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.

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.

Sandy Hook

I found myself graced with some extra time off recently, and decided to squeeze in a camping trip that had fallen by the wayside: Sandy Hook, part of Gateway Recreation Area.

I've been here before - "another time, another paddle", so to speak. A couple of years ago my good friends at Wind Against Current brought me out here, paddling from Pier 40 in Manhattan and back in a single day. This time, I'd be driving out and camping for a couple of nights, giving me ample opportunity to paddle here.

For those unaware, Sandy Hook is a long spit pointing north off the coast of New Jersey, nearly directly at the Narrows between Staten Island and Brooklyn, where the Verazzano Bridge sits. It's far south of the "lower harbor" and practically the last bit of land one will see before the Atlantic Ocean. As you can see in some of these photos, it's practically the end of the world.

It's exactly the sort of place I was in the mood for.

Looking East-southeast, large ships approaching and departing.

The fringe of the world.

Manhattan and Brooklyn in the far distance. 

That said, I needed time off so I didn't plan as much as I'd hoped. I was alone, and there are quite a few shipping channels in the area to avoid, as well as moderately strong tidal currents. Instead of venturing far, I took in the details of the waters around the hook. I paddled perhaps a quarter-mile offshore to the ocean side, and two miles north to Romer Shoal Light.

An old Nike Missile bunker.

Housing any military brat would recognize!

I made two trips, on separate days. The ocean side of Sandy Hook ramps up steeply and results in dumpy waves, while the bay side is protected. Additionally, one of the better launch sites is very near the camp sites, about two miles south of the northern end of the spit, at Horseshoe Cove.

In both trips I paddled north past old missile batteries, the military installation which is now used by the National Park Service and US Coast Guard, and a long bit of strand on the northern tip.

As I passed one fishing vessel, I called out to ask his intentions - it wasn't clear where he was motoring to and I didn't want to get in his way. "See those birds," he said, pointing behind me, "that's where!"

Well, of course, I realized. The birds know where the fish are. That made it all the stranger the next day when birds swarmed to my vicinity and I couldn't make out fish below me.

Approaching the end of the spit.

A bit of a bounce.

A marker on the NW corner.

In the distance, the Ambrose Channel.

One little-known fact about Sandy Hook is that there is a major shipping channel that passes east-west right along the tip. I wasn't able to capture a picture nearly as dramatic as one the NPS keeps on hand to illustrate the point, but trust me - there is not much room from the beach to where large ships ply their way from the southern end of Arthur Kill to Raritan Reach and onward to sea.

In fact, the reason for this is that it used to be part of the original approach to New York. In the pre-Revolutionary period vessels would pass Sandy Hook, using Sandy Hook light to guide their way. I can't find easy reference to when the Ambrose Channel took hold but there were lightships marking it from the mid-eighteenth century onwards.

The seaside shore - from the sea.

A marker.

A vessel exiting Arthur Kill.

On the days I was visiting, the current was ebbing to sea in the morning and flooding in the early afternoon. This curtailed my choices a bit: I'd had the idea that I would make an open crossing to Staten Island, or to a lighthouse in between, and while I wanted to see the sea, I didn't want to spend hours out in it.

On the one hand I hoped to see whales, which have been sighted in the area between Breezy Point and Sandy Hook. On the other hand, there's also a great white shark that has been tagged and who has come back several times to visit.

I spent a lot of time trying to remember if that shark came in the early summer or late summer.

An Osprey - of the mechanical kind.

Looking north to Manhattan and Brooklyn.

Ships entering the Ambrose Channel.

I rode the current out around the hook, looking for a spot on the chart called the "False Hook". Based on the current patterns I had looked up, I expected some bouncy waves - and I found them !

I surfed a bit in the waves, attaining against current and avoiding both the fishing boats drifting with the current and the fly fisherman casting from shore. I found a pattern, using a range I took from local landmarks, where I could surf, drift, and buck around.

As the current strengthened I decided to work my way in, rather than drift out to sea. I really had to drive a bit to keep momentum. In short order I found my way crawling through the rip or the outbound current curling around the end of the hook. Then suddenly, I heard a THWAP!

I looked at my deck and went through a quick checklist: carabiner carabiner carabiner, bottle, pump chart camera. Everything was in place. Huh.

After paddler a couple more minutes I noticed a fishing line that was suspiciously close. I traced its path. It wasn't in the water - it was tied to a lure wrapped under my spare paddle!

Now at this point I should tell you that I have never had to cut a fishing line. I avoid them. I watch for fishermen, for their poles, for their lines. I've gone under lines when I've had clearance and couldn't get out farther. I've instructed others in the value of always having a knife for such contingencies, followed by a joke about only using my knife to cut fruit.

Well, here I was, confronted with a genuine entanglement.

I paddled forward and got some slack. That would allow me to grab the line and cut it. But, as I reached for my knife, the current carried me back, and I had to paddle again to retain position.

I kept paddling hard to get that slack back but it wasn't forthcoming. I motioned to the fisherman on shore to ask if he had shears. He didn't seem to understand me. It's at this point I saw that he was also reeling and keeping the line taught.

"No," I motioned and yelled, "Let it slack. I'll meet you on the shore."

He seemed to let the line loose and I was able to grab it and cut it. The lure stayed under my paddles and I was free - free to fight what was about 2 knots of current, with a bit of wind abeam pushing me to a very shallow beach.

I gesticulated to one possible landing point but then scrubbed it because I couldn't line up my approach well. I went past another point - and I am being very generous in defining a "point", as it was just a longer pile of sand separating one part of the beach from another - scattering seagulls as I beached and hopped out.

The fisherman came over. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realize you were right there."

"No problem," I said. "Now you can tell your friends about the fifteen foot red fish you caught!"

See, the cowgirl is all about being friendly and not creating a fuss where there needn't be one.

"My grandfather was a fisherman," I said. "I know these lures can get expensive."

We talked for a bit more. His name was Paul, he was seventy, and if he was thirty, forty years younger he might try kayaking. He was a little surprised at it being a "sit-inside" boat, and also that I'd been out there. He struggled for the right word - I suspect he was going for "ballsy" but wouldn't say that to a lady. He settled on stamina. He admired my stamina.

Well, I admired it too. I hadn't planned to get out, but since I had I took lunch on the beach while I considered my next destination.

Break for lunch.

The water would be ebbing a bit more but subsiding and then flooding. I wasn't up to fighting current or going especially far. I settled on Romer Shoal Light - a place I've been to before,  albeit from another direction. It was about two miles straight north.

After packing up, I set out. Using first a nearby marker as a waypoint, and then the light itself.

On the way though, I overheard traffic on channel 13: two vessels heading out to Sandy Hook channel and then to sea. I looked west and could make out two vessels on the horizon. I wasn't worried about getting out of the way in time, as they were miles away and I was already near the far side of the channel, but I wanted to make sure then when they were near I wasn't going to drift or get blow to them, or look like I was going to cross paths.

Green Marker 7S.

Towards this end, when I got to my waypoint - "7S" - I held position. I wasn't anywhere near a place anyone would drive a boat to, and if I were, I'd hold out that they weren't likely to hit the marker.

This gave me an opportunity to watch the world around me - and listen too. A USCG Auxiliary crew offered to escort each vessel, one by one, clearing the path in front of them., and signing off as each vessel left the channel for open sea. I listened to a couple of barges work out a passing operation (on the one, they decided). I watched cormorants drying on the marker.

Once the first vessel had gone by, I resumed my voyage. After a few minutes paddling, I saw a sea turtle less than ten feet off my port bow! He was near the surface and I think I surprised him. He dove quickly while I reached for my camera. Sorry, buckaroos, no pictures, but trust me, he was as big as my spraydeck!

Always a (wo)man, always a city, always a lighthouse.

Romer Shoal Light.

On my way back, I spotted something dark and box-shaped deep in the water. It seemed to be moving of its own volition. I'm guessing it was my turtle friend, or a friend of his, or some other critter. Or, it could have just been a box.

Returning from Romer Shoal.

The next day, on my second outing, I had to pack up camp first and then set out. There was a bit more wind and I found very interesting waves near the northwest corner of the hook. Basically, as water flowed north and then east round the hook, the wind from the north kicked up some 3-4 foot waves with short period. I was able to surf a little but mostly, it was a place to practice boat handling in moderately rough conditions - turning, leaning, edging, moving and staying still. I wore myself out prematurely though and set back earlier than expected. But, I got some better photos of the bay side than the day before.

Old Housing, Sandy Hook Light visible.

Old bunkers.

Fort Hancock.

I paddled a bit south to pad out my ride, and saw some large floating things in the water. I think these were from the US Army Corps of Engineers for some rebuilding project or another. Cormorants and a few gulls favored them.

Cormorants I.

Cormorants II.

With that my time was at an end. I'd pack up, load the boat, and drive off, making one more tourist stop at Conference House, a home in Tottenville where Ben Franklin, John Adams, and Edward Rutledge met with the British to negotiate and end to the Revolutionary War shortly after the Battle of Long Island, and were at one point in danger of being arrested. They weren't, though negotiations failed, and the men returned and the war continued, but it's an interesting "what if" point in American history.

Sandy Hook's camping facilities are decent and the paddling opportunities are very open-ended. A paddler here must be a true mariner, with an understanding of tides, weather, and navigation, but with all that at hand it's a very interesting paddling environment. I'll go again - perhaps one day as part of a larger adventure.

A House of Surf and Fog

Over Memorial Day Weekend - nearly a month ago - I managed to do some camping out at Floyd Bennet Field. You may recall I camped out here with some friends last fall, and was back with most of them again. The difference was, we base-camped instead of kayak camping. We drove our cars and boats out, but only kept the one camp, rather than packing it all in for Staten Island.

Partly this was practical. I was organizing an event at the nearby Sebago Canoe Club that Saturday, so packing up to go and come back was going to eat up time I'd spend enjoying the area. The area, of course was Jamaica Bay. I'll write about the event itself later; here's what we did on our big paddle day.

We all wanted to try some surf, and there's brilliant surf at Rockaway and Breezy Points, where the open ocean first touches New York City. To get there we'd have to paddle about three or four miles, and as it happened we were a bit lazy in the morning, and so paddled against some tide on the way out.

Preparing to depart.

Passing along the old airfield.

Striking a pose.

After paddling out past the bay bridge that connects the Rockaways to Brooklyn, we made a brief stop for lunch on a beach before heading out to Rockaway Point. Breezy was a bit further, and we were already seeing nice wind waves pushed by an easterly breeze.

Testing the waters.

Trying to get a speedy start.

It took us a while to sort the waves. Primarily wind-blown, tide on current, they struck the beach at a very shallow angle. The result was, we had to paddle out pretty far just to catch them, and rather than surf evenly in to the beach, we'd just find ourselves on an elongated taper, coming off with a low brace and repositioning to head back out.

Waiting.

Keeping position.

Bad form!

Most of the waves were like this

After a while, we were tired, and the waves were getting less pronounced as the tide rose.  We took a few more runs and decided to head in.

Here is where the trip got interesting. We could make out a thick hazing drifting in from the west, and closer and faster, we could make out a low fog drifting northwards from the sea over the Rockaways. it looked more like smoke from two forest fires, but was fog, possibly an inversion layer.

In a matter of minutes we could tell that the entire outlet was about to be enshrouded in fog - and we had about a mile to cross at the bay and a mile to the bridge, before heading in to Jamaica Bay proper. We'd seen a large barge and some party vessels about. We decided to cross the bay earlier than planned, at about its widest point.

This turned out to be a wise course of action. As we crossed, we had to wait and radio our intentions to two party boats out of Sheepshead Bay, and by the time we were all the way across, the fog had dropped visibility to under a mile. We couldn't see the bridge, nor the far shore, but both were maybe a twenty minute paddle away.

We crossed one last marina mouth at its narrowest point, having seen a number of pleasure boats scurry in (and out, oddly). We were soon under the bridge, and handrailing close to the shore, until we could make out the old hangar and radomes.

It was an odd paddle, an eerie one in a way. The fog happened so fast, and was so thick. I've been in fog before but it's usually much more gradual, and a phenomenon of cool weather. We'd been in the low 80s F, wearing jackets only because of the breeze. It was muggy as we paddled back, and what photos I've got here of the fog are from when it was lightening. It was thick as soup before!

A good one for the Cowgirl's final send-off, should it occur.

The fog was a harbinger of bad weather to come; we ultimately called out weekend short and went out for dinner at a lobster shack on the way home. Jamaica Bay is lovely, and I hope to paddle there again, under more fair weather conditions.