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24 people applied and six ultimately did the trip. We decided
to focus on San Miguel and Santa Rosa Islands, due to participant time constraints
and the fact that none of us had ever circumnavigated remote, windswept, pinniped-infested
San Miguel. We held a trial roundtrip day paddle to Anacapa Island, participated
in rescue trials/practices and did a great deal of planning in advance. We added
a day to the schedule to allow time for others to come out by boat on 31 August.
Duane Strosaker was most helpful with participant screening and rescue practices.
Steve Holtzman graciously phoned us in daily weather information gleaned from
the web, to supplement our NOAA VHF weather broadcasts.
View the float plan (123KB
MS Word file), the route wayponts,
and the route bailout points.
Participants
Bryant Burkhardt
Pedro Frigola
Paul Kirste
George Miller (Trip Leader)
Linda Roman
Duane Strosaker (Co-Leader)
This was a most impressive, well-equipped group of people, with formidable training, skills, equipment,
knowledge and love of the outdoors/marine environment. We ranged in age from 26 to 55, with occupations like Teacher, Nurse,
Water Purification Technician, Management Consultant and even Part-Time Kayak Instructor.
Itinerary
29 August--Stage, camp at Gaviota State Park, Southern California Mainland
30 August--Launch at 0400 from Gaviota, crossing to Cuyler Harbor, San Migue l -- 26.2 NM
31 August--Explore Island, rendezvous with others arriving by ferry
1 September--San Miguel Island circumnavigation -- 23 NM
2 September--Crossing to Santa Rosa Island and transit to Ford Point (South Side) -- 21 NM
3 September--Transit to Bechers Bay, via East Point, catch Island Packers ferry home.-- 12NM
Total --72 NM
Pedro and Bryant expressed a desire to paddle back to the mainland. Duane and I ultimately decided to join
them. Fortunately, we had a plan for doing so, adequate food, water and energy remaining, so we extended the trip to encompass:
3 September -- Ford Point, Santa Rosa Island crossing to Santa Cruz Island, via Gull Island/South side to Scorpion Anchorage (east side) --
31 NM
4 September -- Scorpion Anchorage, Santa Cruz Island crossing
to Frenchie’s Cove, Anacapa Island, crossing to Ventura Harbor, California mainland -- 24 NM
Total --125 NM
Staging and Gaviota to Cuyler Harbor, San Miguel Island Crossing - 29 August
On Thursday, 29 August, five participants (all except Duane) and Carol Miller motored up to Gaviota State Park, about 32 miles west of
downtown Santa Barbara, setting up car shuttles for our return from Ventura. Some of us hiked in the hills and up the coast during the
day, since we had to arrive early to secure a campsite.
We showed up with enough equipment to explore the entire west
coast. There were sufficient rescue pyrotechnics to start--and win--a small
war. Everyone had VHF’s, GPS’, spare paddles, compasses, lights, strobes, etc.
We had several first aid kits, even a nurse, towropes, charts, aerial and satellite
photos, topo maps, binoculars, etc. All participants brought fast, seaworthy,
well-rigged boats and appropriate skills. I brought an extra spray skirt, hat,
kayak parts and repair kit, food, water, spare VHF and GPS, large yacht-sized
first aid kit and 2 dozen AA batteries.
We were up at 0300 on Friday, got everyone through a night surf launch of very heavily-laden kayaks, then underway by 0420. We
had a great weather window and wanted to fully exploit it for our 26.2 mile crossing to San Miguel. There was actually a light offshore t
ailwind. It was hard to see each other’s lights, except Paul Kirste’s 42" high light staff, which provided an excellent beacon -- and
lessons for future night trips. Paddling through the night, we could look back and see sparse lighting on shore and also out to distant
brightly-lit oil platforms. My lighted Silva compass and Garmin GPS really made navigation quite simple, as did having a visible fixed
object to the right of our course. My wife, Carol, watched us from the Gaviota pier until we disappeared into the night.
As we proceeded out of the lee of the local shoreline, we encountered about an 8-9’ NW swell and light winds.
There was only one incident during the crossing. Just before sunrise, we approached Oil Platform Heritage and saw a platform tender
boat sitting about a mile from it, directly pointing across our path from the port side. We slowed down to wait for it to pass, but it was
apparently idling along, barely making headway, at least five minutes from our course, neither waiting for us to pass nor speeding
up to get out of our way. She signaled us with a long horn blast, apparently recognizing our presence, but did not respond to a call on
VHF Ch. 16. When we finally crossed her bow, with ample room to spare, a crew member harangued us on a bullhorn.
We saw no ship traffic until we were well out of the sea lanes. San Miguel Island was visible 15 miles away. As we moved past the
sea lanes, the NW swells were intersected by hurricane swells from far to the south, chopping the NW seas down to a confused 5-6
feet. The wind never exceeded 15 kts. We spotted a single bottle-nosed dolphin (we think) nine NM from Cuyler Harbor and a large
number of very playful sea lions three NM out. Paul spotted some Ressis (?) dolphins while manning the back door.
No one had any problem with the paddling pace, but we metered our energy, thinking about all the miles ahead on the trip.
Nevertheless, we were tired at the finish. We later theorized that it might have been the stress of getting up so early, surf launching
at night and paddling tiny craft far out into the unknown sea through 9’ swells.
We bore on past stately Prince Island, into the harbor and landed at 1240, about 30 feet East of Gull Rock. We were tired and
ready for a nice meal and relaxation after paddling 8 hrs, 20 minutes in our tiny craft. The long horseshoe cove of Cuyler harbor was
quite a sight to behold, with high cliffs all around, sand dunes rising against them to the south and Prince Island standing majestically
out in the Harbor. Only two boats were anchored, in the shelter of the west end of the harbor.
But, we still had to beach, unload and secure our boats, then pack and haul our gear up a heart attack hill" to the summit
campsite. Fortunately, everyone was in great condition. Ex-Paratrooper Duane is an expert in minimalist camping, non-cooking and
ultra light packing. He began teaching us by example for the duration of the trip, starting with carrying only three small bags up the hill,
while we staggered up with our massive loads, some of us needing two trips to complete the transfer. I expected Duane to eat bugs
and suck dew off leaves at any moment. Paul was the antithesis, toting multiple massive duffle bags up the steep incline. He was
extremely well equipped, especially for the delicious gourmet cooking he excelled at and shared.
Needless to say, we were very tired and relieved when that was achieved and camp was set up. We shared various goodies
(Linda won 1st prize for her fresh gourmet popcorn) while planning and scheming the upcoming trip events, before
dropping off to sleep before dark that first night.
A Day on Shore- 30 August
At 0520 on Friday morning, the fog was so thick and the night so dark that I could not clearly follow the trail to the outhouse and wound
up going around in circles. We watched the fog start to burn off about 0830. We could hear heavy surf caused by a hurricane swell
from Baja California, Mexico.
Due to bureaucracy and Ranger Ian Williams’ unplanned change in schedule, we were not able to arrange a Ranger tour to Point
Bennett, usually the trip highlight for those arriving on the ferry. Ian, a most knowledgeable and helpful guardian of the island for the
past nine years, was not to return to the island until later Friday afternoon. It appears that the tours are geared to the arrival of the ferry
boats from the mainland. But we did manage to do at least some sightseeing on our own while Ranger Keith was Master of the Isalnd.
The Ranger station has an impressive collection of maps, photos and memorabilia worth seeing. There is a hair-raising airstrip,
guaranteed to please swashbuckling barnstormers, but only official flights are permitted. Cardwell and Harris Points are also worth the
hike.
NPS’ers Mark and Artie provided an impromptu update on the program to save an absolutely unique sub-species of Island Foxes on
San Miguel Island, part of a species inhabiting only the Channel Islands. These sharp-nosed, pint sized dog-like creatures have been
decimated by eagles and heartworm. They are being captured and bred in concentration camp-like kennels, but it is their only hope
of survival. High technology tracking devices are being used to determine what happens to the animals in the wild. It was unclear
what the exit strategy is.
I went down to the beach a little after 1400, after the Island Packers ferry disgorged its human cargo and incongruous amount of gear,
including huge coolers, stoves, car-camping style tents and endless water bottles. You’ve got to bring all of your own water to San
Miguel and most areas of Santa Rosa, except the main campsite above Becher’s Bay. At 8 lbs/gallon and 1 to 1 1/2 gallons daily,
that adds up to some serious weight and bulk.
Among the huddled masses on the beach, undergoing Ian’s rigorous Island indoctrination, were Duane and Ron, looking sleek and
outdoorsy in their kayaking accoutrements, with their salty vessels in the background. They mounted the obligatory steps to the
summit campsites, which are fortified with wooden windbreaks and look like a New England rendition of Fort Apache. We had
chosen the two outermost sites, with the most privacy and best views. There was only one other camper on the entire Island,
Howard, from LA, who had the run of the place all week, until the pushy kayakers, then later, 18 others, showed up. That’s
considered a busy weekend at the outermost Channel Island. Other paddlers were swimming in the chilly waters, lounging,
exploring or sunbathing. Only one of our group went on a late afternoon, officially guided hike and retuned at sunset.
San Miguel Island Circumnavigation- 31 August
As near as we were able to ascertain, few other groups have done this in recent times, with man (or woman) powered craft, without
support boats. Because of this and because of the relative remoteness, mystery and beauty of the island, it was everyone’s eagerly
anticipated highlight of the trip. We had pored over charts, exchanged experiences and knowledge and plotted a conservative
course, designed to get us safely through fog, surf and unexpected high winds that San Miguel is infamous for. One look at an
aerial Island photo tells you about the strong prevailing winds. The island literally has Northwest wind stripes! As it happened, the
worst case scenario happily failed to unfold, and we were able to shorten our route somewhat, going right through of some of the
dreaded "foul areas" depicted on nautical chart 18727. We paddled cautiously through several rocky and
sandbar-studded areas that I had observed as seas of white water and wave fury on previous local paddles and powerboat
circumnavigations, in the 1990’s. Even then, I had seen adventurous fisherman thread their way through the breakers to service
their traps, knowing every shoal, as I had on Long Island’s Jones Inlet, in my youth.
After our foggy Friday experience, we renewed our commitment to not depart until 0700. We saw a hole in the fog and some stars,
upon rising at 0500 and finishing preparations for the day. We ran down the cliff and actually launched early, heading through misty
Cuyler Harbor, past sand dunes and rugged cliffs. We passed Bat Rock, Hare Rock and Nifty Rock, peering back into the coves to
the west and already seeing numerous sea lions and various species of seals, lounging and swimming. They are not nearly as shy
as on the mainland and will swim out and pursue you to within a few feet, then dive under the boats, rarely, if ever, even touching them.
The younger ones are quite playful. The older ones bark reproachfully. There is something wild and simultaneously soothing
about the sound of pinniped barking muffled in the fog, then echoing off the cliffs, while the surf pounds, hissing white-yellow sea foam
drifts by the boat and the scent of marine decay, salt air and animal muskiness permeates the air. Several times, we just stopped to
savor it, kindred spirits hardly believing our good fortune.
At other times, I have paddled through this passage when huge waves were breaking on both sides, but not through the foam-blown
narrow channel in the middle. It’s fun to take the faint of heart through there, knowing that it’s perfectly safe if you stay in the deep water.
In any case, that wouldn’t work with the battle-hardened group I was leading on that fine day. As we turned up and rounded Harris
Point, to the west, we were actually able to easily glide behind two of the outer rocks, but not all of them, on that day. Often, this could
be a death trap for kayakers.
Then we moved offshore to pass by Symington Cove, said to be a "graveyard of the Pacific," where all kinds of flotsam
and jetsam are reputed to wash up. We couldn’t sea any shipwrecks as we passed by. In the past, I have seen thundering waves
breaking heavily a quarter mile deep out to sea, but it was fairly placid on that Saturday morning. If it weren’t for the pinnipeds all
along the coast, we could have come within shouting distance. Castle Rock loomed far in the distance. It might have been Japan, for
all we knew, if we hadn’t seen it on our charts as only 3 NM away. The original course called for going around it, but looking across the
rocks and shoals, we saw that we would be able to take an inshore route.
From Castle Rock on, the closer we approached Point Bennett, the thicker were the concentrations of water-borne mammals.
We repeatedly stopped paddling to view them, rising from the thick kelp beds, barking from rocks and islets, massively inhabiting the
deep sandy beaches up to a half mile inland, even climbing up on the cliffs! There were entire "cities," for different species,
sleeping, lounging, barking (talking?), transiting to and from the beach, launching swimming, fishing, eating and who knows what else.
I had always seen them just eating, sleeping or swimming, so it was interesting to see this massive social interaction. We were
wondering why there was such a concentration of them here, reputedly the largest in the world. Ranger Ian Williams later attributed this
to a happy confluence of circumstances, including remoteness, cool but not frigid climate and water, fog, ample nutrients, ideal terrain
and relatively limited enemies (including Homo-Sapiens). If the El Nino of 1998 killed off a lot of them due to shifts in marine plant life
affecting the food chain, it wasn’t very evident on that Saturday.
Shortening our course saved much distance and provided lots of additional "hang time" to relax and view the sights.
Camera shutters were snapping and binoculars were focusing. We glided around Point Bennett and gingerly felt our way past the
long, spiny rock formations jutting far out into the Pacific. Passing East now, we spied Adams Cove, the second largest pinniped
colony. We had been told that elephant seals had migrated out, but thought we saw them in three locations. Ranger Ian confirmed
our sightings that evening. Tyler Bight was the last large colony, but the geography and park regulations made the approach too far
away for meaningful observation. From there, the heavy kelp beds and shoreline made it practical to move farther offshore,
sometimes up to ¾ of a mile. We passed just inside Wyckoff Ledge, heading for Crook Point. A Sheriff’s boat was patrolling the area,
going into every cove, also heading East (seemed like the right place to look for crooks). We spied a fishing boat inshore.
Paul intercepted her and made conversation with the Skipper, scoring five large crabs. We joked about what service he might have
performed to have this gift bestowed upon him.
By then, we had seen most of the sights and sounds and wanted to get home, so we cranked up our strokes and plowed through the
south swell and rising winds, which always seemed to be headwinds, no matter which way our course went. We had to swing quite
wide to the East to Pass Cardwell Point, as a heavy groundswell was smashing into shoals offshore. Occasionally, a rogue wave
broke prematurely, way out, keeping us on our guard. We butted up the coast to the Northwest against a stiffening breeze, with
steepening wind waves and occasional whitecaps. It was hard work after paddling all day. Our group rounded the harbor entrance,
past the now familiar and less imposing Prince Island and headed through the horseshoe cove toward Gull Rock, which seemed a
long way. We landed and went swimming while waiting for a few folks to come in.
When we climbed back up to the campsite, it was completely deserted. George was elected to cook the crab, mainly because
his lingering East Coast accent proved that he was an expert in such matters. The entire ferryboat contingent had gone on the
Ranger’s guided tour to Point Bennett and the Caliche Forest and did not return until we were almost done with dinner. Since we
didn’t get that tour, we would have been jealous, but had a finer day on the water. We sure would have enjoyed the benefit of the
Ranger’s knowledge and insight. Ian Williams, being who he is, came over and made conversation for a long time around sunset,
sharing his insight and knowledge with us. When he briefed the ferry people the previous day, he had stated, "while you are on
the island, my time is your time." He obviously meant it.
We chatted, made preparations for the next day’s crossing, then drifted off to sleep, ready to pull up stakes and break camp in the
morning. A three day stay on the island was making us a little possessive of it, so we didn’t leave as eagerly as we came.
San Miguel to Santa Rosa Island Crossing and Transit to Ford Point
Well, if we thought that the real trip highlights were over and that the rest of the trip would be an anticlimax, we were wrong. The
original plan was to take the group past the northern, often windy, but scenic north Santa Rosa Island coast, stopping at the
fabulous "rock gardens," basically playgrounds for big kayakers. I applied for and received permits to camp
on the "Northwest Quadrant" beaches. I later applied for a date change, which provoked the curiosity of the Park
Service bureaucracy, which suddenly realized that it had published conflicting rules on camping seasons and abruptly revoked my
permit. I spoke with Ranger Mark, who qualified me on the phone, to first determine how much of a hazard I was, whether I would
lead the kayak group off the edge of the earth to doom, or worse yet, despoil his Santa Rosa environment. One must conceded
that the government is really getting value from some of these Rangers. Once he saw that I was serious and at least not a total idiot,
he provided some helpful advice and welcomed us in advance to camp on the SOUTH side of the island during our stay.
Anyway, we awoke Sunday to the mildest weather of the trip, with relatively good visibility and a mist. Launching and heading out the
harbor, we crossed over directly toward Sandy Point, with a quartering following sea corkscrewing our kayaks gently. We then turned
downcoast, looking for wildlife. There were a lot more sea lions than I remember, preventing close coastal approach. Paul and I
stayed inshore, picking our way through the wide kelp beds and enjoying the sights, while the rest of the group took the offshore
express lane towards South Point. Paul and I had done an Island circumnavigation with Doug Schwartz of Southwind Kayaks years
ago and had fond memories of the trip. There were splendid long, white beaches, picturesque sand dunes and low cliffs, increasing
in altitude as we headed south. We noted a few differences in Pinniped (up) and kelp (down) populations. We wanted to play in the
rock garden at Cluster Point. But, as we approached, we saw beyond the rocks at the last minute, a row of elephant seals lined up
straight along the beach inshore like fat sunbathers. So we quietly cruised away. If they noticed us, they didn’t indicate it.
The main group was visiting the really good, visible shipwreck a little northwest of South Point, while we were cruising the swells
and playing east of Bee Rock and offshore of Cluster Point. When we rounded South Point, boating activity picked up, with a few
weekend sailors pleasure boat fishing on day trips from the mainland. Only a few hardy ones were in evidence the next morning.
We saw the big Park Service building above Johnson’s Lee. We checked out the beaches at South Point and Johnson’s Lee,
but they seemed narrower and more claustrophobic than we remembered.
Hauling along, we made good time and arrived only minutes behind
the main group, which had already landed at Ford Point, in a nice cove behind
sheltering rocks. The shore break was small, even though we had passed other
beaches with a pretty good break. Due to climatic and geographical quirks, the
weather is much better in this zone, often called the "Riviera of the Channel
Islands," than anywhere else in the Northern Islands. The beach, the cliffs,
the sunshine and the naked young lady sunbathing on the beach were all spectacular.
Did I say naked lady? Maybe I misnavigated and we were in the FRENCH Riviera.
No: GPS indicated 33° 54.966´ N 120° 02.891´ W-- Ford Point, SRI, California,
USA. The arrival of two more big, unshaven, unwashed kayakers was the last straw.
She put on her tiny yellow bikini bottom, which only made her look even better.
As we were surveying the area and assigning campsites on the narrow shelves
with the highest elevations, her considerably older escort plopped her on a
surfboard and spirited her to the safety of his small grey commercial fishing
boat anchored offshore. Whew--too much time at sea away from Carol!
After we set up camp, Pedro and Bryant configured their nifty
tent as a sun shelter some of us hung out there, sleeping, reading, eating and
talking. It seemed that we never stopped eating. Duane says that endurance sea
kayakers need to eat 250 calories per hour just to stay even. He is right. After
paddling 123 miles, I lost only 2 lbs. With all the food that Carol packed for
me, one could have spent a month out there and not had to eat dried food out
of ziplock bags and bugs like Duane does. Most of us swam and bathed, explored,
hiked, even kayaked--what gluttons for punishment. Last time I was here with
a tour group, the leader wouldn’t let me do that alone. The main reason I organized
the tour was so no one could tell me that again J
Next, we saw a huge splash over a mile offshore. It was a Dolphin? No, finally a whale! What kind? Can’t tell, but it’s almost totally
breaching and energetically so, like a hooked billfish in an overblown Hemingway novel. Some nearby fishermen claimed it was a
killer whale. Pedro researched it on Tuesday at the National Park Service bookstore in Ventura, on the mainland. He said it
matched a picture and description of a "Fin Whale." In any case, it put on quite a show for all, attracting several boats,
which came much too close, then it wisely vanished. Pedro managed to snap a picture of it.
That night we had dinner on a ground cover near some rocks by the cliff. We agreed that Paul and Linda would paddle the coast the
twelve miles to Becher’s Bay and take the boat home like rational people, while the rest of us would paddle with Pedro and Bryant 31
miles in fog and strong currents, to the east side of Santa Cruz Island, then to Anacapa, then to Ventura on the mainland.
After sunset, we saw one of the most spectacular moonrises ever, actually, a double one. As we faced south, out to sea, a blood red
arc began to rise from the sea at the horizon, noticeably moving upward at a good rate. When it was less than halfway up, it began to
recede again, behind a black band of clouds above, appearing to set again! As it arose, it turned a ruddy pumpkin orange, looking
like a huge jack-o-lantern. The cloud band wasn’t very wide, because it appeared to rise again out of that, finally turning yellow in its
full glory, then a glowing white, reflecting on shimmering waters for miles. Because of the lack of ambient light way out in the islands,
all light at night seems much more dramatically intense. The vacation atmosphere adds an aura of festivity.
Not long after that show, sharp-eyed Duane spotted a red flare,
in the direction of Gull Island, in the vicinity of Santa Cruz Channel. Alerting
us, we were all on the lookout for another, which shot up what appeared to be
an inch, in relative terms, in a minute or so. Then a third, much larger one,
went about three times as high and stayed up for about 30 seconds. Probably
a parachute flare. No mistake about it--a distress signal. Coincidentally, the
bearing of 66-70° M. was almost identical to
that of our first planned paddling leg the following morning. I couldn’t hear
any related activity on our VHF radios, so we tried calling the Coast Guard.
Nothing. These little handheld VHF’s provide a false sense of security. You
can hear some Coast Guard announcements way out in the Islands -- but they can’t
hear you, plus you hear only a limited amount of local traffic. Climbing up
a 50 ft. cliff in the dark, with loose sandstone footing to call only served
to jeopardize our health. We put out an all stations "Pan-Pan" announcement.
No response. Tried my cell phone. No signal. Finally, Bryant’s ancient, huge
"walkie-talkie" styled cell phone was able to reach them. I phoned
in the case and had to lobby the Group Long Beach guy to put out a Pan-Pan announcement.
They asked real good qualifying questions, just like I learned in the Coast
Guard Auxiliary. They also thought it was people just playing "at the ranch,"
which referred to Scorpion Ranch NPS campsite, 18 miles east, behind a 2000+
ft. mountain range. Not likely, but these poor guys are besieged with fraudulent
distress calls-- a federal offense-- and shrinking budgets. Finally they put
out Pan-Pan announcements and promised to dispatch a rescue helicopter. We never
heard what happened and saw no evidence of the distressed vessel the next morning.
I asked one of my Auxiliary buddies to check on it. So that capped our evening.
I never finished my preparations that night and was still entering GPS points
on the fly and improvising "Go-To’s" the next morning in the fog,
like a rank amateur.
Crossing from Ford Point, SRI to Santa Cruz Island and Transit to Scorpion Anchorage.
The mainland (or bust) group (Pedro, Bryant, Duane and George) launched at 0600-0605 on Monday morning, on a bearing of
66°
M., hopefully not to the Bermuda Triangle that swallowed a boat the previous night. This 31 NM journey through fog and strong
currents was the longest paddle for us, ultimately consuming 10 ½ hours and much energy. Linda and Paul left later and reached
Becher’s Bay early, without incident, presumably sipping Pina Coladas on the beach, while waiting for the boat, while we were
huffing and puffing our way to Scorpion Ranch (what a charming name, not at all like "Mustang Ranch).
Initially, we had 2-3 NM visibility, which steadily shrank as we headed East to the Santa Cruz Channel, toward Gull Island, a huge pile of
Rocks off the Southeast corner of Santa Cruz Island. After an inordinately long time without commensurate forward progress, we
noticed a fishing marker buoy half-submerged by a current vector opposing our line of travel. Duane and I estimated a knot and a
knot and a half opposing current, respectively. By agreement, we were macho guys using only the compass and "Mark I
eyeballs" for navigation. We were about ½+ NM offshore, so our course line over the ground was fine, just way too slow.
Bryant was steering us on a compass course. Eventually, the fog closed in so heavily that I surreptitiously switched on the GPS, to
check on Bryant, whom evidently had an autopilot slaved to my GPS, because he was right on. We took turns navigating all day,
with my new trusty Garmin GPS76Map watching over us as a backup, logging miles, course and speed over ground, even
monitoring our heartbeats and telling our horoscopes. It works even better than my venerable Garmin 12XL, a gift from guests on
my boat several years ago.
When we reached Gull Rock, we saw two boats and called them to ask of news on the distress boat. After one initially acknowledged
us, we could no longer contact her. So, we forged on and eventually saw Willows Anchorage, where I was voted down on visiting, then
Bowen Point, through the mist. It was another long 9 ½ miles to Sandstone Point, our longest and most boring leg of the day. All we
could see were the first 200 feet up of very steep cliffs, the rocks and occasional schools of dolphin and "flying fish,"
enticingly rippling up in waves in front of the boat. When one jumped into my spray skirt, I picked it up, saw that it wasn’t really a flying
fish, but merely an energetic baitfish, probably fleeing a predator. So, I threw it to Duane in case he was hungry.
Duane took charge of morale management, organizing a singing brigade, which petered out when we realized that we didn’t know
many songs that supported paddling cadences. We educated each other more about kayaking, mariner’s lore, navigation, island
facts, wildlife and gossiped.
During this time, I became more acutely aware of bad hand blisters, a kink in my back, bad abrasions under my arms and other
annoyances. I also noticed sea lion smells when there were no sea lions around. It turned out to be us. Strangely enough, my
paddling muscles and joints did not hurt. In fact, we all seemed to be getting stronger and faster as the trip went on. By the home
stretch to the mainland, we were paddling a 4+ kt. Pace, per my GPS.
Finally, we saw Sandstone Point, reaching it after first passing another "false point" on a slightly lower bearing.
The leg to San Pedro Point seemed to go faster, possibly because it was much shorter and/or it had more scenery: cliffs,
Yellowbanks Anchorage, Smuggler’s Cove, roads, the Olive Grove, significant boat traffic, and wind. The tailwind that had carried us
along for 9 ½ miles started to swing around, ultimately turning on us, heading straight for us, no matter what direction our course took.
By the time we reached San Pedro Point, it was a stiff head breeze. We hid along the nearly sheer cliffs to dodge it, with only partial
success. As we passed into the cave district, it got stronger, with significant gusts, but I’ve seen much worse there. We passed
through Little Scorpion Anchorage and cut between the rocks, where the wind-whipped waves were breaking in fitful lines over the
shallow rock shelves. I had done this trick a number of times before and hoped my mates wouldn’t throw a fit when they saw it, but
they just powered right through it, rather than take a laborious detour around the rocks when we were all ready to call it a day.
Approaching the beach at Scorpion, we saw kayaks piled high
for departure and a pier lined with impatient people awaiting the tardy boat
to the mainland. We landed at about 1630. Duane took this opportunity to talk
his way into a quick passage home, unloaded his boat and packed in record time
to be ready to bail out on us. We all sat in a near stupor on the beach while
boat people milled around to see the latest creatures and wreckage washed up
on the beach -- us. We started listlessly unpacking our needs for the night,
as the boat showed up and loaded, Duane howling our secret signal in the dusk
as the fast Catamaran, "Islander," sped north through the night to
Ventura Harbor.
We checked in with the Ranger on the beach, who dutifully reported our movements. NPS watched over us like a mother hen, from
the time we called in from Gaviota, to the time we arrived at Ventura. Island Packers or Truth Aquatics sometimes monitors other
club member trips, but our schedule and routes didn’t match theirs very well on this trip. The Coast Guard doesn’t accept float plans
and doesn’t want to hear about you until you are missing in action and your buddies start calling them. We all left a float plan and
instructions with people we are close to.
After securing our kayaks, and changing into dry clothes, we snacked while cooking hot meals, which made an enormous
difference in our morale and sense of well-being. It seemed to be the best tasting dinner we had on the whole trip. By mutual
agreement, we brought only minimal shelter, bedding and personal gear up to the Scorpion Canyon Campground, nestled between
protective rock walls, canopied by eucalyptus trees and other fragrant vegetation. After being on a windy beach with surf pounding, it
seemed incredibly quiet and serene back there. We saw only a couple of tents, housing people with British accents, probably plotting
to use the island as a base to re-colonize the U.S.
The Home Stretch- Crossing to Anacapa, then on to Ventura Harbor
We rose at 0500 and launched at about 0615, delayed about five minutes while the befuddled navigator went back to recover his
dropped GPS. We headed through the Rocks to Little Scorpion, then offshore towards the junction of the largest (west Island) and the
center island, Frenchie’s Cove. Anacapa is actually three islands. To save money and make charts simpler, they were forced to
share one name. We picked up a favorable strong current when we got offshore, then a strong opposing current as we approached
Anacapa. Knowing of this, I veered north to avoid the worst effects, but not enough. I warned the guys, but they didn’t take me seriously
and stayed farther south, costing them some additional time and effort on the crossing. We landed at the gravelly, steep beach at
Frenchie's and had brunch. At one point, a large wave sprung up and hungrily sucked two of our kayaks out to sea as we sprinted
frantically to recover them, laughing at the unpredictable sea. After over a half hour on shore, we relaunched and headed for the
mainland, invisible in the fog.
We spotted Oil Platform Gina, 3.5 miles south of Channel islands Harbor and Platform Gail, 10 miles SW of CIH. At six miles, we
spotted the power plant between CIH and Ventura Harbor (3 NM from each), confirming that our GPS’ weren’t lying to us. The
Ventura breakwater seemed to magically rise from the sea at under 4 NM out, acting as a magnet to draw us home even faster, l
ike horses back to the barn at night, to skillfully mix several metaphors. We sighted the Oracle racing team putting two America’s
cup training boats through their training paces offshore.
We arrived at the Ventura breakwater, just as a lone, proud tall ship was leaving the harbor. We wondered how they forgot the
fireboats and ticker tape parade. We clacked paddles and congratulated each other on a fine, 6 day, four island, 125 NM, enjoyable,
rewarding journey that few had ever made before in modern times. Landing at Mother’s Beach, just behind the east breakwater, we
unloaded our kayaks, retrieved our vehicles from the parking lot over by Island Packers, and loaded up our cars. We headed
across the street to the local greasy spoon and had some good, tasty cheeseburgers. We originally talked about going to the
excellent Greek at The Harbor Restaurant, but the fast burger then seemed more appropriate. Bryant and Pedro had to retrieve a
car from way up in Gaviota, then haul all the way down to the Westside of LA and I was looking forward to a reunion with Carol.
Epilogue
Calling home, I learned that all others had arrived in Ventura safely the previous evening. We found a little time to visit the Channel
Islands National Park Service Headquarters and its wonderful shop, loaded with Channel Islands and maritime books, posters,
videos, etc. I bought an aerial photo of the northern Channel Islands to make a commemorative poster from. The guys were last
sighted stocking up on various publications. We parted new friends and paddling partners and went off to our other lives and loved
ones.
This was a fairly advanced trip that worked out extraordinarily successfully, because we had relatively good weather (not entirely luck),
went with qualified, trained people, practiced, did good planning, obtained and learned how to use good equipment. This route can
be quite hazardous due to severe conditions, long distances and little nearby assistance. Your mileage may vary. Happy paddling!
George
Submitted on September 7, 2001