kayak across the water

What some people will do to get out of housework

My principal paddling partner, Alan, is out of commission at the moment, having undergone hand surgery. Any notions we had that he might be swiftly back in action were dispelled upon his emergence from the operating theatre with a dirty great bandage on his right hand (well actually, it was clean) and a fistful of stitches. The bandage means serious business, announcing to the world that paddling excursions, along with working for a living, are presently on hold and that normal service won’t be resumed for a while. It was with a sense of despondency that I collected him from the hospital, a feeling that was not alleviated by the unnecessary (I felt) lecturing of the (male) nurse that Alan was on no account to be allowed to do housework.

And so I wondered what we would do instead of jumping in our kayaks at the weekend. Long hours of emptiness stretched ahead, until I received an invitation from Julia to ditch Alan and go paddling with some new friends. To be fair, the invitation had been extended to both of us, but obviously Alan was not in a position to accept. It was with some remorse that I therefore left him at home while I went kayaking without him for the first time ever. It seemed strange to only take one set of gear and one kayak and I stressed over the many opportunities that existed to forget something. Sometimes a second brain is handy.

Autumn day on Loch Long

But what a day! Departing from Ardentinny with various members of the Greenock club (or the Royal West of Scotland Amateur Boat Club, to give it its rather regal Sunday name), we were all in awe of the beautiful autumn hues that coloured the landscape. The sun was shining and the wind was absent, so a relaxed, scenic paddle was the order of the day.

As we progressed northwards on Loch Long, we continuously caught up with a small flock of nervous oystercatchers who repeatedly flew ahead of us, not having figured out that they could save energy by flying behind us. We then encountered some Heron Trees. These are evergreen trees that seem to sprout exotic Heron flowers at this time of year.

Exotic Heron Trees

We took a left at Loch Goil and headed towards Carrick Castle where a lunch stop was enjoyed. It was especially enjoyed by the local goose who volunteered to consume some blueberry muffins that were going spare. We decided to continue on to Lochgoilhead. Upon its approach, 2 mutually attracting things happened. Firstly, a friendly seal popped up and decided to hang out with me for a little while at excellent photographic proximity. Secondly, my camera battery died. Of course, I was then in full anticipation of entire pods of dolphins and possibly the odd whale putting in an appearance thereafter. Not that I would have been disappointed per se. Instead, we found ourselves floating into the backdrop of a most picturesque and inviting venue, The Lodge, where a wedding was about to ensue. You will just have to visit the Website to see how nice it is.

Friendly seal, Loch Goil

A piper was up in the hugely impressive treehouse practising some tunes ahead of the big event, so it was all rather atmospheric. We engaged in some banter with the groom-to-be who came down to the shoreside to chat. (Or maybe he was just trying to ensure his wedding pics weren’t going to be spoiled by a motley collection of kayakers in the background!).

After this pleasant interlude, we decided to turn around and head back to Ardentinny. The occupants of a Police launch gave us a cheery wave as they passed us and it was nice to realise that there was no chance of being pulled over for speeding. There was a slight chop to the water on the last leg of the journey when a bit of wind emerged as if from nowhere (certainly not the forecast).

A great day out

After a quick tea stop at Julia’s, I wended my way homewards, resolving to display some sensitivity upon returning and not to gush about the excellent day I’d just had. I fear that I may have failed. Fortunately, this has only served to make Alan all the more determined to heal quickly. Already, he’s making cups of tea, a sure sign of improvement.

Friday night’s pool training took on a new and interesting twist last week. Alan and I had been busying ourselves with our usual rolling drills when I became aware of something resembling “shenanigans” going on at the deep end. I tried to ignore this and look busy, but was spotted by coach Richard who bullied invited me to participate. I then found myself in a kayak with a rope tied to each end, a bit like some sort of mediaeval torture device really. Richard and Euan then pulled the kayak up and down the pool, encouraging me to brace to prevent capsize. I have to admit, I was starting to enjoy it. Upon inevitably capsizing, I then had the opportunity to roll in the “moving” water. It definitely simulated the sensation of battling opposing forces under the water and I got a lot out of it. Alan’s turn was next and I think that there’s the tiniest of chances that Richard and Euan set the bar slightly higher for him (this could be a guy thing).

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.

It was becoming apparent as the week went on that certain of the key elements contributing towards an ideal paddling outing were aligning into a perfect – not so much storm – as lull. First, a high pressure system was approaching and the forecast was therefore for clear skies, low winds and – get this – no rain. A proverbial Indian Summer, no less! Second, it was neap tides. And so we embarked on a frenzy of planning and decision making as to how to take full advantage of these freak conditions.

We’ve fancied a visit to Loch Sween for a while, having seen enticing photos and heard that it was a good sea kayaking spot in terms of scenery and wildlife. So it won out and we were on the road to Tayvallich first thing on Saturday morning. Upon arrival, another couple were putting in at the other side of the jetty from us and I tried not to make too obvious my glances over in their direction to compare gear (all in the interests of research, of course).

Leaving picturesque Tayvallich

Strangely, Alan and I hadn’t even entered into the Great Wet Suit vs Drysuit Debate, before setting out. We’ve been doing so much immersion work lately that, combined with all the recent inclement weather, we’d become auto- programmed to pack our drysuits. As we set off from Tayvallich, I found myself longing not so much for my wetsuit as a swimsuit. I thought about rolling to cool off, but reckoned that trying to roll a fully laden kayak for the first time ever might result in some delay to our progress. I tried to ignore the fact that my neck seal appeared to be melting.

As we paddled south-west down Loch Sween, we were soon distracted by the beautiful scenery and mirror-like calm of the water. It was so calm, in fact, that we could easily see the many black starfish on the loch’s seabed. I still haven’t determined what they are all about, but have since been informed that they are only to be found in Loch Sween. We also saw several seals, including some of this year’s young.

Juvenile Common Seal, Loch Sween

It didn’t seem to take long to reach the Island of Danna, at which point we debated upon our course. As it was still fairly early in the afternoon, we thought about rounding Danna and heading up towards Carsaig Bay, but we felt that this might narrow our options for the following day. By continuing south-west instead, we would have the opportunity to explore the MacCormaig Isles, and to generally chill out. Rather than focusing on getting somewhere, it seemed like a nice idea to simply enjoy being somewhere instead.

And so we crossed the Sound of Jura to Eilean Ghamna. I say “crossed the Sound of Jura” because that reads better than “crossed a very small portion of the Sound of Jura”. Regardless, it felt like an achievement to be out on our own in the Sound, known for its powerful tides. The sea state even in such benign conditions made us realise just how challenging a location it must be in a bit more of a breeze. As we approached the islands, we encountered more seals and lots of Canada Geese who noisily flitted about – perhaps more of this year’s young practising flying.

St Cormac's Chapel, Eilean Mor

We paddled west from Corr Eilean to Eilean Mor where we decided to set up camp. As we drew nearer, we could see the impact of wind against tide to the west of the island and decided to avoid that particular locale, paddling towards the anchorage bay instead. Eilean Mor is a popular spot for day visitors, being that it plays host to St Cormac’s 13th Century chapel, an early standing Celtic cross, a more recent Celtic cross, and St Cormac’s cave. St Cormac was a 7th Century Irish monk who apparently used the island as a retreat. It’s certainly away from it all, and perhaps its remoteness was the very reason that, showing no respect for heritage, the chapel was later used as an alehouse and for an illicit still (which goes to show that the conversion of former churches to nightclubs is not a modern phenomenon). There is even a little turf-roofed visitor’s bothy at the bay which anyone can enter and peruse the displays therein. As we erected our tent, 4 vessels stopping by for a quick visit. Only one group of passengers disembarked to explore further.

After that, we had the island to ourselves. Well, ourselves and the many, many little brown birds who squeaked about in colossal flocks. Their small size, generic brown-ness and complete inability to stay put made my attempts at identification a frustrating and unsuccessful exercise. Upon perusal of my bird books on returning home, however, I’ve determined that they may be twites. Then again, they may not.

Naturally, I was keen to get out of my dry suit, a process facilitated by the rending in two of my neck seal. It really had been melting! I’ve since learned that the probable culprit is sun tan lotion. Alan noticed that his neck seal was showing signs of perishing as well, as he gingerly removed his suit lest it should follow a similar fate. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about ventilation the following day.

Celtic Cross on summit of Eilean Mor

Just as we were preparing to climb up the hill to watch the splendid sunset, we noticed a large yacht at full sail on a course headed straight for us. I will confess here that my heart sank a little. For some reason, visions of gin-soaked deck parties into the wee hours filled my head. I do realise that this is yachtist and discriminatory, and the ongoing silence emanating from this sizeable vessel upon anchoring made me ashamed of my presumptions.

The laws of camping dictate that it is necessary for me to make the acquaintance of nature several times during the night. This had the advantage of affording me a view of the most spectacular, unpolluted night sky that I have seen in many years. Wow. I mean, just wow. As I wrestled with the tent zipper, I started thinking on how very tiny we are in the Grand Scheme of Things … and other deep thoughts.

Early morning, Sound of Jura

We were up at dawn on Sunday morning and, after a quick breakfast, we packed up and were back on the water. We waved to the lone crewperson sitting out on the deck of the yacht and made our way back out on to the Sound. We were pleased to note that conditions hadn’t changed much at all from the day before. Regardless, we decided to head back to Loch Sween, even although travelling up the Sound to Carsaig would have been entirely do-able. It was simply the case that we wanted to explore scenic Loch Sween a bit more, including the Faery Isles at the northern end. Plus the car was parked in Tayvallich and a mile’s a long walk.

Breakfast time for otters

Against a magnificent backdrop of the Paps of Jura, we reached Corr Eilean and toyed with the idea of heading over to Eilean nan Leac. Instead we proceeded north-east back to Danna. This turned out to be a fortuitous choice as, upon cutting through the gap at Sgeir Dhonncha, up ahead we saw a small head in the water followed by a tail – an otter! We held back as he busily wrestled with his breakfast before hauling it ashore to devour. He seemed untroubled by our presence, although we were careful not to get too close. We were able to watch him for a good 10 minutes or so before he moved on to fishing grounds new.

Looking out to Jura from Loch Sween

As we paddled towards the eastern shore of Loch Sween, it occurred to me that early Sunday morning out on the water truly is the perfect time. It’s the time when it seems humanity is not quite awake yet and we have all of nature to ourselves. For that short period, nature is in charge and all is as it should be.

After a brief stop at Bagh na Doide, we continued northwards past the ruins of Castle Sween. As is usually the case, the return journey seemed longer than the outbound journey and, by the time we reached Eilean Loain, my injured shoulder was starting to hurt. It was nothing that a couple of ibuprofen couldn’t sort out and we were able to continue on to the Faery Isles whose beauty really was quite magical. It was very shallow in places which made me once again appreciate the benefits of being in a sea kayak with little draught.

Britney the coo

After we’d finished our explorations, we turned south-west towards Tayvallich. One final treat awaited us as we entered the bay. On the north-western shore was a small herd of Highland cattle, several of whom were having a foot bath in the cool waters of the loch. We paddled over to them, fairly certain that they were not officially classified as “wildlife” and that it was therefore acceptable to get up a little closer for a photo opportunity. Indeed, they were unfazed by our approach and obligingly posed for our camera. It was at this time that I noticed that one “coo”, most fetchingly, had her hair in bunches! I kid you not. We could only surmise that she (for it must surely have been a female) had had some sort of vision problem which had been alleviated by the farmer, if not the local hairdresser.

I could scarcely believe that it was only approaching 3 pm when we stepped ashore and, as we headed back down the road to Cowal, I marvelled that it was only the previous day we’d left. Time is merely a vague concept when you are absorbed in each moment, and it’s only then that you are truly living.

Out on the water with Gordon Brown

Mention the name Gordon Brown to the average person and they will instantly think of the besuited chap who resides at No 10 Downing Street. Do likewise to the avid sea kayaker and their thoughts will turn to Skyak Adventures and one of the best-known and most revered coaches in the sea kayaking business, also author of the hugely successful Sea Kayak: A Manual for Intermediate and Advanced Sea Kayakers. Such are his reputation and credentials that I used to think that someone of my lowly paddling status would not “qualify” for a course with him. A conversation with a certain well-known Spanish paddler some time ago, however, convinced me otherwise. It is the case that Skyak Adventures can accommodate everyone from beginners to advanced.

Introductions

And so it came to pass that Alan and I signed up for a 5 day course which took place last week. As our little group of fellow trainees gathered in Gordon’s converted bothy office at Isle Ornsay on Skye on Monday morning, some modest introductions were made. I recall mentions of paddling for wildlife photography purposes, and of a recent conversion from “couch potato” status, all very benign and it seemed that these were my people. As Gordon sought to learn what skills we wished to focus on, however, I tried not to become alarmed at the frequency of mention of “rough water”, or the size of the lettering of those very words on his white board. I deny all accusations that I participated in this madness. I was assuaged only by the appearance of the word “FUN” in even bigger letters. Gordon then asked what was the one skill that we would like to take home and, for fear of appearing a bit silly, I suppressed the desire to blurt out, “roll my sea kayak dammit”, and mumbled something about kayak handling instead.

Certainly, I was pleased to note that, rather than being some sort of kayaking boot camp, fun had indeed been included on our itinerary. It became very apparent from Gordon’s affable and jocular style and his many witty anecdotes that a light-hearted mood would prevail, although he did warn us that we would know when he was being serious. I fervently hoped that I would not be the one to provoke any “seriousness”.

Out on the water

At Armadale Pier

Soon we were out in Armadale Bay practising sweep strokes and turning in and out of wind. Using these skills, we negotiated our way under the pier and I confess to the odd misjudgement which perhaps added a couple of deeply ingrained scores minor scratches to the Valley Avocet in which I found myself. This brought us out into choppier waters as someone (I remain blameless here) had suggested that self rescuing in calm waters was a scoosh and that they wished to try it in rougher conditions. All eyes fell on Alan as he wrestled his kayak into near submission only to capsize at the last moment. Gordon steered us back to less choppy waters and taught us the finer points of self and assisted rescues. The day wrapped up with a rolling clinic. I had secretly looked forward to this and duly paddled over to Gordon as he stood in the water and motioned for me to approach in the manner of Morpheus in the fight scene of The Matrix. But I was no Neo and my roll failed. It seemed that not even Gordon could work miracles. (Or perhaps they would just take a little longer?).

Tuesday at Kylerhea – off to the races

Breaking out of the tide race

Tuesday introduced me to a new concept – entering and exiting tidal races. As most of our paddling is done in the Clyde Estuary, Alan and I do not have a whole lot of experience in this field. Our group had timed our visit to coincide with maximum tidal flow, however, the absence of strong winds made the conditions – I am told – less than perfect in terms of challenge and general scariness. I was OK with this as I have not spent sufficient time practising extravagant low braces to cope well with the entry and exit process for a start. Alan has frequently chastised me for my lackadaisical attitude to this particular skill and indeed I did manage to show myself up. I think I got away with it in our morning session, but the afternoon gave the game away. Let’s just say I was getting to know Gordon quite well during our various rendezvous across an upturned kayak and upon the long paddle back from whence the tide had cast me.

In between tides, a small miracle did occur. Gordon commenced another rolling clinic and I once again signed up. Some precision critiquing from him and – up I came! In a sea kayak! Of course, that was not quite sufficient and soon he had me dispensing with my nose clip (not as terrible as I had imagined) and skull cap, trying out rolling on the move, in moving water etc.

After my various tidal dunkings, Gordon made me end the day with a successful roll and it had the desired effect. I went back to the hotel that night smiling to myself.

Wednesday – the lows and the highs

The wind obliged by getting up a little on Wednesday, to F4-5. We were back at Armadale and once again made our way under the pier to what definitely qualified in my book as rough water. We paddled over to 2 nearby skerries. Gordon instructed us to paddle between them, out into the fray and anti-clockwise around the first one, returning to its lee.

It was like a wild, bucking bronco rodeo ride on an unbroken colt all the way around! Amongst confused waves of up to 6 feet, I knew that at any moment I was about to capsize and only pure luck was keeping me upright. I was so far away from my comfort zone, I was sending it postcards. Back in the lee, to my despair, Gordon sent us around again and my luck finally ran out as I completely misread the water and got trashed by one of the many thousands of waves that were jostling for position to unhinge me. Like a smiling, neoprene clad guardian angel, Gordon materialised at my side and we resumed our acquaintance across my upturned vessel. Once back in, I was given a class in reading the black and the white water and we commenced a clockwise circumnavigation of the island. Next up, an enormous wave loomed over my bow and, to the sound of Gordon shouting “Paddle!” resounding in my ears, I did what came naturally – I completely froze and was once again trashed.

Sorry, no photos from Wednesday - this is Thursday!

I’m not going to lie to you, I was not a happy bunny at this point. My mind started spinning to thoughts of giving up completely, to my neglected bike in the garage, to my book and a cosy fireside, and so on. I started to doubt I was cut out for this sea kayaking business – it felt like my ego had been writing cheques that my ability couldn’t cash. I couldn’t help but hate observe my fellow trainees. They seemed to be coping admirably with the conditions, more than is strictly necessary for a spot of wildlife photography if you ask me. So what was my problem? As I sat in the shelter of the island where Gordon had awarded me a rest, I could feel tears welling. But something interesting happened at this point. I paused and took a breath – and somehow I knew I was OK. Underneath the spinning mind, the strangled ego, the envy, I was actually perfectly OK. They were only thoughts, after all. I started watching the manx shearwaters, the terns and the seals, and that very moment felt pretty good in fact. I even started feeling happy that everyone else was doing well – what purpose would it serve if everyone was having a bad time?

As we all met up and pulled in for lunch, Alan confessed to just having had a bit of a swim himself (the omnipresent guardian angel had appeared at his side too). But I’m sure he only did this to try to make me feel better.

Gordon suggested we swap around kayaks and I relinquished the Avocet LV to a willing taker (God bless Nick, who seemed to relish its “liveliness”). We were then informed that we were going out to do some rough water rolling practice and I contemplated what I would do during this time, apart from watch the seals. On the way out, I started to become pleasantly aware that I was doing a little better in my new kayak. Next, 2 more advanced trainees in our party were rolling in the middle of the turbulent conditions. I could only hang back, agog with admiration. Imagine my shock when Gordon turned to me and yelled, “Your turn, Pamela!”. I whimpered back that I had only just learned to roll a sea kayak the day before, and that he could not be serious, but he reminded me that I’d been effectively learning for 2 years. There’s no arguing with the man. And so I capsized. And I rolled up. And stayed up. He made me do it again, and again – and I kept coming up. After about half a dozen rolls in the rough water, I eventually failed – but came up on the second attempt, which proved that my brain could operate without air. Who knew?

Finally, a last couple of trips around the island allowed Alan and me to gain confidence by demonstrating that it was indeed possible to stay upright.

I won’t ever forget that day. I won’t forget the despair or the elation. I had been pushed to a certain limit and had come out the better. It is quite something for someone to believe in you more than you believe in yourself. I won’t forget the encouragement of Gordon, Alan and my fellow trainees. Or the little audience of seals who seemed to approve. Or the terns squawking overhead. It is captured in my memory, and feels a lot like being given a gift.

Thursday – a ring of bright water

Sandaig

As most of our group had travelled quite some distance to get to Skye, including from southernmost England, there was a general desire to do a little exploring. It had been hoped (by some) that the tide race at Kylerhea might be running at savage proportions at some point later in the week, but alas the forecast had changed and this seemed unlikely. So now was a good opportunity to do some sightseeing. We agreed to set out from Camuscross for Sandaig.

The crossing was a little choppy, but I felt good in the Avocet (non LV version) which seemed to handle it with ease. Tips previously provided by Gordon on how to improve forward paddling efficiency helped enormously.

Edal's grave

Sandaig is the former home of Gavin Maxwell who wrote one of my (and millions of others’) favourite books, “Ring of Bright Water”. It was absolutely magical to visit the scene of “Camusfearna” and I could easily envisage the otters playing about in the bay and the waterfall. After all, not much has changed in that beautiful place over the years. The house is gone now, of course, but a monument to Gavin Maxwell is there in its place, as well as the grave of Edal the otter, poignantly decorated with stones and shells. Some tears were shed as I read the inscription on the latter, written by Maxwell himself:

“Whatever joy she gave to you, give back to Nature.”

On leaving Sandaig, we paddled south-east and then west to Knoydart, stopping briefly for afternoon tea before heading “home” to Camuscross.

Friday – towing the line

The weather had established itself as definitely “settled”, so Friday morning was spent at Skyak Adventures’ international headquarters, aka the bothy, working on tidal planning. During the course of our lesson, Gordon advised Alan and me of a location not far from Cowal to which we will shortly be making a beeline to play with the tide. More later!

Towing Alan to the Cuillins

We took the Skyak minibus down to Ord where, against a magnificent backdrop of the Cuillins, we commenced practice with the many different kinds of towing that one can do, including improvised methods. It was amusing to note that all the females of our party had chosen to be towees first, followed by the the males who relished their turn a bit too enthusiastically. This was succeeded by some sort of kayak display team stunt that I haven’t quite fathomed, but looked like fun. Rolling clinic came after that and, before we knew it, it was all over and time to go home.

Having taken leave of Gordon and our other new friends, our minds were filled with the sea and kayaks as we headed down the road to Cowal. We came away from our week in Skye so completely encouraged and enthused that it was actually difficult to imagine going for more than a couple of days without being back out on the water. We were greatly looking forward to continuing to work on our skills. So it’s no surprise that on Sunday, we were out on Loch Eck and – notching up another day of achievement – I rolled my very own Nordkapp LV.

When I’m at the pearly gates
This’ll be on my videotape
My videotape
…
No matter what happens now
I won’t be afraid
Because I know
Today has been the most perfect day I have ever seen

Videotape, In Rainbows, Radiohead

Photo courtesy of Mark Carter

Following on from my post entitled, They shoot seals don’t they?, I have received a communication from Mark Carter. To say that this gentleman has the courage of his convictions is an understatement. I quote from his own Website:

“Mark Carter is on hunger strike; in order to raise public awareness of shooting seals in the UK and the need for Highly Protected Marine Areas. The British Isles is home to important populations of Common and Grey Seals. Common Seals are in a catastrophic decline and both species can be “confused” when being shot. Shooting gives rise to terrible welfare issues, is inhumane and can leave seal pups to a long lingering death.”

Mark has advised,

The No.10 Petition is in need of a little help. It currently has nearly 350 signatures but requires 500 before the Prime Minister will look into matters; are you able to help spread the word?

Naturally, I am only too happy to assist and would encourage anyone who appreciates the company of seals around the UK shores to sign the petition and to spread the word.

Further information can be found on the Marine Concern Website.

Some vigorous rolling practice back at Garnock pool on Friday night produced good results for Alan and me, under the guidance of the very helpful Lewis. Duly inspired, we decided to go for a quick paddle up Loch Striven on Saturday morning.

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!

Erin

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

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

Out on the Clyde

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

The seals start to circle

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

Porpoise

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

Two of my favourite people

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

In my ongoing attempts to save the seals/seabirds/whales/dolphins/trees/planet one blog entry at a time, I want to highlight this latest piece of information, recently exposed in the news.

“”We believe there is a mass slaughter of seals in Scotland, up to 5,000 each year.”

Mark Carter, of the Hebridean Trust, said the general decline in seal numbers was particularly noticeable around fish farms.”

Following on from my earlier blog post about the massive decline in seal numbers around Scotland, this is obviously a source of grave concern. Whilst fish farms might not be the sole cause, and without getting into a discussion on all of the environmental issues surrounding the growing number of fish farms in Scotland, it’s clear that there is no room for any additional, unnecessary losses in the seal population.

I have written to my MSP to encourage him to pay heed to this, particularly in relation to discussions on the forthcoming Marine Bill which, it is hoped, will be geared towards protecting all marine wildlife. A few appropriate letters to supermarket chains wouldn’t go amiss either. I’m sure that economic concerns will be cited in defence of the fish farms, but recent events (environmental and otherwise) must surely demonstrate where a standpoint that favours economic and profit-related considerations at all costs, including the survival of a species, can lead.

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.” Mahatma Gandhi

Out on Loch Striven ... on a Thursday

I recall a TV advert some years ago (in the US, I think) which featured a be-suited chap walking down a busy city street. He is stopped dead in his tracks by the sight of a SUV driving past, fully laden with adventure gear and evidently heading off to the great outdoors somewhere well beyond the city limits. As he stares in disbelief, he mumbles, “But it’s Tuesday”. I can relate to both parties in that advert – I have been that frustrated office worker, but more recently I have been that Tuesday skiver. Guess which one I like best!

So it was Thursday and the sun was shining. As much as I love my days spent in the office clicking a mouse and attending to the whims important and pressing needs of my customers, I decided to take advantage of the benefits of being self-employed and awarded myself a well-deserved day off. Alan did likewise, so we hit the high seas for a day of unremitting enjoyment in the wind and waves (and calm). We had a bit of everything to keep us entertained, a brisk breeze and some lumpiness upon setting out (which saw our Nordkapps friskily at play), followed by an ethereal flat calm by the end of the day.

Returning in the gloaming

After reaching Bute, we headed north towards the Kyles. We stopped for lunch at a nice little beach back over on the Cowal side and noted that the temperature would suggest that it wasn’t quite summer yet. As we were approaching Colintraive, Alan commented that his shoulder was beginning to hurt. Rolling practice has taken its toll, alas. I therefore resigned myself to a slightly shorter paddle than I’d been anticipating. We turned around and started heading homewards, but then Alan suggested we take a detour up Loch Striven, and very pleasant it was. Having gone some way up the loch, we worked our way back down towards Toward. After 26 km of paddling, I began to notice that I was feeling the tiniest bit exerted, and contemplated who, at this rate, would win the competition for the sorest shoulders. Alan appeared to have worked through his pain, but I was developing some new and interesting aches all of my very own. I consoled myself by focusing on the beautiful surroundings, the various seal sightings (5 total!), the birds, the peacefulness and the realisation that I was building some good conditioning for the months of paddling ahead.

Miscellaneous observations from our outing:

• I still cannot imagine making an urgent surf landing after a full day’s paddling. As I peel my spray deck back, it takes some considerable time for me to re-engage the use of my legs. This, combined with the uneven surface of the shoreline, often reduces me to a state of near crawling on hands and knees, which is all very pathetic. Answers on a postcard please …
• If I tweak the wrist seals of my drysuit throughout the day, it stops my hands from swelling. Good to know.
• Sanitary products of a feminine nature do not miraculously evaporate when flushed down the toilet. If they don’t choke the sewage system, they are likely to end up floating in the sea, which is unpleasant for humans and wildlife alike. (Perhaps there is a need for an awareness campaign here).
• To my mind, seals sound a lot like whales when they snort unexpectedly behind you.
• Nordkapps handle chop with consummate ease.

And so on Friday, I returned refreshed and renewed to my desk … until such time as the contents of my inbox disgorged themselves on to my PC screen at least. I’m not sure if these sneaky days off truly serve the purpose of renewal, especially as I do have to make up the lost work time, or if they just leave one yearning for a lot more of the same.

“Some people say that mountain climbers are really wasting their time. They have nothing better to do so they climb mountains, tire themselves out, and come back with nothing to show for it. Yet a person who climbs a tall mountain sees the world and experiences nature in a very different way from someone who never leaves his own front door. Genuine mountain climbers do not struggle up great precipices for the glory of it. They know that glory is only a label given by others. A true climber climbs for the experience of climbing.” Ch’an Master Sheng-yen,