I now seem to have found myself in possession of 2 Greenland paddles. In my defence, I am sharing these with Alan (or maybe he is sharing them with me?). We acquired an Anglesey Stick in the summer, which sparked our pursuit of all things Greenland (minus the icebergs). More recently, we obtained a Northern Light 3-piece carbon fibre paddle which combines ancient and modern technology in one sleek, black package. The reasons for pursuing this particular option were:

• Now we have a Greenland stick each
• The paddle can be dismantled for ease of transportation (which saves the car windscreen from being speared)
• It can also be shortened into a storm paddle.

I am hard pressed to choose a favourite between the wooden and the carbon fibre versions of the Greenland paddle. I’ve enjoyed working with both of them when rolling, but haven’t yet done an indepth comparison when paddling from A to B. As a matter of fact, I haven’t done a whole lot of journeying with a Greenland paddle full-stop. After reading a blog post by Mel in Australia, where she describes her journey from using a Euro paddle to a Greenland stick (most recently completing a 111 km ultra-marathon), it lodged the idea in my mind that perhaps a Greenland paddle isn’t just for rolling!  I’m also familiar with its reputation for being easier on the wrists. This past weekend, I decided to see how I would fare on a short day trip. My treasured Werner splits were secured to my foredeck, as I ploughed forward armed with nothing more than a skinny stick.

The one thing that I notice when forward paddling with a “G-stick” is that it feels like a different set of muscles is being employed, compared with a Euro paddle. These muscles reside more in the torso and shoulders as opposed to the arms and wrists. I found myself being more naturally inclined to rotate, with marked improvement occurring when engaging the feet (of course, this should apply to Euro paddles too). The Northern Light paddle slips through the water smoothly and stealthily and, despite my initially less than perfect technique, I did not experience flutter. It takes a little adjusting, but wasn’t long before I got into the swing of things and I started to feel quite comfortable and made good forward progress.

Something that Alan and I have both experienced is a slight hesitance to trust our Greenland paddles when bracing. Without a big, fat blade to lean against, we feel a little exposed. But this is more of a psychological/perception issue and I think that, with practice, we will be bracing effectively regardless. Counterbalancing this, I did notice a heightened sense of security in relation to the fact that rolling with a Greenland paddle is significantly more reliable than with a Euro paddle. This really does improve one’s confidence. I have read comments suggesting that, for example, a standard Greenland roll isn’t as effective in rough water. Yet I’ve also recently read reports of  Greenland paddlers out in serious surf who had no problem with, and thus every confidence in, repeatedly employing this roll (comments here, for instance).

Passing my G-stick over to friends to try out gave me the opportunity to make a direct comparison with a (crank shaft carbon fibre) Euro paddle. Suddenly, it felt like I was paddling with a shovel. I could feel every tendon in my arms and wrists and it all seemed a bit like hard work, especially against the wind. My right elbow is a slight weak spot (in wind in particular), which ultimately leads to a wrist problem, and it wasn’t long before it started to tweak. I will confess to being relieved to get my skinny stick back, when the elbow pain disappeared and everything felt more comfortable again.

I’m certainly going to continue taking the Greenland stick out on trips. Alan will probably have a go with the carbon fibre paddle next time while I try out the wooden Anglesey Stick which I already know is a beautiful paddle to hold.

The Greenland adventure continues!

It started off with yoga class. Each week, our teacher designs a sequence of asanas to address a specific focus, for example: back bends, forward bends, hip openers, twists or, as was the case last week, balance. When Jude informed us that we were about to embark upon a balancing adventure (or words to that effect), I readied myself for the voyage of inward discovery that this usually entails.

The thing about balance is that it is not a given. It could go either way. It takes effort and concentration and, as our teacher pointed out to us, when you are balancing – be it in tree pose or crow or eagle or whatever – you are not thinking about anything else. After arriving at yoga class with a head full of chatter, stress and judgements, it is no bad thing to empty it all out whilst tottering on one’s tippy toes (or hands) and quite possibly, in the process, discovering previously unknown capabilities. Even so, the prospect can cause some pre-asana anxiety, perhaps because we aren’t very good at handling uncertainty and balancing is, in a way, a state of sustained uncertainty.

With this in mind, the following day I set off to do some rolling practice. I’ve recently been working quite diligently on norsaq and hand rolls, but on my previous outing, I lost my hand roll completely and my norsaq roll seemed a bit of a struggle. This left me with a sense of unfinished business which is quite a distortion really. I mean, if I were to get hung up on unfinished things, there would be rather an endless list to ponder (the other 30+ Greenland rolls, learning to speak French, the housework …). But still, the thought of having lost my hand roll  irritated me like velcro underwear, and I had to address it.

At some deeper level, I intuited that there was a missing link in my versions of those rolls that don’t involve a paddle. I’ve mentioned before how a Greenland paddle acts as a teacher and, certainly, rolling with this ancient technology is a bit like grasping a hand from the past. When the paddle is there, I have found that it can guide you through the water and allow you to position your body appropriately, without struggle,  if you let it. Without the paddle, the rolls were all down to me and seemed to require a lot more exertion and striving. After starting off badly, oomphing my way through yet another failed attempt, I reminded myself of the advice given to me by Mackayak in Orkney which was to focus first and foremost on the balance brace. I also recalled being inspired by this particular video which clearly demonstrates effortless hand rolling up into, indeed, a balance brace. I had only ever experienced this before with the help of my paddle as part of a butterfly roll. I therefore realised that it’s not all about desperately competing for success on the back deck, so much as simply reaching a state of  balance.

I proceeded to practice slipping on and off of the deck of my kayak with the aid of my paddle, then letting go of the paddle whilst maintaining the brace. I then focused on getting back on to the back deck in one swift move as this essentially constitutes the last part of the roll. Next up, I tried a full norsaq roll. For the first time, I did not aim for glorious success in one movement, but rather I sought to simply reach the surface of the water and stay there. To my delight, it was a quite achievable thing, and then purely a case of getting from there to the back deck as I’d practised. Next, I tried it with my webbed rolling mitts, with the same result. A breakthrough!

Just like in yoga, balancing in Greenland rolling is all about clearing out distracting thoughts (of anxiety, success, failure, unfinished housework) and simply concentrating on holding a steady bearing right in this very moment. In many respects, it is a Middle Way, a path of moderation and equilibrium between the extremes of hopeless defeatism and questionable triumph. Perhaps in times of uncertainty, it’s the best path to take.

Rockpool Isel

Let me count the ways!

It’s been almost 2 years since I became the proud owner of a Rockpool Isel kayak. I think it was Fate that brought us together as, quite simply, I don’t believe I could have found a kayak that could be more perfect for me.

I am a 5′ 5″ (1.524m) tall female weighing 8 st 4 lbs (116 lb, 52.6 kg).  The Isel is designed for “the smaller paddler” and features a “snug fitting cockpit”. This sounds highly appealing to smaller paddlers, however, I admit to having a little, er, flirtation, with another brand of kayak “designed for the smaller paddler” that left me less than convinced of the suitability of such models. The Isel, however, is a quite different animal and I knew immediately upon testing it that I could trust it.

First of all, it is an excellent fit. With correct footplate and seat positioning, I can sit relaxed in the kayak and my legs are in constant, comfortable contact with the thigh braces. This affords a feeling of real control and, combined with the stability of the kayak, I simply feel safe and secure. I also added a thin layer of foam into the conveniently located hip pockets.

All this safety and security doesn’t make for a boring kayak. Indeed, the Isel is manoeuvrable and nippy and I am able to turn it in high winds without difficulty. Because of its harder chines, it sticks nicely when edged and I get instant feedback on how far to go. It loves to pick up waves and, although I am not the bravest of surfers, I have had fun scooting along on a following sea.

Two Isels on the water

Other features that have particularly impressed me include, firstly, the adjustable footplate. I am not a fan of foot pegs, although this is a very personal preference. I developed sore feet when paddling kayaks with foot pegs and this simply isn’t an issue any more. I know people comment on not being able to stretch their legs when a footplate is present, but I find that I can do so simply by straightening my legs out. I dare say that I have found the ideal positioning of the plate and seat in order to allow good contact along with a little room for manoeuvre. Secondly, lower back pain used to feature quite regularly when I paddled other kayaks, but no more. This could be because of the adjustable (and removable) glass seat design and the lumbar support provided by the back rest (and/or because I have toughened up a bit since my earlier kayaking days – yoga helps). Thirdly, I love Rockpool’s unkinkable wire skeg design. On those inevitable occasions when the kayak is plopped on the beach and the skeg is down, it is no longer a potentially trip-ruining event.

I have frequently received comments from fellow paddlers as to how much happier I look in rougher water since acquiring the Isel. I went through a bit of a rough water confidence setback a couple of years ago after a good trashing in the aforementioned unsuitable “smaller paddler” kayak. The Isel has helped me overcome this, such that I believe I am now at an appropriate proficiency level for someone of my experience on the water.  For me, it has taken a great deal of the fear out of paddling and I now find myself seeking out and enjoying conditions that used to fill me with trepidation. I have been out in up to F6 (F7 if you count gusts) mostly in the Cowal/Clyde area, and various tidal conditions elsewhere, and have had no issue with control, windage, tracking or speed. I use the skeg minimally, really only in cross-winds and downwind when surfing.

The kayak is excellent for rolling and, importantly, for self-rescuing too. When practising self-rescues with other kayaks, it has often felt like wrestling an alligator. In comparison, the Isel practically lays out a welcome mat and offers you a leg-up to get back in.

Alan balance bracing in Isel

Just when I thought I’d realised and appreciated all of the Isel’s good qualities, I recently discovered another major bonus – it makes for an excellent Greenland rolling kayak! As I mentioned before, the harder chines, the lower profile and lower rear cockpit rim are perfect for Greenland style (layback in particular) rolling.

It might seem like I have nothing bad to say, which is true. The closest I can come is that, naturally, being a smaller, low volume kayak, there is not a huge amoung of room for gear in the hatches, although it is possible to camp out of it on short trips if you pack as if you were backpacking, say.

As Rockpool point out on their Web page, the Isel doesn’t have to be used by smaller people only, and Alan has proved this by sneaking into mine for Greenland rolling practice. He might not be able to load the kayak, but he can certainly roll it.

I wouldn’t swap my Isel for anything. It is a wonderful kayak that has brought out the best in my abilities and has made my kayaking journey a real joy.

In my experience, there are several stages of evolution when it comes to kayak rolling. They are:

• Acceptance that, if you’re serious about kayaking, you will need to get your hair wet.
• Observation of kayakers who can roll proficiently, accompanied by frequent utterances of, “I’ll never be able to do that.”
• Pool sessions, starting with lots of poolside hip flicking (usually surrounded by river paddlers doing ridiculous acrobatics).
• Developing familiarity with eskimo rescues. Increased presence of the “hand of God”.
• Discovery of the joy of floats.
• First pool boat roll.
• First sea kayak roll, in the sea.
• Work on off-side.
• Robust, dependable roll on both sides.
• World domination.

Well, that’s the general idea. Along the way, of course, are many, many hours of hand-wringing, soul-rending, excruciating, intricate analysis of ever minute detail of the technicalities of the roll, carefully documented via blog and forum posts. (Or is that just me?). Let’s just say, things can get a bit “uptight”.

Whilst working on my off-side roll, it occurred to me that it felt like I always seemed to need a checklist before setting up. This list would include items such as: direction of wind/waves, location of nearby rescuer, sea temperature, nose clip, venting/buoyancy of drysuit, positioning of hands, blade angle, positioning of head, adequate sweep, lucky white heather etc. I’ve seen the Space Shuttle commander go through less before lift-off.  Yet I also knew that my best rolls were achieved when I abandoned all thought and went by feel.

Which brings me to the next stage in my personal rolling evolution. For quite some time, I’ve been aware of that strange breed of kayaker who can be found in sleek, black craft (called qajaqs actually), who employ wooden sticks and clothes lines, dress up as seals and speak in a secret, encrypted code involving a confusion of vowels and consonants that would make an Icelandic volcano proud. Most of all, they demonstrate grace, ease and calm in executing their elegant rolls. They have intrigued me and I have secretly longed to join their cult (not just because black looks cool). You might be familiar with some of their names, such as Cheri Perry and Turner Wilson, Helen Wilson and Dubside. I have also been following Lesley in Orkney, who went over to the dark side some time ago and whose progress has been hugely inspiring. I speak, of course, of Greenland paddlers.

And so, with a view to freeing ourselves from the tyranny of Euro-blade checklists, Alan and I acquired a Greenland paddle, a beautiful red cedar Anglesey Stick in fact. Being that there are 35 Greenland rolls to learn, it is apparent that an entirely different mindset would be required in acquiring these skills, but nonetheless one that we hoped we could transfer over to our Euro paddles when needed. By a stroke of good fortune, I have also discovered that my Rockpool Isel makes a wonderful “Greenland” kayak, being of low profile, having harder chines and a back deck that’s entirely conducive to lay-back rolling. Yet another reason to love my Isel.

The first thing I notice is how much Greenland rolling relates to body movement and awareness. The paddle itself will scarcely let you fail in a standard roll (although you do get style points), inspiring confidence and motivation to move on to the more complex moves. Ironically, much of the Greenland technique teaches reduced dependence on the paddle and more on body positioning. The paddle becomes the teacher who sets you free.

The Greenland paddle is, of course, ancient technology and I find it interesting to compare the relaxed, (literally) laid-back rolls that it induces with the obsessive-compulsive efforts that often result from learning to roll with a modern Euro blade.  I feel like I am letting go and working in harmony with nature (what could be more natural than water and a wooden stick?), as opposed to being a carbon-fibre wielding control freak.

My repertoire is short at this stage, extending to the balance brace, the standard Greenland roll and the butterfly roll. I have attempted a norsaq roll, but am not quite ready (it’s a mind thing – I tend to find myself hanging upside-down thinking, “What am I doing here, and why am I holding this lump of wood?”). The thing is that I am in no rush. I know that, with practice, it will come one day. Greenland rolling has turned an activity I used to fear into something I look forward to, plus already I see improvement in my Euro-blade off-side.

Most recently, in an effort to make better contact with the back deck, we dispensed with our buoyancy aids (or PFDs if you’re in the US).  We have been accused of demonstrating recklessness, but I might argue that rolling in 3 feet of water in 2 mph winds, with 2 radios pre-tuned to Ch 16 and mobile phones to hand surely can’t be called reckless. Anyway:

reck·less (rkls) adj : Indifferent to or disregardful of consequences.

Well, that beats being scared! A good approach to rolling, if you ask me.

After each practice session, Alan and I return home feeling buzzed. Time disappears as we lose ourselves in a place where every moment is now. Why does something so inconsequential to modern life create such a high? Could it be because we are connecting with something that is inherent to human nature – an ancient physical skill that engages our senses, places us firmly in the present, inspires our confidence and allows us the opportunity to overcome fear and other demons in our heads? And – allows us to relax. What’s not to like?!

From now on, I may just have to qajaq across the water …

Having only ever thought of Mull as being somewhere you go on holiday via car and ferry, an invitation to join friends and go there by kayak immediately captured our imagination and interest. We needed little persuasion to sign up for a day trip with a difference.

Our friends emerged off of the water to meet us at Ganavan Bay, north of Oban, and we all then set off on a west northwesterly route, precisely the direction of the wind. Fortunately, it wasn’t too great of a slog initially, although the breeze made its presence felt a little more by the time we reached the Lismore area.

Lighthouse on Eilean Musdile on the south tip of Lismore

As usual in this vicinity, a little wind goes a long way in relation to the tides, and the sea state became a bit more interesting than what Alan and I are used to nearer to home. Happily, as I may have mentioned, this spells one thing to us now – fun! Back in the dark old days, I remember expressing fearfulness at the concept of rougher water. Our friend, Magda, assuaged this fear by asking me how many times I’d actually fallen in in such conditions. The answer, to my continuing relief, is – well, not too many! Apart from that one time. Oh, and that other time … (but training doesn’t count). Since acquiring my Rockpool Isel, I feel increasingly confident that I can keep the capsize incident count low, depending on how “interesting” the sea state gets, of course.  And, I suppose I could always try rolling (as radical as that sounds for someone who’s been practising that very skill for ages).

Duart Castle

After a bit of bobbling about in the chop, we reached the east coast of Mull and made our way around Duart Point to land at the small  bay beside the rather majestic Duart Castle, the ancestral home of Clan MacLean. The bay was filled with small moon jellyfish (rather sadly for the many who wouldn’t be washing back out), but we were especially impressed by the kayaker-friendly “Welcome to Duart Castle” sign posted there. We proceeded to the castle tea room where we enjoyed some sustenance before returning to our kayaks.

Photo courtesy: Lewis Smith

Heading back towards Oban, a rare thing occurred – the tide and the wind were behind us. Ordinarily, if you have spent an outward journey paddling against wind, you can pretty much guarantee that, in a fit of mischief, the weather gods will reverse the wind to defy the forecast, such that you get to paddle against it all the way back too. They especially love to do this when the tide is also running against you. But this day the weather gods appeared to be distracted and we were pushed back in a bumpy, following sea.  The outward journey had taken 2 hours and 45 minutes, and the homeward voyage a mere 2 hours.

Ferries kept us company

During the course of the day, the wind was not the only thing that was increasingly making its presence felt. Oban is a hub for ferries going back and forth across the Sound of Mull and the Firth of Lorne to the various islands (including Mull, Lismore, Colonsay, Coll and Tiree and the Outer Hebrides). Some of these vessels are quite large, and it seemed like every 10 minutes we were seeing one or another looming ahead or behind on a direct course towards us (just because I’m paranoid, doesn’t mean the ferries aren’t out to get me). Most kayakers are acutely aware that they cannot out-paddle a big, muckle ferry, and so it is a question of trying to guess whether or not the ferry will turn and in which direction. Any notion of the usefulness of carrying a Calmac timetable with us was abandoned after our encounter (fortunately not close) with ferry number 7.

Ferry dodging

Strangely, not a single seal was seen that Sunday (and no-one was selling seashells either), but we did see and hear many common terns squabbling overhead.

Soon, we were back at Ganavan Bay reflecting on another wonderful day out. I heard Lewis summarise the trip as “very dodgy” and, just as I was swelling with pride and amazement at being able to handle conditions that even Lewis found “dodgy”, it was clarified that he’d actually said, “ferry dodging”. Indeed, that was quite a prominent feature of the day.

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).

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.

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

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.