It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I simply had three options. I could have waited out the tide, sitting on a beach nearby until the water had returned or I could have gone back around Spruce Head Island, braving a few swells along the way.
I simply had three options. I could have waited out the tide, sitting on a beach nearby until the water had returned or I could have gone back around Spruce Head Island, braving a few swells along the way.
The other choice was to just up and get out of my kayak, walk across the mud flats and get to the water on the other side and continue on under the bridge at Spruce Head and paddle back home.
As I said, I thought it was a pretty good solution at the moment, especially for someone as impatient as I.
A few hours later while having a phone conversation, I acknowledged that maybe it wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
While on the phone, I explained that I needed a little nursing. “What did you do?” she asked. “Something stupid,” was my response.
Now I like to make cracks about me doing dumb things and showing a distinct lack of judgment. I’m actually the opposite. I like to think of myself as a fairly rational, sensible and calculating person that typically makes sound judgments and decisions. And yes, I’m sure there are numerous friends out there that would start a list and offer examples that prove otherwise.
That’s because I do tend do things once in a while that ultimately are laced with some regret afterwards, even if they typically make for a good story anyway. My feet bare the scars of that regret this week.
The other morning I had chosen to take my kayak out. I had a beautiful day with bright sunshine and warm temperatures. No, really, I wasn’t imagining it. There was sun, no fog, no rain. It was a miracle.
Anyway, I also had a low tide approaching. I shoved off about 8:30 a.m., proving that I am up at that hour on occasion. Low tide was at 10:30 a.m. I wasn’t sure how much water I’d have in the cove at dead low tide and I didn’t really feel like trudging through the mud and shells if I didn’t have enough water to get in. How ironic that is!
So, I started out paddling fully intending to take my sweet old time and time it just about right that I might come paddling back home by 11:30 or so, after the cove had begun to fill back up a bit.
I was initially planning on paddling straight across toward the Eastern side of Spruce Head and paddle that shoreline back toward the mainland. Seeing as it was fairly calm and I had a good as any opportunity to paddle out around the tip of Spruce Head, and had time to kill, I decide to do just that.
That tactical decision seemed to work just fine, even with a few large swells that made me sweat a little out in the open ocean. I navigated through Spruce Head Harbor and headed over toward the bridge that connects the island to the mainland. The water had emptied out, but I had thought that there was enough for me and my kayak to get through. As Fonzie used to say “I was wrrrrrrrrr”
Any approach to the bridge was blocked off by a ridge of mud and mussel shells. There was hardly any water. I really didn’t want to go back around Spruce Head again. I thought I might paddle over to Norton Island and take a siesta on the beach while the tide came back. Then I learned it was already 10:15. It was almost low tide. I figured I’d paddle around a bit and the water would come rushing back to provide me a quick and easy access to the bridge. Wrrrrrrrrr again.
As I said, I thought it was a pretty good solution at the moment, especially for someone as impatient as I.
A few hours later while having a phone conversation, I acknowledged that maybe it wasn’t the brightest of ideas.
While on the phone, I explained that I needed a little nursing. “What did you do?” she asked. “Something stupid,” was my response.
Now I like to make cracks about me doing dumb things and showing a distinct lack of judgment. I’m actually the opposite. I like to think of myself as a fairly rational, sensible and calculating person that typically makes sound judgments and decisions. And yes, I’m sure there are numerous friends out there that would start a list and offer examples that prove otherwise.
That’s because I do tend do things once in a while that ultimately are laced with some regret afterwards, even if they typically make for a good story anyway. My feet bare the scars of that regret this week.
The other morning I had chosen to take my kayak out. I had a beautiful day with bright sunshine and warm temperatures. No, really, I wasn’t imagining it. There was sun, no fog, no rain. It was a miracle.
Anyway, I also had a low tide approaching. I shoved off about 8:30 a.m., proving that I am up at that hour on occasion. Low tide was at 10:30 a.m. I wasn’t sure how much water I’d have in the cove at dead low tide and I didn’t really feel like trudging through the mud and shells if I didn’t have enough water to get in. How ironic that is!
So, I started out paddling fully intending to take my sweet old time and time it just about right that I might come paddling back home by 11:30 or so, after the cove had begun to fill back up a bit.
I was initially planning on paddling straight across toward the Eastern side of Spruce Head and paddle that shoreline back toward the mainland. Seeing as it was fairly calm and I had a good as any opportunity to paddle out around the tip of Spruce Head, and had time to kill, I decide to do just that.
That tactical decision seemed to work just fine, even with a few large swells that made me sweat a little out in the open ocean. I navigated through Spruce Head Harbor and headed over toward the bridge that connects the island to the mainland. The water had emptied out, but I had thought that there was enough for me and my kayak to get through. As Fonzie used to say “I was wrrrrrrrrr”
Any approach to the bridge was blocked off by a ridge of mud and mussel shells. There was hardly any water. I really didn’t want to go back around Spruce Head again. I thought I might paddle over to Norton Island and take a siesta on the beach while the tide came back. Then I learned it was already 10:15. It was almost low tide. I figured I’d paddle around a bit and the water would come rushing back to provide me a quick and easy access to the bridge. Wrrrrrrrrr again.
I paddled around a small island. Beached the kayak for a bit and watched the osprey and noticed that periwinkles will peak out at you if you hold them in the water. Then I shoved off and went around part of Rackliff Island and into what we (meaning my Dad and I) call Baum’s Cove. After killing what I figured was a good hour or so, I made my way back toward the bridge, fully expecting there to be enough water. As I approached I realized it was as dry as it was before, if not more so.
That meant Mr. Rational and Sound Judgment had a choice to make. I went with instant gratification. I climbed out of my kayak with the full intent of walking through the mud flats and dragging it to water. Isn’t there a saying that says “You can lead a kayak to water but you may not survive with your feet and legs unscathed.”
It only took one step to tell me what I was in for. When I set foot into the mud and took that first legitimate step, I sank up to my knees. “This can’t be good” I thought to myself. Of course, I didn’t alter my plan, proving that when you mix my impatience with my stubbornness, it can be a bad combination.
I kept trudging along through the knee-deep mud. It was a struggle and exhausting, but I quickly realized that while I was breathing heavy and might be inviting a heart attack, I couldn’t take a break. If I stopped, I’d be stuck - for good (or at least until high tide floated my carcass out to sea).
Keep in mind, I’ve walked through the mud in my cove tons of times. I pushed my brother’s motor boat halfway out of the cove at low tide trying to get a jumpstart to North Haven one year. I had just plopped through the mud just a week before when a quick trip was cut short because of rapidly decreasing tide.
I finally reached a spot in the mussel ridge that seemed to have some sand in it and made it more stable. The crushed shells beneath my feet hurt a bit but it was still better than sinking up to my thighs and then trying to suck them back out of the muck. I reached the point where I could see the water but there will still a patch of mud and shells that I needed to get through. I hoped it wouldn’t be too treacherous. It was very treacherous. I sank three feet in with one step. With an abundance of shells mixed in with this mud, I was getting sliced and diced with each step.
I was providing ample entertainment for those on shore that was watching this adventure. Even the clammers busy at work nearby took a moment to gaze over at the damn fool trying to walk through the mud. Oh, and did I mention that I was barefoot? Had I been wearing any kind of footwear, it would have been lost in the mud.
I would pull my kayak ahead of me and push off it as I slogged through the final 10 yards or so. I finally got to water and settled back down into my kayak. My legs were covered in mud but I could still see scars and streams of blood trickling down my leg. The sting of the cold salt water on my wounds also announced that I had been hacked pretty good. For the first few minutes of kayaking back, I could feel that intense sting up and down my feet and legs. I started to wonder how much blood I was losing, since I could feel it on my foot peddle inside my kayak. I almost stopped to soak my legs in the water and wash them off along the way home but just kept paddling away.
I finally hit my beach a little after noon and washed off all the mud. Then I hobbled up to the house and showered them off. For the next 24 hours, it felt like my feet had been sunburned badly. It hurt to walk or simply wiggle my toes. The day after, it all looked even worse as all the little nicks and scars that I hadn’t noticed the day before appeared as they began to heal over.
I kind of figure that for all the clams and mussels I've eaten in my lifetime, a few of their distant cousins reaped a little retribution that day.
But don't worry. My annual trip on the Victory Chimes is in September. That features dinner out with my sailing friends the night we board, and it typically features fried clams for me. So, the scars may be healed by then, but I won't have forgotten. And I just may have an appetite for revenge that night.
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