hoping that the forecast was only a bad dream. Eventually I crawl out of tent and immediately my whole body groans! The tidal flat sprawls out before me for a couple hundred yards! The Creek forms only a small shallow stream which empties into a shallow lagoon and eventually slithers into Sumner. I check my watch. Low tide remains 2 hours away! I shrug my shoulders and accept a late start and against the both tide and wind. I lug the boat down beyond a small ripple in the stream to get a little jump on the tide. The thin cockpit rim digs into my shoulder but I know if I put the boat down I will have to pick it up again so I trudge on trying to ignore the pain. I wander back up to camp and calculate my next load so I will make as few trips as possible back and forth. Once loaded I wait for a rising tide to lift my boat. The creek offers only a couple inches of water to float my boat above the sharp barnacles. Eventually enough tide eeks in so I can tow the boat to deeper water. I launch into stiff wind, a welcome trade from carrying a boat and gear across large tidal flats. I gaze at the shoreline ahead and as if to give me a fair warning of what may lay ahead lots of storm tossed logs sprawl across the beaches. Tale of the ravages of great storms. The wind rolls out of the Southwest throwing quartering waves in my direction. I brace and paddle, brace and paddle. I work my wet way towards Moss Island seeking shelter from the ceaseless wind and building waves. In the wind shadow of the island I gulp water and inhale a power bar, a chunk of cheese and an energy gel. Loading up the calories for the water ahead. I check the radio Southwest winds 20 knots West in Sumner Strait turning east and blowing 25 knots tonight. Decision time. The original goal was Agate Beach. However Agate faces East and on its steep beach the surf dumps sudden and violent. Not a place to be when the wind rolls in hard from the East. I look at map and see I need to make a choice; Totem Bay or Agate beach. Totem Bay will offer protection from the wind but the shading on the map indicates another large tidal flat. On trips like these little decisions play out big in the end. Challenge the storm or play it safe. I elect to play it safe. I decide Totem will be a better place to gage the storm and make "the big decision" as to whether to continue or not. As I roll into Totem I wonder if it will offer the protection. Even this protected bay has evidence of storms. I look around and I am startled to see just as many storm tossed trees here as anywhere else in Sumner! I choose a creek to explore for a camp but find this part of the Bay begins to get very shallow much to far out from the shore. Also the shoreline tells the story of the persistence of storms. Many uprooted trees pile up on the beach where the storms have won out by letting the waves erode the soil below the trees and then toppling them with the wind. The entire land lays low here not much above the "surf". I search several places for a camping spot but each one looks like a scrub board of piled up storm tossed logs. I search out another creek and find one with a higher bank and find a semi flat spot to squeeze my tent into. The horizon grows darker with each passing hour. Still the big storm concentrates her furry on Coronation and the outer coast of Kuiu. I am safe for the moment but wonder if she will steal in while I sleep. After dinner I walk down the beach just looking. Something I like to do on these long trips. I wander down the beach to where a small creek flows in and see a big black bar eating the goose tongue grass. I enjoy watching him. I just hope, noting his size that he doesn't decide to visit my camp tonight. This beach holds in its sand chronicles full of history and charm. An old derelict fishing boat sits in the high tidal grass, its cabin perched a top a rotting hull. Once it fished these waters helping feed a hungry world. What happened I wonder? Driven on the beach by a storm? Perhaps a plank popped loose and the crew ran her ashore in a desperate attempt to save their lives. Now the boat sits silent before the sea, its story slowly rotting away in the waves. Farther down the beach a hunk of rusting barnacle covered metal emerges as the tide drops. A cable winch which once pulled logs off the bank and into the water now lies half buried in the sand. Just beyond it I see metal teeth sticking out of the sand. The bow of a log tender used to get a bite on floating logs to push them into place in a raft of logs. Someone not long ago must have had a small log operation here perhaps trying to salvage storm tossed logs off the beach and cutting wood for homes and fishing piers Now what was once so powerful ends its day succumbing to the ravages of salt, waves, tide and time. Following dinner I relax using a giant log as a back rest. I watch distant dark and angry clouds. I listen to the wind observations through out Southeast. So far the storm lurks on the outside ravaging the outer coast of Kuiu and the cliff of Coronation. I click off the radio and listen to the wind as if I can hear her intent as the sings in the trees. I watch as a couple gusts dance across the waters of the Bay. The first touch of the storm? Questions roll through my head like waves on the sea. Can I make it to Coronation or will the storm hold me back? Will I exhaust the weather days in my schedule waiting out the storm? As I ponder these questions I have the feeling that Time and the Storm will decide my fate for me. A movement catches my eye. Slowly turn my head to see a black bear step from behind my log and begin to search for food in the kelp tide line. Not more than two boat length away somehow he remains unaware that I am here. Slowly I reach for my bear spray. I worry that when he does see me he will panic because I am so close and do something stupid. "Hey, bear" I say trying to keep a firm tone. The bear's head jerks up and he stares in unbelief for a long couple seconds. Then he bolts for the woods. I stand up and watch to make sure he stays there. After a while I lean back against the log watching the horizon. What a wonderful place! Lying in my tent I study the pole structure through the mesh. My tent, a Big Agnes Seed house 1 has a spanner pole to increase the head room. Though both ends fit into a cloth sleeves I worry that hard constant winds will wear through a hole in the fly at those points. Tent failure out here in a storm could be really bad. I rouse from my dreams as small waves crash onto shore, gusts ripple the tent, a song bird begins its morning song, and my watch alarm beats in harmony with the birds. 6 AM. The world conspires to wake me. I click on my radio. "Gale warning!" Sustained South winds of 35 knots winds with gusts to 45 knots expected at Cape Decision. Weather Observations: currently South 33 knot sustained winds at Cape Decision and a 47 knot gust at Lincoln Rock in Clarence Strait to the South. Seas 12 feet and building through out the day. Good grief! Both more than I wish to handle and truthfully more than I can handle. The long term forecast calls for high winds for several days I need to make some big decisions now. Reaching Coronation in this storm is out of the question. A seven miles open crossing between Barrie Point and Reid Bay would be too risky in these winds. Do I move forward and hold up hoping for a break in the storm? What if I stayed here to wait out the storm here? Should I give up the trip and retreat to more sheltered waters? I crawl out of my tent pondering my decision points. How many days can I wait out the storm? What are my physical limits? When do I give up a dream? When do you let go of the bragging rights? When does ego get you killed? With a long sigh I decide to retreat. The decision feels right the moment I make it. I concede humbly to the storm. It will likely pin me down for days. I don't mind waiting out a storm for a day or two in camp but eventually I get restless and grumpy. In all likelihood this storm will use up all my weather days and leave me no margin of error. If I am late returning especially after a big storm family and friends will worry. My family blessed my decision to attempt this trip and I think I owe them a safe return. Also I can go home wait out the storm and paddle somewhere else on my remaining vacation time. "The Big Decision" made I look up and down the shore. I see tons of storm tossed logs and uprooted trees, evidence of powerful storms reeking havoc on this South exposed beach. Like a disembodied ghost I hear myself say, "Move! Dismantle camp to get to sheltered waters before the storm hits!" I get to work stuffing sleeping bag away, deflating my mattress and packing my other gear. I unclip my tent fly and the tent wildly jerks into a weird shape! The spanner pole must have slipped out I think to myself. I pull the fly off and stand stunned looking at a broken main pole! You have got to be kidding! I have had poles withstand days of hard winds and even a bear crawling on top of my tent and never break! I have had a few bend in big winds. Yet never have I had a pole break just being taken down! Crap! I quickly examine and discover the aluminum pole split at a junction. The split ripped sharp and ragged. I quickly examine the fly to see if the fabric suffered damage. The fabric held but I fear the waterproof coating has been compromised. I have a patch kit for the pole and fabric but this failure of a vital piece of equipment confirms my decision. I am headed home. Or at least I am headed home after I deal with these tidal flats! As if to taunt me the tidal flat lays like an endless plain before me. My back spasms at the thought of carrying my boat across the mud and sand. The tide has just begun to come in but I can not afford to wait. Back and forth I carry gear across the barnacled mud. I avoid stranded patches of kelp lest I slip and blow out an ankle. Despite the cold wind I am sweating. I launch and soon begin to wrestle with side slamming waves out of the Southwest. If I can just get around Mitchell Point I will be out of the worst of the wind and waves of the storm. Mitchell kicked up pretty good on my way down and now the conditions are worse. Sometimes life can be harsh and at others times a wonderful mystery. Some days the sea challenges us and other times it offers us an undeserved grace. As I reach Mitchell Point the suddenly wind dies down and become strangely calm as I pass. The waves however know no such grace. The waves leap over the reefs and rocks creating a maze of rips and breakers greet and challenge me. I watch ahead to try and read the reefs and rips then I look into the heart of the oncoming waves to time their attach. What a wild crazy ride! I cruise into the Southern realm of Kahn Sheets Bay pushed by the wind and surfing the waves. What once sought to overwhelm me know serves to help along the way home. In my rush to leave this morning I didn't fill my water bags so I am in need of fresh drinking water. I scan the shore looking for a stream. Finally I find a small trickle of water. I've hit 15 miles already and now begin to search out a home for the night. I prefer a water source at my camps but this ground proves far too swampy and wet. Plus I do not want to deal with the King of tidal flats, Kah Sheets Bay. I push on but all I see is alder, tangled, mangled and wind wrangled alder! Welcome to the mighty Kingdom of Alder. Alder handles the occasional salt surf better than spruce or hemlock. Here in this realm of wave surging storms alder thrive where evergreens have trouble getting a foothold. Still as the channel narrows I feel the embraced by arms that will protect me from the wrath of the storm. I am reminded of a line from a Bob Dylan tune, "come in she said I'll give you shelter from the storm". Now the tide begins to ebb and all the waters of Duncan Canal and Beecher pass start to tumble down into Sumner Strait. I close my eyes and I can feel the current building beneath my hull. I work my stroke the most efficiently way I know how trying to get as much grab and glide as I can. Gnarled in alder this West shore holds little hope for camping so I angle across to Butterworth Island. Unfortunately the grass is not greener on this side. The shore proves too rocky and the alders have a good foothold here also. I pull out in at a couple places and plow through the alder looking for a flat spot. Alas no such luck. The interior of the island is a jumble of rocks, clumps of vicious brier filled Devil's Club and trees fallen in previous storms. So I paddle on. As I near the Northern tip of the island I see good rip coming off the point. The current rushes like a river here and I have no choice but to dig in hard. I slow to a snails pace but I refuse to give up. Either I go forward or I sleep standing up. Eventually I find slower water but I am huffing and puffing from the effort. 18 miles so far. I had not planned to paddle this far but the alder gives me little choice. The skies grow dark and the wind growls with a nasty snarl. With a bad tent I need to get a good roof over my head. I look at my GPS and see that the Beecher Pass Forest Service cabin sits about two miles ahead. Even if there is already someone at the cabin I can paddle another mile to my friend D.J's cabin and sleep on her front porch. Either way I will be out of the storm for a night of well deserved sleep. The miles come harder now. I am tired and the current flows swiftly. I gulp down a power gel and take several deep drinks of water. I ignore the taste of the water treatment tablets in order to quench my thirst. Suddenly I hear a welcome sound. The sharp deep breath of a Harbor Porpoise. She swims parallel to me and surfaces close by several times welcoming me back to her sheltered waters. I round Beecher Point and turn right into Beecher Pass. No smoke curls out of the cabin chimney so it looks like I can stay there for the night. The Forest Service requires reservations for these cabins but many of us have used them in situations like these to hide out from a storm. That night I lie in the bunk listening to the wind howl through the trees. The storm hurls her furry upon the waters. I picture the waves crashing onto the distant shores of Sumner Strait and Coronation Island. Thank goodness for a good roof. I reflect on this trip. It would be easy to be disappointed. I have waited years for this trip but unfortunately choose the stormiest week of the worst summer in 38 years. On the other hand I have much to celebrate and savor. I am safe. I made the right decisions. I chose discretion over pride, safety over ego. I will embrace my wife once again. I will paddle on another day with my son. I have paddles amid wild wind and waves, splendid wilderness and seas of wonder. I have traveled into the wilderness and been embraced in her arms. How can I be disappointed, life doesn't get any better than this? *************************************************************************** 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/ ***************************************************************************
When the Reverend says, "Bring it!" you know a whole lot of fun is going on. :-) Thanks Bob for the report. Sounds like it was a good summer to stay farther south! Doug Lloyd snip > > So far the choppy seas remain manageable but wet. However > Mitchell > Point looms. The map indicates many reefs and rocks lurking just below the > surface waiting to join with wind and tide to creating havoc. Today will > be no > exception. As I approach the sea begins to dance wildly below me. Once > predicable waves now turn crazy and heedless to the laws of nature. > Despite my > heavy boat I am tossed about. Two rogue wave roll out of the strait and > head > toward me like a pair of angry bulls. I time my strokes and set my boat to > take them broadside. The heavy boat resists my effort to lean into the > wave! I > fight the ballast of three weeks worth of gear. I time my lean and brace > as > the first wave hits! Slam! The force surprises me and I have no idea how > far I > have slid sideways. Slam! I shake my head trying to clear the water off my > glasses. More waves approach! My heart quickens. I feel the adrenaline > rush > through my veins. This is fun! Bring it! *************************************************************************** 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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