Terry and Belinda were all over me on a sunny Friday afternoon, thrashing on about the tides, the shipping traffic, and how long it was. I laid the whole current reversing trip on them, extolling the virtue of a following current, turning as we exited. Eventually it sunk in. They were good to go, but prepared to roast my innards if things did not turn out as advertised. The pressure was on ... Saturday turned misty and cool, with a tail wind and a strong ebb accelerating us out the the East End Basin in Uppertown Astoria, gulls squawking, sea lions exhaling their fishy breath on roars and bellows, Terry asking me to pause for a photo op with the biggest bruisers. Turning the corner and punching out into the shipping channel, we looked both ways, checking for freighters. Nobody moving; just a few anchored up, current streaming by. Off we go, across toward Desdemona Sands, a massive sandy shoal exposed at lower tides, below the Astoria Bridge. We are a mile or so above the bridge, crabbing up-current like mad bunnies to keep the ebb from taking us prematurely to Hammond, our eventual destination, some eight miles downriver. Squirting away from the ebb's grip, dodging below anchored ships, we enter quieter currents, still helping, adjacent to a cormorant-dotted shallow sandy flat above the bridge. Motorists overhead at a distance eye us balefully as they move south and on, probably wondering who those crazies are in the middle of the river in tiny, fragile boats. Terry and Belinda are stoked and nervous, anxious about being a couple miles from full-on land, to the north and south, only ephemeral sand at hand. A pee break just after passing under the causeway brings on lots of photo ops and giggles at where we are. Things are different from the last time out here, the sands extending another long quarter mile past the usual turn-down-the-river point. We clear that and move down Desdemona Sands "Channel," a poorly defined, variable from season to season, shallow route angling back toward the Oregon side of the river. In the distance, we spy sandy boulders spread along our horizon, made smaller from our vantage point of two feet off the water. Binocs confirm we are looking at riprap on the Oregon shore. Ho hum. Guess the seals usually hauled out down here are gone somewhere. Further on, I dig out he optics again and look more closely. Holy sh*t! Those aren't rocks! Those are harbor seals, and in massive quantities! Probably three hundred of them, guesstimating off a count of a pod to one side, all resting on the dry sand. Terry and Belinda are as stunned as I am; I've never seen more than fifty or sixty out here. As we approach, maintaining a separation of a hundred yards or so, and low-paddling, the seals appear as a swarm of lumps, accented by three dozen eagles, likewise enjoying the morning sun on the sand. We drift and gape, jabbering on at the sight. Eventually, I begin to cool off, and edge downriver, heading for my own haulout to don a paddle jacket. I halt, arrested by mewing. Mewing? There aren't any cats out here!? Oh, it's a newly birthed seal pup, skinny and lost, at the water's edge, flirting with the water, and making noises for Mom. Two harbor seals are in the water nearby, one charging the other to drive him (?) off, and splashing the pup. Gulls stalk the pup, eying dinner or breakfast or an hors d' uvre, or what? I angle off, leaving elbow room for nature to work things out, and note the eagles are massively bored about all this. Living things do not enchant them. They mostly like their food dead and stinky. The pup is way too vital. Hitting the last patch of sand, adjacent to the shipping channel, I stand up and wave at the others, who have been dallying off the haulout, some 50-60 seals spyhopping and eyeing the girls, out of curiosity having left the beach and now surrounding them. The girls are delighted, and get some great photos of seals at a paddle's length from them. In time, they join me, and we drag our boats across more new sand, extending a short half mile to the north, sand not here a couple years ago. Soon we are working the last mile across to an open beach next to the Hammond Boat Basin, hunger driving us ashore. Terry volunteers her freshly dug razor clams, sautied last night, and we scarf them down on fresh bread, washed gullet-wise with some porter, followed by fair-trade chocolate and nuts. Better fare than the small flounders the seals are getting, we think. People arrive in vehicles at this beach, one guy wheel-barrowing a crab ring to the water, which soaks for a while, coming up empty. Dogs race and bark. Freighters move upriver, and huge yachts head out to catch the beginning of the flood, a better time to cross the bar. The pilot boat heads out, and a helicopter ferrying other bar pilots to a ship in need passes overhead. Later, we have shuttled boats and rejoined ourselves with our own vehicles, back in the land of land, and the sand is a memory, now awash and gone, until tomorrow. Hope the seals had as good a time as we did. -- Dave Kruger Astoria, OR *************************************************************************** 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. 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