Carrying my whitewater kayak down the stairs at Swami’s on a shoulder, wetsuit draped over the other, I survey the ocean on one of the most beautiful days yet this year. March 16 and 75 degrees; this is why I live in Encinitas.
The lineup gives me the stink eye as I paddle north past them all, close enough to snake the next swell if it presents itself. Little do the surfies know that for surf kayakers, the wave at Swami’s is treacherous. Too many rocks, too many surfers, and then there’s that reef. Imagine getting dragged along upside down, either thrown up on the rocks or with your neck broken in the shallows on the reef. Sure you can roll, but when you pop up, you’re still in trouble. It’s fun to taunt the surfies, though, especially on a day like today.
I catch a few great rides at the bone yard on a super-clear glassy set, with my 12-foot red plastic high-volume roto-molded torpedo. I do some paddle spins then get back out for the next one about three times faster than any surfer — you can see why they hate us. Winded after sprinting repeatedly with my arms, I paddle out into the ocean. Bottom half sealed inside my spray skirt, it already feels like I could have done without the full wetsuit today, it’s so darn warm.
The surfers looked relieved as I moved far beyond any potential outside swell. I pass a couple of sweepers standing up, cruising along. The first milestone on the North County coast is the kelp beds. Lobster boats are starting to pick up their traps; the end of March is the end of their season. I look down into the garden and glide across giant brown leaves, careful to lean back a little to keep the nose of the kayak from getting tangled. There’s all kinds of bait jumping. A Cormorant pops up about 20 feet off. It gives a wary look, as if to say, Normally, you might scare me away, but I’m too busy catching fish to let you bother me today.
Fifty yards on, a gaggle of seagulls floats in formation, opportunistically waiting for the next bait-ball to surface. My practice is to keep paddling without stopping and without looking back, until I get way out there. It’s no different today. The gentle rolling surface cooperates with my hull speed, with almost no splashing. Twelve feet of pointy kayak tracks well. My boat is the perfect all-around Southern California self-propelled watercraft. At about 22 pounds, it’s a lot lighter than those behemoth ride-on-top tugboats most suckers buy. They’re afraid to really learn how to paddle a kayak. If they did, they’d realize that a whitewater boat is like a Ferrari compared with a 1950s station wagon. It can open up the whole ocean to them.
One of the bigger commercial lobster boats is motoring fast up the coast to his next set. Probably working too many traps, as my old friend John Bowen would say. John passed away several years ago. He lobstered this coast for 25 years and was always bitching about the increasing pressure on the North County catch. Once, when I passed a floating sea lion, I remembered that John would talk about how theyd shoot the sea lions that broke into their traps. I paddled up next to it and gave it a smack on the back with the paddle to make sure it was dead. The feeling of rigor transferred up the paddle shaft. Yup. But I didn’t look for the telltale bullet hole.
As the big commercial lobster boat heads toward me, wide open and getting louder, a low rhythmic chop-thud indicates that a military helicopter is also coming on fast. It’s a gunship out of Pendleton going like a bat out of hell, 50 feet off the water and heading right at me. As a paraglider pilot myself, I know something about controlled air space. These guys are not supposed to be lower than 500 feet, unless theyre doing business. This was obviously a joyride. You couldn’t fault them for hugging the ocean on such a spectacular day.
Since they were lined up on me, I couldn’t resist having the kind of fun with them I usually reserve for new pilots out of Carlsbad, the ones who fly one-seaters all over the coast, always too noisy and too low. When they figure they’ve just about scared the shit out of this hapless kayaker out at sea all alone, I launch the kayak paddle vertically into the air right in front of them.
A whitewater paddle is made of super-light graphite, an aerodynamic piece of highly crafted engineering. We whitewater paddlers like to spin them, twirl them, throw them, kite them into the wind, and basically show off whenever possible, doing tricks while surfing down a wave. I can throw a paddle really high. The goal is to have it bounce off the nose of the gunship and scare the living shit out of them, mostly because its the last thing these joyride jockeys expect. This time, I didn’t throw it 50 feet high. But I still got my point across, as the pilot made what you might call an evasive maneuver and noticeably gained altitude in what might be termed a flinch. Hope you remember that next time you’re strafing goat farmers in Afghanistan, bub. One of them might have a rocket launcher.
I paddled out another mile or so. The sky was clear, interrupted only by jet contrails out of Lindberg heading north to who knows where. I came to a stop and let the boat drift around, pointing back toward the shore. A cacophony emanated from the coast, car noise, trains, the stress of a million ants on top of each other. What luck to be the only one out here. I started my relaxation breathing and yoga techniques, sitting up straight in the kayak in perfect yoga position.