Zen and Smuttynose

I started the day in a funk. In fact, the week had ended with me in a funk. Too much going on at work, a lot of projects to complete at home, and a drastic reduction of sunlit hours put me off my game.
Fortunately, I had pre-packed the egg and installed my new kayak attachment--a 4" wide, 8.5' long piece of PVC pipe designed to keep the mighty stick out of the passenger compartment. All that we needed to do before heading north to meet the rest of the gang was make some PB&Js and put the Q-Boat on the egg. Still, these were daunting tasks simply because they existed.
H was happy that she didn't need to do the conga to sit in the egg. Her hand had not healed enough for paddling, so she was also looking forward to spending a pleasant day in Portsmouth. It helped her mood that the forecast was windy. For as much as she enjoyed the paddle last year, she didn't relish the thought of paddling back against a steady head wind.
The forecast had me excited and concerned. The wind meant that the water wouldn't be flat and make for a potentially boring paddle. It also meant that there was more potential for things to go wrong. Wind has a way of wearing a paddler out faster than expected, of spreading a group out on the water, and of flipping up rouge waves when least expected.
A good group showed up for the paddle: CMc, JS, CC, MK, BH, PH (no relation), RB, and Scott from JP. From the put-in the weather seemed perfect. There was plenty of sun and a light breeze. I should have been in a great mood. Instead, I was slightly annoyed at everything.
I considered staying on shore since my mood could detract from the group, but decided against staying. Long stretches of open water generally perk me up and they also provide plenty of opportunity to be alone if I didn't turn my mood around. I wasn't going to do anything stupid or risky. I was definitely physically up for the paddle.
We paddled out of Rye Harbor and into the North Atlantic Ocean. The sea state lived up to the weather predictions. We had a nice tail wind and fun, but manageable, following seas. It was possible to catch a ride every now and then. You could paddle close enough to another paddler to have a conversation, but it was difficult.
I was glad for the space. It allowed me to find my groove and unwind. The world didn't slip away or blend into the background or melt into one seamless essence. I didn't become one with my paddle and my kayak. I just let the rhythm of the stick in the water rise to the fore. I concentrated on how the stick slipped into the water and how it felt as it swept through its arced stroke. For the first time this season, I felt like I had found my stroke.
The movement of the kayak on the water and the sounds of the other paddlers added context and texture to the experience. Every now and then my balance would require focus. At regular intervals I would shift focus to ensuring the group was OK.
At every moment, I was fully aware of each of these thing: the stroke, the kayak, the weather, the group, the individuals in the group. However, I only focused on one thing at a time. The others floated at the periphery. They were shadows and whispers.
By the time we reached Star Island my mood had cleared. The world was good again. I was thrilled to be in a beautiful place on a sunny day with great companions.
We poked around the back of Star Island and headed straight for the landing at Smuttynose. Star Island looked busy and we were all famished. To JS's chagrin, we did take the opportunities for rock play that were presented. CC & RB even did some rolling practice.
Lunch was a restful affair. I scarffed down my sandwiches, snapped a few photos, and discovered that Scott from JP was a fellow caffeine addict. He even knows the secret ingredient that makes Red Bull more potent than just plain caffeinated sugar water. Then many of us settled into the sun warmed grass for a spot of napping. I'm uncertain what the others did, but I'm told it was fun. I doubt that it was as rewarding as a nap.
Once we returned to the water, I appreciated the nap even more. The winds had picked up and were in our faces. We faced seven miles of paddling into a head wind with no place to hide.
The wind exaggerated the speed differences between the members of the group. The faster paddlers pulled ahead and the slower paddlers fell behind. We resorted to making frequent regrouping stops. This helped keep the group together. However, it also allowed us to see how slowly the Isles were shrinking and the mainland was growing.
In between regroups, I enjoyed the feel of my mighty stick as it sliced through wind and water. Since finding my stroke on the way out to the Isles, I was paddling with renewed efficiency and vigor. Paddling into a steady head wind was still tiring, but it was not a death march.
To help lighten the mood, MK and PH repeatedly checked in with JS to make sure we were on course. They were convinced that we needed to make a course correction so we would not pass wide of the mouth of the harbor. JS, equipped with a GPS, calmly listened to their recommendations and held his course. We were paddling on a bearing that would, in the absence of wind and current, would take us wide of the harbor. With wind and current added to the mix, our bearing was a good estimate. As we closed in on the harbor we did need to make a small correction, but JS put us inside the bulls-eye. (When in doubt, I trust the guy with a working GPS.)
I returned to the beach a changed man. Paddling long distances is rejuvenating.

Isles of Shoals or Isles of Death

H and I decided to skip the camping on Saturday night for a number of reasons. One was the fact that we had to travel to CT for my nephew's third birthday. The other was that H did not want to risk the downsides of sleeping outside on a cool October night before a big adventure.
Like Paul B., H had never done a long open water crossing and was understandably apprehensive. She was concerned about being comfortable in her kayak for two plus hours without a break. She was concerned that the condition might take a turn for the worse while we were on the water. She was concerned for a lot of very sensible reasons. A long crossing in colder water warrants a bit of concern. The trick is to not let the concerns overwhelm your judgement.
The lure of the Isle of Shoals was enough to motivate both of us. H had been out to Star Island with her Mom once and when she lived in Portsmouth she could always see them from the shore. I always dream of kayaking to islands that are at the edge of my vision from shore. To add to the allure there are all sorts of interesting stories about the islands.
We arrived at the put in and were a little put off to find that there was a $10 per car parking fee. It was a little more disconcerting that the coordinators were surprised by the parking fee. I was expecting that they had scoped out the launch site prior to arrival. This was a new area for most of the participants and nobody knew where we could park and launch. The idea of moving the launch site was not something that inspired a lot of confidence.
Since H was familiar with the area we headed out to scout the area for a free parking area that also offered a decent launch site. The two beaches with free parking didn't look like ideal launch sites. They were breaking surf on both beaches. The surf heightened H's concerns because she felt that the surf was a harbinger of rough conditions at sea. This was not far fetched given the rough seas on Saturday.
While we were scouting, the rest of the group decided on a new launch site. It was a small beach/boat ramp just down the road from the original put-in. It was ideal: free parking and a sheltered beach.
Once the put-in was secured, things began running smoothly. There was the discussions about what to wear. It was warm for a fall day, but the water was on the cool side. Would a wetsuit be enough if someone went in the water? Would a drysuit be too warm? Could I get away with shorts and a dry top? H only had a wetsuit, so her decision was easy. I decided to wear my drysuit on the way out. If I was too warm, I could change into shorts and a dry top for the return journey. The rest of the group was pretty evenly split between drysuits and wetsuits. Joe S. was the only daredevil in shorts and a shorty dry top.
The plan: Paddle out to White Island to see the light, make a stop at Star Island, lunch at Smuttynose, and paddle back home. The first and last leg are just over seven miles. At a good pace that meant about two hours each way.
The trip out was pretty mellow. The seas were bumpy enough to keep things lively, but not enough to cause any real concerns. As Carleen warned us, there were occasional rouge waves. The rouges added a trifle more excitement.
From White Island we spotted an obelisk on Star Island. It seemed like an odd thing to put in the middle of an Island that is owned by a church. (Star Island is owned by the Unitarian Universalist Church.) The other obvious structure on Star Island is the huge resort that is used as a retreat and conference center. It started life as a 19th century summer resort for the rich and famous.
As we pulled into the harbor at Star Island we discovered a dead seal. Once on the island we split up to explore the island. The obelisk was a grave marker for a long dead minister. As I made my way back to the kayaks to find the group, H found me and told me that the group was heading off to Smuttynose for lunch. I was holding up the group. I had missed the memo about this being a five minute stop. Most of the group waited, while a few others headed over to lunch.
Smuttynose Island has a bizarre history of death and murder. In the 19th century there was a brutal murder. Someone murdered the family that was living on the island. It was suspected that the son of the socialite living on Appledore Island was the killer, but a man from Portsmouth was convicted of the crimes. This was despite clear evidence that no one could have rowed to the island, committed the murders, and rowed back given the sea conditions that night. There was also the story of the Native Americans buried on the island. The most tragic tail of death was that of a few shipwrecked Spaniards. Their ship smashed into the island in a blizzard. The survivors made it within a spitting distance of the shelter on the island before they froze to death. The minister found their bodies the next morning.
As we were leaving we saw a dead bird.
The paddle back was almost as uneventful as the paddle out. There was some confusion about the course we were supposed to follow, but Joe's GPS guided us back safely. There was also a bit of surf around the harbor entrance. The surf spurred a little yelling, and H was shocked by a big swell as she entered the harbor.
The post paddle pig out was held at a great lobster shack in Hampton. There is nothing better than lobster, fried clams, and good friends to end an interesting paddle.