Duly trained up, we were keen to get out on the real water at the weekend. The forecast made Saturday a complete non-starter as, despite Richard and Euan’s best efforts, our training hadn’t quite extended to simulations of 65 mph gusts (maybe just 35 mph), so we pinned our hopes on getting out on Sunday when conditions were predicted to be calmer. And indeed they were, so off we popped for an afternoon jaunt.

Those great big ships again - and tiny kayak

More often than not we find ourselves putting in at Toward shoreline and seeing where the fancy takes us. More often than not, it takes us to Bute. And then maybe back over to Loch Striven. Being creatures of habit, that’s exactly what happened on Sunday. Well, to be honest, I wasn’t entirely finished inspecting the Maersk ships anchored in the loch, especially as another one had been added to the “raft” since we were last there. I suppose I am slightly fascinated by ships. It must have something to do with growing up on the banks of the Clyde.

After a pleasant paddle over to Bute and then northwards up Loch Striven, we managed to get a little more up close and personal this time (with the ships, that is). There were no signs of life aboard the behemoth vessels as we paddled around them, although I believe they are still being “powered down”. It’s astonishing to think that there is no work for them (or hundreds of others like them around the world) for the foreseeable future. What were all those ships transporting previously that we are somehow managing to live without now?

Stars and Stripes on Loch Striven

We noted that one of them (the Sealand Performance) was registered in New York and was flying the Stars and Stripes, which seemed a little incongruous in wee, backwater Loch Striven. But I’m forgetting how recently nearby Holy Loch played host to those very colours.

Having satisfied ourselves that we’d seen enough, we were escorted off the premises by a friendly seal as we turned to head home. We noticed that the sea state was changing a little at this point. It was no longer calm, for a start. The tide was going out and meeting the incoming wind. There were no 65 mph gusts or anything, but it was definitely lively. Something very similar happened the last time we made this self same trip, so it was all getting a bit Groundhog Day-ish. By the time we reached the NATO refuelling depot, I declared to Alan that I wanted to head in for a short break. Alan appeared to be unfazed by the conditions, but I threw a small wobbly. I’m not sure why this is. I think I am naturally predisposed towards thinking the worst. Alan pointed out that the worst that could actually happen was:

• I might capsize
• My roll might fail
• I’d simply be blown over to the nearby shore

Processed through the “Pam’s even worse, worst case scenario filter” however, this reads as:

• I might capsize
• I might become entangled in something (seaweed? fish farm paraphernalia? NATO pipelines?) and be unable to free myself
• I might hit my head off a rock
• My roll might indeed therefore fail
• Conditions might deteriorate to gale force
• That squall moving to the north of us might contain south-bound tornadoes*
• I (and my kayak) might get smashed to little pieces along the shoreline

(*Before you ask, I have seen a tornado forming above a car park in Greenock).

Where does all of that come from? It does get tedious.

Sensing my discomfort, Alan swapped kayaks with me. He had been paddling his new Avocet, while I was in my Nordkapp LV. I must say that I’d rather liked this arrangement as it levelled the playing field in terms of our respective speeds. Alan, therefore, got a big dollop of his own medicine feel for paddling at a reduced pace. After the wind had made its presence known, however, I was inclined to jump into the Avocet to see how it compared. And yes, I did feel a little more “in control” in the smaller kayak. It was also interesting to note that, whilst the Nordkapp had tended to rear up and then slap down on the waves, the Avocet delivered several face-fulls of saltwater instead (no, I wasn’t crying!).

We chugged our way back, rounding the fish farm, where it became especially bouncy and confused. I summoned up my learnings from Lewis, Islay, Skye and the pool, all of which had involved considerably worse conditions (ok, except for the pool). In my mind, I can honestly say, I was mentally prepared to try rolling upon capsize, especially as most of the sea activity was on my “good” side. I no longer think that my only instinct would be to pull the deck’s grab loop, but it remains to be seen as, on this occasion, I (and Alan) did manage to stay upright.

I am leaning towards adopting another indispensable tip from coach Richard in the meantime, proven to help many a kayaker get through rough waters and also to engage their roll. So where can I order a smiley face sticker for my deck?

I want to be you – whenever I see you smilin’
Cause it’s easily one of the hardest things to do
Your worries and fears become your friends
And they end up smilin’ at you
Put on a smilin’ face

Smiley Faces, Gnarls Barkley, St. Elsewhere

Pap of Glencoe and Loch Leven

It was high time for a Garnock Canoe Club jamboree and one had duly been scheduled for last weekend. If I hadn’t known better, however, I would have wondered if the organisers weren’t trying to throw us off the scent in the communications leading up to our departure. The email entitled “Arisaig Trip” which informed us that the trip that had previously been moved from Arisaig to Oban had now been relocated to Glencoe, was especially confounding. Undaunted, we tracked everyone down to the Invercoe campsite in Glencoe on Friday evening. As various cars emptied out their occupants, something became apparent to me and that was a growing sense of being outnumbered. To explain: there was me, and then there were 10 chaps of the male persuasion. Which leads me to ask the question – oh, where were the women of Garnock? At least the conversation around the campfire didn’t resort to the usual stereotypical subject matter of football and cars (no, it was much worse than that).

Setting out on Loch Leven

I would like to say that I was up and about, bright and breezy on Saturday morning, but this was not the case at all. Unfortunately, Friday night had been claimed by the demons of insomnia from whom I receive occasional visitations. Once they appear, no amount of relaxation technique, yogic breathing, counting sheep or just plain wishing will get me to sleep. What starts as a small, nagging worry that I haven’t fallen asleep yet becomes a full-blown anxiety attack that I will be trapped in a torturous hell of sleep deprivation the following day, and, of course, this becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Not to worry, I somehow managed to find myself sitting fully dressed in a drysuit and in a kayak on the waters of Loch Leven on Saturday morning. Not just any old kayak mind you, but a beautiful white Valley Avocet with black trim. After the very favourable impressions that had been made upon us during our week with Skyak Adventures, one thing had led to another and we were now taking a lovely, nippy wee day kayak out to play. Through the foggy haze (I refer to my sleepless state and not the weather conditions), I became aware of some truly astounding scenery as we paddled from our campsite eastwards to Kinlochleven. Majestic mountains prevailed, and it was wonderful to admire the Aonoch Eagach ridge from the water having climbed it some years ago. The conditions were most favourable, especially with the wind pushing us along.

Heading for the rocks at Kinlochleven

Upon reaching Kinlochleven, the environment began to take on more of a feel of a river, as opposed to a sea loch, as indeed the loch effectively becomes the River Leven (or that might actually be the other way around). The water narrowed in on us and became “gushy” in places, and there were lots of rocks. You can tell from my description that I am not a river kayaker. There are reasons for this, mostly relating to sharp, pointy rocks (did I mention those?), icy cold, moving water – er, and unrelenting fear. Regardless, some members of our group saw this as an excellent opportunity to toss their kayaks about the rocks. I started to believe that my tired state was causing hallucinations when I then saw bodies floating down the river, but it seems that certain individuals had abandoned their vessels altogether in favour of engaging in a whole new sport the name of which eludes me (“unkayaking”? “drysuiting”?). Having no desire to scratch wreck our kayaks, or get icily cold, Alan and I sensibly decided to have some hot soup and pull up a chair to watch the other hardy souls from the sidelines.

Garbh Bheinn, from Loch Leven

Whilst the rest of the group then embarked on an elaborate climbing exercise in order to consume their lunch on top of the riverbank, Alan and I, having dined already, decided to start heading back the way we’d come. Our progress was slowed by the wind which was now doing its best to place us in reverse gear. Around the half way point, my lower back was screaming for a rest and we pulled in to a pebbly beach. Here, a solo paddler in a Capella 163 came ashore and sat down with us for a chat. It seems that whenever I write about paddlers whom we happen to bump into on the water, to my delight they somehow later find my blog and make contact. Perhaps I will hear from this lady too. Anyway, let me just say, it was nice to enjoy the company of another female paddler.

Soon our group had caught up with us and quickly embarked on a challenging and manly survival exercise on the beach involving fire-building and slater-eating, in the manner of – I think I’m safe in saying – Ray Mears. I had dared to mention the name of Bear Grylls, which was greeted with snorts of derision from the guys. I wonder if female paddlers feel similarly?

Making friends with a guillemot

At this point, Jordan graciously offered to swap kayaks with me in order for me to try out his Rockpool Isel. This is a relatively new Rockpool kayak, designed for the smaller paddler, and I have been very interested in learning more about it. To be able to try it out was an opportunity not to be missed. Well, let me just say – I like it very much! Whilst I cannot put a kayak through its paces in quite the way Jordan can, here’s what I did manage to observe:

• What a great fit! Part of the trouble that I’ve had in assessing fit is that the majority of kayaks out there don’t fit the smaller person well – so how do you truly know what a good fit is until you actually encounter it? The Isel makes snug contact in all the places that matter, including the excellent thigh braces. I felt like the kayak fitted me, as opposed to me trying to fit it via outfitting (or eating pies).
• After kayaking back the remaining half of the return journey, my back no longer hurt. The seat and lumbar support are exactly that, supportive.
• My feet loved the footplate (versus foot pegs). I could feel the blood in my toes again. Such comfort.
• The hard chines took me back to my Capella a little and edging seemed “stickier” than the Valley kayaks – obviously not an issue to the skilled paddler.
• The Isel doesn’t turn quite as responsively (imho) as the Avocet, but it turns perfectly well nonetheless.
• Despite tiredness to the extreme, a less than ideal set-up, and some gusty wind, I managed to roll the Isel. It wasn’t my prettiest roll ever due to the aforementioned, but the kayak simply has that feeling that suggests that you can rely on a roll even when conditions/you are less than perfect. I really like that feeling.

Meanwhile, it was fun to watch young Jordan making our Avocet dance in the water the way it was meant to. If kayaks had emotions, ours would have been very happy to have someone with such natural skill in charge.

Eilean Munde

Before returning to our campsite, we detoured over to Eilean Munde, the “Burial Island” of Loch Leven. We stepped ashore to explore its many gravesites. I hadn’t realised that they were so numerous and it was interesting to read the inscriptions and examine the symbology (to use a Dan Brown kind of term), as well as to view the graves’ seemingly random placement across the island. Many of the slate gravestones seemed as new, no doubt scoured clean by the prevailing elements.

It was a short trip back to Invercoe where a hot shower followed by dinner in the smirry rain awaited. In danger of falling asleep as we sheltered in the car, Alan and I turned in for the night not long after 9 pm. Sleep came upon me like an anaesthetic and I would have known nothing of the party in the neighbouring tipi but for the impressive amount of recyclable materials and marked lack of perkiness that emerged from it in the morning, combined with the run on Powerade in the campsite shop.

Eilean Munde

What with all the blustery wind and rain on Sunday morning, I was gutted to learn that no-one seemed keen to go and get soaked and freeze in the Falls of Lora as had been originally planned. But a consensus of reluctance had been reached and who was I to argue? So we packed up and made our way homewards. After having nearly lost our kayaks to the wind on the way over Rannoch Moor on the journey to Glencoe, we decided to take the less gusty route home via Oban. This took us past the said Falls of Lora where, to our surprise, we found other members of the Garnock club! Apparently, a second branch of the club had arrived for Sunday’s activities. As inviting as it was to get out and join them, Alan and I were in full “going home to cosy fireside” mode and, after stopping to chat briefly, proceeded on our way. I confess, however, that a slight pall hung over me as often occurs when left with the feeling of having missed out on something. Never mind, the cosy fireside was nice.

And so concluded a fun weekend in a beautiful location, in good company (despite there being gender disparities) … what more could you want? Apart from a good night’s sleep.

Scottish summer weather

Let me start by mentioning the weather situation here on the west coast of Scotland. This past August was the second wettest on record, as measured at Benmore Gardens near Dunoon. A full 410 mm of rain fell. For a kayaker, of course, getting wet isn’t necessarily an obstacle to enjoyment. Indeed, a river kayaker may positively relish such conditions, at least in terms of their impact on river levels. But for the sea kayaker of less-than-advanced skills, aside from visibility issues, the real deterrent is the wind which has accompanied the torrential rain, with gusts of anything up to 50 mph. This doesn’t exactly entice one outdoors, let alone on to the sea (or on to the rapidly developing patch of wilderness/swamp formerly known as the garden, for that matter). Not only that, the average maximum temperature for August was 18°C. I know that my overseas readership is finding this difficult to believe, especially those in, say, fiery California or sweltering Spain, for whom August is still officially classified as summer.

So perhaps I may be forgiven if I don’t have exciting blog posts filled with details of multi-day trips to beautiful, sun-baked Hebridean beaches. Or even wee jaunts down the Clyde. Instead, the conditions have only served to encourage our preoccupation with rolling practice in the pool and at the loch. At the risk of being a tiny bit boring – and going on the premise that a boring blog entry is slightly less boring than no blog entry at all – allow me to return to that very topic.

Alan has come on in leaps and bounds, finally mastering a sweep roll – on both sides. Months of working on his “bad” side have been followed by him discovering that his other bad side, ie the injured side (bear with me here) is actually now his good side. A pool session at Garnock last week, coached expertly by Harvey, produced great results which saw my role as rescuer becoming entirely redundant. Also thanks to the efforts of Harvey in teaching me what a decent sweep was really all about, and to the many suggestions from other experienced folks, my sea kayak roll has improved markedly. Three things have been key:

• aforementioned sweep
• watching the paddle blade
• blade angle

On that latter point, I made an astounding discovery. When I first learned to roll at the pool, I found that my blade angle was improved by tweaking my leading wrist away from me, and I’ve been doing that ever since. Last weekend, I discovered that in my Nordkapp LV, possibly due to the differing body position upon set-up (ie I’m up much higher in the water than when in the pool kayaks and in other sea kayaks), I have to tweak my wrist towards me. This flat out surprised me as I realised that this especially had been my undoing all along. Whenever I’d been trying to “improve” blade angle, I’d actually been hindering myself further. Finally, I started rolling consistently.

On the other hand (so to speak), I have been completely neglecting my off side, choosing instead to try to make my right side “bombproof” first. I am a very right-sided person. Doing anything on my left feels weak and/or weird. So I knew that I would be starting essentially from scratch when I did move over to rolling up on the left. What I hadn’t factored in was the revival of an old mountain-biking injury from a few years ago.

I recall it was a March morning up on the forest trail. I was cruising along on the flat when suddenly my bike wiped out from under me upon hitting a patch of ice. I slammed into the trail, which caused me to writhe about helplessly in pain. I still have the shin dent to prove it. The worst of the injury was the tearing of the (rhomboid) muscular tissue between the shoulder and the spine which took some time to heal. And, at a certain age, one might argue that healing of such injuries is never quite complete or perfect. So it goes when attempting to engage a sweep roll on my left side that I cause whatever patchwork repair that occurred to start to unravel and my best friend soon becomes an ice pack. Of course, this only adds weight to my suspicion that I should have learned all this rolling stuff at age 12 (hi Jessica!).

Now I am facing the awareness that rolling on both sides may be a higher mountain to climb than I’d previously thought. When checking off the mental skills chart, in the entry against “rolling” I see a little asterisk beside my name which translates to “one side only”. Getting back to reality (I remember that!), there is also the annoying prospect of being unable to roll up against the waves because they are not on my “good” side.

I can’t help but note how, in rolling, my personal goalposts keep moving and it thus becomes rather like an emotional rollercoaster. It goes something like this:

• Starting to learn to roll –> fear
• Overcoming fear –> moderate contentment
• Still can’t roll –> frustration and lowered self-esteem
• First roll at the pool –> ecstasy!
• Growing awareness that roll could be better –> dose of reality
• Can’t roll sea kayak –> frustration and lowered self-esteem
• First sea kayak roll –> ecstasy!
• First sea kayak roll in rough water conditions –> best day ever!
• Difficulty rolling own sea kayak –> frustration and lowered self-esteem
• Continued difficulty rolling own sea kayak –> meltdown/tantrums
• Rolling own sea kayak consistently –> happiness moderated by growing awareness of inability to roll on both sides
• Can’t roll on both sides –> frustration and lowered self-esteem

That’s a lot for the old nerves to handle. Or should I say, the old ego. Good job that, at the end of the day, I can take a step back from it all and realise that it’s really the be all and end all only rolling.

“If less is more, just think how much more more could be.” Frasier Crane

Container ships on Loch Striven

There’s been a bit of a change of scenery since we were last there and anyone familiar with the area will know that the loch is being used to pen some rather large container vessels in “cold lay-up” to sit out the recession. These are the same ships that made their considerable presence known for several weeks at the anchorages on the lower Firth of Clyde before being taken to their new home in the loch. Basically, with the downturn in demand for consumer goods, there is presently a global excess of container vessels to requirements. As a result, many ships are being “parked” in various locations throughout the world until the economy picks up.

As soon as we turned in towards the Kyles of Bute, we saw the ships up ahead. They are, of course, a reminder that looks are deceiving and that, despite its serene and unspoiled appearance, Loch Striven has been used for many a military-industrial purpose from the past to the present day. Aside from accommodating previous ship lay-ups (with 2 ships remaining there for 20 years), it houses a NATO refuelling depot at the mouth of the loch, where a naval vessel was in fact present as we paddled past, as well as comprising a submarine exercise area (as revealed by nautical charts of the loch). Indeed, longer-term residents of Cowal will tell the tale of how the loch was used for tests of a smaller version of the “bouncing bomb” used to destroy the Ruhr dams in 1943.

As we were pushed handily northwards by the wind and the tide, we were overtaken by 4 porpoises who duly broke the personal-proximity-to-kayak record, for me anyway. That initself made our trip worthwhile, however, the investigative reporter in me wanted to press on to get a bit nearer to the mammoth container ships. Part of my curiosity lay in the fact that they are the biggest and fastest ships of their kind (reportedly reaching speeds of over 30 knots), with some of the biggest engines in the world. Here is an excerpt from the ClydeSights Website:

“MAERSK BEAUMONT is the seventh, and last, ship of the VWS 4000 class built at the German Volkswerft Stralsund shipyard and delivered to Maersk UK in December 2007. She is 294.1 metres in length – similar to some of the larger bulk carriers that have visited the river and making her one of the largest vessels that can be accommodated within the locks of the Panama Canal – and has a deadweight of 52,400 tonnes. She can carry up to 4,170 TEU containers, and appears to have last been employed on a service to South America. MAERSK BEAUMONT and her sisters all fly the Red Ensign.”

GREAT BIG SHIPS ... and toty wee kayak

All I can say is that I’d much rather encounter them safely tied up than out on the high seas. They made our kayaks seem very, very tiny indeed and its hard to believe that 2 such disparate vessels can possibly share the same waters. It remains uncertain as to whether or not the 4 ships presently laid up will be joined by any others. There had been rumours of anything up to 18 more ships on their way. Perhaps a sign at the mouth of the loch will be needed to indicate “Spaces” or “Full”.

Having satisfied our curiosity, we about-turned and headed back the way we’d come. Of course, we knew the wind and tide would now be against us and it was a bit of a slog. By the time we reached Toward, however, it was straying beyond a slog into the territory of panic skills-testing. Alan is a lot more cool in these situations and was positively enjoying bouncing along on the frothing waves (apart from the occasional whining noise coming from somewhere behind him). I, on the other hand, have read one too many “how-it-all-went-wrong” reports and remained acutely aware of the marked absence of an essential bit of safety kit, namely a Level 5 coach with excellent rescue capabilities. Never mind, all of that will be put to right next week when we travel up to Skye to test out those very capabilities as exemplified by Skyak Adventures. Can’t wait!

So I went along to the pool on Friday night with very few expectations. It was interesting to note how much more pleasant travelling over on to the ferry and driving down to Kilbirnie became when I wasn’t fretting over irrational fears of failure, drowning etc. Perhaps this attitude could be applied a little more broadly.

Under the critical eye of Euan, I demonstrated my progress (ha) in rolling. Of course, my first attempt failed and I relaxed into the acceptance that I was, indeed, back at square one. There was, therefore, no-one more surprised than I was when my second attempt resulted in success. This time, I refrained from leaping into wild displays of ecstatic triumphalism (or at least breaking into a happy dance), recalling how far my ego had come crashing down the last time that happened. Instead, I allowed myself some contentment in the knowledge that my learnings hadn’t gone completely to waste after all. Being that it seems that I can now roll 2 different kinds of river kayak, perhaps there is some renewed and realistic hope for learning to roll my sea kayak.

Towards the end of our practice session, Euan observed my roll again and suggested that I should relax my head. Anyone learning rolling will be well familiar with the importance of head positioning. As the head is so heavy, it is better to allow the water to support it before bringing it up last, thus lessening the “burden” on your roll. Of course, this is quite counter-intuitive as every novice feels an urgent need to raise their head the heck out of the water first. After working to overcome that particular instinct, my own tendency has been to forget about my head altogether (not difficult), or to focus on it too much and somehow hinder my roll all the more. However, Euan’s employment of the code word, “relax”, tapped right into my yoga learnings and the resultant roll felt almost effortless by comparison. Am on to something now.

How often I’ve been in a challenging yoga asana, only to hear my teacher’s guidance to bring awareness to where there is resistance and to let it go. Naturally, this guidance can apply to kayaking and beyond. Just about everything in life gets a whole lot easier when you learn to relax and let go.

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.

I think on my first attempts to learn rolling and on the panic and disorientation experienced back then. My presence in a pool full of proficient paddlers felt like sacrilege, like the embarrassing drunk at a wedding. It was quite some time ago, but yet not that long ago really. All those weeks of capsizing and using a float or Alan’s hands to right myself, working on the building blocks until the movements became imbued in muscle memory, until the disorientation diminished and the brain was able to engage – all have amounted to something at last. Many are the times I thought I might never roll, so it is with some disbelief that I reflect on last night’s success.

Perhaps it is that disbelief that causes me a little trepidation. After one roll, for example, I was gripped with a fear that it might be my first and last, that I’d never be able to repeat the feat. After several rolls, however, I started to believe. Then the drill turned towards more unpredictable capsizes, with no opportunity to set up – and still I could roll. The joy! It felt a lot like learning to ride a bike – hard to explain, but something just clicked.

For anyone who is in the process of learning to roll, and especially anyone who has felt dejected on occasion, I hope that my experience might encourage you. I had no natural ability or raw talent – indeed, as noted, I was markedly averse to the prospect of repeated underwater dunkings when I started out. It took lots of perseverance, patience, an occasional rest, and a reminder that self-doubt is merely an empty and unnecessary distraction. It also took the assistance of many people: all the folks at Garnock Canoe Club who got me off and running and, more recently, the Benmore Outdoor Centre coaches who have been providing training at the Riverside pool in Dunoon. The latter training sessions have been a terrific bonus, being a mere 10 minutes from our house. And what better way to learn than via a pool full of enthusiastic coaches. Our little sub-group’s excellent coach was able to spot the 2 main impediments to my roll. For the record, they were an inadequate torso extension/sweep, plus incorrect blade angle. Correcting those 2 things was like flipping a switch for me.

But the coach who helped me the most, and to whom I am most indebted (sorry for getting all Oscars night here) is Alan. He isn’t a qualified coach of course, but he’s the one who’s stood by me night after night, ready to rescue me after my many, many failed rolls, and to offer a word of encouragement, to guide my paddle, to listen to me dissect my mistakes every Saturday morning ad nauseum. His patience knows no bounds and this is not the first time that he has helped me to achieve a goal that I’d previously thought to be nigh impossible.

Of course, the work is far from done. My next big task is to translate my new skills over to rolling up on both sides (ha!), to new and different boats (sea kayaks even – imagine!), to perfecting all the finer points, to doing kingup apummaatigut … ok, getting carried away, will stop here.

It’s well seen that decreasing winter temperatures need not preclude a bit of kayaking activity, both on and off the water. Unlike the many yachties who take their boats out of the water for the “off” season, we fortunate kayakers can still jump out there when it’s not howling a gale – so at least a couple of times during the winter then. When we’re not doing that, we are busy studying up on the many skills that a proficient paddler must possess for their own and their group’s safety. And that’s what Alan and I found ourselves doing just last weekend as we attended a Sea Kayak Navigation course organised by Garnock Canoe Club.

Our instructors were the legendary Cailean from the Far North, and the equally legendary Richard, who kept things interesting and fun for their avid students. Like several others, Alan and I had done a little advanced preparation by reading the latest edition of Sea Kayak Navigation: A Practical Manual, Essential Knowledge for Finding Your Way at Sea, which is an excellent place to start. My prep was a little last-minute and I admit to having a minor tantrum on Friday night at 11 pm as I tried to come to grips with the later chapters involving multiple calculations of distances, times, bearings, allowances for tide and wind, ferry angles and so forth. Nonetheless, it was good to have at least some pertinent information fresh in my mind before class, as trying to recall my school geography learnings of many, many some years ago was a bit more of a stretch.

Saturday was spent in the classroom, as we pored over maps, charts, tidal atlases and pilot guides. Many useful tidbits were gleaned, particularly in relation to weather, tidal flows, distances, timings etc. We were split into pairs and instructed to plan a trip to a specific location. It was during this exercise that Alan and I discovered that the best laid plans often have to be re-visited, for example, upon the discovery of unforeseen increased tidal activity at precisely the time we’d planned on reaching its locale.

Later, we retired to Richard’s house for an excellent dinner, including dishes specially prepared for the strange dietary habits of certain of us, which were much appreciated. This left us well fortified and stood us in good stead to watch the X Factor weather forecast for the following day which revealed all the makings of a substantial “weather event” involving snow and icy winds. I think it’s safe to say that several of us were quite upset at the prospect of not being able to go out kayaking in frigid temperatures on Sunday, should the forecast hold true. It was therefore with some uncertainty that we took leave of one another that evening.

Imagine my relief when I woke up the following morning to Alan informing me that there was no snow and that the icy winds were just below gale force. Thank goodness we wouldn’t be prevented from travelling back over to Ayrshire to spend time out on the water whilst barely managing to fend off hypothermia. Three layers of fleece and a dry suit were the order of the day as we launched our kayaks into Castle Semple Loch in the middle of a heavy downpour. After a vigorous paddle to warm up, we quickly set about putting our learnings of the previous day into practice. It’s a little difficult to simulate being lost in a foggy sea when on a loch, but we did manage to create a semblance of sufficient locational uncertainty as to warrant breaking out the maps and compasses, if not the GPS (which was verboten by the way). Again, many useful tips were absorbed, such as: a quick way to take a bearing from a landmark to yourself (something that easily threw me for some reason), the difference that wind and a couple of degrees of variation can make, and how impractical it is to maintain on your foredeck all the instruments, maps etc required for attaining navigational accuracy in the midst of storm-like conditions, among various other things.

After a couple of hours of familiarisation, we rewarded ourselves with a hasty retreat to the tea room at the lochside where a hot cuppa was downed with gusto.

Allegedly, the course we completed is relevant to the BCU 4 Star Leadership qualification. Despite the fact that at this point in my paddling career I relate more to the Bart Simpsons of the kayaking world (under-achiever and proud of it), I have applied for the certificate that proves I have completed the course. I can’t quite think when I would need to produce it, but if nothing else it will serve as a souvenir of a weekend very well spent.

Valley Nordkapp LV and Nordkapp

Finally, the happy day arrived when we were united with our new Valley Nordkapps. We drove to Loch Lomondside on Thursday and met up with the chaps from Desperate Measures who kindly delivered our new charges to us, having travelled all the way from their birthplace (the kayaks’, that is) in Nottingham. My Nordkapp LV came wrapped in a big tubi-grip (which I’m sure will come in handy again some day for a very large sprain), and Alan’s Nordkapp was still in its factory wrappings. We loaded the kayaks on to our j-bars in the middle of a torrential downpour which I viewed as an auspicious baptism of sorts. Alan discovered that it was no longer feasible to suspend himself off of the ties when tightening them, as fibre-glass kayaks are slightly more delicate than our old plastic boats. On the drive south, a rainbow appeared (another auspicious sign) which had me contemplating a suitable name. I think Rainbow Warrior is, however, taken.

Nordkapp

By happy coincidence, it was club night at the loch, so we headed straight for Kilbirnie. Our beautiful vessels were unveiled and launched (minus champagne, alas) amidst much favourable comment from our fellow paddlers. It was quite a privilege to have the history of the Nordkapp related to us by the elder statesman of UK kayaking, Duncan Winning, who played no small part in the development of the very kayaks we now proudly own.

Alan and I took great pleasure in birling around in circles in the loch as we edged with abandon, feeling as if the kayaks were an extension of ourselves. Finally, our energy was being channelled directly to the kayak, and not dissipating somewhere along the way as used to be the case. We found ourselves wondering how we’d managed for a whole entire year of paddling without this amazing advantage.

The self-rescue question remained prominent in my mind and I felt that there was no point in losing an opportunity to practice. So, as the evening darkness descended, in I jumped, once again marvelling at how liftable the Nordkapp LV is as I righted it and then clambered on top. I was able to maintain my balance and shuffled along to regain my seat, almost effortlessly. Yet another auspicious sign! It felt as if my kayak was proving its allegiance to me – the start of a beautiful relationship.

Happiness is ... a new Nordkapp LV

We were back out on Sunday in the flat calm of the Clyde as we paddled from Toward to Bute, to the Kyles of Bute, to Loch Striven and back to Toward. We must have sounded a bit like the nearby eider ducks, ooh-ing and aww-ing away at the wonderful qualities of our respective kayaks. The only thing missing was a bit of chop or swell in order to test the Nordkapps’ legendary performance in rougher seas, but I’m sure that will come soon enough.

I recognise that I have spent a great deal of time recently expounding affection for what is essentially a material thing. This rather contradicts the principles of non-attachment that I have been studying in yoga and in relation to mindfulness generally. I would argue in my defence that my kayak is not purely a material “thing”. It is very much a vehicle for focusing one’s mind away from the clutter of everyday life, the anxieties, the conditioned responses, the judgements. When you are out on the water, at one with your kayak and the sea, there is nothing else for you to do except just be in the moment. And that is nothing short of spiritual.

Kintra on Islay

On Friday evening, we all went for a stroll along the beautiful Kintra beach at sunset, accompanied by Sam and Bria, the springer spaniels. The weather forecast was predicting a day indoors on Saturday, although Richard confidently maintained that conditions would be fine. I know that Richard has some god-like abilities in relation to paddling, but I hadn’t realised that they extended to weather forecasting as well. After a morning of yoga class (during which I determined that I will never again be as flexible as my 10 and 15 year-old classmates), the weather did clear by Saturday afternoon. So off we popped for a few hours of playing in the surf at Traigh Bhan near Port Ellen. This was precisely the type of experience that I needed after my little capsizing episode in Lewis. Richard waded into the soup and taught me how to low brace properly, ensuring that I hip flicked as appropriate to prevent the kayak’s edge from being caught. The more I managed to stay upright, the more it seemed like fun. Next, Dave insisted that I try a little kayak rolling with his guidance. I had been observing Alan’s attempts where it seemed that he wasn’t entirely enjoying his salt-water nasal flushings and I therefore launched a vigorous protest that I wasn’t up for it. Dave seemed deaf to my pleadings. I then watched Kirsty executing a roll unassisted and, duly inspired, I succumbed on the grounds that I be allowed to use a nose clip. Of course, I couldn’t roll without Dave guiding the paddle as my brain engaged a brand new sensory assault (salt water, “stuff” in the water, gushing noises, and so on), but at the very least, it gave me an introduction to the whole rolling-in-the-sea experience. I am pleased to say that it wasn’t quite as horrific as I had anticipated, so there is hope.

Later at dinner, I was warned that I had to finish all of my pasta in preparation for paddling on Sunday. This alerted me to the possibility of a challenging day, although there’s only so much pasta that you can consume at one sitting. We then spent the evening watching This is the Sea I (for the umpteenth time for most of us). This is what paddlers do in their free time. That, and play girlsgogames (introduced to us by Jessica, aged 10, and handily bookmarked on Dave’s laptop).

Portnahaven

Once again, Sunday’s weather proved quite amenable, so we set off for Frenchman’s Rocks – well, Portnahaven at least. There had been a great deal of mention of Frenchman’s Rocks during the course of the weekend, such that I couldn’t think of this legendary place without summoning up visions of dramatic wind and waves accompanied by thunder claps and capsizing vessels all over the place. As we exited the little Portnahaven harbour, it became apparent that those visions were perhaps not entirely unwarranted.

Alan and I soon found ourselves in conditions that once again pushed us to the outer limits of our respective comfort zones. This had resulted from the low pressure system that had been passing over the west coast of the country in recent days. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling more nervous on this day when I knew that I’d already experienced some pretty large swell in Lewis in recent weeks. Something about these conditions had me looking for the eject button on my kayak and I wondered if I was just having an “off” day. Richard then explained that we were experiencing significant clapotis, or confused seas, which was in turn messing with our minds (basically). Instead of purely rolling swells, we had jumbled, frothy waves to contend with as well. It is certainly quite intimidating when a large wave veers up menacingly in front of you, only to be joined by its friend coming from the opposite direction (recalling scenes from “The Sorceror’s Apprentice”), and so on over and over. The nerves do get a little jangled. Dave remarked (or rather, shouted across the melee) that I had gone rather quiet. This was probably because I was mentally rehearsing the many ways in which I could die say, “I’d like to go back now please” without crying. As time went on, however, it became apparent that I wasn’t about to capsize and that my wee orange boat was quite capable of handling the assault. Alan and I had joked in Lewis about “redefining our definition of rough”. I think I can say that we have re-redefined it further now! When I reflect that merely a year ago I was gingerly getting into my kayak on the flat calm of Loch Eck and remarking on how “tippy” it was, I can but laugh in embarrassment.

Despite my awareness being 99% consumed by the sea state, I did manage to notice the large number of seals in our vicinity, one of whom became particularly curious and decided to follow us about. We also saw for the first time seals sleeping in the water, with one nostril held aloft for air as they snoozed amongst the turbulent waves. Quite a feat.

Portmais-sgeire rocks

We paddled over to the steep beach at Port Mais-sgeire and practised landing. It was there that we met up with the rest of our party who had (much more sensibly) travelled on foot. We then paddled a little further in the general direction of Frenchman’s Rocks. A suitably gnarly array of “rocky water” provided a perfect opportunity for the more senior members of our party to test their rockhopping skills. It’s all in the timing, and it was impressive to watch the others employing their skills to use the undulating swell in order to work their way through the narrow gap.

Playing at a reef

After that, we headed back out to the ocean for another dose of clapotis (as it were) and Richard encouraged us to prepare for a fast about-turn when he gave the say-so. We were, in fact, dabbling our toes in the edges of the tide race located in the vicinity of Frenchman’s Rocks. As soon as the waves changed shape (I admit that, after such a barrage, subtleties of wave shape were lost on me), we headed back towards land. It wasn’t long before we’d returned to the very picturesque Portnahaven.

By the time we got back to the house, the rest of our party had kindly prepared dinner for us after which the adults went for a walk. That left us kids at home to entertain ourselves and we had a most hilarious evening playing Whist, Snap, Blackjack and “Scabby Queen”.

When we started out sea kayaking, I had thought that our main goal would be to be able to travel from A to B, enjoy a bit of scenery and wildlife, and learn some basic safety skills along the way. I had not anticipated the adrenaline rush that we have been experiencing of late as we learn to deal with some very “real” (and some very fun) conditions. I’m not even sure I would have said that I wanted it. I had also not anticipated meeting so many great people of all ages as a result of this activity. All I know is that I keep coming back from these trips absolutely buzzed, feeling more alive than ever and with only one wish – more please!

Addendum: I should mention again that photos of the more exciting conditions were simply not possible. You’ll just have to take my word for it.