We pull up at beach after beach, shopping in the way that surfers do, comparing the waves at each break along the Delaware shore. At the first stop I brace myself for disappointment, trying to lower my expectations since I have heard little positive about surfing the US east coast other than North Carolina.
Cresting the path over the dunes, I am surprised by the waves. They steadily pelt the sand, regularly spaced, too close to shore but curling nicely. We move on in search of a more forgiving place to surf our kayaks for the first time. Yet the second beach looks meaner, the waves crashing in even shallower water. I envision being thrown into the sand with my kayak on top of me. We move on, driving all the way around to the north entrance of Henlopen State Park.
Roof racks, surfboards, and people in hooded wetsuits let us know that this is the spot as soon as we reach the parking lot. We dress nervously for the cold water, still frigid beneath the bright sun. I walk to the bluff for a glimpse of the seal-like surfers hopping waves by the jetty and my stomach flutters. Is this really a good idea? These boats are for whitewater and rivers, not meant for beatdowns in the sand.
We paddle out, helping each other launch before easily pushing past the zone of crashing waves to the gentle swells beyond. With the exception of a few poorly timed waves hitting me hard in the gut, paddling out in a kayak is much easier than on a surfboard. After waiting a while the next wave curls invitingly, "What are you waiting for? Got something better to do?" and I paddle hard. Two strokes, the kayak grabs the wave and we are off, front surfing, carving, magic.
Later on, I find that the boat surfs just as well with or without me. I flip forward and hang upside down as the boat continues in towards shore undeterred. The washing machine is fiercer than I remember from regular surfing. Eventually things get quiet. Finally I roll up and catch my breath in the shallows before paddling out.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Oakland, California
Early morning on the canal by Jack London Square, a clear blue sky opens an unseasonably hot spell. We stroll down the boardwalk of a rough neighborhood gone condo. Mostly. From the waterfront the riots of a few days past are unseen, unheard, though their imprint remains.
The contrast of this pale pearl-colored water is so stark, the soft clinking movements of boats in the marina so dispassionate, the dogs so mundane on their walks before their owners scurry to work. At the edge, brown ducks dive among sawed-off pilings. The half-submerged cylinders are bone-white and dislocated without the dock that must have been. Closer to the square, kayaks lie stacked in the sun, heavy machinery lies unmanned on a new hotel site, and even the sun seems to hold its breath as it rises.
On the other side of town, we walk to Lake Merritt, brimming with birds and the mussels they pluck from shallow brine. Not a freshwater lake but an inlet of San Francisco bay, its boundaries are ringed by grass and a paved path streams steadily with walkers circumnavigating its several-mile loop. At one end a personal trainer pitches his services for two bucks, standing at attention between weights and a fitness ball. At another, winter greens grow in cordoned-off community plots. The least hospitable stretch narrows to unadorned concrete with cars rushing by.
Yet flowing water and the constant movement of wings proclaim peace, an oasis among urban violence and noise. Tall trees reach across the grass, a homeless man wakes, and seven television news vans line up in a row, antennae extended for more bad news.
The contrast of this pale pearl-colored water is so stark, the soft clinking movements of boats in the marina so dispassionate, the dogs so mundane on their walks before their owners scurry to work. At the edge, brown ducks dive among sawed-off pilings. The half-submerged cylinders are bone-white and dislocated without the dock that must have been. Closer to the square, kayaks lie stacked in the sun, heavy machinery lies unmanned on a new hotel site, and even the sun seems to hold its breath as it rises.
On the other side of town, we walk to Lake Merritt, brimming with birds and the mussels they pluck from shallow brine. Not a freshwater lake but an inlet of San Francisco bay, its boundaries are ringed by grass and a paved path streams steadily with walkers circumnavigating its several-mile loop. At one end a personal trainer pitches his services for two bucks, standing at attention between weights and a fitness ball. At another, winter greens grow in cordoned-off community plots. The least hospitable stretch narrows to unadorned concrete with cars rushing by.
Yet flowing water and the constant movement of wings proclaim peace, an oasis among urban violence and noise. Tall trees reach across the grass, a homeless man wakes, and seven television news vans line up in a row, antennae extended for more bad news.
Monday, January 5, 2009
St. Lawrence Seaway, Montreal
Montreal is a long way inland for an island surrounded by salt water. A petite mountain covered in snow, the city in January shimmers with light for scant hours each day. Warmly dressed pedestrians fill the streets undeterred. And yet, on New Year's eve at negative thirty celsius, the plaza fills with people and fiddles fill the air, amplified voices carrying across the harbor. Chunks of ice shift. Sleeping fish stir in the mud, awaiting spring.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Patagonian Fjords, at the far end of the Americas
Cathedrals of Yosemite granite stretch above our heads, covered by lush temperate rainforests to rival the Amazon. Here in Southern Chile and below these icy waters lie coral gardens rarely seen by human eyes. Eight hours of the droning motor finally carries our small boat beyond the clouding influence of rivers and glaciers, and we slip into the fjord for a dive with high hopes.
What seems like a layer of dust carpets the first few meters of dead mussel shells, the fringes of a nearly vertical ecosystem. Farther down we cross terraces formed by the advance and retreat of glaciers in the recent geologic past. Still deeper a garden awaits, individual flowers spaced across pink coralline paint that grows like wallpaper all across a smooth diagonal stone floor (or is it a wall?). Each flower a coral, or sponge, or waving arms of a sea cucumber in yellow, pink, orange and white. Furtive movements skirt my peripheral vision as harlequin-painted shrimp and slender fish preen before scurrying past.
From above all is hidden by a thick surface layer of accumulated rain. Glaciers greet the ocean with sediment, milky and opaque. Great rivers add their own contributions moss, tree drippings and leavings from the village upstream. A village wary of frigid, powerful currents, where scant few catch a glimpse of the living seafloor.
And so this garden grows in secret, visited rarely by fishermen and frequently by seabirds. Bone-like fans and solitary sea whips arch to face the current. Oversized hermit crabs roam the floor in gaudy purple gloves. Algae spread slowly all the while, drinking dim sunlight as it trickles toward the deep.
What seems like a layer of dust carpets the first few meters of dead mussel shells, the fringes of a nearly vertical ecosystem. Farther down we cross terraces formed by the advance and retreat of glaciers in the recent geologic past. Still deeper a garden awaits, individual flowers spaced across pink coralline paint that grows like wallpaper all across a smooth diagonal stone floor (or is it a wall?). Each flower a coral, or sponge, or waving arms of a sea cucumber in yellow, pink, orange and white. Furtive movements skirt my peripheral vision as harlequin-painted shrimp and slender fish preen before scurrying past.
From above all is hidden by a thick surface layer of accumulated rain. Glaciers greet the ocean with sediment, milky and opaque. Great rivers add their own contributions moss, tree drippings and leavings from the village upstream. A village wary of frigid, powerful currents, where scant few catch a glimpse of the living seafloor.
And so this garden grows in secret, visited rarely by fishermen and frequently by seabirds. Bone-like fans and solitary sea whips arch to face the current. Oversized hermit crabs roam the floor in gaudy purple gloves. Algae spread slowly all the while, drinking dim sunlight as it trickles toward the deep.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Ozette and the Olympic Coast
The bright grey morning calls me awake, softly, with muffled waves below my perch. I am careful not to move suddenly, in a lone sleeping bag wrapped in nylon on top of a high bluff on the beach. It's not strictly recommended to sleep here, in just barely enough square footage to lie down before the grass drops off steeply to piled driftwood and 360 degrees views of the ocean and temperate rainforest of the Olympic Coast National Marine Sanctuary. But with good weather and cautious intentions, I slept peacefully under the stars.
A quick scan with the binoculars reveal a mother otter and her pup breaking their fast with shellfish, immediately below the bluff. For hours they perform on the stage below, diving, eating, floating, and playing among the fronds of kelp; a daily ballet of parent and child. When the mother dives, the pup ducks its head below, though its buoyant fur prevents true immersion. Next the pup mimics cracking mussels on rocks, or to be specific it's not sure exactly what the mother otter is doing but waves its paws as the first step. Eating the fruit of these labors is of course is no problem, and both otters happily breakfast together on the kelp forest's bounty.
A quick scan with the binoculars reveal a mother otter and her pup breaking their fast with shellfish, immediately below the bluff. For hours they perform on the stage below, diving, eating, floating, and playing among the fronds of kelp; a daily ballet of parent and child. When the mother dives, the pup ducks its head below, though its buoyant fur prevents true immersion. Next the pup mimics cracking mussels on rocks, or to be specific it's not sure exactly what the mother otter is doing but waves its paws as the first step. Eating the fruit of these labors is of course is no problem, and both otters happily breakfast together on the kelp forest's bounty.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Morehead City, North Carolina
"A huge fish just came in, I'm not sure what it is..." and so a giant bluefin arrives at the dock outside Morehead's Sanitary restaurant. They say the season has started slowly in North Carolina but the grins on the crew's faces and their foul weather gear smeared in blood speak for themselves. The tall white boat with an open deck and fixed rods for reeling in giants has clearly been here before.
This time, the biggest bluefin tuna lies stiff on a heap of ice, shining with two rows of triangles top and bottom. In overcast light, the headless 400-pound fish is pushed, shoved, and hauled onto a stretcher-like tarp which allows it to be moved by four men with great difficulty up to the dock and across to a waiting pick-up truck that arrived only minutes ago.
Someone slips on the wet gunwhale and their leg is briefly caught between the fish and the dock. The leg seems tiny. It's hard to imagine being attached to such a large animal by a thin plastic line as it fights the hook and and swims for its life. A handful of admirers have spilled from the Sanitary restaurant to train digital cameras on the scene. The air is jubilant. Though no money has yet changed hands, this single fish could be worth thousands of dollars. If it's been handled right and can be sold for sushi, that figure increases by a power of ten.
Two more tuna half its size lie waiting. Even the largest catch today is hardly full-grown for a species that easily boasts 1000 pounds and circles the ocean during in its annual migrations. The bluefin tuna is a powerful, warm-blooded, swimming machine that we are only beginning to appreciate through satellite tagging and other hi-tech research that is gives a window to their lives on a planetary scale.
This time, the biggest bluefin tuna lies stiff on a heap of ice, shining with two rows of triangles top and bottom. In overcast light, the headless 400-pound fish is pushed, shoved, and hauled onto a stretcher-like tarp which allows it to be moved by four men with great difficulty up to the dock and across to a waiting pick-up truck that arrived only minutes ago.
Someone slips on the wet gunwhale and their leg is briefly caught between the fish and the dock. The leg seems tiny. It's hard to imagine being attached to such a large animal by a thin plastic line as it fights the hook and and swims for its life. A handful of admirers have spilled from the Sanitary restaurant to train digital cameras on the scene. The air is jubilant. Though no money has yet changed hands, this single fish could be worth thousands of dollars. If it's been handled right and can be sold for sushi, that figure increases by a power of ten.
Two more tuna half its size lie waiting. Even the largest catch today is hardly full-grown for a species that easily boasts 1000 pounds and circles the ocean during in its annual migrations. The bluefin tuna is a powerful, warm-blooded, swimming machine that we are only beginning to appreciate through satellite tagging and other hi-tech research that is gives a window to their lives on a planetary scale.
Myrtle Beach, South Carolina
Shag on the Strand (SOS) swept through Myrtle Beach again this fall, as it has every year for a generation or two. Beach music played too loud, smiling faces with a little too much make-up, and off-season hotels filled for a solid week of dancing. And these people can dance. The loafers, the bermuda shorts, the tight white pants aren't as flattering as they used to be, but the hips still swing and the feet know how to hover.
While the road behind is an unremarkable mess of concrete and neon, the nighttime lap of waves on soft sand remains. Buildings have sprung up along the beachfront but are mostly low-rise, bordered by snow fencing along cresting dunes here and there. Perhaps only the beach itself looks as bright, as sparkling as the original Shag craze of the 1940s and 50s.
While the road behind is an unremarkable mess of concrete and neon, the nighttime lap of waves on soft sand remains. Buildings have sprung up along the beachfront but are mostly low-rise, bordered by snow fencing along cresting dunes here and there. Perhaps only the beach itself looks as bright, as sparkling as the original Shag craze of the 1940s and 50s.
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