Thursday, June 29, 2017


I was immersed in the Westport River, awaiting rescue. This was during a class I was taking, in late June, with sunny skies and air temperatures in the eighties.

"Are you alright, Julie?"

"Yes,"  replied, "but I'll need to take a break after this." A moment later I thought to add, "I'm not kidding!" Sometimes my joviality masks real concern.

By the time I was climbing out of the water and into a canoe, my teeth were starting the chatter, and I sat out the next round of practice rescues practicing my "inner lizard", soaking in the sun, fully clad in wetsuit and booties, watching the other participants in my group sort a rescue.

I get cold easily. To be really clear, I have no complaints about the course or how it was managed, or any other course I've been on. In this case, I told the providers ahead of time I was bringing all my layers short of a drysuit, and I was never in real danger of hypothermia. They rotated me out, and the shop we were working out brought out a drytop before I could get to my car to grab my paddling jacket.

I'm no stranger to cold. Over the years, I've been careful to manage my temperature, even at the bewilderment of others. Generally to the effect of "it's such a nice day, you're overdressed." I wore a drysuit on a warm September day for my 3 Star assessment; I've worn my dry cag over neoprene on windless days in spring; I carry my paddling jacket and, nowadays, my storm cag, if I expect F3 winds or higher and being more than half an hour from shelter.

I've been on the fence about identifying myself as one who gets cold easily. Maybe conditions are actually chilly? Maybe other people are putting on a tougher front and what I feel is normal?

I'm considered quite skinny and lean - at 5'9" and about 130 lbs, I'm barely even stewpot material, let along a serving of protein when the aliens come to devour us all. Anecdata and some basic internet research leans toward the side of body fat being something of a shield against hypothermia, but not as simply as is commonly assumed. This article from Popular Science summarizes things nicely. This article on says much the same as well. Fat people might feel colder, but their core temperature is better protected.

For myself, the real chiller is wind. Immersion time is a close second. I might do a roll, or some rescue practice, in reasonable water temperatures, say the low seventies, as we had in Westport. But, once out, if I get a steady breeze, even a gentle borderline F2/F3 breeze, I chill pretty quick.

Immersion simply sucks my heat out. Cumulative immersion (multiple times in the water) and prolonged immersion (more than a minute or two) have their effects, even when layered to the nines, as a quick review of my cold water blogging reveals: a winter rescue and paddling session, my distinctions between cold water and winter paddling, and my first notes on cold water paddling.

Nowadays, I would bump my personal comfort level up a bit. I'm grabbing the drysuit in the low sixties, and keeping the neoprene on up to the low seventies. I might vary that based on risk of immersion.

The challenge I've had lately is managing exceedingly warm days when the water is quite chilly. Removable layers, and planning to cool off in the water if I do overheat, are my new tactic.

So, there I was, in water bordering 70s F, patiently awaiting my rescue; moments later, laying out in the sun to soak in its warming rays; a bit later, using a canoe as shelter against the wind until I got a jacket on.

Just the weekend prior, I'd taught a course at a lake and rented my neoprene to students. After just three immersions apiece, they were tuckered and a bit cool, and we took a break. I kept my jacket on, and adjusted my plan accordingly.

So, I'm officially someone who gets cold easily. I layer up, I keep a jacket and tea handy, even on warm days. As far as the tea goes, my worst case is that I make some iced tea when I get home.

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Rockaway Point

Wow. It's been weeks since I posted last, though I know I've paddled since. I was so taken aback that I went through my calendar, weekend by weekend. It did this that weekend and that on this other weekend, and sure enough, except for a short trip out to enjoy my new boat (the Pace 18), I really haven't gotten out. I took a class in early May, and that was nice, but for weeks afterwards, weather kept me off.

Well, I made up for it this past weekend.

For Memorial Day weekend, I reserved camping at Bennet Field. This is my third time camping out here. In fact, I was here last year as well. Just like last year, the nearby Sebago Canoe Club held their season opener, including some interclub racing that I participated in (3rd, 2nd, and 3rd place BTW, in 100m, 400m, 800m sprints).

Also just like last year, on the Sunday after, DR and I set out for some surfing - only this time on schedule, and to great reward.

We set off from the old sea plan ramp, paddling south as military helicopters took off and set out for Manhattan. It was Fleet Week, after all.

Hangar B.

Helicopter taking off.

Helicopter flying away.

Our paddle out was mostly uneventful. We had more and more current as we went along, and while the day was partly cloudy, visibility was good. We avoided some pleasureboats, mostly setting out to go fishing, as we went under the Marine Parkway-Gil Hodges Bridge. We crossed south to the Rockaway side, then continued westward past varied beaches, mooring yards, and piers.

DR taking in the view.

Looking North.

Passing R10.

Our basic plan was to paddle out to the end of Rockaway Peninsula. We'd gotten some tips from the Commodore of the Sebago Canoe Club. West of the shipping channel was a very shallow area the broke incoming swell and, in some parts, formed a little island at low tide. We would come to call that place "Bird Island", because when we got out there, it was little more than a bald beach in the middle of the water, with various gulls on it.

To find it, we'd looked at a chart and seen it was just southwest from a range formed by the G7 and R6 buoys. So, we'd paddle out to those buoys, then cross the channel. The current would be ebbing, growing in strength at that, so to avoid getting taken out to see, we kept in from the channel.

However, as we paddled along we saw R10 (pictured above), then R8, and then . . .the end of the line. No more buoys, just the day marker mounted on the end of the jetty, the very southernmost tip of Rockaway Point.

Hmmm. Well, there were some big waves coming in, so yours truly paddled out to see what they were like. In hindsight this was probably unwise. The waves were tall and short-period, too short to surf properly. I ended up cruising in towards the rocks of the jetty, which was part of my plan: paddle the weaker current back up. The tidal current was ebbing, which meant that in the even of something going awry, I'd be carried out to sea, and more importantly, into the swell that wasn't already being broken by the jetty.

Also a larger sport-fishing boat came over and positioned itself at the end of the jetty. Fishermen love to get where fast current is whipping fish by like on a conveyor belt.

In any event, I completed my survey without misadventure, and came to the conclusion that we'd be better off finding our originally planned surf zone.

We landed for lunch on a pocket beach and orientated ourselves on the chart. We could see our quarry. It just wasn't near any of the buoys we'd planned for.

Here is a snip of the chart downloaded from NOAA May 31, 2017. The red X is approximately where I noodled in the big water, and the blue box is our approximate Area of Operation for the remainder of our surfing. Squint and you'll see that the last red buoy is R8, not R6, as indicated on my Maptech chart.

Rockaway Point

We landed at a beach not far north from the jetty, so our closest referents were the day marker on the jetty and G5. Based on landmarks to the north, we fixed out position and checked it once we launched, by paddling up to R8.

Location and theory confirmed, we set out to enjoy the surf.

Approaching "Bird Island".

As you can see, there is no island charted, but it does get quite shallow, and there is a spot that comes above the surface at low tide. It's bigger than the chart would have you believe, and forms a broad eddy, particularly on the western side. We found it very easy to surf in, ride the eddy up the western side, come around, and then paddle with current down the eastern side.

For that matter, in the surf zone, the current was weak enough that it was easy enough to turn around and paddle back into the surf, then ride it in.

For the birds.

Coney Island in the distance.

We surfed, and surfed, and surfed and surfed. Farther out there were bigger waves, closer in, smaller waves. We had set out near the end of the peak ebb, so the waters calmed as the afternoon wore on.

One phenomenon that we both experienced, no matter what we did to edge or trim, was that we'd get continually cocked to the right while riding a way. In some spots, there were clearly two wave systems intersecting, and one would take you off the other. At one point, it seemed like I was getting weathercocked, as the wind picked up. We tried trimming forward, backwards, edging left and right. Mostly we were just able to manage coming off the wave early and circling back to try again.

As the water got more shallow, I began to feel its effects. Even on the smaller waves, I found my boat starting to plow into the sand. We started experiencing breaking waves - not huge pounders, they were still 1-2 feet, but breaking nonetheless. It was one of these that finally put me off balance into a capsize - in about two feet of water.

I tried my roll, a couple of times at least. I even stopped to try figuring out if I was coming up on the correct side of the wave - pretty sure I was. But, by the third attempt. I realized I was reaching over the top and not getting the support I needed, and my shoulder was dragging on the sand, so I exited, and there I was, standing on a sand bank in the surf off Rockaway Point.

A couple of thoughts went through my head, while I held on to my boat, keeping it downstream of me. First was, I know in whitewater we're not supposed to stand up - but while the waves were relentless, they weren't worse than any shore surf I've stood in. Second was, should I self-rescue? But in my estimated I thought it was a good opportunity to try an assisted rescue in bouncy water.

DR didn't think so. He was worried about bumping into me - and in hindsight, that wasn't an unrealistic concern. He also comes from a whitewater background, where the better play is usually to let the casualty wash out down stream - although in these conditions, neither of us was sure if "downstream" meant the bird island or the lower harbor.

Instead, what I did was swim my boat out of the surf zone, and form there we did a conventional assisted rescue.

Problem solved, we surfed another forty minutes or so, basically running out the clock until the tide was a bit further past slack. We'd ride the flood in to Jamaica Bay - the opposite of our ride out.

Taking a break on bird island.

Cruise ships and more, in the distant Ambrose Channel.

Far in the distance, we could see ships coming in and heading out along the Ambrose Channel. We could even make out West Bank light and Romer light, two of the lighthouses that mark the treacherous shoals of the lower harbor.

Our route back was more than a bit of work. The predicted F3-F4 winds were on the higher end of that scale, primarily headwinds as we paddled towards the bridge and under, and then as crosswinds while we paddled north. Fortunately the tidal currents improved in our favor, so as we might have been paddling slower, the currents made up for it.

The wind also chilled us a bit. We'd felt a bit overdressed in various layers of neoprene earlier in the morning, but were glad to have multiple layers now, as well as paddling jackets. Once we landed, DR got to break in my fancy Kokatat storm cag; he reports it was very warm and kept him comfortable while we packed up kit and boats. I was wearing my Reed Chillcheater dry cag, and once onshore had some rain paints on to keep the wind off.

Overall it was quite a fun day. I've been meaning to check out this surf spot for a while, and I learned a lot very quickly. I think in the future I'd time it differently, and it's certainly not an environment for beginners, or even improvers who do not have surf experienced. Like most of NYC, there is a bit of traffic to manage. It's also a bit of a schlep to get to. All that being said, it is a fun place to play, and I hope to go back.

Monday, May 1, 2017

Black River

I'm a little behind in blogging. Here are some details on a trip Mr. Cowgirl and I took with our mutual friend, EY the "canoe girl" a couple of weeks ago, in mid-April.

Mr. Cowgirl knows EY from whitewater paddling, where she's more likely to be paddling a C1 instead of a kayak. Anyone who can do with one blade what the Cowgirl has learned to do with two is pretty impressive.

On this day, however, we took it easy and explored a stretch of water one might normally overlook - and drive past without a second thought: the Black River, in New Jersey.

Putting in.

We'd been fuzzy about our weekend paddling plans. The weather was predicted to be amazing, and while I checked the tide tables and wind for sea ideas, the mister kept on top of reported river levels for whitewater opportunities. Everything was coming up dry, and we were considering some lake or interior waters, just to be out, when EY called and suggested the Black River.

The Black River.

The River is pretty far out in New Jersey, nearly as far as the Cowgirl's current day job. We drove out on I-80, continuing past Parsippany and I-287, to take route 206 south a ways, eventually coordinating with EY a couple of potential ideas: one to put in at one spot and shuttle from another, the second to put in and take out at the same place - a dirt parking lot at the end of a trail, maybe 150 yards portage to a low bridge with a small mud pile we could put in at.

And we're off!

We observed there was some non-trivial current: not enough to be a problem, but enough that we'd be moving noticeably if we didn't paddle. We opted to go against the current, figuring we could come back with it. This mean leaning low to pass under the bridge, and later, we encountered a second bridge (which was route 206) that we couldn't pass under. So, we went back, with the current, floating as much as paddling.

We'd brought the Grumman canoe along instead of kayaks. Someone has posted online about hosting a trip later, and had said short boats only. We're happy to say our Grumman 17 worked out quite well!

Dare we go there?

Yes we dare! Actually the return.


EY took plenty of pictures and posted them. Also kept track of mileage and our route.

Paddling is full of 'grammable opportunties!

Looking ahead.

Mr. Cowgirl.

As we made our way down the winding river, we crossed first one and then another beaver dam, getting speed to beach halfway over it, then taking turns getting back in to complete our madness.

We saw a lot of birds - mostly red-chested blackbirds, I forget their exact nomenclature. EY spotted an egret.

Where's EY?

Clouds have rolled in.

At a couple of points we decided to see what the panorama mode on the cameraphone would do if used while the canoe was moving.


Like a visual Theremin.

The weather was the most interesting part of this trip. Being mid-April, we were still concerned with water temperature. I even brought my drysuit. However, the air temperature was over 80 F and sunny, so I just wore base layers - rolled up for comfort.

I'm glad I wore them though, and that I had a jacket. Later in our trip, the wind picked up and clouds rolled in, and we even got a spattering of rain. I put on the jacket just to block the wind. Yet, by the end of our journey, the sky had cleared and it was warm again. We'd come full circle, weather-wise.

Consider the lilies.

Dam it! Beavers.

Eventually, we came to a beaver home. We couldn't spot beavers, though we did watch for them. We swept gently by and proceeded just a little ways further, before turning around.

Anybody home?

In revisiting some of these pictures, I keep expecting the Blair Witch to pop up. Aye the moors. . .

There's EY!

A fallen tree.

On our way back.

As we came to the end, we all remarked on what a fun find this little river was. None of us had been especially ambitious in paddling plans - we were all in a mood for something chill, and that was exactly what we got. A remote area, a little wildlife, endless and changing vistas: all of this was in just a couple of hours paddling, less than a 90 minute drive away. 

Monday, April 3, 2017

An Accidental Jamboree

It isn't often that I get together a trip with people who have never paddled with each other before. This past Sunday, when I got my friends Kayak Dov, JJ, and TA together, it wasn't until we were on the water that I realized while they've all paddled several times with me, none of them had paddled with each other.

On the other hand, everyone kind of knew each other - JJ has blogged extensively, and Kayak Dov is an accomplished expeditioner with his own paddle blog as well. TA is fast becoming one of the more accomplished paddlers in the Inwood Canoe Club.

No strangers here, only friends who've not yet met, came to mind.

TA working the Avocet.

We set off from the Inwood Canoe Club, our goal to arrive at Baretto Point in the Bronx. It was only two weeks ago that Kayak Dov and I cartopped there, and we saw a dolphin a bit further east. This time though, no cheating. We were going to paddle all the way there from our home base, and back.

The weather was nice, sunny and warm, though the water was still quite cold, in the lower 40s F. In the days before, we'd all discussed what we would bring or wear in anticipation of the cold - and then it wasn't especially cold at all. I wore my usual cold water layup (Kokatat BaseCore and OuterCore, with a heavy sweater), and while I was a little warm, I wasn't suffering for it, and comfortable when the wind picked up.

A wee water break near 145th street.

Passing under yet another bridge.

Playing peekaboo with the Pace.

The ride down the Harlem was familiar and uneventuful, and took much less time than expected - only an hour and a half. We cut through the Bronx Kill, pausing to take in the view and practice a little landmark-to-chart orienteering, before proceeding north in the main channel, looping between the Bronx and North Brother Island.

Through the kill.

And right on out. Amtrak RR runs over this bridge.

My favorite view in the city: looking East from the Bronx Kill.

Looking to the right, the Hell Gate Bridge in the distance.

Here, I was able to regale fans who'd not previously heard my tour-guide spiel about North Brother Island. The highlights are captured in post I wrote about the first time I came out this way.

Barge headed south through the Gate.
North Brother Island just behind it.

As we curled around the channel, our destination was just out of sight, tucked behind a pier. The wind picked up and we were more exposed than we had been in the Harlem river, and in short order we were blown to the little cove, where we landed and said hello to the locals, who were out enjoying their park.

Snake-like hoses.

The final mile.

Passing the stacks.

Passing a tug tied up.

Looking past across the water, we could make out the Manhattan skyline in the distance, the Empire State Building, Freedom Tower, the Hell Gate Railroad Bridge . . .and about half a dozen kayaks coming towards us.
Two Groups, Once Landed.

Who were they? We wondered about different groups, narrowing down who had the ability, equipment, and proximity to make this trip without having come the same way that we had. My guess was North Brooklyn Boat Club, located back in Newtown Creek. I was right.

Well, this was becoming one of the best kinds of paddles - meeting others on the water. Same passion, different path, so to speak.

Baretto Point in the Bronx, Manhattan skyline in the distance.

I was a little surprised that there was hardly anyone in the group I knew. I recognized one woman, who'd come in as a customer while I was working at New York Kayak Company; I'd replaced a gasket or two on a drysuit. Everyone else was new to me though. They were a fun bunch, and there was sharing of tea and cookies, and comparing of paddling notes.

Shortly before we were going to leave, consensus grew to have the group depart as one big group - ten paddlers in all - and retrace our route back through the Bronx Kill. So, off we went, following some discussion between the leads of various groups.

"Hey, Julie, guess that makes you the trip leader!" Ho ho, ho ho no no no. Ten people is too many for one person to manage. I was up front and a bit of a "happy puppy" talking to people, but relied on the leads in the other group to keep eyes out, and most of my group had extensive shepherding experience. The only real clear direction I had to give was for one or two people to come in a bit from the channel to ensure a DEP ship that had cast off from a nearby dock had plenty of room to get through.

Setting out, homeward bound.

JJ checking out that barge up close.

Once we were in the kill, We pass through to the end - our timing was off for a whitewater feature that shows up. With a parting of the ways, our group headed north up the Harlem while our new friends headed south.

Ten paddlers through the kill.

We took our time heading back, partly because we had more wind against us than expected. The current grew in our favor as though, so it wasn't especially taxing. People sometimes get pie-eyed when I talk about paddling for two or three hours at a time, but with a group like this, we had plenty of conversation - telling old paddle stories, riffing on current events, remembering what parts of the river used to look like, and so on.

Passing Yankee Stadium.

Passing Marble Hill station.

So, it seemed that in no time, we were crawling back through Spuyten Duyvil, the Henry  Hudson bridge and Columbia C in plain sight, the Palisades in the distance.

Passing under the Henry Hudson Bridge.

The water near the railroad bridge looked especially feisty, with confused seas sending brief spouts of water several feet in the air. I took a brief ride out there, in my newly acquired boat, a Tiderace Pace 18 (details to come). I found the Pace likes the rough stuff almost as much as the Gemini SP does!

Kayak Dov said his goodbyes and paddle over to his put-in in New Jersey. The rest of us headed back to Inwood, unpacked and cleaned our boats. We each talked about the amazing dinners we had prepared, well-deserved after such a robust paddle.

All's well at sundown! A barge passing as we packed.

And so came to an end, another pleasant day on the water.