Horn Island
Pascagoula, MS
Fall 2005
by Danny Hart
In spite of the rumors that the barrier islands were closed, a couple of friends (Tony and Walter) and I couldn't let our 3-day weekend slip by without taking full advantage of the beautiful fall weather. We wanted the experience so many others have talked about, written about, and captured in art. We decided to take our chances with a trip to Horn Island.
Katrina spared no mercy in the small town of Pascagoula. Amidst piles of debris and beautiful homes left in ruins by the storm, we made our way to the vacant antebellum home where Walter's grandfather once lived on Lake Yazoo. The boat ramp and pier were destroyed but we were able to get our boats on the water and gear loaded without much trouble. With high tide approximately one hour before our launch, we had a fairly smooth departure around 9:45 AM. The north wind was to our backs and the outgoing tide moved us quickly across the ship channel and past the homeport on Singing River Island.
The wind and tide continued to be in our favor as we began the first leg of our journey to Round Island. This was Tony and Walter's first experience with an open-water voyage. Tony, an avid bike rider, was in great shape for the trip but began to notice some problems with his Perception Monarch's tracking in the wind and surf. Walter had no trouble adapting his whitewater experience to the open water. With his rental kayak, an Old Town Adventure XL 139, he took to the surf quite nicely. My Prijon Seayak handled like a dream.
As we approached Round Island, the seas continued to build. We decided to land for lunch on the west end so that we would continue our journey on the lee side. The landing was a blast! Walter and I had not surfed together in years so our landing brought back some really great high school memories of our experiences at the stumps on Dauphin Island. After a quick in-and-out landing on the tiny beach, we took a 15-minute breather for lunch and to check in on our wives (Therese and Lanee) at home (just to reassure them that we were in fact still alive and moving along without any problems).
After a quick bite to eat, we launched from the south side of the beach in effort to avoid the rolling shore break. The lee side of the island was indeed more manageable and our journey continued, next stop - Horn Island. About 2 miles south of Round, we found ourselves in 3-foot seas as we approached the ICW. Tony still had trouble with his boat's tracking, resembling the movement of a busted compass needle, and was moving along at a much slower clip than Walter and I. At this point, the seas weren't as much of a concern as the ship traffic in the ICW. We had to get across quickly to avoid the barge that was bearing down on us from the horizon. I doubled back a couple of times to make sure Tony could make it to the southern buoy ahead of the barge's passing. Paddling into the surf on the double back, my forward deck was smothered with breaking waves. I offered some assistance but Tony was pushing himself hard and holding up well. In spite of his boat's poor tracking, he reassured me that he would not need a tow. We all finally made it out of the 'danger' zone and past the southern buoy of the ship channel with time to spare as the tug and it's cargo passed behind us.
We landed on Horn in only mild surf. Once on the beach (at an area known as Waters House Crossing) we staged our camp about 5 miles from the east end. Tony and I grew up and lived in Pascagoula through high school and had never been to the barrier islands. This was our first time seeing the island, not on the horizon but under our feet. The beach was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and the bugs, well, they were everything we expected them to be. We sprayed ourselves thoroughly with skin-charring insect repellant, in hopes that this would somehow deter the rabid black flies from feasting on our flesh, but the effects upon the hordes of them were minimal. We pitched camp, took a short breather, and decided to keep moving in effort to avoid the bloodthirsty flies.
Our hike routed around the one of the lagoons, in an area known as The Gap, crossing a multitude of animal tracks (raccoons, rabbits, and gators among other less-familiars), broken sea shells, and hurricane debris blown in from the storm. We actually found 3 plastic chairs among the debris that proved to be very comfortable later that evening around the camp fire. There was very little live vegetation. Virtually all trees and bushes, though still standing, had turned brown from the high winds and saltwater storm surge. There were also very few bird sightings except for some gulls and one osprey later on in the trip. Although the bloodthirsty flies had not let up completely, their numbers began to subside as we approached the gulf waters on the south side of the island.
The huge beaches on the south side were even more beautiful than the north. We decided to walk west in hopes of catching a nice sunset and maybe seeing a few good sights along the way. About a half-mile into our hike we found a tidal pool full of feeding fish, big feeding fish. Before going any further, we agreed that we needed our fishing tackle so we turned back to camp. Upon our return to the tidal pool we found the fish were still there and still very hungry. I can't recall who caught the first or who caught the largest, but I'm confident enough to go ahead and take full credit for being the most skilled angler that evening (sorry Walt). These were blue fish that we had stumbled upon and they were not picky eaters. Crank baits, spoons, top water, flies, just about everything we threw their way suited their fancy. Hours later, well after sunset, we decided it was time to head back.
With the island turned into a virtual tinderbox, we built the campfire well below the tide line. After a full day of paddling and hiking, dinner around 10:00 pm (followed by a tasty adult beverage) we finally retired to bed. I'm not exactly sure what caused me to wake up from such a deep slumber. Perhaps it was Tony's shrill screams I heard through the heavy north wind. Perhaps it was the fact I could no longer breath comfortably without violently shaking myself awake. Perhaps there had been something in my tasty adult beverage besides scotch. Regardless of the cause, I was awake, very tired, and extremely cold! A cold front made its way through during the night and I quickly learned that a $10 fleece roll, though comfortable in warmer weather, does nothing to protect bare skin from cold wind. I almost felt guilty for recommending it to Tony as suitable bedding for our trip, but I really didn't have time to worry about that at the moment as I proceeded to freeze my better half off in the brutal north wind. Fortunately, my rain fly was just outside and the wind had temporarily swept most of the mosquitoes off to the Land of Oz (key word being 'temporary'). After a quick rain-fly burrito wrap over the fleece, I fell back into my slumber with ample wind protection for the rest of the night. The next morning, Tony had a similar account of a north-wind experience, though he denied any shrill screaming on his part. Who knows? In retrospect, I suppose it could have been my own screams that woke me.
On Saturday, I woke to another picturesque day. The weather was amazing! I removed my burrito wrap and quickly put on my body armor before facing the insect hordes. Tony and Walt were still out cold, so I put on a pot of coffee and began digging through the food stash. The seas were much choppier today, so we decided to go on another hike after breakfast instead of paddling.
Trash and treasure littered the shoreline as we walked east along Horn's north shore. Fishing nets, ropes, pier decks, chairs, plastic storage containers, trash cans, office furniture, a pith hat, we even found a sealed 5 gallon water cooler bottle. We topped off our water bottles with some of the fresh water and continued on our way. At the east end of the island there was a large channel buoy blown on shore. We had seen a couple of people anchored east of our camp and maybe 2 boats that attempted to land, but there were several people in powerboats here, a little too crowded for us. After taking a few pictures of a gator that we found in a nearby lagoon, we rounded the east end and headed back west on the south shore. The bloodthirsty flies continued to pursue us despite our sporadic sprinting, screaming, and rolling in the surf. The water did slow the little bastards down a bit so we redirected our path to a sand bar about 30 feet out from the beach. We were able to walk this bar all the way back to The Gap, our crossover to the north shore. It was on this bar that we saw it. First, it was only a shadow in the surf, then it came closer. It was within seconds of seeing the dorsal fin, that the three of us moved back into the ankle-deep waters of the bar. Walter took a crack at catching it with his spinning tackle, but I had some skepticism that he would be able to land a 6-foot shark on 12 pound test line without the aid of a 12 gauge shot gun. Fortunately, the shark had no interest in the top water plug that Walt was using, so we moved on down the shoreline, casting our lines for lesser fish along the way.
Saturday evening brought another beautiful sunset and more hordes of insects as the north wind subsided. This weakening wind was potentially great news for our trip back the next day, but horrible news in terms of insect control. As the day ended and night crept in, the bloodthirsty flies ended their shift and the mosquitoes began their assault. Once again, Tony, Walt, and I threw on the body armor and moved down to the campfire at the water's edge, where the mosquitoes were a little scarcer.
The three of us had not hung out like this in fifteen years. As we sat around the campfire reflecting on how much fun we were having (in spite of the bloodthirsty hordes), we all sat back in our chairs and laughed. Sounds poetic doesn't it? The fact is, we were in tears, not from nostalgia or the great time we were having, but because Walt floated a big nasty south of the border that drifted downwind to Tony. Fifteen years and nothing had changed between us. Here we are, thirty-something year old 'adults', and entertaining ourselves with a bottle of scotch and flatulent humor. You could really feel the love in the air (once you got past the stench).
Sunday morning was time to go home, back to hurricane-torn Pascagoula, back to work, back to the things that make island overnighters so precious. The north wind had subsided considerably over the past 24 hours and the mosquitoes and flies took full advantage of it as we packed our gear and prepared to escape "Insect Island of the damned". The mosquitoes disappeared as the sun lifted above the trees, but the flies were back with healthy appetites for flesh. We loaded the boats and finally escaped the last fly after about an hour of paddling.
Prior to our departure, Tony and I noticed that his dropdown skeg was jammed. This explained why he was having so much trouble with his boat's tracking on Friday. Well' now it was fixed and ready to navigate the 3-foot seas. To our pleasant surprise, that challenge would not take place on our return trip. I suppose after punishing us with the hordes of bloodthirsty insects, fortune decided to shine a little favor our way. Quite the contrary to our 3-foot seas and 10 - 15 kt winds, the seas were glass and the light north wind had shifted to a light southerly offshore breeze to our backs. We were not facing the north wind and choppy seas that we had expected. The return trip was, in fact, as easy as 6 miles by paddle alone can possibly get. Before reaching the ICW, we entertained a pod of about 30 dolphins that took an interest in us. They stuck with us for about 20 minutes and moved on (perhaps Walt had another foul moment of indiscretion upwind of the pod). After crossing the channel, we came upon a large gelatinous blob covered with tiny bait-size fish seeking refuge from predators. I would estimate the diameter was at least 24' across. We took a few photos of the jellyfish and Walter and I decided to break out the fishing tackle. Walt was fishing his top water plug and I was using a spoon. As we approached Round Island, something hit the spoon and made short work of my line. I haven't the slightest idea what it was, but if I had to guess from an angler's perspective, I would say it was a 12-foot shark or barracuda. Anything less would ruin my fisherman's ego. We landed on the east end of Round Island this time, fished a little, took some pictures, fished a little, had some lunch, and set out to finish our island experience. Walter actually caught a nice pompano on the southeast part of the island. We tried for more with no luck, so we headed back in to the mainland.
The current was fairly swift as we approached the Pascagoula River ship channel. We had to push pretty hard to make it around the rocks at the point. As soon as we made it into the harbor, it was an easy float back into Lake Yazoo where we concluded our 3-day journey. We were all a little tired, a little salty, and very pleased to see Therese and Lanee at the launch to welcome us back. Fortunately, Walt's system was clear of flatulence, otherwise I don't expect we would have received much of a greeting or assistance with the gear from our wives.
As I look back on the experience, words simply cannot describe the enjoyment we all three took away from the trip (bloodthirsty black flies and mosquitoes being the exception). It was time to go home now, but we carried with us some of the experiences that Mr. Anderson framed so well in his art and his writing. Walter Anderson's son describes it well, "Within a very brief period on Horn Island, the course of my life changed in a very good way. These changes have stayed with me. They have comforted me and supported me in difficult times. I have often yearned to share them with others. But have come to realize that they were experiential changes that probably cannot be transmitted through words." HORN ISLAND- Beginning at the Vanishing Point, John Anderson
Click below to view the pics (Adobe Reader required). May take a few minutes to load.http://bellsouthpwp.net/d/a/danehart/Horn%20Island.pdf
Showing posts with label Horn Island. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Horn Island. Show all posts
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Horn Island
June 25-26, 2005
by Tom Meyer
Fred Krause, from Slidell, called me a week or so ago, from a spot on the Mississippi coast, just East of Ocean Springs. He was scouting it, because it was the closest place on the coast to Horn Island, a mere 6.5 miles due south. Fred had been paddling his new QVC-700 Kevlar/Carbon sea kayak, in Lake Ponchartrain for a couple of months, and was dying to try it out in real honest-to-God open water. I said, “How 'bout next weekend?", and posted it as a flash paddle. Pat Cabello, from Mobile, was the only taker, so it was the three of us.
Belle Fountain Point is a bulge in the coast, marked by a large water tower, constructed to look like a lighthouse. There's no light on top, it just looks like a lighthouse. The locals call it the St. Andrews Lighthouse, because of the golf course next to it, by the same name. There is a public access to the water, and a well lit parking lot next to the "lighthouse". There is only about 50 feet of sand beach to cross, but there is a three foot seawall, with a lot of rocks on the water's edge. However, there is a small beach without the seawall or the rocks, at the east end of the access. The water's edge is packed sand but there is a four inch layer of muck, about where the low tide line is. It wasn't a problem. This place is a bit off the beaten path, but there are good directions to it on the Bayou Haystackers website.
We camped in the NPS Campground at Davis Bayou, in Ocean Springs Friday night; $14 for the 3 of us with access to showers and a very nice campground. Interesting fact: if you go into the bathroom late at night, you will see lots of scuttling cockroach sized critters scattering into hiding. Relax, they are tiny crabs. Mama always warned me I could catch crabs in a public bathroom. McElroy's in Ocean Springs, provided excellent Po-Boys and Gumbo for dinner, with a great view of the back bay. Knowing heat and sea conditions were going to be a factor, we decided to take advantage of a more than half full moon, and got up at 3:30 AM, broke camp, and were paddling away from the beach at 5:00 AM sharp.
The tide was low a couple of hours before. There was a light northern breeze and a slight chop to begin with. A 3/4 moon, clear skies, and a good forecast made for high spirits, even at that time of morning. Navigation was pretty straightforward. A compass heading of just a little east of due south (190ยบ) would take us to the "nose" of a prominent bulge in the north coast of Horn Island, a mile or so east of the west end. Not only was this the closest distance between two points, but there was a variety of habitat, dunes, forest, lagoons, and open beach, for exploration. However, we soon gave up stopping to put a light on the compass to check our course. It wasn't hard to notice that if we kept the moon just to the right of our bow, we stayed on course. Tony Chavers had been here sailing recently, and told me to expect not much more than a mild west to east current on a rising tide.
So, with a following sea and a tailwind, we made good time in the crossing. As we went south out of the lee of the mainland, the breeze increased a bit to maybe 8-10mph and the chop maxed out at maybe 2 1/2 feet, well within our paddlers and boat's capabilities. My GPS says it was a 6.58 mile crossing in 1 hour and 50 minutes. I maxed out at 6.5 mph, obviously recorded when I was surfing one of the following seas.
Speaking of boats, I have already told you about Fred's QVC-700 slick top-end ocean specialty boat. I was in my Necky Eskia, and was very pleased with how it handled. Pat, on the other hand, was in a gorgeous 18 foot mahogany, cedar, and oak strip-built ocean kayak, he had finished this spring. Pat claims he has never kayaked before he finished this boat, a couple of months ago. If that's true, either he is a real quick study, or that boat would make a dead body look good. I believe both of those to be true. It is truly a beautiful boat that is as nimble and responsive as you could ask. It would be worth your while, to go out of your way to get a look at it. Pat is a natural.
The combination of night paddling under a moon, seeing the day being born, and finding a pristine destination just waking up was PRIMO. We beached the boats in just enough chop, that I got a wet butt getting out. Pat had a casualty, forgetting to pull up his rudder. A wave picked his stern up, set it sideways, and left his broken rudder (installed only two days before) dangling from the cables. He was philosophical, "that sucks", "I learned something", and "that's what I like about wood, I can fix that, no problem". But we were in paradise and in no mood to get bummed.
We had essentially "dead reckoned" a bulls eye on our destination. There was a wide beach, rising up to 10-15 foot dunes, covered in pine forest. To the immediate east, the forest thinned quickly, and the dunes gave way to marsh and a large lagoon. On the way in, we spotted the inlet to the lagoon about a quarter mile to the east. To the west, the dunes leveled out, and the forest continued for a half mile or so, before the long open west end peninsula began. At first, we were concerned because of the line of red flags just above the high tide-line, and the "Keep Away!" signs. Apparently, we had landed smack in the middle of a protected osprey nesting area. The air was full of the incessant high pleadings of osprey nestlings, and the reassuring cries of the parents wheeling overhead. I could count at least 6 osprey nests from where we came ashore, the closest being only 50 yards away. We were quickly relieved to discover that this protected area extended only a few hundred yards.
Not so relieving, was the discovery of a large set of tracks, leading from the water up over a saddle in the dunes. These tracks had a straddle of about three feet, a stride of about two feet, but did not have a broad, smooth drag mark down the middle. That would indicate it was left by a sea turtle. What there was down the middle, however, was the deep groove of a heavy tail drag. There were the distinctive deep claw marks, accented by the sweeping arcs of a lateral toe drag. No doubt, a big gator had come out of the water, and deliberately gone up over the dunes. And there were at least four other smaller gator tracks, weaving along this obviously major gator thoroughfare. Nobody should doubt that gators can thrive in a saltwater environment, and are willing to cross significant dry land and climb over dunes to get where they want to go. That being said, it should not be cause for worry that these shy creatures are predators on the prowl in the dunes and beaches. They are aquatic predators only, and would only pose a threat on dry land, in a surprise close quarter encounter. Still, it should give one pause, when contemplating walking off into the brush to take a pee, especially at night.
We elected to move a quarter mile west, and found an idyllic campsite with pine tree shade, some flat open ground with a light grassy cover, and sufficient elevation to catch a breeze, without being a hard slog in the sand to get to. There were no bugs, yet. It was still not even 8:00 AM, as we set up camp in the relative comfort of 80's temps, and a stiff breeze out of the east northeast.
I took a long walk back into the scrub forest. There were no dunes here. I had the sense this area was the track of a “blow through”, from some previous hurricane. The pines here were shorter than those on the dunes. Much of the area was covered in choked impenetrable thickets, pockmarked with marshy, but dry low spots, ringed with wiry grasses and filled with thick layers of water-deposited debris. However, there were wide lanes of flat, open sand, covered with low grasses and plants that served as wandering paths through the forest. I had the definite impression that the plant cover in these sandy lanes had not been long established. In a short distance, there was no breeze and the yellow flies came, in force. I broke off a pine bough, and using it as a fly whisk, pressed on inland. I wanted to see if it may be possible to get through to the Gulf side. Eventually, I came to a broad wiregrass marsh. Remembering the gator tracks, I decided not to try crossing it. It looked as if I could go around, but I was weary of the incessant yellow flies, and turned back.
Suddenly, a fairly large bird flew up, as if it came right out of the ground. Flying low in exaggerated erratic zigzags, it abruptly landed on a low pine branch and simply disappeared. I knew this bird! At least, I knew its family. The dark scimitar wings with broad white bands, the erratic flight, the sudden disappearance; it was either a Night Hawk, or its better known cousin, the Whip-Poor-Will. Approaching slowly and indirectly, avoiding direct gaze, I was able to get within 20 feet of the branch, where the ghost disappeared. Like one of those “where’s Elmo” pictures, it was only after I quit looking, that I saw it. It’s color and pattern were an exact match to the pine bark. It hugged the branch, with its head cocked up at an angle, so that it appeared as no more than the broken stub of a limb. I was close enough to see the fine “whiskers” sticking out on each side of its stubby beak. It had a curiously strange and melancholy look. I apologized for intruding so rudely and turned away. The yellow flies never accepted my apologies, and only left when I left the woods.
Since we had such an early start, it was time for the fine art of a power nap, and we each retired to our respective shelters. Fred laid up in his well-ventilated Hennessy Hammock, Pat in his mongrel, "I don't know, but it was free", too short sauna/tent, and I, exposed to the breeze, in my nothing but mesh and a floor, Walrus "Bug Hut". For Fred and I, it was fine, real fine. For Pat, it was survivable only with his portable fan. Still, we conked for almost two hours before it showed us what the day was going to really be like….. hot, real hot. The black flies had arrived, but were little more than a nuisance, yet. The breeze that had been stiff and steady, had begun to fade towards light and variable. Time to go exploring!
Back in the boats, it was evident how sluggish they had been with a load. Empty, they almost danced in the chop. We went east toward the outlet to the lagoon a half mile away. All morning, we had seen powerboats arriving, and a number of wade fishermen casting onto the grass beds. I had heard from a friend, this was a current hot spot for specks and redfish. On the way to the inlet, we passed the osprey refuge again, and then a large pile of concrete rubble, we later heard referred to as "the chimneys". The beach, on either side of the inlet, was low and narrow with the open lagoon behind. The inlet was about twenty yards wide, with a stiff current flowing into the lagoon on the rising tide. The passage arced to the left, forming a low sandy peninsula, on which there was a small village of tents. A half dozen or so power boats were anchored nearby. Several sit-on-top kayaks were in sight. Everybody was fishing.
The lagoon was absolutely teeming with life. Herons, wade-fishermen, and sit-on-tops attested that this was fish central. Large schools of mullet startled and broke water, as we passed. Osprey were everywhere and their nests dotted the tops of the pines surrounding the lagoon. I stopped counting at a dozen nests. Almost every wader we passed asked, "Have you seen that gator? He's huge!" We never saw him. There were several small wiregrass islands and wide passages led both east and west. The water was mostly about 2-3 feet deep. Pat was dying to find a way to cross the island to the Gulf side, and we explored west to the south edge of the lagoon, going way into a long winding narrow passage, only to find a dead end with about 75 yards of marsh to cross before the high ground. It was no mean trick to get turned around and go out. On the east end of the lagoon, we again explored a long winding passage, which opened up into a smaller lagoon floored with oyster reef. Really good stuff!
Coming back out, we decided to take a break in the inlet. Fred was feeling a bit bad from the heat and a dip in the clear swift water seemed like a good idea. It was excellent. Just across from us, a group of black skimmers had taken up the small peninsula. At one point, we got a thrill when a big school of minnows fleeing some predator stampeded past us running into our legs, some up our shorts (you should try it sometime….really!). The now oppressive heat seemed forgotten after a long soak, sitting neck deep in the cool clear current. Fred felt much better and we decided to go back to camp for lunch, before exploring to the east for a place for a walk across to the Gulf Beach.
As we approached the beach in front of camp, a flock of crows flew up. A feeling of dread came over me. Was this an omen? I remembered the large bag of deluxe mixed nuts (<2% peanuts), I had left out on a log. Sure enough, the crows had had their way with my nuts. The gallon ziplock lay on the sand 15 feet from where I left it. The carnage was awful. I left it sealed tightly and neatly rolled. Now it lay gaped open, with its contents desecrated. I felt violated. I also learned something about crows. They don’t like almonds. There was a trail of almonds leading helter skelter to the bag. No cashews, no peanuts, no Brazil nuts, no pecans, no hazelnuts, just almonds. Go figure!
The breeze had become off and on by the time we got back to camp. The short walk up from the boats was a preview of what was in store. Things had gotten hot, really hot. The breeze helped, but wasn’t reliably constant. But with the sun high overhead, the Kelty Noah Tarp cast a broad shade. Fred looked a bit haggard. I fished out a quart-sized tub of watermelon from the soft side cooler. The watermelon was cut into bite sized chunks with the seeds removed. Bless my wife’s little ‘ol heart! It was sweet, it was juicy, but better yet, it was cold! We turned savage, gnashing the succulent chunks, first taking a piece at a time, then two, then a handful. I had seldom had that sensation with my pants on. Cold watermelon has my highest recommendation as a preferred method for avoiding dehydration under heat stress. For Fred, it slowed it down but didn’t stop it. And the heat goes on. The beach was an anvil and the sun was hammering us into submission.
We decided to forgo the westward exploration until later, when it got cooler; if it got cooler. God, we hoped it would get cooler. Even in the shade, the radiant heat from the open beach outplayed the faltering breeze in their game to control the thermostat. Pat and I felt sluggish. Fred actually was sluggish. It was time to resort to a proven strategy in the face of heat stress. It was time to lay up sorry.
Don't get me wrong. Layin' up sorry wasn't exactly an option we could pick from a long list. It was simply the only sustainable option we had, in this place, on this day, in this heat. Of course, we could elect to go explore the West end; but we simply couldn't have sustained that effort without paying a terrible price. Everybody has watched the Discovery Channel. What does a pride of lions do during midday equatorial African heat? They lay up sorry! Of course, they could go off on a hunt; but they'd just get all exhausted and panting without accomplishing much. So there we were, doing our best to do as little as possible, and stay as cool as we could. We definitely accomplished doing nothing. We definitely didn't get anywhere near like that now elusive concept of what is was like to be cool, except of course in the figurative sense. Figuratively, we were the essence of cool; stylishly attired in our coolmax and supplex, with polarized wrapped sunshades, high tech water shoes, and a been there-done that attitude. We had no trouble being cool. We just had a hard time getting cool.
We tried just sitting around. DEET-loving black flies made that miserable. We tried napping in our shelters. Black flies got in with us, so we had to try napping with the heat and the black flies. Don't try this at home! Eventually, Pat and I went down and sat in the water. Fred was too wasted by then to follow us. He was haggard and pale, having leg cramps, and hadn't peed despite large volumes of fluids. I had seen him like this twice before when heat exposure was involved. Not that he was new to it. He's a former (you can never be an ex) Green Beret medic, tested in the crucible of training that would wilt a lesser man. He was an endurance athlete capable of a 15-20 mile run on any given August day. He's had 20 years experience in a neonatal ICU. He is as experienced and capable in minimalist backcountry survival as they come. He and I have been close friends for 30 years and shared those characteristics. But now he was in his late 50's, but so was I. Now he was less than fit, but so was I. Now he was having the third episode of a disabling lack of compensation to heat stress, despite doing all the right things. I was there each time, uncomfortable to be sure, but not disabled. Still, each time before, he would recover at night and be fine the next day. I reassured Pat, "I've seen this before, he ain't a happy camper, but he can deal with it, he'll be alright. Still, there were those crows.
Pat and I decided to take walk west. One hundred yards from camp, we spot another small gator drag, then several. A marshy pot hole only 30 feet from the water's edge had a half-dozen drags, some of them big, all of them leading into the salt water. The forest thinned out to low scrub. After a quarter mile or so, we came upon an elderly couple. They had two nice lawn chairs, a nice table for two, an umbrella, a bottle of wine, an eight foot dinghy, and a 40 foot Hatteras anchored offshore. They were not the typical Hatteras crowd, just salt of the earth, good ol' country folk. Doin' mighty well thank ya, but just regular folks. They said they come out here all the time, but usually down at the east end. We ask if there's a way across to the Gulf beach nearby. "No, not here, but I heard there's a foot path to the beach back down at the chimneys". That is the concrete rubble east of camp. Pat is just not ready to accept that we have come out here and aren't going to see what it is like on the Gulf side. So we are soon back in camp, to check on Fred, and Pat is talking about checking out the foot path to the Gulf. Fred is a little better, but not good.
A sudden shout from Pat has me thinking, "Gator!" But, a couple of hundred feet away, a large school of fish has virtually exploded right next to the beach. There was no breeze and the water was becoming slick-calm. Closer inspection reveals a large school of relatively small mullet swimming scale-to-scale close, with their mouths out of water, smacking their lips. My Daddy would have said those mullet were "smokin'". Periodically, the mullet would scatter in a panic, with wild repeated jumps causing a roaring sound, as they broke the water along a long arc through the school, cut by what I suspected were large specks or redfish. This went on for quite some time. Then things got really hot. The porpoises showed up, right on the beach in two feet of water. They would charge through the school, causing huge splashes and coming out of the water in their rush. I am sure there were mass casualties among the mullet, because this was all happening in the front yard of the osprey nursery. Soon we were treated to headlong crash dives, and the tree tops were festooned with feasting fish hawks.
Pat got in his boat and went to find the path. It was killing him, I could tell. Fred and I hung out and talked. The sun was getting lower, the cramps were better but not gone, still a little light-headed if he got up too quick, but he was walking around more and in a little better spirits. He was still drinking plenty, but it just took time, because he felt bloated. He wasn't a happy camper, but he was dealing with it. I had seen him like this before, and he would be alright. Did you know a black fly can bite you through a DEET-soaked sock?
Pat came back. There wasn't any foot path he could find. But it was beginning to get nice out here again. The air had a golden quality to it. As the sun dipped lower, it got bigger and more orange. Instead of reflecting as a shower of bright points of light, there was now a solid brilliant orange glassy brush stroke waggling from horizon to beach. If you walked back in the brush, it was already cooler. But near the beach, even in the shade of our camp, the heat sump of white sand radiated brutally. I took a bearing on the clearly visible lighthouse 6.5 miles away. We'd need it in the morning, before daylight. Fred couldn't afford a daylight crossing. But Fred peed for the first time today!
Time for supper! Maybe a good camp fire grilled rib-eye would do the trick for Fred. I had two in the cooler. They started out frozen, helping keep the watermelon cool. They were still cool. And you've gotta admit, I get cool points for whipping out the rib-eyes. I was already ahead on points because of the watermelon, but the rib-eyes were definitely worth some bonus points. Pat had dehydrated red beans and rice (no sausageL). Good, but not rib-eyes. The parched dry driftwood blazed quickly down to very nice coals. Two four inch logs would provide support for the $0.89 apiece heavy duty meshed aluminum mini-grills I found at Wal-Mart. Hey! They were cheap and you could roll them up, so you could get them through a kayak hatch!
Soon, it was relatively cool again. Actually, it just got to where it just wasn't hot. The ambience was magic! That golden light, the huge red sun on the horizon, the glassy Monet-esque water, powder white beach, and the captivating sizzle and alluring aroma of rib-eyes on a driftwood fire. Really! I mean ON, not over, the fire. The cheap aluminum promptly melted out from under the steaks, and I barely rescued them. Luckily, Pat had a skillet. What started out as char-grilled steak, was finished up nicely as a char-skillet-braised steak. I didn't hear any complaints. And yes, I gave Pat a piece of steak as a chaser to his red beans and rice (no sausageL). Fred was even up and around giving us astronomy lessons. Like I said, he'll be alright. I have seen him like this before.
We turned in early around 9 PM. I was comfortable uncovered, but bug-free in my Walrus Bug Hut. Have I told you about how wonderful one of those is in these conditions? After some violent thrashing and harsh words for the black flies still trapped in his tent, Pat settled down with his fan whirring away. Fred went back in his Hennessy Hammock (google it, you will like it). I didn't hear any restless shuffles, like he was uncomfortable. He just needed to rest and recover a little.
I heard Fred get up once. He had peed again! Then all was quiet, except for the Night Hawks. My Sibley Bird Guide had informed me that the white wing bars made the strange bird I had encountered a Common Night Hawk, not its bar-less cousin the Whip-Poor-Will. As their appearance is similar, so are their calls. The Night Hawk sounds like a Whip-Poor-Will with a Yankee accent. They are saying the same thing, just faster and without the drawl. There must have been a half-dozen of them nearby. They had a great gab fest…. All night long.
About midnight, the breeze picked up again. Ahhhhh! But now I could hear the waves on the beach. I stuck my finger in my mouth, and held it up. The wind would be out of the northeast, off our starboard bow. We would be paddling into a quartering sea. Maybe it will lay down before daylight. If it doesn't, will Fred be up to it? If it does, will Fred be up to it? I have seen him this way before. He is usually fine with some recovery. I hope he will be alright.
At 3 AM, I got up to a stiff breeze out of the northeast. "How're ya doin', Fred?" "I'm better…I guess. At least I peed again last night." So, we went about breaking camp. We had pretty much pre-packed last night, and mainly had to get the shelters down and carry stuff to the boats. Fred looked bad. Then he said what changed everything. "Tom, I was really worried around midnight." I said, "Yeah? 'bout what in particular?" I was fishing for symptoms. "I wondered whether or not I was gonna make it." It was like a cymbal crash. I had never seen him like this. He wasn't dealing with it. He wasn't alright. This was a hard-core guy, with the experience and educational preparation to deeply understand his predicament, and he was telling me at 3 AM, that he thought he might die?
Let's see, 6.5 miles against a headwind, into at least three foot seas, for at least three or four hours, and three hours ago, he thought he might be dying? I said I was going to walk down to the beach and take a look. Pat followed me within a minute. "Tom, I want to talk about calling for help." I let him talk, but he did not have to convince me. I already knew we could not risk taking Fred under those conditions. I knew how Fred would respond. "If I just pace myself, I'll be alright." I also knew what he really was saying, was "Maybe, if I just pace myself, maybe, I'll be alright." Maybe was not good enough and he knew that. I knew Fred well enough to let him say it. Pat just cut him off. "Fred, it's over."
Being an old "Team Daddy" for a Special Forces A-Team, I have long believed in several layers of back-ups. A colleague at work had grown up fishing in this area, lived in Van Cleave, and told me I could call him to come get us, if we got in a bind. At 4 AM, he got the call. "Mike, it is Tom. Is that offer still open?" I knew the answer, because I knew he was a former Marine. There was no question, it was just what he would do. "Sure, it'll give me something to do. How quick do you need me?" I gave him our GPS coordinates and he said he would call when he was in the water. That call came around 7 AM, and he soon appeared on the horizon, with a 22 foot Hydro Sport, pounding away in 3-4 foot seas. He pulled it right up on the beach. Mike is a good man, one of a few, a Marine.
His boat had a cuddy cabin with a soft Bimini top, so we had to lay the boats upside down and crossways over the back deck. Actually, they were very secure that way. The only problem was that now his boat was 18 feet wide going into a quartering sea. That meant a lot of corkscrew rolls. We had to proceed slowly, or else the bow of the longest boat, the gorgeous woodstrip one, would be plunged deep, causing it to be swept back, either tearing the bow off, or sweeping Fred and Pat off the back, or both. So, slowly we went. Halfway across Fred said, "We probably did the right thing." Mike brought us to within 30 feet of where we put in. I doubt the Coast Guard would have been as accommodating. I had no doubt with him. He was a Marine.
By 9 AM, we had the boats loaded and headed for breakfast. Phonecia's is a little hard to find, but worth it. We came right on in, dressed just like we waded out of the water. It was Sunday morning and the "breakfast before church" crowd was there. I asked Fred, "Did we under dress?" We did not care and they did not seem to notice. Eggs benedict and Canadian bacon for Fred. Western omelets with trimmings like sausage, hashbrowns, and pancakes for Pat and I. Excellent food, excellent service, all for about $27 for the three of us. Fred was already better. I had seen him like this before. He was going to be alright. But he has got to quit doing this! Fred, figure out what’s broke! Fix it!
Pat summed in up nicely in an e-mail Sunday night.
"That was a trip with strong character. I liked it and learned a lot.
Definitely..do it again..2 days...3 if the weather is cool."
Pat was good company and a good asset. I will go with him anytime. And Man! Can he build a gorgeous boat!
P.S.
Fred called Sunday afternoon. He had lost eight pounds on the trip. Despite drinking far more than I did; despite never looking like he was sweating all that much; despite not peeing much at all; despite a huge breakfast; Fred still ended up nearly a gallon behind. He was working on only about 2/3rds of his normal circulating volume. Try bleeding out a gallon. See if you don’t wake up around midnight, wondering if you weren't going to die. But Fred is going to be fine, if the weather is cool.
I’ll leave you with Fred’s tag line on his e-mails:
Life shouldn’t be measured by how many breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Happy Paddling
Tom Meyer
June 25-26, 2005
by Tom Meyer
Fred Krause, from Slidell, called me a week or so ago, from a spot on the Mississippi coast, just East of Ocean Springs. He was scouting it, because it was the closest place on the coast to Horn Island, a mere 6.5 miles due south. Fred had been paddling his new QVC-700 Kevlar/Carbon sea kayak, in Lake Ponchartrain for a couple of months, and was dying to try it out in real honest-to-God open water. I said, “How 'bout next weekend?", and posted it as a flash paddle. Pat Cabello, from Mobile, was the only taker, so it was the three of us.
Belle Fountain Point is a bulge in the coast, marked by a large water tower, constructed to look like a lighthouse. There's no light on top, it just looks like a lighthouse. The locals call it the St. Andrews Lighthouse, because of the golf course next to it, by the same name. There is a public access to the water, and a well lit parking lot next to the "lighthouse". There is only about 50 feet of sand beach to cross, but there is a three foot seawall, with a lot of rocks on the water's edge. However, there is a small beach without the seawall or the rocks, at the east end of the access. The water's edge is packed sand but there is a four inch layer of muck, about where the low tide line is. It wasn't a problem. This place is a bit off the beaten path, but there are good directions to it on the Bayou Haystackers website.
We camped in the NPS Campground at Davis Bayou, in Ocean Springs Friday night; $14 for the 3 of us with access to showers and a very nice campground. Interesting fact: if you go into the bathroom late at night, you will see lots of scuttling cockroach sized critters scattering into hiding. Relax, they are tiny crabs. Mama always warned me I could catch crabs in a public bathroom. McElroy's in Ocean Springs, provided excellent Po-Boys and Gumbo for dinner, with a great view of the back bay. Knowing heat and sea conditions were going to be a factor, we decided to take advantage of a more than half full moon, and got up at 3:30 AM, broke camp, and were paddling away from the beach at 5:00 AM sharp.
The tide was low a couple of hours before. There was a light northern breeze and a slight chop to begin with. A 3/4 moon, clear skies, and a good forecast made for high spirits, even at that time of morning. Navigation was pretty straightforward. A compass heading of just a little east of due south (190ยบ) would take us to the "nose" of a prominent bulge in the north coast of Horn Island, a mile or so east of the west end. Not only was this the closest distance between two points, but there was a variety of habitat, dunes, forest, lagoons, and open beach, for exploration. However, we soon gave up stopping to put a light on the compass to check our course. It wasn't hard to notice that if we kept the moon just to the right of our bow, we stayed on course. Tony Chavers had been here sailing recently, and told me to expect not much more than a mild west to east current on a rising tide.
So, with a following sea and a tailwind, we made good time in the crossing. As we went south out of the lee of the mainland, the breeze increased a bit to maybe 8-10mph and the chop maxed out at maybe 2 1/2 feet, well within our paddlers and boat's capabilities. My GPS says it was a 6.58 mile crossing in 1 hour and 50 minutes. I maxed out at 6.5 mph, obviously recorded when I was surfing one of the following seas.
Speaking of boats, I have already told you about Fred's QVC-700 slick top-end ocean specialty boat. I was in my Necky Eskia, and was very pleased with how it handled. Pat, on the other hand, was in a gorgeous 18 foot mahogany, cedar, and oak strip-built ocean kayak, he had finished this spring. Pat claims he has never kayaked before he finished this boat, a couple of months ago. If that's true, either he is a real quick study, or that boat would make a dead body look good. I believe both of those to be true. It is truly a beautiful boat that is as nimble and responsive as you could ask. It would be worth your while, to go out of your way to get a look at it. Pat is a natural.
The combination of night paddling under a moon, seeing the day being born, and finding a pristine destination just waking up was PRIMO. We beached the boats in just enough chop, that I got a wet butt getting out. Pat had a casualty, forgetting to pull up his rudder. A wave picked his stern up, set it sideways, and left his broken rudder (installed only two days before) dangling from the cables. He was philosophical, "that sucks", "I learned something", and "that's what I like about wood, I can fix that, no problem". But we were in paradise and in no mood to get bummed.
We had essentially "dead reckoned" a bulls eye on our destination. There was a wide beach, rising up to 10-15 foot dunes, covered in pine forest. To the immediate east, the forest thinned quickly, and the dunes gave way to marsh and a large lagoon. On the way in, we spotted the inlet to the lagoon about a quarter mile to the east. To the west, the dunes leveled out, and the forest continued for a half mile or so, before the long open west end peninsula began. At first, we were concerned because of the line of red flags just above the high tide-line, and the "Keep Away!" signs. Apparently, we had landed smack in the middle of a protected osprey nesting area. The air was full of the incessant high pleadings of osprey nestlings, and the reassuring cries of the parents wheeling overhead. I could count at least 6 osprey nests from where we came ashore, the closest being only 50 yards away. We were quickly relieved to discover that this protected area extended only a few hundred yards.
Not so relieving, was the discovery of a large set of tracks, leading from the water up over a saddle in the dunes. These tracks had a straddle of about three feet, a stride of about two feet, but did not have a broad, smooth drag mark down the middle. That would indicate it was left by a sea turtle. What there was down the middle, however, was the deep groove of a heavy tail drag. There were the distinctive deep claw marks, accented by the sweeping arcs of a lateral toe drag. No doubt, a big gator had come out of the water, and deliberately gone up over the dunes. And there were at least four other smaller gator tracks, weaving along this obviously major gator thoroughfare. Nobody should doubt that gators can thrive in a saltwater environment, and are willing to cross significant dry land and climb over dunes to get where they want to go. That being said, it should not be cause for worry that these shy creatures are predators on the prowl in the dunes and beaches. They are aquatic predators only, and would only pose a threat on dry land, in a surprise close quarter encounter. Still, it should give one pause, when contemplating walking off into the brush to take a pee, especially at night.
We elected to move a quarter mile west, and found an idyllic campsite with pine tree shade, some flat open ground with a light grassy cover, and sufficient elevation to catch a breeze, without being a hard slog in the sand to get to. There were no bugs, yet. It was still not even 8:00 AM, as we set up camp in the relative comfort of 80's temps, and a stiff breeze out of the east northeast.
I took a long walk back into the scrub forest. There were no dunes here. I had the sense this area was the track of a “blow through”, from some previous hurricane. The pines here were shorter than those on the dunes. Much of the area was covered in choked impenetrable thickets, pockmarked with marshy, but dry low spots, ringed with wiry grasses and filled with thick layers of water-deposited debris. However, there were wide lanes of flat, open sand, covered with low grasses and plants that served as wandering paths through the forest. I had the definite impression that the plant cover in these sandy lanes had not been long established. In a short distance, there was no breeze and the yellow flies came, in force. I broke off a pine bough, and using it as a fly whisk, pressed on inland. I wanted to see if it may be possible to get through to the Gulf side. Eventually, I came to a broad wiregrass marsh. Remembering the gator tracks, I decided not to try crossing it. It looked as if I could go around, but I was weary of the incessant yellow flies, and turned back.
Suddenly, a fairly large bird flew up, as if it came right out of the ground. Flying low in exaggerated erratic zigzags, it abruptly landed on a low pine branch and simply disappeared. I knew this bird! At least, I knew its family. The dark scimitar wings with broad white bands, the erratic flight, the sudden disappearance; it was either a Night Hawk, or its better known cousin, the Whip-Poor-Will. Approaching slowly and indirectly, avoiding direct gaze, I was able to get within 20 feet of the branch, where the ghost disappeared. Like one of those “where’s Elmo” pictures, it was only after I quit looking, that I saw it. It’s color and pattern were an exact match to the pine bark. It hugged the branch, with its head cocked up at an angle, so that it appeared as no more than the broken stub of a limb. I was close enough to see the fine “whiskers” sticking out on each side of its stubby beak. It had a curiously strange and melancholy look. I apologized for intruding so rudely and turned away. The yellow flies never accepted my apologies, and only left when I left the woods.
Since we had such an early start, it was time for the fine art of a power nap, and we each retired to our respective shelters. Fred laid up in his well-ventilated Hennessy Hammock, Pat in his mongrel, "I don't know, but it was free", too short sauna/tent, and I, exposed to the breeze, in my nothing but mesh and a floor, Walrus "Bug Hut". For Fred and I, it was fine, real fine. For Pat, it was survivable only with his portable fan. Still, we conked for almost two hours before it showed us what the day was going to really be like….. hot, real hot. The black flies had arrived, but were little more than a nuisance, yet. The breeze that had been stiff and steady, had begun to fade towards light and variable. Time to go exploring!
Back in the boats, it was evident how sluggish they had been with a load. Empty, they almost danced in the chop. We went east toward the outlet to the lagoon a half mile away. All morning, we had seen powerboats arriving, and a number of wade fishermen casting onto the grass beds. I had heard from a friend, this was a current hot spot for specks and redfish. On the way to the inlet, we passed the osprey refuge again, and then a large pile of concrete rubble, we later heard referred to as "the chimneys". The beach, on either side of the inlet, was low and narrow with the open lagoon behind. The inlet was about twenty yards wide, with a stiff current flowing into the lagoon on the rising tide. The passage arced to the left, forming a low sandy peninsula, on which there was a small village of tents. A half dozen or so power boats were anchored nearby. Several sit-on-top kayaks were in sight. Everybody was fishing.
The lagoon was absolutely teeming with life. Herons, wade-fishermen, and sit-on-tops attested that this was fish central. Large schools of mullet startled and broke water, as we passed. Osprey were everywhere and their nests dotted the tops of the pines surrounding the lagoon. I stopped counting at a dozen nests. Almost every wader we passed asked, "Have you seen that gator? He's huge!" We never saw him. There were several small wiregrass islands and wide passages led both east and west. The water was mostly about 2-3 feet deep. Pat was dying to find a way to cross the island to the Gulf side, and we explored west to the south edge of the lagoon, going way into a long winding narrow passage, only to find a dead end with about 75 yards of marsh to cross before the high ground. It was no mean trick to get turned around and go out. On the east end of the lagoon, we again explored a long winding passage, which opened up into a smaller lagoon floored with oyster reef. Really good stuff!
Coming back out, we decided to take a break in the inlet. Fred was feeling a bit bad from the heat and a dip in the clear swift water seemed like a good idea. It was excellent. Just across from us, a group of black skimmers had taken up the small peninsula. At one point, we got a thrill when a big school of minnows fleeing some predator stampeded past us running into our legs, some up our shorts (you should try it sometime….really!). The now oppressive heat seemed forgotten after a long soak, sitting neck deep in the cool clear current. Fred felt much better and we decided to go back to camp for lunch, before exploring to the east for a place for a walk across to the Gulf Beach.
As we approached the beach in front of camp, a flock of crows flew up. A feeling of dread came over me. Was this an omen? I remembered the large bag of deluxe mixed nuts (<2% peanuts), I had left out on a log. Sure enough, the crows had had their way with my nuts. The gallon ziplock lay on the sand 15 feet from where I left it. The carnage was awful. I left it sealed tightly and neatly rolled. Now it lay gaped open, with its contents desecrated. I felt violated. I also learned something about crows. They don’t like almonds. There was a trail of almonds leading helter skelter to the bag. No cashews, no peanuts, no Brazil nuts, no pecans, no hazelnuts, just almonds. Go figure!
The breeze had become off and on by the time we got back to camp. The short walk up from the boats was a preview of what was in store. Things had gotten hot, really hot. The breeze helped, but wasn’t reliably constant. But with the sun high overhead, the Kelty Noah Tarp cast a broad shade. Fred looked a bit haggard. I fished out a quart-sized tub of watermelon from the soft side cooler. The watermelon was cut into bite sized chunks with the seeds removed. Bless my wife’s little ‘ol heart! It was sweet, it was juicy, but better yet, it was cold! We turned savage, gnashing the succulent chunks, first taking a piece at a time, then two, then a handful. I had seldom had that sensation with my pants on. Cold watermelon has my highest recommendation as a preferred method for avoiding dehydration under heat stress. For Fred, it slowed it down but didn’t stop it. And the heat goes on. The beach was an anvil and the sun was hammering us into submission.
We decided to forgo the westward exploration until later, when it got cooler; if it got cooler. God, we hoped it would get cooler. Even in the shade, the radiant heat from the open beach outplayed the faltering breeze in their game to control the thermostat. Pat and I felt sluggish. Fred actually was sluggish. It was time to resort to a proven strategy in the face of heat stress. It was time to lay up sorry.
Don't get me wrong. Layin' up sorry wasn't exactly an option we could pick from a long list. It was simply the only sustainable option we had, in this place, on this day, in this heat. Of course, we could elect to go explore the West end; but we simply couldn't have sustained that effort without paying a terrible price. Everybody has watched the Discovery Channel. What does a pride of lions do during midday equatorial African heat? They lay up sorry! Of course, they could go off on a hunt; but they'd just get all exhausted and panting without accomplishing much. So there we were, doing our best to do as little as possible, and stay as cool as we could. We definitely accomplished doing nothing. We definitely didn't get anywhere near like that now elusive concept of what is was like to be cool, except of course in the figurative sense. Figuratively, we were the essence of cool; stylishly attired in our coolmax and supplex, with polarized wrapped sunshades, high tech water shoes, and a been there-done that attitude. We had no trouble being cool. We just had a hard time getting cool.
We tried just sitting around. DEET-loving black flies made that miserable. We tried napping in our shelters. Black flies got in with us, so we had to try napping with the heat and the black flies. Don't try this at home! Eventually, Pat and I went down and sat in the water. Fred was too wasted by then to follow us. He was haggard and pale, having leg cramps, and hadn't peed despite large volumes of fluids. I had seen him like this twice before when heat exposure was involved. Not that he was new to it. He's a former (you can never be an ex) Green Beret medic, tested in the crucible of training that would wilt a lesser man. He was an endurance athlete capable of a 15-20 mile run on any given August day. He's had 20 years experience in a neonatal ICU. He is as experienced and capable in minimalist backcountry survival as they come. He and I have been close friends for 30 years and shared those characteristics. But now he was in his late 50's, but so was I. Now he was less than fit, but so was I. Now he was having the third episode of a disabling lack of compensation to heat stress, despite doing all the right things. I was there each time, uncomfortable to be sure, but not disabled. Still, each time before, he would recover at night and be fine the next day. I reassured Pat, "I've seen this before, he ain't a happy camper, but he can deal with it, he'll be alright. Still, there were those crows.
Pat and I decided to take walk west. One hundred yards from camp, we spot another small gator drag, then several. A marshy pot hole only 30 feet from the water's edge had a half-dozen drags, some of them big, all of them leading into the salt water. The forest thinned out to low scrub. After a quarter mile or so, we came upon an elderly couple. They had two nice lawn chairs, a nice table for two, an umbrella, a bottle of wine, an eight foot dinghy, and a 40 foot Hatteras anchored offshore. They were not the typical Hatteras crowd, just salt of the earth, good ol' country folk. Doin' mighty well thank ya, but just regular folks. They said they come out here all the time, but usually down at the east end. We ask if there's a way across to the Gulf beach nearby. "No, not here, but I heard there's a foot path to the beach back down at the chimneys". That is the concrete rubble east of camp. Pat is just not ready to accept that we have come out here and aren't going to see what it is like on the Gulf side. So we are soon back in camp, to check on Fred, and Pat is talking about checking out the foot path to the Gulf. Fred is a little better, but not good.
A sudden shout from Pat has me thinking, "Gator!" But, a couple of hundred feet away, a large school of fish has virtually exploded right next to the beach. There was no breeze and the water was becoming slick-calm. Closer inspection reveals a large school of relatively small mullet swimming scale-to-scale close, with their mouths out of water, smacking their lips. My Daddy would have said those mullet were "smokin'". Periodically, the mullet would scatter in a panic, with wild repeated jumps causing a roaring sound, as they broke the water along a long arc through the school, cut by what I suspected were large specks or redfish. This went on for quite some time. Then things got really hot. The porpoises showed up, right on the beach in two feet of water. They would charge through the school, causing huge splashes and coming out of the water in their rush. I am sure there were mass casualties among the mullet, because this was all happening in the front yard of the osprey nursery. Soon we were treated to headlong crash dives, and the tree tops were festooned with feasting fish hawks.
Pat got in his boat and went to find the path. It was killing him, I could tell. Fred and I hung out and talked. The sun was getting lower, the cramps were better but not gone, still a little light-headed if he got up too quick, but he was walking around more and in a little better spirits. He was still drinking plenty, but it just took time, because he felt bloated. He wasn't a happy camper, but he was dealing with it. I had seen him like this before, and he would be alright. Did you know a black fly can bite you through a DEET-soaked sock?
Pat came back. There wasn't any foot path he could find. But it was beginning to get nice out here again. The air had a golden quality to it. As the sun dipped lower, it got bigger and more orange. Instead of reflecting as a shower of bright points of light, there was now a solid brilliant orange glassy brush stroke waggling from horizon to beach. If you walked back in the brush, it was already cooler. But near the beach, even in the shade of our camp, the heat sump of white sand radiated brutally. I took a bearing on the clearly visible lighthouse 6.5 miles away. We'd need it in the morning, before daylight. Fred couldn't afford a daylight crossing. But Fred peed for the first time today!
Time for supper! Maybe a good camp fire grilled rib-eye would do the trick for Fred. I had two in the cooler. They started out frozen, helping keep the watermelon cool. They were still cool. And you've gotta admit, I get cool points for whipping out the rib-eyes. I was already ahead on points because of the watermelon, but the rib-eyes were definitely worth some bonus points. Pat had dehydrated red beans and rice (no sausageL). Good, but not rib-eyes. The parched dry driftwood blazed quickly down to very nice coals. Two four inch logs would provide support for the $0.89 apiece heavy duty meshed aluminum mini-grills I found at Wal-Mart. Hey! They were cheap and you could roll them up, so you could get them through a kayak hatch!
Soon, it was relatively cool again. Actually, it just got to where it just wasn't hot. The ambience was magic! That golden light, the huge red sun on the horizon, the glassy Monet-esque water, powder white beach, and the captivating sizzle and alluring aroma of rib-eyes on a driftwood fire. Really! I mean ON, not over, the fire. The cheap aluminum promptly melted out from under the steaks, and I barely rescued them. Luckily, Pat had a skillet. What started out as char-grilled steak, was finished up nicely as a char-skillet-braised steak. I didn't hear any complaints. And yes, I gave Pat a piece of steak as a chaser to his red beans and rice (no sausageL). Fred was even up and around giving us astronomy lessons. Like I said, he'll be alright. I have seen him like this before.
We turned in early around 9 PM. I was comfortable uncovered, but bug-free in my Walrus Bug Hut. Have I told you about how wonderful one of those is in these conditions? After some violent thrashing and harsh words for the black flies still trapped in his tent, Pat settled down with his fan whirring away. Fred went back in his Hennessy Hammock (google it, you will like it). I didn't hear any restless shuffles, like he was uncomfortable. He just needed to rest and recover a little.
I heard Fred get up once. He had peed again! Then all was quiet, except for the Night Hawks. My Sibley Bird Guide had informed me that the white wing bars made the strange bird I had encountered a Common Night Hawk, not its bar-less cousin the Whip-Poor-Will. As their appearance is similar, so are their calls. The Night Hawk sounds like a Whip-Poor-Will with a Yankee accent. They are saying the same thing, just faster and without the drawl. There must have been a half-dozen of them nearby. They had a great gab fest…. All night long.
About midnight, the breeze picked up again. Ahhhhh! But now I could hear the waves on the beach. I stuck my finger in my mouth, and held it up. The wind would be out of the northeast, off our starboard bow. We would be paddling into a quartering sea. Maybe it will lay down before daylight. If it doesn't, will Fred be up to it? If it does, will Fred be up to it? I have seen him this way before. He is usually fine with some recovery. I hope he will be alright.
At 3 AM, I got up to a stiff breeze out of the northeast. "How're ya doin', Fred?" "I'm better…I guess. At least I peed again last night." So, we went about breaking camp. We had pretty much pre-packed last night, and mainly had to get the shelters down and carry stuff to the boats. Fred looked bad. Then he said what changed everything. "Tom, I was really worried around midnight." I said, "Yeah? 'bout what in particular?" I was fishing for symptoms. "I wondered whether or not I was gonna make it." It was like a cymbal crash. I had never seen him like this. He wasn't dealing with it. He wasn't alright. This was a hard-core guy, with the experience and educational preparation to deeply understand his predicament, and he was telling me at 3 AM, that he thought he might die?
Let's see, 6.5 miles against a headwind, into at least three foot seas, for at least three or four hours, and three hours ago, he thought he might be dying? I said I was going to walk down to the beach and take a look. Pat followed me within a minute. "Tom, I want to talk about calling for help." I let him talk, but he did not have to convince me. I already knew we could not risk taking Fred under those conditions. I knew how Fred would respond. "If I just pace myself, I'll be alright." I also knew what he really was saying, was "Maybe, if I just pace myself, maybe, I'll be alright." Maybe was not good enough and he knew that. I knew Fred well enough to let him say it. Pat just cut him off. "Fred, it's over."
Being an old "Team Daddy" for a Special Forces A-Team, I have long believed in several layers of back-ups. A colleague at work had grown up fishing in this area, lived in Van Cleave, and told me I could call him to come get us, if we got in a bind. At 4 AM, he got the call. "Mike, it is Tom. Is that offer still open?" I knew the answer, because I knew he was a former Marine. There was no question, it was just what he would do. "Sure, it'll give me something to do. How quick do you need me?" I gave him our GPS coordinates and he said he would call when he was in the water. That call came around 7 AM, and he soon appeared on the horizon, with a 22 foot Hydro Sport, pounding away in 3-4 foot seas. He pulled it right up on the beach. Mike is a good man, one of a few, a Marine.
His boat had a cuddy cabin with a soft Bimini top, so we had to lay the boats upside down and crossways over the back deck. Actually, they were very secure that way. The only problem was that now his boat was 18 feet wide going into a quartering sea. That meant a lot of corkscrew rolls. We had to proceed slowly, or else the bow of the longest boat, the gorgeous woodstrip one, would be plunged deep, causing it to be swept back, either tearing the bow off, or sweeping Fred and Pat off the back, or both. So, slowly we went. Halfway across Fred said, "We probably did the right thing." Mike brought us to within 30 feet of where we put in. I doubt the Coast Guard would have been as accommodating. I had no doubt with him. He was a Marine.
By 9 AM, we had the boats loaded and headed for breakfast. Phonecia's is a little hard to find, but worth it. We came right on in, dressed just like we waded out of the water. It was Sunday morning and the "breakfast before church" crowd was there. I asked Fred, "Did we under dress?" We did not care and they did not seem to notice. Eggs benedict and Canadian bacon for Fred. Western omelets with trimmings like sausage, hashbrowns, and pancakes for Pat and I. Excellent food, excellent service, all for about $27 for the three of us. Fred was already better. I had seen him like this before. He was going to be alright. But he has got to quit doing this! Fred, figure out what’s broke! Fix it!
Pat summed in up nicely in an e-mail Sunday night.
"That was a trip with strong character. I liked it and learned a lot.
Definitely..do it again..2 days...3 if the weather is cool."
Pat was good company and a good asset. I will go with him anytime. And Man! Can he build a gorgeous boat!
P.S.
Fred called Sunday afternoon. He had lost eight pounds on the trip. Despite drinking far more than I did; despite never looking like he was sweating all that much; despite not peeing much at all; despite a huge breakfast; Fred still ended up nearly a gallon behind. He was working on only about 2/3rds of his normal circulating volume. Try bleeding out a gallon. See if you don’t wake up around midnight, wondering if you weren't going to die. But Fred is going to be fine, if the weather is cool.
I’ll leave you with Fred’s tag line on his e-mails:
Life shouldn’t be measured by how many breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Happy Paddling
Tom Meyer
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