Post Monterey Bay Crossing my bright eyed and salty, paddle mates were sitting at Seabright Brewery in Santa Cruz executing a ritual post-adventure rehash and brew sipping when one of the guys asked me if I compartmentalize pain when I do something physically long and tough. In answering I realized that I used to place my pain in a specific place in my mind to be tended to as I could manage. But over years of endurance sport I have learned to develop a relationship with the stress of sport pain—to find comfort with my discomfort. Now I seek ways daily to connect with it. It makes more sense to me than most of the rest of my day. That’s where this paddle comes in this year.
Morning launch from SC harbor.
After a bit of a break from paddling post adventure racing days I got back in my kayak consistently this year when faced with months of a bum leg. One of the beauties of being a multi-sport athlete is that we have lots of training options when injured, so I took to the ocean soon after realizing I was grounded from trail running. My first paddle out last winter I floated in a kelp bed a mile off shore feeling the rise and fall of the ocean while watching the otters dine. Paddling on ocean swell feels like sitting on the chest of the sea as it breathes deeply in……and……out. When wind and weather play their hand the breath rate of the ocean becomes deeper, steeper and more dramatic—kinda like ours does when we’re running up a tough hill. If I couldn’t run on trails for a while I would take to the sea to connect with a regular dose of mother nature’s vigor. And as usual—I had an additional motive.
Paddling across the mouth of the Monterey Bay has been on my endurance to-do ‘list’ for many years. Being generally a solo paddler I considered going it alone. But being a meticulous planner I found out early on that going solo in a kayak first time out mid Bay could be a Darwin Award waiting to happen. So over time I hooked in with some interested folks from Kayak Connection and the wheels were in motion.
For the uninitiated I will state that this Bay Crossing is not for the faint of heart. It takes a kayak-specific skill to deal with everything that the sea can throw at you while tightly enclosed in a meager tippy boat for long hours. If ocean swimming at Cowells Beach on a super choppy day is Kindergarten, paddling the Monterey Bay in a single kayak is getting a PhD. Though we were not interested in ‘racing’ this paddle the conditions would give us challenge enough.
Comments were thrown out over our beers as to what a death march it would have been had we been in fog all day or not experienced our critter pod encounters. But I found our previous Moss Landing socked-in-fog-paddle to be very relaxing—like being in nature’s womb—and I knew that for me fog on the Monterey paddle would not have been less than—it would have just made the experience, different. Without visibility for miles, fog requires one to focus pointedly on navigation. Paddling becomes more cerebral. Kinda like when I’m paddling solo and I put my head down and close my eyes while directing sensation to the blade connecting with water and the strength of my back and torso as it initiates that connection. In sitting meditation we strive to be present to that moment, that breath, the sensation of our body on the earth. My best moments in sport—from the lava fields of Hawaii to the mountains of South America to the Sahara Desert are when I can achieve mediation in motion. Whether we are in fog or blazing heat this feeling is sort of like a moment of movement nirvana.
What we did get gifted for our 25 mile Bay Crossing was a cool stary morning launch into a warm sunny day as we chatted and eased into our cadence. The further off shore we ventured the swell and wind chop increased, then it smoothed a tad as we headed out over the Deep Canyon. That’s when we saw our first several foot tall dorsal fin. Then the second. I was giddy.
We continued to ease forward until we were smack in the middle of a 24 hour marine critter buffet packed full at lunch time. The next 40 minutes of stationary bobbing were some of the most magical I’ve spent on the ocean. Feeding, breeching, playing, sighing, we were among countless mammals who intermittently popped their heads up to check us out. The effect of thousands of pounds of power throwing body weight around just feet from my tiny boat? Comfort. About an hour of paddling outside the critter hood toward our distant shoreline I was feeling glum that our companions were gone. That’s about when the swell started to peak up.
If you are standing on the shoreline looking seaward the conditions couple miles from your position are NOT what is happening in your line of sight. At the mile buoy you are in a different county than shore. A few miles out and you may as well be in a different zip code. Once we past the Deep Canyon and eased past the distant protection of the north end of the Bay the prevailing NW winds bore down and this spot of exposed ocean responded with frantic frequency and increased strength.
Initially we became quiet and diligent. Attention was piqued, a few nervous comments made, all hands on paddles. A few miles out of Monterey the wind kicks up many knots raising not only the swell size but the general surface frenzy. We no longer had the consistent and expected starboard swell the seas were erratic and unpredictable in all directions. I resorted to ‘arm paddling’ because digging my wing blades into these schizophrenic waters caused my boat to twitch and rock nervously. Things were getting serious.
This is the point in any athletic endeavor when our brain dialog gives us an opportunity to really see who we are and are the moments remembered when played out in our mind years later. Mile 95 in a 100 mile trail race, the last couple hours of an Ironman, day 6 of an adventure race, 1000 feet from the summit of a peak—these are the times when our mind is required to lock in and bring us home—or not. Was I nervous? Yes. Did I ask myself questions about my competency? Absolutely. Did I reach down and unbury my spray skirt handle… just in case I flipped. You betcha.
I realized that this was a first for me, that I had never paddled solo in swells this messy and huge. The realization heightened my excitement, my grip on my paddle and locked my brain into internal negotiations more precisely. “You’re ok, relax, hips loose.” “Flipping is sooooo not an option.” “We’re good, ride it out, ride it out.” Gasp. “Breathe, Breathe, Breaaaaaaaaaaaaaathe.” Through the roar of the wind I heard a primal call from one of my paddle mates.
There is something so right when nature throws her hand in an adventure. We intrude on her territory with our grandiose goals and she reminds us who is boss. I learned many years ago in the lava fields of the Kona coast that we don’t beat nature and I’ve re-learned that lesson more times and places than I can count. We accept her hankerings and then we choose to move within them, or we opt out. Her power will prevail—we accept that or we don’t play. In a time when humans are so readily destroying the earth’s virtues for our own benefit it feels affirming to be tossed around in my tiny boat with my tiny mind by the oceans infinite power. Bring it and perhaps my knowledge and skill will get me through.
On our initial scheduled paddle date the week prior the swells close to Monterey were a third to a half bigger than what we experienced. I have no doubt that my uneasy gut before our initial scheduled crossing was a massive blessing as I’m not totally certain I could manage swells that large in the boat I was paddling. Even though we got off easier, we had an epic day and I’ll take it.
Next adventure involves mountain biking… I’ll be back at you with more soon.
Terri
