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Weekend warrior

Memorial Day weekend began with a long journey.  A journey, that would take us from Redondo Beach across the channel to Catalina Island and back, a distance of about 100 miles or so.  It would take three days.  With the 70 ft mother ship Born 2 B Wild, owned and skippered by Alvro Lundy and Jerry Marcil, along with two smaller escort boats and two OC6 outriggers we set out Saturday morning.  Paddling the first 6 miles into a slight head wind and a swell off our port bow, the mother ship rolled and pitched ever so uncomfortably as she followed the slow outriggers into the channel.  Aboard ship wives and friends were smiling, but not for long.  In fact sea sickness was already introducing its ugly face as we watched the canoes creep along.  Glancing at Catalina Island, it looked so far away.  A child began to cry.  I could read the faces of the passengers.  It was like, “Okay I’m over it.  Let’s gun it and get out of here.”  But the skipper kept the speed and course. The only happy faces were those in the canoe.  For the moment, I wished I was in the canoe.   Through my logistical faux pas, I ended up on the mother ship waiting my turn, which couldn’t come soon enough.  After an agonizing hour and a half, I was called to take my turn in the canoe. “Just as I was getting comfortable,” I thought, “Be careful what you wish for.”  

It was good getting in the canoe, but it was a cold gray day.  The wind picked up a little and the cold water flying off the paddles constantly flicked into my eyes and face.  As a steersman I had more mental chores than the rest of the crew.  Keeping the course was taxing as the bow of the canoe dipped into swell after swell and lifted up slightly off course.  Constant paddling and steering with drag occupied my senses.  A while later, the mother ship came alongside and announced they were speeding ahead to Catalina to moor at Cat Harbor, because the child was making everyone concerned.  I really suspected the wives had something to do with it and were determined to get the hell out of the channel.   I secretly admired that they lasted so long.  Meanwhile the two canoes raced along making changes off the escort boats and practicing mock races. After a few hours one tends to zone out and there’s not much more you can say or do that the crew haven’t heard.  A few dolphins and a giant 300 lb Mola Mola swam by and kept our spirits up.

Cat Harbor backside of Catalina

About five hours later, as the canoes approached Cat Harbor, the Mother ship Born 2B Wild returned saying their main anchor would not release, because its winch motor was out.  This was a problem, because now that we was tired from paddling 39 miles, we had to wrestle this iron monster of an anchor on deck and replace the heavy anchor chain with a nylon line, so we can haul the anchor up and down manually.  Selecting the biggest and strongest guys, which luckily I wasn’t, skippers Alvro and Jerry directed the men as they heaved and strained, while the rest of us shouted our two cents.  Talk about endurance and tenacity; we had it thrown at us, all day.  With the job done, the sun settled orange, then red, finally sinking over the horizon deep in purple. Finally sitting down we enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner cooked by chefs Jane Crayton and Tammy Ellet.  We were a tired bunch of puppies.  But not too tired to party.  When skipper Jerry Marcil asked me if I cared for some Aleeve to ease my aching body, I answered, “No thanks.  I don’t take pills.”  But then I asked, “Do you have this medication called Patrone?”  With that, he must have gone to the ship’s medicine cabinet, because he returned with a large bottle, much to the delight of everyone.  Our spirits began to soar and the tired and sick were miraculously healed.  I have been known to posses healing powers on weekends.  Though the ship was anchored in calm waters, it was rocking.  However most of us didn’t last very long as fatigue and sleep began to take is toll.  Like rockets we flew high, exploded and quickly faded with a whimper.

Destination Avalon Harbor

The next morning we were up early, fed and paddling by 9:00 a.m. We thought, “A 22 mile paddle with a breeze to our backs. Oh yeah. Now you’re talking.”  But the first hour was a killer on my back, because yesterday I steered most of the channel and my back was accustomed to a more vertical position.  This time, as I paddled in seat five, my back began tightening, because of the stroke and difference in posture.  It took a long time to loosen up.  It was an uncomfortable hour for me. 

The backside of Catalina is seldom visited by the average person, except for fishermen.  It is so pristine and primordial.  The rock formations and steep cliffs are incredibly captivating. We came across an occasional sandy shore.  The color of the water glimmered in stunning fluorescent electric blue. It was so unnaturally beautiful that we stared at it for long periods.  We passed a giant vertical rock that rose out of the ocean, towering above even the tallest of ships. Immediately we recognized its distinctive shape and form.  Erectile Dysfunction?  Heck no.  It was rock.  The women whispered and giggled as I steered our canoe as close as possible to it.

Lunch at sea

Stopping for lunch the mother ship came along side and handed us hamburgers, hot dogs and water.  Those were the best hamburgers I’ve ever had.  For some reason it was one of my more memorable moments.  I mean, “When in your paddling career did you ever stop and handed lunch?”  (Think) That’s right, “Probably never.”  I felt a little spoiled and guilty.  Guilty of what?  I don’t know.  But after two seconds, I was over it. 

Continuing on, we accidentally ran between two large fishing boats.  One of the skippers yelled at us, belaboring the fact that we were scaring away his fish.  As an avid fisherman, I understood his point and apologized, but he just wouldn’t stop. We were so intent on paddling that we didn’t realize our course headed through them until we were right upon them.  One of our guys yelled, “He’s probably pissed cause he’s not catching anything.”  I think he was right, because a mile later, we came upon an area where the water was boiling with bait fish. Seals and bigger fish were crashing and charging through the bait ball.  “Poor bastard”, I thought, “If only he could see this, serves him right for yelling at us.”  As the miles slipped away we paced each other thinking, “It’s just a practice,” but no one wants to be beaten.  So each time two canoes got together, everyone pulled harder, no matter how tired they were. This competition continued around the tip of Catalina and back to Avalon

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Coyote Joe’s Restaurant and Bar

Finally pulling into Avalon, we dragged our sorry bodies up on shore and stored the canoes away in a safe spot. Skippers Jerry and Alvro motored ahead and asked the harbor patrol officer for a mooring for the mother ship.  It took them three hours of arguing, waiting, reasoning and begging to get a mooring.  Meanwhile two tired and thirsty crews of men and women made their way to Coyote Joe’s.  My friend, bartender Rene loves it when I send paddlers.  However the first thing he said to me was, “You just got here and you’ve already broken two rules. No bare feet and no wet shorts.”  I smiled my best innocent smile.  He looked at the potential customers I represented.  I could see dollar signs in his glazed eyes as his brain went, “Cha-Ching.”. He then said, “Okay sit down and hide your feet under the table.”  I gave him my mahalo smile and said, “I’ll have a beer.” The place was already jumping and soon we could hardly hear each other.  Three hours later, Rene was pretty happy and so were we.  But just when we were getting ready to leave, skippers Jerry and Alvro finally show up. Of course they ordered a beer.  And it all started up again.  Whew.  So hard.

Aboard ship once more

Like sailors returning to ship we knew that no matter how tired we were, there was work to be done.  Before you can relax, everything must be tied and lashed down.  Equipment must be stored and put away. We had a mother ship, two escort boats and two outriggers to secure for the night.  In our tattered state of mind, things were done a bit more deliberate shall we say?  As darkness closed in, the wind picked up. Outside, the boats were banging and tugging at their lines. It’s never a good feeling when you hear that sound.   Everyone including the cooks and wives were exhausted by now, but we partied like troopers till we had enough.  “Tomorrow we paddle home, thirty nine miles.” I thought, “Again?”

It was a fitful sleep. All night the boats banged together, out of rhythm and disorganized. Harbor waves slapped against our gurgling hull.  The ship pitched and rolled slowly, then jerked wildly, awakening me in the dark.  Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

Homeward bound

6:00 a.m. came early.  By 6:30 a.m. we were up and rubbing our eyes, staggering about.  We had much work to do as we were scheduled to depart at 8:00 a.m. The Born 2B Wild had to be back at Redondo by noon. “No way,” I thought.  No time for breakfast, it was every man for his self.  Chef Jane threw me a pancake and Chef Tammy handed out a few scraps, which we gladly wolfed down.  Then off we went unlashing boats and preparing to paddle.  Communication was difficult.  Everyone expressed their opinions as to how and what to do.  At 8:30 a.m. the Born 2B Wild cast off and headed out into the channel.   The plan was for the Born 2B Wild to tow one canoe back to meet her scheduled noon appointment. Meanwhile two escort boats and one canoe was left behind to be paddled back.  While the two escorts finalized sorting logistics, my crew of six began the last leg of the journey by paddling ahead alone. The plan was to hug the island until they found us, before heading into the channel.  Running with small swells and a light breeze behind us, the crew was very subdued.  We were still recuperating from last night and yesterday.  I elected to remain quite.  It was very soothing.  In a mantra, the stroker called the change.  The crew answered… followed by a deep silence.  We sensed water gurgling by.  Everyone was lost in eternity. 

Suddenly the escorts showed up and we were instructed to cross the channel.  The wind had been increasing steadily and steering became much more difficult.  No more free rides as the wind carried the swells over our bow from right to left.  A marine layer covered the horizon and laid down a slate gray blank. With nothing to look at and nothing to steer by, I made a mental reference of where the iako shadow lay across the ama in order to keep a straight course.  One escort decided to act as lead boat for me.  The problem was they kept doing long S turns.   I could tell by the mis-alignment of the iako shadow plus their long curving wake that they were having difficulty.  Even though they had a GPS, the wind and swell caused them to crab off and on the rum line.    After several hours, a destination began to appear through the haze.  Adjusting course, we turned slightly downwind and picked up speed with a fresh crew.  I could see a faint and familiar mountain slope.  At last we caught a break and we were suddenly beginning to surf . 

After a few more miles my brother in law Josh Crayton replaced me at steering.  In the escort boat I prepared to get warm, eat, drink and not pay attention to the crew.  But soon I noticed a big smile on Josh’s face.  I thought, “That’s odd.”   After a few minutes I looked again and he had an even bigger smile.  Then I knew why.  They were really flying down swells.  The excitement had caught on like wild fire.  The crew was smiling too.  The wind and swells were picking up and aligning more and more with our destination.  They weren’t big waves, but they were coming at us one after the other and occasionally doubling up.  Now all eyes were on the crew as they surfed on wave after wave.  We started cheering.  The over all speed increased and the engine on the escort boat kept revving higher and higher.  It was thrilling to watch.  As they dropped in on one memorable wave, stroker Steve Cadwell did a head-stand on seat one, while others laid back and threw their legs skyward in a V.  Mile after mile each new crew, in turn kept the canoe wildly surfing.  No one wanted to get out, except when fatigue beckoned.  The distance spanned during that special run was covered incredibly fast.  Before we knew it, we were almost home. 

With six miles to go, we made our last change.  Paddler Steve Sinkus launched an OC1 off the escort and easily out- surfed the now tiring OC6 crew.  Cold and tired we watched enviously from the escort, as Steve took three or four strokes and rode with ama flying, effortlessly.  Incredibly the wind held true to our course and blew us directly into our harbor.  Home at last, our final chore was to haul the heavy canoes up our 8-foot high step ramp, our wrinkled bodies suffering one last indignity.   That night I closed my eyes, not to stir again for hours.  The weekend warrior was finally done.

Mahalo  Al 

                       All photos by Katy Arnold and Steve Caldwell