kayak across the water

I have a few blog posts queued up (so much kayaking, so little time!), but in the meantime, I thought I’d share a couple of photo albums relating to a special event held on the River Clyde: the concluding “Parade of Sail” of the 2011 Tall Ships Race.

Red Arrows Display

Tall Ships Race 2011 Parade of Sail

The forecast looked quite benign, so our group set the intention of departing from Easdale and circumnavigating the Garvellach Islands in the Firth of Lorne. Certainly, there was little in the way of wind as we set out from the stony beach next to Easdale’s harbour and headed west. This is a renowned area of varied tidal activity and so provided some particular interest for us, having spent the bulk of the past few months paddling in our local waters where the tide simply goes in and out. In the Firth of Lorne and amongst its islands, the rather significant tide flows up and down and around and about as well as in and out (sometimes also shaking it all about). Generally speaking, the plan was to catch a bit of ebb tide on the journey south-west and a bit of flood tide to push us back.

Approaching the Garvellachs

A fair portion of the outward journey was spent vacillating over whether or not I was going to be too hot in my drysuit (a fairly pointless exercise, being that I was unlikely to change out of it on the water). Fortunately, the sun only made momentary appearances and the clouds kept interior drysuit temperatures bearable.

We cruised south-west, observing Fladda lighthouse before rounding the northernmost Garvellach island. We continued down the west coast of Garbh Eileach, admiring the dramatic cliff faces along the way, including evidence of a prehistoric rollercoaster, before turning in to a small, bouldery bay for a lunch stop. Soon we were continuing past the remaining islands in the chain and the lighthouse at the southern end of Eileach an Naoimh.

Prehistoric rollercoaster?

We had been encountering some wave surges scooshing up and down the rocky cliff-bases during our journey, of which those group members not afflicted with the debilitating condition known as Gelcoat Anxiety Syndrome (GAS, also known as Barnacle Avoidance Syndrome) took full advantage. We also used these swells to make paddling through the gaps in the islands and skerries more fun.

Epic win by Andy! Photo by Graham Milne

As we turned around the southern end, we were confronted with similar surges and one of our number took a most daring and heroic ride on a big, fearsome wave over the skerries, a move which could firmly be placed in the category of “epic”. The heights of heroism attained were only marginally lowered in our estimation by Andy’s subsequent cry of, “I thought I was a goner there!”. (What not to say when clearly demonstrating awesomeness).

St Brendan was here (and St Columba)

Further north-east, we stopped for a look at the surprisingly substantial remains of the monastery founded by St Brendan in 542 AD, visited by St Columba (it is believed that his mother is buried there) and later destroyed by the Vikings (who else?!). Nearby, 3 sea kayakers had already pitched their tents for the evening and we thought it would be a great  wheeze to suggest to them that all 8 of us were about to do likewise.  As it turned out, upon departing, we encountered an incoming trail of about 8 kayakers heading for that very spot, intent on setting up camp. It was indeed going to be a busy night at the monastery. And I hear there are ghosts.

We had anticipated that, as we travelled north-east, there would be a bit more tidal activity and even a teeny bit more wind. Indeed, wavelets were expected. At this point, I have a confession to make. As pleasurable as our paddle had been so far, I secretly yearned for a little more movement in the water. It seems that the weather gods picked up on my furtive hankerings and, in true be-careful-what-you-wish-for fashion, decided to whip it up a little.  Upon reaching the north end of the islands once more, Coach Lewis convened our group for a quick vote on the most favoured course of action and, with muscles warmed up and adrenaline pumping, it was agreed that a straight shot back to Easdale was called for.

Lovely jubbly! Photo by Andy McManus

At first, it was mostly about battling a north-easterly headwind in the F4-5 to region, but with the wind hitting the opposing tide(s), things became more exciting. Casting aside the “what if this gets worse” doubts, I instead focused on the “great to be alive” thrills of being shoogled about in the fray. One minute the waves were coming from ahead, the next from the beam. I could tell, however, that my trusty Isel could handle it and I was very glad I’d worn my drysuit.

I was vaguely aware of a motor boat pulling alongside me, only to realise it was Lewis who proceeded to ask me for a rating of my experience of the “wavelets”. The first word that came to mind was, “Fun!”. What a difference time and the right kayak makes.

An hour and a half after leaving the Garvellachs, we were back at Easdale. As we packed up for the drive homewards, it felt great to have had the opportunity to experience such a varied and memorable trip. A big thanks to the team we paddled with, including Lewis, and Julia (especially for all the driving).

Price Reduction!

Since acquiring the smaller Avocet, Alan hasn’t been using his Valley Nordkapp anywhere nearly as much as such a pedigree kayak deserves. He has therefore decided to sell it.

Details are:

• White  deck over white hull with black decklines and trims.
• Less than 3 years old – one careful owner. Rarely used in past year.
• Fully functional (Valley) skeg
• Minor surface abrasions on hull (as to be expected)
• Minor spider crack to gel coat in one very localised area
• Fitted Silva deck compass
• Excellent condition
• Price: £1600 £1400

Photos below.

Contact me here or by leaving a comment.

Typhoon Ladies Multisport

As one or two of you might remember, I previously mentioned that Alan and I were on the cusp of purchasing a couple of Typhoon Multisport drysuits. As some months have now passed since taking the plunge (so to speak), I can report on how we’ve been getting along with them.

The answer is – very well indeed and we have not been disappointed. The suits are well made, they fit well and there has been no leakage so far. For the first time pretty much ever, Alan has managed to experience immersion without a wet bum or arm. Unlike some of the other Typhoon models, the Multisport neck and wrist seals are latex, not neoprene. The Ladies’ Multisport in particular is a nice fit (on me, that is) and really quite a stylish drysuit (you know you’ve been paddling too much when you start placing the words “drysuit” and “stylish” in the same sentence). It’s the little things that finish it off nicely, like the colour and the floral motif. I should add that the suits come in 11 different sizes for men, and 7 for women.

Typhoon Multisport

Alan has mastered the art of zipping himself in and out of his suit (ie using the back zipper), however, I lack that specific contortionist skill. The exposed brass zip can  stiffen up markedly so it’s a must to obtain some zip wax and keep it handy, or risk driving home in your suit, say. On the subject of the zip, my only preference would be that it was concealed rather than forming an elongated, “hypercurve” fin. I find it acts as a hindrance in getting my BA on and off, but that’s a small point.

You might be wondering if I’ve binned my Palm Aleutian XP drysuit. As recent photos will reveal, the answer is a definite “no”. It is holding out and the small amount of delamination that I noticed last year has not worsened or caused leakage. The neck seal has only just finally ripped and will be sent back to Palm for its second replacement along with the wrist seals (for their first), which would be considered quite normal wear and tear.

Comparing the two suits, the Multisport would appear to be made of harder-wearing, slightly thicker materials. The only downside to this is that it can get a little hot on warmer days, although this may also relate to the darker colouring versus the Aleutian’s reflective hues. And so, I wear my Aleutian on cooler “summer”/spring/autumn rough water or wet practice days, whereas I reserve my Multisport for winter wear and/or extended wet practice.

My only other observation is controversial. I put the question to you, can a drysuit affect your roll? Something feels different when rolling in the Multisport. I’m fairly sure it isn’t “mental” as it took me a while to realise the connection between what I’ve been wearing versus rolling performance at the time. I think it might relate to buoyancy. Or drag. Or the fact that it’s blue and not yellow.  Anyway, as Alan all too readily reminded me, it shouldn’t matter as one should be able to roll well in a Santa Claus suit. But that’s being silly. I doubt I’d ever be able to roll well in a red suit.

In addition to ourselves, a few friends have now gone down the Typhoon Multisport path, no doubt attracted by the 3 year warranty as much as the UK-manufactured quality and impressive pedigree of Typhoon who, in their own words, supply  “… all the major military markets around the world, commercial customers such as the RNLI, British Waterways, Environment Agency and the major Oil Companies as well as the recreational users in the Diving and Leisure Markets.”

I remember a good few years back, there was a movie called “Wind”. The film was not about gastro-intestinal issues, however, it was all about sailing (some Americas Cup thingy). If the past few weeks are anything to go by, it could equally have been about west coast of Scotland sea kayaking. Indeed, wind has been the central theme of kayaking conditions for what seems like  ages and ages.

This actually wasn’t in the plan. I’ve mentioned previously that, when I started out sea kayaking, I was perfectly happy to go nice little coastal paddles on calm days. Nothing too choppy, nothing requiring any more than a steady, forward stroke and a steady, forward gaze (because moving one’s head could make the kayak “tippy”). But that was so 4 years ago. Since then, I have discovered that, if you confine your paddling to purely calm days in Scotland, you’ll get out about  one day a year (ie “summer”).

I guess it is inevitable therefore that paddlers in Scotland must confront wind, and perhaps therefore, that old adversary – fear.  Or should I say – the mind.  I’m going to quote Mr Gordon Brown here, from issue 2 of Ocean Paddler, in which he says:

“If all we do as sea kayakers is paddle along nice parts of the coast we get very good at paddling along nice parts of the coast. This does not prepare us for the day that will come when that nice part of coast becomes nasty, and the gentle swells we have become used to washing around the rocks become the foaming jaws of some rabid sea serpent waiting for its next victim.”

Our past several outings have all featured lots of wind (the blowy kind), including a couple of runs up and down the Kyles of Bute in up to 37 mph gusts. An exciting push was had down the Kyles, wherein the impending departure of the Rhubodach ferry improved my back-paddling skills markedly.

Most recently we celebrated the fourth anniversary of our taking up sea kayaking by going out for a small workout against F4/5.  Alan had stopped for a moment and I noticed him having a little wobble reminiscent of the day we entered our “tippy” RM kayaks on the flat calm of Loch Eck on our first ever kayak outing. This time, as I approached, to my surprise I heard him mutter that he was having some difficulty. It was only when I’d caught up that he clarified that his difficulty related to juggling “devices”  – windfinder, camera, phone, iPod (OK, exaggerating a little … ) on his deck along with a paddle. (Note to self: don’t ever buy Alan a GPS). I dare say the Inuit had a similar problem (hence all the fancy Greenland rolling), but with different types of devices. But it is interesting to note that some inroads have been made in 4 years in expanding our respective comfort zones. No longer do our sighs of disappointment relate to frothier sea states (I draw the line at rabid sea serpents), but rather to the flat calm that we used to seek out.

And, by the way, what is a comfort zone exactly anyway? Life isn’t comfortable! So seeking out comfort is a false goal – plus there may  be plenty of time for that in the eventide home.

No blog post on wind at this point would be complete without mentioning the Great Storm of 23 May 2011. What a humdinger! I’ve scarcely known a storm like it, let alone one in May. Winds across Scotland reached up to over 90 mph (I reckon even the best paddlers were grounded) and a lot of damage occurred, not least to the trees. In many areas, it now looks like autumn, there has been so much wind burn.  Apparently, the jet stream had thrown a wobbly. But never mind the jet stream, with maximum day temps of 12-13°C lately, I’m wondering where the Gulf stream has gone. In recent weeks, I have experienced something approaching hypothermia during rolling practice, both in a drysuit and – more ridiculously (just because the sun showed its face) – in a wetsuit. When I start to feel a complaint coming on, however, I just think to myself, “What would the Inuit do?”.  Right now, a tuiliq’s looking appealing.

I know what you’ve all been wondering – has she lost the keys to the ignition of this blog? (Or, by now, perhaps you are asking, what blog?). Well, after searching down the back of the couch, I am pleased to inform you that I’ve found a good few things: a dash of motivation, a flash of inspiration, a smidgen of enthusiasm and a pinch of time. Which is a fancy way of saying, I’ve finally got my act back together.

No, I didn’t stop kayaking (perish the thought!), I just stopped blogging. I have no excuses, sorry. Anyway, that’s all in the past and, to celebrate the re-launch of kayakacrossthewater.co.uk, I have given it a design makeover. I hope you like.

I’m planning to expand the site a little to become a bit more interesting (hopefully). An updated “My Picks” page will appear and, along the way, a few other pages/features will be added that might be useful. I also plan to cast my net slightly further out into the kayaking/marine world when writing blog posts, possibly even beyond status updates on how my offside roll is doing.

It’s nice to be back at the wheel!

Yes, there’s been a bit of a hiatus in blog posts. I do apologise. But fear not, we have been out on the water, despite adversity, enjoying mostly calm yet chilly conditions.

Kilcreggan to Greenock

We accompanied Julia on her momentous return to the water after ACL repair surgery. In case her surgeon is reading this, I would just like to assure that we were exceedingly sensible and conservative in our undertaking of this trip. After some rescue practice in F6, we went for tea at Kilcreggan. OK, I’m kidding about the first bit. I can confirm that conditions were flat calm and that no ligaments were harmed in the completion of our outing.

Later, during another flat calm day out, this time on Loch Long, the mirror-like reflections were disturbed only by our paddle strokes and made for some great photography.

Not a breath of wind

As we made our way northwards, we were almost flattered by the attentiveness displayed by the MOD Police as they pulled alongside us in their motor vessel to question our destination. I dare say that answering, “We’re just popping over to take photos of your lovely military installation”, would not necessarily have been perceived as the witty riposte that we’d intended, so we refrained. Our sensible (and truthful) answer of “Loch Goil” allowed our questioners to bid us a “nice day” before going on their way.

Loch Long

Later, their colleagues in a RIB swung by our lunch spot just as I was about to set up for some rolling practice. Determined not to provide them with any free entertainment (I might have considered a small fee), I waited for them to lose interest before plunging into the chilly water (me that is, not them). We later learned that HMS Ark Royal was due to arrive at Loch Long in a few days’ time, to offload some armaments before being decommissioned. Perhaps that would explain the apparent security “sensitivity”.

Loch Eck lunch stop

We also enjoyed a lovely winter’s paddle down Loch Eck and back, punctuated by a stop at the Coylet Inn where we were befriended by the ever-so-handsome and attentive Buster, the resident boxer dog.

We were back crossing the Clyde and heading to Loch Long again last weekend where we lunched al fresco on the bench at the Kilcreggan shore-front on the return. We hardy paddlers don’t mind a bit of snow on our picnic bench.

During the course of all this, however, as tends to happen when you’re busy making other plans, life has intervened, and tending to family illness has taken priority over matters kayaking (and blogging). Indeed,  it is at times like these that you become exceedingly aware of the impermanence of … well, everything. And suddenly, everything and everyone becomes a little more precious. Life is short and meant to be enjoyed – happiness is indeed a birthright.

So do me a favour and get out paddling! Buy that kayak you’ve been ogling. And the drysuit. Learn to roll (you know you can!). Plan that trip. And I don’t want to hear winter being used as an excuse

“We are all just walking each other home.“  Ram Dass

It’s times like these you learn to live again
It’s times like these you give and give again
It’s times like these you learn to love again
It’s times like these time and time again

Times Like These, Foo Fighters

I think I would be safe in saying that most of us sea kayakers love the sea and the creatures in it. Nothing is more thrilling than witnessing wildlife up close from your kayak and I have had the privilege of seeing everything from otters to basking sharks to seals to starfish. It is one of the main reasons that I love kayaking. Unlike some lucky folks, I have yet to be accompanied by dolphins whilst out on the water, a dream that I hope to realise in time.

Many humans feel a special affinity with dolphins. This may be in part due to a recognition of, and connection with, their consciousness and levels of intelligence which are not far removed from (and may even exceed) our own. Scientists have recently concluded that dolphins should be considered “non-human persons”. Quoting from the linked article:

“The studies show how dolphins have distinct personalities, a strong sense of self and can think about the future.”

“What Marino and her colleagues found was that the cerebral cortex and neocortex of bottlenose dolphins were so large that “the anatomical ratios that assess cognitive capacity place it second only to the human brain”.”

With this in mind, it is with horror that I learn today that the massacre of dolphins that occurs annually in Taiji, Japan (as documented in the film, “The Cove“) is proceeding apace, with 52 bottlenose dolphins and 6 risso dolphins butchered within an hour in the last day. As anyone who is familiar with the film will know, this is an act of utterly depraved barbarism. As dolphin families who have been herded into the cove struggle to stay together against the hatcheting inflicted by their brutal captors, mothers are separated from their babies, and all are mercilessly hacked to death. Some are left on the quayside in the throes of agony, gasping their last breaths.

The Sea Shepherd Conservation Society is one of the few organisations who bear witness to this atrocity and I am grateful to them for keeping the world informed and refusing to allow the Japanese to hide this shameful “tradition”. And on that note, the pitiful argument of upholding tradition is soon refuted by the knowledge that there are many human traditions that have thankfully largely been abandoned (such as slavery) as intolerable and morally corrupt.

We must not forget, of course, what makes this annual capture and butchery especially lucrative is the marine aquariums who select and pay for captive animals who are then taken to the likes of Sea World for a life of confinement in chlorinated tanks, reduced to performing tricks for “captive” audiences of tourists. The proceeds from the actual slaughter pale in comparison. Indeed, it is hard to believe that there is much of an appetite for mercury-laden dolphin meat, and certainly not much outside of Japan.

If, like me, you feel sickened by this butchery, there are a few things you can do:

• Contact the Japanese ambassador/consulate general for your country, detailed here.
  The Consulate General for Japan in Edinburgh’s details are:
  Consulate General of Japan in Edinburgh
  2 Melville Crescent Edinburgh EH3 7HW
  Tel: +44 (0)131 225 4777
  Fax: +44 (0)131 225 4828
  ryouji.cgj@btconnect.com
• Boycott all marine aquariums
• Contact the press and request that they cover this important news story
• Support Sea Shepherd
• Tell everyone you know.

“One is not a great one because one defeats or harms other living beings. One is so called because one refrains from defeating or harming other living beings.”
~ The Buddha, Dhammapada

“The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwards-somersault through a hoop whilst whistling the ‘Star Spangled Banner’, but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish.”
- Douglas Adams , The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

During our last trip, before leaving from Ballachulish, I noticed that Lewis had dug some laminated maps of our paddling area out of a folder labelled “Local Paddles”. This made me consider the definition of “local” and how it varies from one person to another. For example, if Alan and I were organised enough to have such a folder, it would contain a map of the Clyde, extending to Loch Striven, the Kyles of Bute, Loch Long, Loch Goil and Loch Fyne. Maps for far flung areas such as north of Oban would go in the folder labelled “Remote Paddles”, whilst everything else would go in the folder marked “Foreign (There be Dragons)”.

It just so happens that the bulk of our kayaking has been done in local waters, simply because it’s so handy. It also happens to be rather beautiful, and one can never get bored with beauty. A lowered carbon footprint is a nice little bonus. True to form, we were back on local waters this past Saturday, returning to Colintraive but this time leaving from Toward.

I read with some disbelief that the temperature was supposed to reach 2°C by 7 am. The brilliant sun shining through the window implied only warmth. I stopped short of grabbing my wetsuit (which is now in winter hibernation), but feared I might stew in my drysuit. To create a sort of compromise I wore only one layer of capilene as my thermal base.

Toward Sailing Club lifting yachts out the water

We paddled past Toward Sailing Club, whose members were busily extracting yachts from the water by way of a crane. What could be sadder, I pondered, than removing your sailing vessel from the sea on a beautiful breezy, sunny day? I feel a pang locking my kayak up overnight (heck, I have friends who take theirs into the house with them), but imagine parting company until spring. We paddled past in an appropriately solemn fashion.

Soon we were in amongst the ever lovely Kyles of Bute, pausing to gaze towards the now vacant Loch Striven along the way. The half dozen container ships that had been in cold lay-up there have now departed, travelling emptily to an uncertain future in the Far East, last I heard. Loch Striven has been returned to its previously slumbering state with nothing more than a few bouncing bombs to attract any attention.

Northerly breeze

As we approached the East Kyles, the northerly wind was making itself known and I realised that, contrary to my initial fears, sweltering heat was definitely not an issue. It might be said that a disadvantage of paddling with one’s spouse is that one is more readily given to voicing one’s discomforts aloud. When in a group, I am slightly less inclined to burden my friends – but husbands, on the other hand, are fair game. Alan soon pulled into the shore and I followed, managing to scrape my kayak along some barnacles in the process. He insisted that I put something warm on – something being his fleece as I noted that I’d left mine in the car. Suddenly, the air became frostier. (Note to self: time for a spare clothing drybag audit).

Rhubodach ferry

It was the first time that we had paddled all the way to Colintraive from South Cowal, powered on by the promise of the wind and tide at our backs on our return. We had lunch beside the Rhubodach ferry jetty before being pushed back to Toward with the sun in our faces.

The sudden onset of cooler temperatures brought home the fact that we are now running out of time for anything but minimal wet practice, outdoors at least. I duly swapped my baseball cap for a neoprene hood and plopped into the water for a spot of rolling. Whenever I am about to declare stupendous, bombproof, super-robust rolling success to the world, the Universe comes knocking at my door with a little calling card that says, “Catch yerself on”. Last week, I introduced a new and unexpected quirk to my ever-growing list of new and unexpected quirks. As I tumbled upside down and initiated my sweep, I became aware that the blade wasn’t “catching”, resulting in a truncated roll which gets me up, but not as easily as I’ve known. I could not determine the cause of this until I figured out from video evidence that I am initially sweeping the air (which was also a recently diagnosed problem with Alan’s offside roll). It’s funny how, underwater, my brain couldn’t work this out – but then again, it has difficulty working anything out beyond not breathing.

Practice on Loch Eck

Anyway, this week I was completely focused on fixing the problem and, in the process, managed to forget the One Thing that has changed my roll from being hit and miss to being something I can depend on. This is my most important rolling discovery since … well, the last one. The trick is to flick my leading wrist back emphatically. It works beautifully in achieving perfect blade angle every time. But this week, my underwater brain succumbed to the law of Sudden Oxygen Deficiency (SOD) and decided to dispense with the One Thing altogether. So my first couple of rolls were laboured, to say the least. Fortunately, Alan’s brain was still working and he could plainly see the climbing blade angle that was the source of the trouble. As much as I would like to, I dare not yet make a declaration of bombproofness, as all too often I have proved that pride comes before a fail.

Alan with empty Loch Striven in background

As we paddled past the sailing club once again, we were surprised to note that the crane had gone and that, barring a few whose owners had presumably slept in, all the yachts were now out of the water and were getting herded into their winter pen. That was fast work!

Back at our launch spot, we threw the kayaks on to the car roof and were home within 10 minutes. As we tucked our kayaks in for the night, it was with the reassurance that they would soon be back out on the water. Even if we don’t go far, it’s always good to go kayaking no matter what the season.

It hardly seemed like a week had passed since we had journeyed towards a rendezvous at the Falls of Lora on Sunday morning. Here we were retracing our steps northwards, the somewhat variable weather forecast requiring an “on the spot” decision as to our ultimate destination. At the Falls, the group agreed that plans for the Cuan Sound should be momentarily shelved  in view of the somewhat formidable westerly winds predicted along with the spring tides. The Ballachulish area seemed like the most viable option as it would present tidal activity and a bit of weather, but hopefully not too much.

We put in at Ballachulish Bridge, just in time for some play in the narrows which, while we were there, saw the tide ebbing at the spring rate of 5 knots. This was just about right for practising manoeuvres and becoming accustomed to the movement of the water.  In the realms of quite speedy tidal flow, tricks are played on the brain and it’s not until one directs one’s gaze shorewards that one realises – helpmaboab, I’m fairly chugging along here!  Fortunately, the manageable rate on this occasion allowed me to cast aside my imagined worst case scenario (being trapped in a flow headed direct to Canada) and try out some ferry gliding, breaking in and out and general scooting about.

In the tide race

Another group meeting was then called to decide where we would head next. There was a lot of enthusiastic pointing at some gnarly waves in the distance and, after a brief lecture from Lewis about what to do in the event of any of us falling in and requiring help (proceed calmly to the nearest Lewis, basically), we duly allowed the flow to push us westwards.

As we approached said waves, their presentation appeared quite surreal. We could see the sea state instantly transform from flat to roiling, to the extent that it felt like we were sitting on the shore. I decided that I wasn’t 100% ready to meet the lumpy stuff and, when I did so, it would be on my own terms, in a civilised fashion and with polite introductions. It would also be immediately after I’d identified an escape route. So, departing from reality for a few seconds, I started paddling backwards in order to buy some time. Of course, this was a quite useless endeavour as, akin to being on a conveyor belt, I was soon pitched into the thick of it.

Up and down

It must be said that, when the words “tidal flow” are mentioned, my brain unplumbs itself from its reservoir of Known Knowns and floats into the vacuum of Unknown Unknowns. Tides are mysterious and mythical phenomena, affected by the wind, the land and the seabed, controlled by the moon, the sun, gravity, river gods and pixies. It’s all fodder for the active imagination. As it turned out, however, the conditions were no worse than previous rough water encounters and, once bobbing about in the fray, things seemed a lot more “normal”.

Lunch stop

We played in the waves for a bit, before continuing westwards into the wind, pulling in for lunch just before rounding the corner at Rubha Cuil-cheanna. We then continued north to another set of narrows – the Corran Narrows. The waves became bigger and a bit more “swelly” at this point. As we stopped to listen to Lewis’s explanations of the sea state (summary: the outgoing ebb was meeting shallows and incoming wind), I admit that lunch wasn’t sitting terribly well. We were, however, soon moving on downwind, disappearing into the big troughs before being elevated and pushed forward up the crests (the bit I’m still getting used to). One of my paddling companions asked if I was enjoying myself, to which I replied in the affirmative. I expressed some frustration at my lack of bravery in that I didn’t feel up to attempting to surf the bigger waves, to which he replied, “But you have a roll, right?”.  I confirmed that, well yes, technically I did. Fortunately he did not hear me then mutter, “What’s that got to do with anything?”!

Corran Lighthouse

As we neared the narrows, the sea calmed down and, to be honest, it was a tad disappointing after the preceding thrills. We had to make do with the picturesque scene of the lighthouse and the ferry. Oh, and did I mention the magnificent Glencoe mountains?

We about-turned and battled south-west against the wind before turning east back towards Ballachulish. Just when I’d thought that the day’s excitement was over, there was more vigorous pointing at more frothy waves and – like moths to a flame – we were soon bouncing around in the turbulence again. It was a great way to end the day.

Decent conditions

Just as we exited the water, the heavens opened and we were rained on fairly torrentially for a large part of the way home. It is said that the rain is God’s way of washing the coos, and I think that that must include the kayaks who, after a great day on the water, were surely as happy as the occupants of the car transporting them homewards.

A big thank you to Lewis who, once again, allowed us to go out and play in the lumpy stuff.