June 2009

There are certain clubs that are a pleasure to join and participate in. I can think of the 2 kayaking clubs that I have joined in the past couple of years. It’s been a while since we’ve been over at Garnock in Ayrshire and it’s not for want of wanting. We haven’t forgotten our pals over there and the fun we had with them last year. A happy complication occurred when the local Cowal club started up and met on the same night as Garnock. The choice was drive 20 minutes to the Cowal club, or 1.5 hours to Garnock. As you might guess, Cowal won out and we now hang our heads in shame in front of the Garnock crew (we do intend to return soon).

Some clubs aren’t so fun, and last week I discovered that I had qualified (without even trying!) for entry into a new one, the one called “Multiple Sclerosis”. Ugh. The diagnosis didn’t come as a shock as it’s been suspected since last October, and it is classified as “mild”. But somehow actually having the label pinned on me has been a bit unsettling, to say the least. Half of me is in complete denial – I feel fine overall and still have all my fitness, and the other half is determined to beat it (yes, I will be the one!). There’s another half of me (I know, I know) that is all messed up. I am told that that is natural.

I’ve been grappling around for something to lift me out of that third half’s abyss, to occupy my mind with more pleasant things. The other day, Alan and I decided to take advantage of the sultry temperatures and go to Loch Eck to try to roll our sea kayaks. I figured, now that I’ve mastered rolling the Dunoon pool boats (one of my proudest achievements of recent times), there was a fair chance of success and nothing would cheer me more than rolling my very own Nordy.

OMG it was like trying to roll concrete.

There are several possibilities here:

• The amnesiac excuse: I’ve completely forgotten everything I ever learned about rolling (it sure felt that way).
• The blame someone else excuse: the technique is waaay different between a river kayak and a sea kayak, even although several coaches assured me it would not be.
• The feeble excuse: the cold shock of rolling in the not-so-sultry waters of Loch Eck deprived me of any cognitive ability, other than to gasp and panic.
• The looking for sympathy excuse: I was a wee bit distracted and not in the best frame of mind.
• The poor workman blames his tools excuse: the Nordkapp’s thigh braces aren’t the most gripping.
• The bad karma excuse: my self-pride at learning to roll the pool boats was unwarranted and OTT, so this is what I get.

It was with great despondency that I exited the water realising that I have taken a bit of a step back, in more ways than one. But no-one promised us a rose garden, did they? Life is by its very nature a bit of a trial – it’s how we respond to that trial that determines how much we actually suffer. Happiness is, after all, a choice.

So I’ll try rolling again, maybe with my Capella just for comparison. I’d pay good money for appreciate any tips about transitioning from rolling a river kayak to rolling a sea kayak.

I’ll do a bit of yoga to sort my head out. And I’ll probably go for a paddle somewhere nice too.

Tomorrow is another day.

Arran mountains from Kilbride Bay, Loch Fyne

On days when the sun is shining, the skies are blue, and the temperature is balmy (well, above 15°C), it is not unlike a form of torture to find oneself working indoors. On such days, the call of the kayak becomes deafening and I find that I am doing my customers no favours by attempting to continue working. Resentment festers until I am incapacitated by belligerent rage. I get distracted.

So, in the unpredictable climate of Scotland, on such days it’s often better to just down tools and get out there. There will be plenty of rainy days to catch up with work.

I am learning, however, that the weather forecast can be a little “quirky”. This is not a startling revelation to Scottish readers who know that the only reliable forecast is the one obtained from looking out the window. But I refer in particular to the prediction of wind. For example, more than a few times Alan and I have convinced ourselves that the occasional 30 mph gust is within our remit, as long as the background wind remains at the forecast 5 mph level. Alas, it’s more often than not been the case that we have then encountered one day-long 30 mph “gust”.

Cirrus clouds above Loch Fyne

On our most recent excursion, such occasional gusts had indeed been forecast. We entered Loch Fyne from Portavadie and decided to head north. It was all very pleasant, if bumpy, for about the first 15 minutes but then I became aware of that familiar feeling of teetering over the fine line that differentiates “a wee bit lumpy” from “where did I put the flares?”. A quick shout over to Alan confirmed that he was experiencing the same feeling and, abandoning all our recently learned, fancy-schmancy bow-ruddering techniques, we hefted our kayaks somehow, any-old-how against the waves into a 180° about face. Influencing our decision was a quick scan up ahead which confirmed that the sea state looked equally lively further north.

I have no problem running up the white flag of – not so much surrender as – admission of limitations. In kayaking, taking a risk can quickly end in tears, a costly rescue and several embarrassing column inches in the local rag (who’d no doubt print our ages). It’s inconvenient, to say the least. When it’s just the 2 of us out together, Alan and I are not inclined towards heroics. It wasn’t like we were attempting the Tsangpo Gorge, just going for a wee putter on Loch Fyne, that’s all.

Ascog Bay lunch stop

But, facing the prospect of having to abandon our paddle altogether, we were pleased to realise that the “gusts” were calming sufficient to allow us to explore the coastline south of Portavadie. Lunch was consumed at picturesque and tranquil Ascog Bay, which we had to ourselves, and there can’t be much more beautiful scenery than that looking out towards the Arran mountains from Kilbride Bay where we also landed for a quick sunbathe. The water was so clear, I contemplated a little rolling practice, but was overcome by stage-fright upon realising that five a small crowd of people (and a dog) had appeared on the beach, constituting a potentially critical audience for whom I was not prepared.

Poor technique on Loch Fyne

During the southward journey, I became conscious of my previously injured left wrist tendon “tweaking” a little. Of course, I am once again using my Werner Cyprus paddle, having had a little break to use my Lendal Kinetic one during the last couple of outings. You might think, therefore, that there can only be one conclusion – that my Werner paddle is causing me injury. I would argue au contraire – the Werner is much too expensive well-designed for that to be the case. It is a poor workman who blames his tools. Indeed, the problem lies with the user, ie me. I started to pay close attention to the exact point during my forward stroke when I was feeling the tweak and it became clear that it was during the catch phase of the opposite (right) blade. I examined where my left hand and wrist were positioned at that point, and compared them with Alan’s. And therein lay the problem – my wrist was flexing, or bending back on itself, and my hand was bending away from my thumb, putting strain on the tendon leading to the thumb, whereas Alan’s wrist remained entirely neutral throughout the stroke.

Alan at Ascog Bay

I should explain that Alan has had to perfect his paddling technique due to the fact that he suffers from a career-ending repetitive strain injury in both wrists (caused by years of computer-intensive work). Ensuring correct wrist positioning for him is more than just a comfort adjustment, it’s the difference between paddling and not. So he’s a pretty good person to go by.

Inadequate rotation was part of my problem too, as well as a general lack of mindfulness of hand and arm positioning (wrists bent, arms bent, quite a mess really). It seems that the Werner paddle’s neutral crank, which differs from the Lendal’s “modified” crank, has somehow “encouraged” this little non-neutral idiosyncrasy of mine. Very ironic and, as I mentioned, not the fault of Werner. The good news is that I am now a lot more mindful of my hand/arm/wrist/torso positioning which should lead to (hopefully) many years of more comfortable paddling.

And so, managing to forestall capsizing and debilitating pain, we were able to explore a portion of Loch Fyne successfully. And what’s the definition of success in sea kayaking? Possibly that feeling of sun-burned, wind-blown, salty, sea-sprayed contentment that accompanies one on the drive home.

As someone who is known to just about fall out of my kayak in excitement upon the briefest of glimpses of marine wildlife, I was naturally inclined towards reading the book, The Whale Warriors by Peter Heller. Billed as, “The battle at the bottom of the world to save the planet’s largest mammals”, it chronicles the experience of the author (a National Geographic journalist) aboard the anti-whaling vessel, the Farley Mowat, during one of its campaigns in Antarctica. The Farley Mowat belongs to the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, an organisation known for its direct approach to stopping the slaughter, in violation of international laws and treaties, of hundreds of endangered whales each year. Led by a co-founder of Greenpeace, Paul Watson, the Sea Shepherds have been labelled everything from eco-pirates to eco-terrorists to (scariest of all) “dangerous vegans” by their whale-slaying, dolphin-butchering and seal-clubbing adversaries. Sea Shepherd counter that they do not violate laws and have not injured anyone.

From the back of the book:

“In the face of unrelenting Force 8 gales and 35-foot seas thick with ice floes, Heller’s shipmates risked their lives for what they believe: that the plight of the whales and the overexploitation of the ocean will soon bring about its total collapse – and that life on earth hangs in the balance.”

Stirring stuff. And indeed, the book makes for a rip-roaring read. The fact is that Sea Shepherd is doing the job that should be done by international governments. While we are busying ourselves worrying about MPs’ duck ponds, the world’s fisheries are facing impending collapse within our lifetime. That’s a sobering thought. Plus Japan is doing all it can to circumvent the protection afforded whales by self-allotting their own “lethal research” quota (of 935 minke whales and 50 fin whales in 2009) with a view to “assisting” whale populations. This exploitation of the infamous “research” loophole is transparent baloney of course, and is merely used as an excuse to slaughter whales – by harpooning, electrocuting and then drowning them – for whale meat. So why aren’t the world’s navies taking action against this atrocity? Because it would upset trade relations. It’s that old culprit, short term economic progress (at all costs).

To quote from the book,

“Countries around the world pledged to protect the whales and codified that promise in treaties and laws, and yet the protections meant nothing …. In reality, the whales of the Southern Ocean, of all oceans, were as vulnerable as if there had been no treaties at all.”

“The whales could not advocate for themselves. They had no allies on the entire planet who were willing to intervene at all costs, even their own death – except Watson and Sea Shepherd.”

Quoting again from the book, Dr Roger Payne (a whale researcher) states:

“… a society which does not kill the largest, most complex animals around it for the most mundane purposes is likely to have a more luminous future than one for which all animals are but fuel for its meat grinders.”

“Considering … how much we could learn from them about living, … to kill and eat them is not much different from using the works of Shakespeare to light your fire. The sonnets make good kindling and lots of people have probably used them for such, but such people, I suspect, haven’t left much of a mark on history.”

And as if a riveting book wasn’t enough, there’s also a TV series, made for Animal Planet/Discovery and presently airing in the UK (I believe the US has moved on to Series 2 already). If you don’t get Discovery, you can always buy the DVD. It is compelling viewing.

One last quote:

“In the November 2006 issue of Science, a report by an international team of scientists studying a vast amount of data gathered between 1980 and 2003 declared that if current trends of fishing and pollution continue, every fishery in the world’s oceans will collapse by 2048. No more fish sticks. No more snorkeling along reefs with schools of fish. No more fish cat food. No more fish. The oceans as an ecosystem would completely collapse.”

And no more kayaking with the seals, the sea-birds, the dolphins, the whales et al.

It so happens that a film has recently come out tackling this very issue: “The End of the Line”, the first major feature documentary film revealing the impact of overfishing on our oceans.

I’m having a big problem right now accepting the reality that I am part of the last gasp generation that is watching this happen. It’s taking me all my time not to sign up here.

Erin

This blog post is dedicated to a very special friend – our first and original kayaking teacher, Erin. Erin is a woman of many talents – a paramedic, firefighting, marine biologist, Web developing, surfing, mountain biking, nature-loving kayaker (I’m sure I’ve missed something). She used to work as a guide for Monterey Bay Kayaks so we press-ganged her into telling us everything she knew about paddling during her first visit to Scotland. That was 2 years ago, when she braved the icy temperatures of Loch Eck (and, as it turned out, a bout of bronchitis) to get us up and running in our Capellas. We really didn’t know much at all back then, so it was a hugely appreciated head start.

A couple of weeks ago, Erin returned for a second visit and it was a real pleasure to go paddling with her on our home turf (so to speak). We’d already kayaked with her in Monterey Bay, where the wildlife frightened delighted us with their enthusiastic leaping and frolicking in the waves, so now it was our chance to let her see their more shy Scottish counterparts.

Out on the Clyde

During the first half of Erin’s stay, we started to fear that we wouldn’t actually get out on the water, so dismal were the conditions. It seemed that Erin would finally learn why her ancestors had left Scotland. It was proving a quite different experience from her first trip here when it appeared that she had brought the California weather with her. Happily this time, however, the weather had just been delayed by security at the border (sunny, warm conditions – very suspicious) but did arrive in time for us to take advantage.

The seals start to circle

Our first outing produced a most unexpected outcome – the first known case of a Californian overheating on Scottish waters. Poor Erin was sensibly wearing her surfer’s thick neoprene wetsuit but, with temperatures climbing, she was cooking by the end of the day. In fact, we all were! But not before we had experienced another unexpected event. As we approached the Perch off of Innellan on our way to Bute, we suddenly became aware of a sense of being watched. It started with one seal, then we counted 2, then 3, all popping up to check us out. Before we knew it, we had been encircled by 7 seals. What a thing! Whilst some might have viewed this as a little sinister, it was clear that the seals were not closing in on us, but were simply inspecting us before allowing us to continue on our journey. It really was a special moment. That day, we also saw gannets, eider ducks, cormorants, terns, guillemots and – for the first time out on the Clyde from our kayaks, porpoises!

Porpoise

Undeterred by her near-melting experience, Erin requested to go out paddling again, so this time – more airily attired in a rash guard – she braved the unusual Scottish conditions once more. Yet again, we saw porpoises, as well as a little troupe of baby eider ducks. Unable to launch into their usual flapping-away frenzy at the merest sight of humans, the accompanying adults had to make do with guiding their little ones into giving us an extremely wide berth. More seals made their presence known with several snorts and plops from behind us.

Two of my favourite people

Erin has gone back to California now, leaving us with a great sense of sadness that she is so far away. It seemed that the Scottish critters put in a special showing for her visit – perhaps, like us, they recognised and appreciated a true and special friend.