Cold

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 weather.com 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.

Amazing

I was conducting a paddling skills assessment at a lake yesterday, aided by friend and fellow instructor Jean Kostelich of Two Geeks @ Three Knots. While there, I ran into some other local acquaintances, people who are more skilled paddlers than I, and we got to talking. Our conversation went along these lines:

You got any plans this fall? What about that thing we went to in Groton?

Gotta wait and see about my schedule. I'd love to go. I also want to get some [n] training.

Really, with who?

[name]. I find his style really works for me.

Yes he's good, I only met him last year. You going for your  [n] ?

Maybe, but what would I do with it? Conditions around here are only so much, and very few paddlers are up to that level of paddling.

Yeah. In NYC people say I'm an amazing paddler, but I go up there and I realize where I'm really at. You know, just average at best.

What constitutes amazing? I think it's only human to think in binary terms: I'm a beginner or  I'm amazing. Where one places oneself on that limited spectrum might depend on the events of that day. If you try something new, that pushes your limits, how well you do will color your self-perception.

I for one can say that I felt pretty darned amazing the day I capsized while surfing a three-foot wave and rolled up on my less-elegant side. But then the next day I repeatedly failed a re-entry and roll.

Some folks who keep at their paddling will develop a third model. The wording is always awkward. What's an "advanced beginner" or "intermediate". In my own work I've settled on "improvers", covering a wide range: from "has the basics down" to "can do everything I can and be better at it too."

The truth though, is that paddling skills are a spectrum, and each skill in itself can run on a spectrum. I've seen plenty of paddlers with good forward and turning strokes but weak or ineffective braces. I've seen some amazing rollers who have messy draw strokes. On top of all this, there's experience in conditions. Strokes that work in rough water will work in flat water, but unless practiced correctly, in those conditions, fear in the "brain" part of body-boat-blade-brain will wreck the best efforts of the other three Bs.

Hence, most of the best paddlers I know will say they're "OK". "Just OK," because paddling is a practice. It's an ongoing activity and achievement. I might have an amazing bow rudder one day and a terrible on the next. Or crack six rolls consecutively one day but then muscle one the next.

Amazing? It's all in the eye of the beholder.

Maine Challenges

One of the reasons I wanted to return to Maine was the array of challenging conditions in close proximity to each other. From the camp were easy paddles to a nice tiderace, multiple eddies to work with, and islands and channels for navigation. Add in some cartopping and there was rock-hopping, surfing, and choppy conditions. We did a little of each, a couple every day.

For example, when practicing some trip leading, we found some nice little arrangements of rocks to paddle over. The trip leader had to scope it out the path, then give simple instruction and shepherd us through. This we an elbow-shaped loop behind a rock. We each went through, twice, and on the last go, the paddler capsized (on purpose, for practice). The trip leader had to rescue him.

Another scenario had us landing in surf. Not "surf landing", but landing in surf. This was novel to the Cowgirl. The idea was to approach the beach in a controlled manner, rather than riding a wave to be deposited on the beach. Well,the surf reflexes of yours truly meant that she kept paddling forward in the trough to catch a wave. In so doing, her boat broached on the wave, yawing about sixty degrees, and she capsized in about a foot of water.

What was meant to happen, and which was eventually attempted, was to paddle backwards in the "big suck" of water rushing back from the beach. This gave the boat momentum into the next wave approached from behind, making it more stable, and then paddling forward to get closer to the beach. In this manner, a successful landing was obtained.

We also did a fair amount of cliff surfing - as water rushes past cliffs, a little wave can push along but not into a cliff. That was a neat way to paddle - catch a wave but don't hit that wall!

The local tiderace was something we didn't get to until the very last morning, and it was an early one at that. To get the tides right, we had to be on the water and 0500! It was worthwhile though. There's a spot, called Lower Hell Gate, where the river kinda makes a little jog to the side, with a long slope narrowing down to a point at the water. There's an eddy to shelter in and a prime viewing spot for an instructor to do some land-based coaching.

Marc Parsons, at Lower Hell Gate.

Last year, I capsized here once. I wanted a rematch. While the tide was a bit higher and I didn't try side-surfing, I did managed to keep in the stream and practice moving from side to side, saw my bow drive into the standing wave, and then back out with the current. It felt great. I then crossed the river and practiced moving sideways in an out of eddies.

The area of Knubble Bay, the Kennebec and Sheepscot rivers near Bath, are great an varied placed to practice sea kayaking. I fully intend to return.

Maine Camp

There were sixteen of us, three instructors and thirteen students, all of varying levels but generally 3 Star / L4 paddlers. About half the camp was from the midwest, paddling on the Great Lakes, with the rest from several eastern locales: Boston, New Hampshire, New York.

The camp itself was an AMC (Appalachian Mountain Club) camp situated on Knubble Bay, near Georgetown, Maine, just a twenty minute drive from Bath. We were near Reid State Park, and also the hamlet of Five Islands, and the Kennebec river. The great thing about this area is that many different coastal features are in easy reach of each other: significant tidal ranges, tideraces, overfalls, strong currents with correspondingly strong eddies, islands, beaches, rock gardens, and navigation markers.

We were all there for sea leadership training. Solid paddling skills were required, but the course was more about planning and leading trips. Towards that end, we took turns every morning reporting on the weather, diagramming Highs and Lows and Fronts, as well as the weather itself. We also spent a good half day on charting a course based on charts and pilot guides, and a few hours of practical navigation using compasses, charts, and markers.

The real fun was in the environment though. There was so much variety! And we took turns with each coach, so we were exposed to different teaching and leading styles.



I developed a reputation as the camp coffee maker. There was a large percolating stovepot, about 16 inches tall, with a metal basket and pipe. I tend to be an early riser and when camping, even earlier, generally awake with the sunrise. So, the first morning, I took a stab at making coffee, eyeballing the amount of water and adding about as much coffee as I could remember from when I used a drip brewer. At home I'm all French Press so I really wasn't sure what the right amount was.

It was a hit. Everyone complimented the brewer, and me once they knew, and that was it. I became the camp coffee maker. This involved taking the giant pot out to the pump well every morning and working the handle a few times, then adding the basket and grind, and then turning on the heat. When I looked up how to make coffee in a percolator (on howtobrewcoffee.com), it summarized the process as having three requirements: water, heat, and no respect for coffee. Well, two out of three ain't bad.

We spent five days in the camp, arriving Tuesday evening and departing Sunday. What followed was a series of adventures, a blur in retrospect, and hence I'm grouping more by topic than chronology. It was great. It was grand. It was Maine. Kayaking in Maine.

Maine - Day 1

If you're late to camp, you will miss the briefing about which well has been bleached, and which is more potable.

I learned this lesson the hard way - thankfully, not too hard - when I woke up early Saturday morning and took a swig from the bottle I had filled the night before. We'd gotten in late, around midnight or so, and after pitching tents, pumped water from the well at the foot of the cabin. When I took a sip in the morning, it was . . .sprightly, like extreme toothpaste. Turns out that the potable well was up the hill, near the kitchen entrance.

We were there for kayaking. Saturday, Sunday, and Memorial Day, we paddled in the vicinity of the Sheepscot Bay, out of an Appalachian Mountain Club camp at Knubble Bay. Each day brought us new adventures.

Day 1, Saturday, we spent time in tidal streams. We started low and worked our way up, practicing ferry techniques in progressively stronger and bigger streams. Eventually, we had a competition against a somewhat complicated stream, with multiple smaller tributaries, each of us working our way up based on how we read the water.

After that we paddled on and came to an overfall near a point of land; the feature was called Lower Hell Gate, reminding JJ and I of our feature here called Hell Gate. Unlike its New York cousion, this was a proper overfall, or I'm told like a hole in whitewater lingo, as the water spilled over from one elevation to another to form a bubbling cauldron releasing into a strong bit of current. Coach encouraged us to nose in, edge away from the fall, and ride it.

We did. I'm happy to say I took two runs facing with the current and came off alright, while I saw others capsize. Then I tried nosing in, and facing the point of land, talking to our coach on the land, my tail towards to direction I would follow to get out.

I rode it. I "edged like a mo'fo'" as other paddler put it. I smiled. It was great! And then suddenly I was underwater, in 50 degree Maine spring water.

I looked at my toggle. It was so inviting. And I hadn't rolled in a while. With that, I gave up and popped out. I should have rolled but I didn't. I have a ton of excuses and I'm not happy with any of them.

In short order I was rescued. I was cold, but out. I paddled around a but was done.

We landed shortly after and I asked, what had I done wrong? What had any of us, and there were several who capsized, done?

"You leaned back. Ever so slightly, but it was enough to drive the stern down, just enough to catch."

So, posture.

This is funny because when I teach, I always push good posture, to the point of sounding like a nineteenth century schoolmarm. And some people just insist on a nice, lazy, lean-back paddling posture. However it really makes a difference, even in flatwater paddling. Your posture affects the trim of the boat. Use that fact to your advantage.

After that, we paddled back to camp, with a few more tidal streams, and some rolling practice at the end. JJ even let me test drive her Avocet, which was a marked change from the P&H Delphin I'd been paddling.

We landed, tied up the boats and laid out our gear before breaking for dinner. In camping, you really do rise and set with the sun. I'd been up since 0530, and after dinner was so exhausted that I was ready for bed by 2100.

I slept soundly, looking forward to our next adventure the the next day, whatever it might be.

Night Circumnavigation

I was invited by one of the coaches at the shop to come along on a nighttime circumnavigation of Manhattan. "Bring all your kit," he said. "All my kit will be off-limits". He further hinted that there would be some testing of trip management abilities.

Little did I know. "Welcome to Leadership Hell," he said when I walked up. Oh boy.

The first thing I had to do was fill out a bunch of trip planning data: high water and low water at various points around the city, the lunar cycle, water and air temps, and a plan - when we would hit certain places. I already knew the trickiest one would be Hell Gate - we'd want to get there in the narrow window when the tide changed and was at its weakest. Here, I made my first mistake.

"This is clockwise," said our lead. "Not counter-clockwise."

Most circumnavigations are counterclockwise. Basically, they are easier to figure out. Circumnavigations are fairly simple but must account for a lot of complex current dynamics. I worked out a decent counter-clockwise circumnavigation  earlier this summer. Here I was, being asked on a moment's notice to work out a clockwise one.

So, I did.

The basic plan was this: We'd leave between 1900 and 1930, paddle up with the current pretty quickly, stopping at Pier 96 and 125th st for rest before moving up to Spuyten Duyvil. Then we'd paddle along the Harlem, take a short break at Peter Sharp Boathouse, and then go through Hell Gate exactly when it was at its most hospitable, and then cruise down the East River with tons of current, rounding Battery, and then fighting a bit of current back to our starting point at Pier 40 - Houston, for the non-nautical.

Next, our lead had me and another coach introduce the trip. We were the trip leaders. We met our paddlers - all hand-picked by the lead for their ability, but mostly new to us. Some local kayaking starts but most I was meeting for the first time:

JJ, of a certain well-known paddling blog.
HKM, an acquaintance of hers.
D, a whitewater guy who works in the shop.
TJ, with whom I've paddled with before.
W, and M, one an ACA 4 Instructor and the other his assist.
J, a club member.
V, who also works in the shop and who I've also paddled with a couple of times.

My assist was JN and the lead was WP. All in, eleven people, one of the largest groups I've managed and the one of the largest group of experienced paddlers I've paddled with. Not only was I being tested, there was an audience of experienced people in front of me. Kayaking Kognoscenti, as it were.

I went around the room and asked everyone to introduce themselves and tell briefly about their paddling experience. I asked about medical issues, questions, concerns, and went over the basic plan. After that, we finished kitting out boats, and launched, a little late around 1940.

--

We paddled up as the sun was setting; it was dark by the time we go to Pier 96. I was trip leader for this first leg. The usual shenanigans took place.

Leaving.

Basically, the lead went around and got people to be alternately: the slow paddler, the fast paddler, the disappearing paddler. I later he had some more elaborate tests in mind, including a mass capsize at Pier 66. I was already doing a constant count of people, and stayed in the rear letting my assist leader. How many times did I count? Two, three four five, there are three more, there's nine, ten, and I'm eleven. When I came up short, I counted again, the looked around if I was missing anyone.

For the slow paddler, I coached better paddling technique. For the fast paddlers, I asked them to dial it back, usually complementing their ability. Within this scenario, that generally worked.

HKM attempted a roll, flubbed it, recovered with an extended paddle roll. . . .I thought he was my first "capsize victim" but no. At one point, we had to stop together to wait for a couple of water taxis coming out of a terminal. Later, after assessing the course of one vessel, I was entranced by a large barge passing on the opposite side of the river, and lost track of one of my paddlers. I delegated responsibility while I chased him down.

We overshot Pier 96 and so didn't stop. Once about that, we didn't have any traffic to speak of, other than a large party boat well north of us and cruising north. People wanted to take a break, so I settled on the small dock at 125th street - near the Fairway in Harlem.

While there, we took water, some snack, and I had a final question - TJ is hyperthermic, what do you do? At first I heard that as hypothermic, but no, hyper-thermic, overheating - what's the easy solution? Fluids, cold water, maybe a bow dip to cool off.

Approaching 125th Street.

Passing Riverbank State Park.

We continued on - I was no longer "trip leader" and was now simply assist. Thank goodness. In the next leg, we paddled with lights off.

Now, this is unusual, and strictly speaking breaks regulations, however:

 1. it was a full moon. There was a lot of ambient light.
 2. we were next to Manhattan, there was a lot of ambient light.
 3. we stayed out of shipping channels.

As we moved forward, we crossed under the George Washington Bridge, aglow in light. Now we were in familiar territory, near the Inwood Canoe Club, my home turf. We paddled on, in the night, past the Palisades.

Passing below the George Washington Bridge.

As we approached Spuyten Duyvil, I recognized a familiar problem - we were far enough out in the channel that we risked overshooting the Duyvil. I volunteered to lead us in, and headed towards the shore. "Follow me!"

Trouble is, folks didn't. Instead, they aimed at the railroad bridge. I was aiming about 50 yards south of it. As I looked behind me, I saw this long loop of kayaks extending northwards.

I called out; I blew my whistle for attention; I even held my paddle up in the "on me" signal position. A couple of folks moved; eventually everyone caught up, though some had to paddle back south a bit. I took a minute to explain my brief plan, one I've had to convey to novice paddlers a few times in the summer.

Basically, the Harlem and Hudson rivers connect perpendicular to each other, so going from one to the other means you're usually changing from current in one direction to current perpendicular. I advised everyone to paddle forward in line with the Harlem, and to keep to the right as they passed under the bridge, since the Hudson would be pushing them north a bit. Behind the railroad bridge is a small bay that is great for collecting people.

No problem. Everyone went in, I went last, and after a quick count we continued on our merry way.

Passing Under Broadway Bridge; Bronx shopping center on left.

I like the upper part of the Harlem. There's a lot of parkland on the Manhattan side, and it's narrow with high walls, and the Metro North railroad running along the Bronx side. In addition to Peter Sharp Boathouse, there's also the trio of High Bridge, Hamilton Bridge, and Washington Bridge, and a little further down, a view of Yankee Stadium.

We stopped at Peter Sharp for about half an hour, taking a bathroom break and time for serious snacking. We talked boats, and experiences. For a bunch of strangers we all got on well through our mutual interest in sea kayaking.

Departing Peter Sharp.

As we left, our lead announced that the leadership training portion was over, that "everyone is who they are", no longer playing trip roles. He was now the trip leader. Also, we were free to put lights back on now or later, but required after Hell Gate.

Ah, Hell Gate, a tricky bit of water that I have come to respect. At its easiest, on a circumnavigation it requires a bit of ferrying to cross. Last spring, I got a small group in a bit of a jam wherein we had to cross it at its near-strongest - ferrying across, missing, and then powering through about 200 feet of strong current to get to a spot of quiet west of Mill Rock. What would it be like at night?

Before we got there, we had another challenge: we were behind schedule, and the current in the Harlem turned against us, getting progressively more difficult from High Bridge down to Hell Gate. It's at this point that we started to have one genuine - not a training exercise - fatigued paddler, I'll refer to as FP.

We did some coaching on his stroke, and when I worked with him he seemed alert and mindful, just tired. Our hope was that once below Hell Gate, when we'd have a lot of current with us, he'd be able to coast a bit and recuperate enough for the trip round Battery.

The group wanted another bathroom break at Hell Gate, so we dropped into a little nook at Mill Rock. Mill Rock is a small, rock-pile island shaped like the letter Y. We were in the top 'valley' of the Y. It took a bit of effort to negotiate the contrary currents. As the upper East River hits Mill Rock and Manhattan, all kinds of currents are created, resulting in strong eddy lines, boils, and vortices.

I actually climbed out of my boat. I pulled up next to a large, slippery rock, found some footing, and managed to clamber out to find a place to pee. So, yeah, I can say this: I've peed on a rock above Hell Gate in the light of a full autumn moon.

We didn't stop for long. Exiting our little nook was a little tricky. By now a strong current was passing laterally above Mill Rock. The result was that as soon as we poked out, our boats were immediately cocked to the left. Our lead advised us on it, and we had no issues, but it was pretty disturbing to watch, and exhilarating to experience.

After that, there were a few minutes negotiated the contrary currents. I was in the middle, so I could see from the boats ahead of me what to expect, and eventually made out some of the eddy lines. Once we were below the northern tip of Roosevelt Island, things were OK. We had fast current, but it was much more consistent. We were passing the United Nations by 0215.

Most of us were, anyway. FP was far behind, and getting farther. One of the more experienced paddlers was with him, and our lead joined him. Eventually, we fell into one large group up ahead, and three of them behind, with a fourth in between. As we cruised down the East River, we delighted in the current but were concerned about FP.

Right about the time we started to turn towards an inlet at the Brooklyn Bridge, the other assist came in with a message, to hold up at Pier 17, otherwise known as the South Street Seaport. The stragglers were in the channel, catching tons of current, and caught up in short order. We landed at a small beach and got out.

FP was ending his trip there. He was utterly fatigued, and ready to give up. I'm guessing it was hard; there's a certain pride all paddlers have, but especially good paddlers, about quitting. There's no shame in it, but no one wants to do it. We agreed to tow his boat around Battery, while our lead's wife picked him up in a car and took him back to the shop.

We took a short break for water and snacks, then proceeded on or way.

By now the water was smooth, with little wind as we approached the Staten Island Ferry terminal.

There it was, the Staten Island Ferry. As I tell clients, "it's big, it's large, it's well lit."You don't want to get in front of it but it's easy to miss. Of course, the question was, had it just docked, or ready to leave?

We took a couple of minutes to sort it out, then decided it wasn't leaving.

Suddenly, our radios crackled to life. "Staten Island Ferry to kayakers, any of you got a radio?"

JJ and I fumbled for ours; she beat me to it. "Yeah, we're on."

"You guys mind holding up, we're about to depart."

"Sure," she said into the radio. "HEY GUYS! HOLD UP! STOP!".

We stopped, the back-paddled a little to keep from drifting forward. The orange behemoth moved forward, to our left, curving out towards Staten Island. Once it was clear, we kept moving, and saw men fishing off the Battery. Oddly, the tents for the Statue of Liberty ferries were lit up, though the boats were nowhere to be seen, presumably in their overnight homes at Liberty Marine near Liberty State Park. Americans - we like our liberty.

As we rounded Battery we slowed down, fighting the current in this last leg - though not as bad as it might have been, since we were behind schedule. We kept close to shore, popping out only to go around the ferry terminal at Battery Park City. After that, the blowers of the Holland Tunnel were in sight, signaling home, the lower edge of Pier 40's bay. We pulled in one by one, and I got out first, to assist others, including untying FP's towed boat.

--

Overall this was a good trip. Paddling at night was novel, as was paddling clockwise around Manhattan. It was a sizable group, and the first time I've ever managed (even if it was under supervision) a group of experienced paddlers this size. Newbies are one thing - they'll usually do what you tell them, but require extra supervision and instruction. Experienced paddlers can take light instruction, but need a little more guidance on when to tighten up. It was a good experience for me all around.

As near as we could tell, FP was hypoglycemic - low blood sugar. He's a skilled paddler, and did OK with extra caffeine and food, but would fade after a short boost. He was OK, waiting for us at the shop to put his boat away, and grateful for it all.

Some of the paddlers I only knew tangentially before were complimenting how I did, with of course some friendly advise on how I could have done better. I really appreciated our lead's feedback as well as JJ, TJ, and the ACA instructor. He even helped me on my cross-bow rudder.

With all of that, we unpacked out boats, washed them, and put them away, then piled all our gear in to take home (ultimately I left my clothes there on accident, thinking they were in my sea bag. I had a large sea bag as well as a nylon stuff sack). So much gear is involved in serious expeditions. You can get by without it, but when you need it, you'll miss it if it isn't there.

So, great trip, and a great opportunity. I'm sure I'll do it again some time, but for now, I'm still kind of astonished I did. When I woke up the next day, it felt like a dream - but I have photographs, and witnesses, and therefore, it was real.

Certification

Well buckaroos, it's been a while. The cowgirl took a couple of weeks off for a well-deserved vacation, before coming back to NYC and diving right into a certification course.

Why get certified? I've known plenty of paddlers who are really good, yet are not formally certified, or who once were but let it slip by. I've also known some people who were certified, but who did not really know what they were doing. Out on the trail, it's the skills and not the paper that will keep you upright and headed in the right direction.

That said, there is something to formal instruction. I've been fortunate to have a variety of coaches in a variety of settings. There is a distinct difference in the experience of a structured learning approach as opposed to some  talented cowhand showing you some rope tricks. The latter is good for working on specific skills, while the former, done well, ties it all together.

I enjoy sharing knowledge and experience. While I consider myself an intermediate paddler, there are people who come to me for tips and advice. It's hard not to mimic my own coaches and pass down the oral traditions I have received.

Thus, it is with more than a little pride that I can say I passed an introductory coaching exam. I passed a Level 2 ACA Coastal Kayaking Instructor exam. There's some paperwork to go through, and I'm being careful about doing more teaching than assessing, but it's nice to say that after two full weekends, not to mention the cumulative experience of the past eight years and my various coaches, I'm finally certified to teach the sport I love.