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Kayak Race kayak racing Kenduskeag Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race whitewater

Not so Fast: Reflections on the Kenduskeag

“What a slog.” The three word Bangor Daily News headline went a long way to describe what many paddlers felt about the 44th annual Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race.

The race, as described by Michael Alden at KenduskeagStream CanoeRace.com, is “held annually on the third weekend of April, [and] is the largest paddling event in New England and one of the largest in the country. Hosted by the Bangor Dept. of Parks & Recreation, the 16.5 mile race begins in the Town of Kenduskeag and ends near the confluence of the Penobscot River in downtown Bangor.”

For the 2010 version, you had to be a scrapper. Between the chilly gray weather (snow flurries at the start) and the low water conditions which meant for very bumpy trips over Six Mile Falls, some of those who had planned to participate apparently made last minute decisions not to show. A total of 889 paddlers competed, roughly 100 fewer than last year.

The Kenduskeag race, which has been run every year since 1967, has a lot of history — and this is part of what makes it special. When you are out there paddling, you are competing not only against 800 -900 other paddlers but against the thousands of others who have done the race in previous years — and who will do the race in coming years. Even more importantly, if you are a veteran of the race, you are also competing against your former and future self.

In a high water year, it’s easy to feel like a grown up athlete playing t-ball, or a golfer hitting drives on the moon. There you are, speeded by PEC’s (performance enhancing currents), strutting down the river with big grin on your face, putting your times from other years to shame. In contrast, a low water year brings a certain sobriety. You paddle hard, maybe harder than ever before — and still your times do not measure up.

This year was a low water year with a capital L. Several race veterans stated they don’t remember the river being any lower. The winning paddler, Trever Maclean, paddled the course in 2:19:05 — and thereby earned the ignominious distinction of having the slowest winning time in recent memory. My review of the records shows it may be the slowest winning time since 1988, when Lee Martin and John Mathiew paddled a C2 Medium (2-person medium racing canoe) to a time of 2:27.46.

The trend in the last 4 years has been toward slower winning times and slower times overall. What is going on here? Is it that modern paddlers, despite their caffeinated energy drinks, carbon-infused paddles, and gym-chiseled physiques just can’t hold a paddle up to their forebears?

The 10-mile stretch of flatwater between Kenduskeag and Bangor provided plenty of time to meditate on the ways that low water slows you down: (1) low water means less current, taking several miles per hour off your average speed; (2) low water means more distance, as it requires more maneuvering to find deeper water and to avoid rocks; (3) low water means increased influence of “shallow water drag.” This invisible and sometimes overlooked factor is probably the strongest of the three. Some have claimed that paddling in water as shallow as 12″ increases drag and resistance by up to 90%.

Losing a foot or two of river depth adds up to a big deal, or at least that is what I was more than a little motivated to prove, given that my own times have also been getting slower.

Streamflow and river height are two factors that might allow comparisons between different years. The recently installed USGS gauge on the Kenduskeag measured 4.4 feet on race day. Unfortunately there is no such data from previous years.

Lacking that data, I considered several other methods that might allow comparison of times from year to year. I decided to use the average of the top 20 times from each year as a baseline for determining whether the river was running fast or slow, also understanding that the size and competitiveness of field does vary, which makes these comparisons somewhat inexact:

Year / Winning Time (Name of Winner) / Average Time of Top 20 Finishers*:
2007 / 1:53 (Owen & Woodward) / 2:07
2008 / 1:57 (Maclean & Hall) / 2:15
2009 / 2:19 (Maclean) / 2:42
2010 / 2:19 (Maclean) /2:50
*Times rounded off to nearest minute.

Assuming the field was equally competitive in the past four years, we can conclude that the river was slowest in 2010 — and that for even the winning paddlers, it was 26 minutes slower than in 2007, which was a high water year. For the “average top 20 paddler,” the river was 8 minutes slower than last year (another low water year) and a whopping 43 minutes slower than in 2007

We can also conclude that the most impressive win in the last 4 years was actually Trevor Maclean’s win this year. His time was 31 minutes faster than this years “top 20 average.” This makes sense in that this year Maclean was pushed hard by Robert Lang, who finished 2nd just a few minutes behind Maclean, and who would have had an even faster time, had he not capsized twice during the race.

My look at the numbers also supports a couple of other somewhat common sense conclusions: (1) high water tends to clump the field while low water spreads it out; (2) in low water, single kayaks probably have an advantage relative to tandem kayaks, canoes, and war canoes.

My times in the past 4 years were 2:04:54, 2:13:17, 2:38:53, and 2:38:49.

I was happy to find that even though my times have been trending slower, my performances relative to river conditions (and the average of the 20 fastest times) have been improving. In the last 4 years, my margin over the “top 20 average” has been 2 minutes, 2 minutes. 3.5 minutes, and 10.5 minutes respectively.

Maybe low water isn’t so bad after all.

If you’d like to read more, my blog about last year’s race is here

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kayak racing kayaking paddling whitewater

The Perfect Line

An imaginary line runs the length of the river. It winds around switchback turns and is stretched taut on the straightaways. At times it is exactly equidistant from the left and right banks. At times it curves only slightly to pass a whisker-width away from a rock. Other times, it swings wide to to the left to skim the edge of a wave train, slings far to the right to avoid bogging down in the shallows, or zigzags manically through a maze of rocks.

Finding and following that line — riding it — is the grail of the river racer. You can’t always see it, but you know it when you find it. And there is a certain joy when you do, when your muscle and the river’s muscle join forces, and your boat surges downstream

The line isn’t easy to find. It is even harder to hold. The very nature of paddling involves losing that line even as you find it. Each paddle stroke is to the left or right of the center line of your boat — and thus immediately needs to be balanced with the next stroke. A boat does not travel down a river like a car on a road. It tends to slide and skid through the turns. The river is a braided rope of currents each moving at differing speeds. Make the turn too wide and the current slings you and then pins you against the outside bank. Make the turn too far on the inside, and you can be bogged down an eddy. And then there are the rocks.

The dream is to fly down the river on a line, dodging rocks without getting off course, riding the current when you can. Every plant of the paddle will be perfect — and will keep you riding that invisible line. The trick is to avoid being pulled off course by currents. To stay straight through standing waves big as refrigerators.

Practice all you want and you will still not be prepared. It rains (or doesn’t rain) prior to the race, and the water level is a 2 feet higher (or lower) than you expected. Rocks you have never seen before poke their dark noses above the surface. Or the light is different — there is a glare on the water — and today you simply cannot see the rocks. Or maybe as you enter a round a bend to difficult stretch of whitewater, a canoe is there, in front of you, turned broadside to the current. A few had strokes to the left and you are paddling an unfamiliar line in a part of the river you have not paddled before.

A trip down a river is always an improvisation. One of the first things you learn is that it can’t be entirely planned beforehand. If there is a script, you will leave it. A lot of your time will be spent trying to get back to it.

Canoes and kayaks cut 130 lines down the Passagassawakeag River last Saturday, during the annual Passy River Race. None of the lines were perfect. But perhaps some of them were close. You get to the take-out and you want to make the run again. But you can’t return to the same lines. So you seek new ones. You go onward. This weekend, it will be the Soudabscook and the Marsh Stream. Then it will be the Kenduskeag, the East Machais, Machias, the Meduxnakeag, the Aroostook, the Union, the Sebec.

You start seeing lines in the water. You start seeing lines in your dreams. You are a river racer.

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Maine rivers paddling whitewater

Maine Whitewater Season Begins March 27

Early rains and early snow melt make for an early whitewater paddling season. Paddlers have been out on the St. George River, the Passagassawakeag River, and the Marsh Stream, among others.

The first whitewater race of the season is the annual YMCA-sponsored St. George River Race on Saturday, March 27. The full race schedule, which continues on through the spring and summer, is now up on the MaCKRO website. Those who catch the fever can race just about every week until October.

Whitewater racing (and especially early season whitewater racing) may not be for everyone. However, as Waldo County YMCA director Dale Cross states in a recent BDN article, the first two races of the season are among the easiest — and they help prepare paddlers for more challenging races later in the season. And newcomers needn’t be intimidated by the term “race” as it only loosely applies to the experience of many who participate in these events. For many paddlers, these “races” are an opportunity to get out on the water, have fun, and hang out with other paddlers — and maybe get a new t-shirt in the bargain.

Having at least a little paddling experience doesn’t hurt. Having a wetsuit and neoprene gloves doesn’t hurt either. Many of the more experienced paddlers shun wetsuits, however. Cold water is a concern — but often the heat of the race helps paddlers compensate for that. Many of those who have paddled the Kenduskeag Stream race on a 50-degree April day state that by the time they reached Six-Mile Falls, they were so overheated, the thought of a swim was actually quite enticing.

The MaCKRO forum is a great place for aspiring paddlers and racers to ask questions, find paddling buddies, borrow equipment, and more.

See you on the river!

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Skiin’ n’ Scrapin’ Across the County

Cross country skiing in Waldo County in the past month has been a study in contrasts. A little more than 3 weeks ago, we had some of the deepest, lightest, most ski-able snow we have had in years. Yet now, less than a month later and still in what should be the epicenter of winter, we have endured a snow drought that has found us using our beater skis and scraping across all kinds of terrain including leaves, pine needles, hay fields, dirt roads, and rocks. Ever try crossing a stone wall on skis? I don’t recommend it.

The map at above approximates the route of our Skyscraper Hill ski trip 3 weeks ago, when the snow was still deep and powdery. We headed west from Route 203 on a snowmobile trail that led us to Ellis Pond. Once there, we skied out onto the pond and then picked it up the trail again on the other side. North of Ellis Pond where the trail splits, we turned north toward Lake Passagassawakeag . We skied the length of the lake and then continued to follow snowmobile trails north to top of Skyscraper Hill in Brooks. The day was cold, but snow conditions were excellent; we had plenty to eat and plenty of clothes, and we stayed out as long as we could.

Our more recent adventure involved a trip from the Ducktrap River Preserve on the northwest side of Route 52 in Lincolnville. Just a few dozen yards from the road, we crossed a 30 foot stretch of frozen mud. Further up the trail, the track was so littered with pine needles, twigs, and other debris from pine trees that we could do little more than trudge.

Beyond that the snow surface was more skiable, but still “very thin” in places. After another half mile or so of frustrating conditions, we decided to look for something better. We doubled back and took a tracked trail that led northeast and then northwest again up the long shoulder of Gould Hill. Some of the best snow conditions of the day were on the lower part of the hill. The crust was soft and the cover was consistent. However, as we continued upward, there were more of the expected “thin spots.” I wondered if skiing downhill over patches of leaves would lead to a sudden deceleration and spills. I am happy to report that my skis handled the mixed surface of maple and beech leaves quite well, and while they did result in a lost of speed, for the most part you could ski right through them.

Once you’ve crossed your first dozen yards of dry ground on cross country skis, whole new worlds open up. Why accept a lack of snow as a limiting factor? We crossed a ten acre hay field (almost entirely sans snow) on our return trip. The downhill runs weren’t very fast — but heck the late afternoon light was real pretty and it felt good to be out.

Just to prove that we are not the only hardcore skiers out there: a short leaf skiing Youtube video is here.

Meanwhile, the daylight grows and the rivers and bays will soon start beckoning. The St. George River Race is in a little more than a month. Online registration for the April 17 Kenduskeag Stream Canoe Race is now open.

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kayaking sea kayaking

Top Online Resources for Sea Kayakers

For the diehard paddler there are two kinds of weather: weather that is good for paddling and weather that’s good for reading about paddling. The recent cold weather makes this a good time to expand your knowledge and to catch up on the latest controversies, innovations, and new developments in the world of paddling. Here are a few of our favorite kayaking resources:

Paddling.net The Advice, Suggestions, & General Help Forum on this site is a great place to get answers on paddling related questions. Other parts of P-Net (as frequent users have come to call it) also includes kayak reviews, trip reports, articles, photos, and links to manufacturers and outfitters. A great all-around paddling resource. Probably the best place to go if you are one-stop shopping for information on boats or paddling.

Kayakpaddling.net Got a technique question? You can read about it all you want. You can watch all the videos you want. But likely neither will be as helpful as the animations on this site. Holding the paddle, the forward stroke, the eskimo roll, and many other techniques are featured.

Sea Kayaker Magazine America’s top sea kayaking magazine has a useful website as well. Not all magazine content is available here, but featured articles and the ever-popular kayak reviews are included. Also included are links to kayak clubs, water trails, and an event calendar. Some good reading here.

Atlantic Kayak Tours The online “Expert Center” of this Saugerties, New York outfitter features an extensive set of articles on everything from gear selection to kayak repair to safety, navigation, and technique. The well-written articles are accompanied by photos, diagrams, and animations. A great resource — as useful and as in-depth as most kayak books.

The resources below are of interest to Maine and New England paddlers:

MaCKRO.org The website of the Maine Canoe and Kayak Racing Organization. You don’t have to be a racer to visit the site, join the club, or participate in one of the races. Canoe and kayak racing isn’t so much about racing as it is about developing a cameraderie with other paddlers and appreciating rivers, anyway. A current focus of the club is on promoting youth paddling and encouraging more people to try this sport. Included is a forum where you can get ask questions about paddling, get information on races, find a boat — or sell one.

Maine Island Trail The Maine Island trail association website provides information about this spectacular 375-mile water trail (America’s first) as well as about the organization. Included are articles about Leave No Trace techniques and boating safety. To travel the trail, you will need to join the club (and thereby receive the island guidebook). The website is your key on how to get information to do just that. Highly recommended for ocean paddlers.

Maine Bureau of Parks and Lands This site includes a searchable database of Maine State Parks and Maine State Public Reserved Lands. A great resource for those wanting to paddle wilderness lakes and ponds. Some of the reserved lands offer free camping.

GoMoos The Gulf of Maine Ocean Observing System provides real-time data of ocean conditions from buoys off the Maine coast. This site is a great compliment to NOAA forecasts and land-centric weather stations.

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kayak kayaking Maine rivers paddling St. George

Fall Whitewater and Other Well-Kept Secrets

The morning of November 29 started sunny and seasonally cool, with temperatures in the low 30’s. By 11:00 AM, there we were, paddles wheeling through the bright water, embarking on a trip that would include a heretofore unexplored stretch of our favorite Maine river. We had planted a vehicle in Appleton, some 10 miles away. Besides a few sentences in a guidebook printed 20 years ago and a quick perusal of the section on Google Earth, we had nothing to go on — which suited us just fine. Seeing something new, in essence, is what river travel is all about.

We put in on the St. George River in our usual spot in Searsmont. The water level at the put-in — several feet up over the “summer banks” proved to be an omen for good paddling. The river south of the Ghent Road bridge was fast, deep, and full of standing waves. The drop at Magog (usually considered a Class III) was fun and easy.

In the past, we’ve taken out at the Route 105 bridge– and looked wistfully on downstream, but this time, riding the swift current and with the late fall sunshine full on our faces, we were on our way down a wooded corridor that (if all went well) would bring us out at the Sennebec Road bridge in the center of Appleton.

The Class I-II rapids south of the Route 105 bridge transitioned into flatwater a few hundred yards below. Much of the rest of the trip to Appleton was flatwater, mixed with some easy Class I. At one point, an eagle soared high overhead. A beaver crossed the glassy surface in front of us, creasing the water with his wake. Stands of hardwoods lined the banks. Lazy trees extended far out over the water, their trunks just above our heads.

In a few places, downed trees formed strainers and thickets that we had to “river-whack” our way through. A hundred yards above the Appleton bridge, the current picked up and the rapids become a Class II. We took out above the bridge and then walked the bridge and the river, studying the drop and plotting our next trip in which we are pledged to “paddle on through.”

Previously I subscribed to the myth that whitewater season here in coastal Maine is limited to a couple of months in the spring. This year, beginning in March, we got out on the local rivers in every month but August. Even now, in late November, the water levels are high — and the water temperatures are warmer than in March or April.

In fact, the greatest “hardship” of paddling this time of year is that the southern trajectery of rivers like the St.George together with the low angle of the sun combine to light the whitewater like silver fire. This makes seeing (and avoiding) the rocks more difficult. But, especially for those who might feel sunlight-deficient this time of year, it is an easy hardship to endure.

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paddling

Great Pumpkin Gets Makeover — Makes Appearances

The Great Pumpkin doesn’t sit around idly waiting for Halloween any more. You may have read about the pumpkin boat races in Damariscotta a few weeks back. Apparently these races in which people paddle hollowed-out 600 pound pumpkins or afix outboard motors to them are sprouting up all over. Goffstown New Hampshire, Nekoosa Wisconsin, Sacramento, and Germany are just a few of the other sites of recent pumpkin boat races.

On land, pumpkins are not generally known for their speed. One might guess that the same would be true once they are placed in the water. I checked out several news stories as well as a few Youtube videos of Pumpkin Boat Races. I am happy to report that my research supported my supposition.

The would-be boat designer in me wants to know if a pumpkin can be encouraged to grow into a more hydrodynamic shape. A quick perusal of MentalFloss archives suggests that maybe this is true. The writer there experimented with using various containers as molds for her pumpkins. Hmmm . . . the first kayak of entirely compostable materials may not be far off.

. . . Which got me thinking: if you can paddle a pumpkin, is there any material you cannot make a boat from? Back to Google where I had already found 2.4 million hits for “pumpkin boat.” I tried “cement boat” (2.8 million hits), and “cardboard boat” (151, 000 hits). Other web sites went into the intricacies of cork boats, steel boats, trash boats, and boats made of plastic bottles.

On a somewhat bigger scale, the Plastiki, a 60-foot catamaran built from 20,000 re-claimed plastic bottles, is in its final months of construction out in San Francisco. The Plastiki is set to launch in April for its 12,000 mile journey across the Pacific. The stated goal of the journey: “The Plastiki Expedition is a bold adventure that aims to capture the world’s imagination and draw our attention to the state of our oceans.” In particular, the 6 member crew will study ocean acidification, marine debris, overfishing, and coral bleaching.

Anyone else feel inspired? A pumpkin boat race across Belfast Harbor would be great fun. Keep that in mind as you start to go over seed catalogs a few months from now. That’s one thing about pumpkin boat racing: it teaches you to plan ahead.

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Downeast Maine Great Wass

Not a Drop to Drink

Made the trip up to Addison last weekend to close up camp. Boarded up a few windows, secured the tarp that serves as a shed door, unplugged the well pump, drained the pipes and water heater, put antifreeze down the drains, and used a compressor to blow out any remaining water (let’s hope). Propped the fridge door open, pushed the front door shut from the inside (only way to get it securely closed), and made the usual ungraceful exit out the back window.

The annual rite of draining pipes and shutting off the water is for many camp owners fittingly symbolic of the end of summer, requiring resolve, decisiveness, and — often as not — more than a little remorse.

If beings from another planet were to do an anthropological study of New Englanders, they would likely be intrigued by our fixation with water. They would notice that in the summertime, we frequently make long pilgrimages to large bodies of water. Once there, we characteristically shed most of our clothes and recline beside it, swim in it, or go out boating on it. Particularly at dawn and sunset, they would notice groups of us staring out across it, as if in prayer. Near the end of the day great numbers of us gather in eating places that are — you guessed it — beside the water. And then, for good measure, we return to our homes or hotel rooms and douse off with a long shower.

In a land of such water abundance, it is no wonder we take much of our daily water use for granted. According to Drinktap.org the per capita daily use of household water in the US is 69.3 gallons. The biggest chunks of that are for washing clothes and showers.

They say the next world war will be fought over water. That is hard to imagine, living here in the Northeast. It’s easier to imagine when you look at daily per capita water consumption in other countries. In Haiti,for example, that figure is 1.2 gallons.

Ironic water fact of the day: The manufacture of a one liter plastic bottle uses 7 litres of water.

The trip to close up camp wasn’t all penitential. It was also an excuse for a kayak trip around Head Harbor Island. Contrary to the forecasts, our day of paddling started with blue skies and bright sunshine. The weathered black cliffs along the shoreline of Head Harbor Island and the hundreds of seals in Head Harbor, the Cow’s Yard, and Eastern Bay were among the highlights.

Just because the camp is closed up doesn’t mean we won’t go back there again before spring, of course. The camp will be dry, but there’s plenty of water — for paddling at least — off Moosabec Reach.

Water Almanac for October: Through last week, despite the snowy winter and impossibly wet spring and early summer, precipitation for the year stands at 33.3 inches,just 3.6 inches above normal. Penobscot Bay water temperatures are down to 54 degrees after a high of about 67.4 degrees on August 18. Area streamflows are above average for this time of year, with the Ducktrap River running at 22 cubic feet per second.

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Downeast Maine Great Wass Island Camping Jonesport kayaking Maine islands The Sands

Sleeping on a Tide Table: A Kayak Trip to The Sands, off Jonesport, Maine

” . . A smidgen of ledge and sand that lies between Inner and Outer Sands Islands. But it’s a beautiful smidgen,with Petit Manan Point in the distance to the west and Great Wass Island a looming presence to the east . . . It is open to any weather, and the highest tides sweep right over the island. It’s a nice place to visit when the seas are calm. –Dorcas Miller, Kayaking the Maine Coast

The Sands is an enchanting place, little more than a sand bar, about 10 miles south-southwest of Jonesport, Maine. It’s a Bureau of Public Lands island visited by seals, seabirds, the occasional plucky kayaker and not much else. The panoramic views. The openness to the sky. The fineness of the sand. The spectacular remote location with Inner and Outer Sands islands nearby and the mountains of Acadia and the Camden Hills visible in the distance. The closeness (and vulnerability) of the island to the tides — all make it unique, and endearing. I have visited The Sands a half dozen times over the last half-dozen years and have had it in the back of my mind that one day I would camp there.

In mid-August, a span of 4 days off, settled weather, light winds and an enthusiastic paddling partner each pushed the window of opportunity open a bit further. A little voice spoke to us, and the voice said, “Go for it.” A pre-trip examination of tide tables showed that we were due for some of the highest tides of the year, which would make camping on The Sands even more dramatic — and, if the seas were not calm, foolhardy.

According to the charts, we were due for the highest tides of the month, perhaps the highest of the year. (See this link for an explanation of why some tides are higher than others). The height of the tide in Jonesport on August 20th was forecast at 14.3 feet , at least 2 feet above the average. The forecast called for continuing settled whether, a clear night, and nearly windless conditions, which would be ideal — and necessary — for camping on The Sands.

We put our fully loaded kayaks in at Indian River at the top of the tide and rode the retreating tide south out along the eastern shore of Crowley Island, much of which is owned by the Pleasant River Wildlife Foundation. Our route then carried us past the Goose Islands, Duck Ledges, Hardwood Island, Stevens Island, Drisko, and Inner Sands.

On Stevens Island, we saw (and smelled) the decaying carcass of a 30 to 40 foot whale . Comments in the Stevens Island logbook (Stevens is a BPL Island and part of the Maine Island Trail) identified the carcass as that of a right whale and indicated it had been the for more than a month. Later I read online that right whales are a precariously endangered species — as stated by RightWhale.org “the world’s rarest, large whale, continues to face many problems on its slow road to recovery.”

Arriving on The Sands at around 4:00 PM, just after absolute low tide, we trekked up the intertidal zone to the highest point on the island — a vertical rise of approximately 16 feet. There we examined the rings of seaweed that served as footprints of recent high tides. If they proved to be an accurate indicator, our island would shrink to little more than 45 feet x 15 feet at the time of high tide, about a half hour before midnight that evening.

The weather was calm and the sunset was spectacular. This was reassuring. I will admit to feeling a tad anxious as the moonless night deepened and the dark ocean drew closer. Before zipping myself into the tent, I re-checked the kayaks. Earlier I had secured the hatches and cockpit openings, made sure paddling paddling gear was ready for use, and tied the kayaks to our tent. If the wind picked up or the tides were higher than predicted, it might mean abandoning the tent and sleeping bags — and making a midnight headlamp-illuminated paddle to nearby Inner Sands Island. The bouldered shoreline there would make for a difficult landing, especially in the dark, but that was the fallback plan.

We retreated to our tent by 10:30 PM or so — and listened, as only one on such a small island can listen, as the tide crept closer and the constant cacophony of gentle surf approached from all sides. We were still awake at midnight when the surf began to slip back, away from us. We did not look out but slept assured that we had remained dry through the advance of the tide and that our island was now growing larger again.

We woke to thick fog. The forecast of increasing winds and unsettled conditions meant our hope to spend more time on The Sands — and to explore the islands to the south and southeast would have to wait for another time. (As it happened the first waves from Hurricane Bill would reach that area in less than two days.) After packing the boats, we island-hopped our way back to Crowley Island, navigating largely by compass, as visibility in the fog was less than 1/4 mile. We returned up the west side of Crowley Island, which is largely privately owned and rockier than the eastern shore.

The trip was — through both conscious effort and fortunate happenstance — carried out in a happy harmony with the tides. We put in at the top of the tide and rode the retreating tide south to The Sands. We set up camp and cooked dinner and then retreated to our tent just as our island shrunk to it’s smallest dimensions. We woke the next morning to an expanded island, breakfasted in the same “kitchen” that had been washed clean by the last night’s waves, and then launched as the tide reached within a dozen feet of our kayaks. Our trip north through the fog was slowed by the dropping tide. We reached the bridge to Crowley Island just in time to avoid becoming hopelessly marooned in a sea of brown mud.

Some would undoubtedly think such a trip needless at best and foolishly dangerous at worst. Why do it then? A place like that certainly opens up your senses. Perhaps also because the experience of sleeping on a sand bar just a few feet above the tide puts us back in touch with the truth that our survival does depend on the fine balances in nature. The reality is that in our lives as individuals and in our survival as species, we live daily on the brink of survival and on the brink of calamity. That brink, that edge where the tide comes in and engulfs dry land, can be a frightening place — but also a beautiful one.