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The Hazard of New Functions:
A Near-Life Experience on the Way to Catalina

As long as you don't do anything stupid, ocean kayaking can be a pretty boring pasttime compared to some (like mountain biking.) For hours you stroke a paddle smoothly to pull yourself and your coffin-sized craft over the water, like some Tupperware-Ishmael. It's not unlike driving on the smooth Interstate 80 across the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah--your speedometer says 70 miles per hour and your engine is making noise, but all your senses tell you the car is not moving. On a kayak, instead of doing 70, you're travelling at a walking pace and instead of the comparitively confined spaces of the Bonneville Salt Flats, you're on the slightly larger salt-flats of the Pacific Ocean.

As a paddler, you're far away from the noise, crowds and the...dirt of the shore. And if you paddle out far enough to lose sight of the shore, it seems as though you're a little spec of space dust lost in an endless two-dimensional universe. You hear nothing but the sound of water lapping against your boat: no birds, no waves; silence that makes your ears ring. I've often gone kayaking to escape humanity and then caught myself paddling like mad to catch another kayaker out past the surf zone.

A Catalina crossing was in the works before I bought my kayak, and so was glad to be finally taking off, at about 5:45 a.m on this very foggy August morning in 2000, almost a year after buying this Ocean Kayak Cabo. Cabrillo State Park is the closest point on the continent to Catalina Island, so it seemed a logical launch-point. Trouble is, Cabrillo Park is the upper lip of the mouth of Long Beach Harbor is one of the busiest freight thoroughfares in the world, with many enormous freighters suddenly appearing in the fog, then disappearing just as suddenly. In reality, they were probably only tearing past at 25-30 knots, but the fastest I could manage was maybe six.

If you're considering making this crossing, please bring a battery-operated light to make your boat more visible in the fog. Crossing a major shipping lane in the fog is roughly as foolish as running across a busy freeway in the fog. One freighter blasted me and a small sailboat with his horn and those suckers are loud!

I soon lost sight of land and didn't see it again for 3 hours; just paddling-paddling-paddling and watching my Army surplus compass. Nothing visible in all directions, my life rested on that little magnetic needle bobbing around willy-nilly in its case. I was temporarily overjoyed when land very suddenly came into view, but soon learned why. The strong wind that blew the fog away turned out to be a shotglass of blessing and a pitcher of curse. I aimed at the low point between the mountains on the island, but it would be another four and a half hours of paddling, because the wind and the chop were vicious. A few large powerboats passed by, but no sailboats at all. The wind and chop kept pulling the boat off-course to the left. Lacking a rudder, I had to pull very hard with my left hand and lightly with the right the whole time. I had tendonitis in my left forearm for 3 weeks after this adventure.

A white rock or islet became visible and it seemed a reasonable landmark. It turned out to be Bird Rock and I got pretty excited when I finally saw sailboats anchored behind it. Despite the seeming nearness, it was another two hours of solid paddling to keep on course and moving. I stopped for a 2-minute water break and the boat was turned completely around and I hated to think about how much ground I'd lost while massaging my sore arm. As the chop worsened, my paddling form involuntarily deteriorated too. I put on the walkman so I wouldn't have to hear the howling wind or my own frustrated cries. [Stupid 80's music tape!]: Belinda Carlisle singing Heaven on Earth, with the lyrics: "When I'm lost at sea, I look for you and you carry me..."; and Falco's Der Komissar: "...the more you live the faster you will diiiieeee." (Ugh.)