Okay, I'm back, breathing and sunny side up . . . and here is my report. Sorry about the length but it was several days after all.
Stuart . . . sorry about the title, it is unrelated to the Scottish thing with spanking sheep.
In the beginning it was Sunday. Hah! Where was the sun I very much want to know. The temp is 9ºC, there is a chill wind blowing drizzle in from the Bay of Fundy. I am 25 years old and engaged to be married next month, yet here I am camped out with five other kayak tyros, two guys and three girls, all university kids, and three free-lance off-the-books instructors in their 20s/30s. (I'll call the guys Grumpy & Dopey, the girls Sneezy, Sleepy and Mona, for reasons which will become evident later on. The instructors were Frodo, Bilbo and Anna.) As far as I can tell . . . because we are all dressed . . . I am the only naturist here. Yes, we are "camped out," not in tents but in a sort of granola hostel with a shared washroom & showers and a communal kitchen all within a renovated boat barn not far from the shore. This should be interesting.
Monday morning . . . I slept fairly well last night, all things considered. I was in a sleeping bag atop an air mattress on a platform in the dormitory loft. Both guys snore. At least one of them farts in his sleep . . . frequently, and I have grave doubts about his diet. One of the girls is a moaner, all by herself no less. The other two are putting on an act of being a couple but I'm pretty sure that is just to keep the guys as paddle's-length . . . one sneezes explosively and at a very high pitch, the other is not exactly a morning person. I (of course) have neither unfortunate mannerisms nor annoying habits. (Sure . . .) I could have stayed at a B&B but that would have marked me as even more of an outsider; it seems everyone has noticed my British accent. Imagine ! I was last out of the loft and had shifted into my wetsuit when left alone there. It rained quite hard all day, hard enough that all thought of setting out on the turbulent and windswept bay was out of the question. So after a morning indoors learning about equipment, regulations and paddling technique we loaded up two kayaks and drove to a nearby motel where the instructors had the use of the swimming pool. It was still raining of course, but there were no whitecaps on the pool so two by two we got into the kayaks for practical exercises in paddling, rolling, self-rescue and rescue. The water in the pool was still heating but could not yet be described as "heated" without extreme use of hyperbole. We quit late that afternoon and, dripping wet, drove back to the boat barn. The girls laid first claim to the showers and we went as a gaggle, stripped off our wet things, showered and got into something warm and dry. That was the rain's cue to stop for the day . . . go figure. We drove down the coast to have supper then returned to sit around the fireplace talking and watching our kit dry while the instructors had sloped off somewhere by themselves. The guys were largely non-verbal, the girls quite friendly.
Tuesday morning and it was sunny . . . sort of. The wind had dropped somewhat so we anticipated going out onto a body of water not surrounded by a tiled deck. I dressed accordingly. In terms of the amount of kit involved in suiting up for a springtime kayak trip on the Bay of Fundy is not so far different from suiting up for a Lunar mission. Getting into the wetsuit was relatively easy. It was dry and I was too. I'd bought one with the extra-long "relief zipper" thinking that it would be easier to get in and out of and also, should nature call, easier for that too. The problem with that theory is that if you are wearing anything underneath the wetsuit any chance of relief disappears. Luckily I am an accomplished naturist so I didn't bother wearing a bathing suit. I observe that the extra long relief zipper is a very good argument for waxing one's pubic hair. I look pretty good in a wetsuit . . . very form fitting. (Yes Stuart, I was naked inside a rubber suit but don't get your hopes up, it was neoprene, not latex, and I had a kayak paddle, not a riding crop.) Then came the drysuit. The water of the bay is colder than Christian charity so more protection was required. Mine is a one-piece model which I borrowed from my sister-in-law . . . one enters and exits via a diagonal zipper from the left hip to the right shoulder. I crawled inside, carefully negotiating the gaskets at ankles, wrists and neck, and managed to get the thing zipped and sealed. From this moment I ceased looking good. I now looked like the Michelin man's little blue sister. Then one of the instructors showed me how to "burp the suit" but it didn't make me any more attractive. I also realized that the relief zipper really didn't matter a damn any longer. Next came more neoprene: booties, storm hood, gloves. Except for my face I was now sealed off from the natural environment. I was reminded of the people of Frank Herbert's "Dune" and the stillsuits they wore. Then came the spray skirt, a bright yellow tutu that would no doubt enable Air-Sea Rescue to find my floating corpse, a nearly matching PFD and a sparkly blue helmet. I was well suited for the sport which I was about to enjoy. Enjoy? Merde, I could barely move. This was going to take some practice, hein? We saddled up and, steaming away within my stillsuit, drove thirty minutes to a lake, unloaded the kayaks and carried them to the water's edge.
So, here we were, about to launch, at T minus 15 and counting. I was clad head to foot in high-tech fabrics and tricked out with all the bells and whistles. My melon was protected by a carapace of Kevlar and I had a carbon fibre paddle shaft clutched in my hand. The kayaks were ranged along the lakeshore in an uncoordinated rainbow, as were the paddlers. I straddled my boat, sat down on the aft deck, swung my legs inside the cockpit and slipped into the seat, my bilge pump ready on a tether between my thighs . . . not an encouraging sight. Laying my paddle aside for the moment I fixed the edge of the skirt under the lip of the coaming and locked my thighs under the braces. I was ready? . . . I was unsure. The lake lay before me iron grey beneath a glowering overcast sky. There was no hint of sun now and the temperature hovered at 10ºC. Crap! . . . of that I was sure. I laid my paddle athwart and scooched the boat forward into the water until I was afloat, then wiggled my arse around until it was more or less comfortable. The others launched behind me like baby ducks following mom out onto the pond. Two instructors stood in the water around us, waiting to right us when we turned turtle, the third was afloat to give demonstrations of his flawless technique. Flawless? Hell, I don't know . . . for all I knew it could have been lawless. None the less we watched Frodo's every movement and did our best to mimic him.
We paddled, back-paddled, duffeked, swept and braced. All to the rhythm of Frodo's calm lecture and cries of protest from an outraged loon somewhere down the lake. The first thing I learned is that everything I thought I knew about paddling a canoe does not necessarily translate successfully into kayak use. Seagulls passed overhead, wondering if we would be good to eat after we either drowned or died from hypothermia. Despite the layers my arse was getting cold even though (or perhaps because) perspiration was pouring down my back.
Just a note about drysuits . . . they aren't ! ! ! You get almost as wet inside a drysuit as you do if you aren't wearing one. The only difference is the source of the wetness. When wearing a drysuit all wetness manifests from within -- hopefully this will be entirely perspiration. Without a drysuit wetness comes from the environment. Only the temperature of air and water can inform the paddler which option is best, and safest.
I sat my boat watching the demonstrations and the successful or failed emulations. Then it was my turn. I took a deep breath, locked my thighs under the braces and overbalanced to starboard until I was entirely inverted, the world vanishing beneath a murky veil of silt-laden lake water. There was the shock of the cold and a moment of panic before I shifted my paddle into position and started my C-to-C roll. A quick hip snap and the shift of my upper body brought me up immediately. Ta-da ! Victory ! I was so very chuffed about it all that I forgot to brace when I reached vertical and rolled right over again. Oops, loss of style points. So I did it all again, this time with a greater sense of urgency because I had no air left, and when I reached upside vertical I braced and took a deep breath of relief. And at that moment the icecream headache hit me like a pollaxe. "Ouch" does not begin to cover my feelings at that moment. I felt as though my head would explode, but it passed fairly soon . . . just not soon enough. It turned out that my double roll had been executed so quickly that no one believed I hadn't done it on purpose . . . show off.
We got back to the base camp in later afternoon, cold and wet, and we couldn't wait to get out of all the paddling kit, and it was for more reasons than just being cold and wet. If getting into all that kit is a struggle that effort pales in comparison with what is required to get out of it at day's end. Everyone needed help with the drysuit zipper, the drysuit neck gasket and the final emergence from the drysuit sleeves. The legs and ankle gaskets are a snap by comparison, though they certainly require care. We buddied up: the faux couple, the two guys, me and Mona. Then came the wetsuit and the downside of being a naturist in such a situation . . . sometimes you just forget. I had it unzipped and peeled down to my waist before I realized the guys were staring at me quite open-mouthed. "Oops, sorry," I said, "Forgot!" I pulled a sweatshirt over my head and the objects of everyone's fascination disappeared from view. "What's the matter," I asked, "have you never seen boobs before?" Grumpy & Dopey blushed . . . perhaps they hadn't . . . and shuffled off downstairs to the showers. Sneezy & Sleepy looked about nervously and made off to a corner to help each other out of their kit. Mona smiled at me and when I had struggled out of the rest of my wetsuit I helped pull hers off too. Then she stripped off her bathing suit as well and paused for just that extra second that says "Me too !" Flesh wasn't exposed for very long though, towels and PolarTec saw to that, and soon there was a lineup for the two shower stalls. We busied ourselves hanging things to dry.
Eventually the guys were finished, then Sleepy & Sneezy, leaving Mona and me in adjoining stalls. She was impressed at how "brave" and "cool" I had been about the semi-nudity thing. I asked if she had never been to a nudist beach and there followed a bit of a silence before she answered "Not yet, there aren't any around here." How little she knew . . . so as we stood there drying ourselves I told her something about naturism. (Kids, don't try this at home . . . professional naturist on a closed track.) The evening was taken up with talk again and talk turned to singing as Mona had brought her guitar and had a large repertoire of Maritime and other folksongs. I didn't know any of them but I could always chime in on the chorus. The guys were playing beerhunter and thought themselves quite the lads for it. That night when we laid out our sleeping kit Mona moved hers next to mine, an obvious shift from one end of the loft to the other. It seemed that I had acquired a new friend. And the morning and the evening were the third day.
Wednesday . . . all at sea. If getting out of a damp wetsuit is a bother, getting into one the next morning is a challenge . . . holy mother Mary it is disgusting! First of all it is difficult. It is also cold, clammy and a little painful. (Note to self: always wax legs before going kayaking) The drysuit had proved to be too hot and therefore unnecessary on the previous day so I went without it. We stared accusingly at the sky for the first few hours until, embarrassed, it brought forth some sunshine. We launched into the salt water of a protected harbour and set off to learn all about rudders and edging. With the rudders up the boats turn naturally and annoyingly into the wind, so of course we had to paddle about for an hour or so to get the feel of this phenomenon. If the wind was anywhere on our bows the boats swung quickly to face it, requiring a near-constant sweep stroke to compensate. Oddly though, if on the off chance that one wants to head directly into the wind, the boats would not do this but kept veering off. Veery annoying. If the the wind was astern or on one's quarter the tendency was to bring the boats fully about and then veer away. Once we had learned this valuable lesson far too many times were we allowed to deploy the rudders and hold a decent course. This was much more fun. (The instructors set a goood example for us. Frodo & Bilbo sit their boats well enough but are sort of nondescript. Anna, with her beautiful upright posture, her effortless fluid movements and her long ponytail hanging still and flawless is who I wish to emulate. Fat chance of that !) After another hour of this we headed for the harbour mouth where the rising tide and steady south wind had kicked up a fair chop wherever there wasn't a steady roll. Wave height was about 1.5m where we were bobbing along, much greater a short distance out to sea. I noticed this because even when I was perched atop a swell the in-bound fishing boats were disappearing between the distant waves. We struggled across the harbour mouth then came about and ran for the shelter of a headland, the wind at our backs but the tide now against us. By and by we won through, rounded the headland and beached below the boathouse shore. We were informed that we were now officially "Salty Dogs," a title with some apparent validity as the weak sun began to dry our outer layers and and the white film of salt became manifest. It was time to rinse off our boats and gear, then our kit and ourselves.
Thursday . . . down the coast . . . it was the best day so far. The sun was out, the sea was calm and the wind very light. We got kitted early and launched for a trip up the coast, lunch at an isolated cove and a return paddle with the tide in our favour. The few small patches of fog were inconsequential. It is in the nature of things that experiences which are either very good or very bad stand out sharply in one's mind and therefore cry for explicit description so that they might be shared with others. This day was not like that, it was just pleasant. The sunshine was warm and strong enough both directly and in reflection to call for the use of sunblock. The water was alive with rafts of scoters and cormorants, small groups of Eiders (both Kings and Commons), a few Canada geese, and occasional silent loons. Wandering gulls sailed overhead, interspersed with smaller faster terns. Offshore rocks supported galleries of watchful guillemots. Inshore we saw a few herons and grebes. Unfortunately we saw no puffins . . . wrong part of the bay for them . . . bummer. Except for our kayaks all marine traffic was much farther out to sea: lobster boats setting or pulling traps, workboats servicing the salmon cages, that sort of thing, and the distant passage of a massive LNG tanker. Our only encounter with marine mammals was confined to a group of harbour seals that followed us out of idle curiosity. The waters we travelled were far too shallow for whales. Upon our return the instructors left us to get everything cleaned up and returned an hour or so later with fresh lobsters and haddock for supper. Yummy ! I very much approve of grilled fish and boiled lobster . . . add garlic butter to the mix and you can hold the veggies for someone else.
Friday was a dark and stormy morning. It was pouring buckets so we stayed inside learning about navigating with compass and/or GPS; about charts and tide tables; about fixed lights, buoys and fog signals; and we did an impromptu refresher course on CPR because Anna is a qualified instructor.
Saturday . . . road trip . . . rumour had it that the weather was better in Saint Andrews so we went there for a change of scene. We paddled around the harbour for some minutes, then around Navy Island, by which time a fresh breeze was kicking up a steep chop to seaward. There was another group of kayaks out too but they were going out as we were coming in so there is no tale to tell in that regard. We got changed into dry clothes and headed back to base, stopping for supper along the way . . . deep fried scallops, shrimp, clams & haddock, no chips for me thanks.
Sunday . . . troubled waters . . . it was a windy day but not bad. There were sunny periods, just not many of them. We drove down the coast to New River Beach, a provincial park where the surf is fairly reliable and not too radical. The aim was to practise the fine art of "surfing" and we spent our day there, all of us finding out more than once why we needed to be able to roll. In that regard it was a very successful day for although everyone got sopping wet, no one was forced into a wet exit and no one needed an assisted rescue. Either Frodo had taught us very well, or we were all exceptional students, or this stuff just wasn't that hard. I shall opt for door # 1, but I was cocky enough that I did a few rolls just for the giggles, and also to reassure Mona who was a little nervous for some reason. So we surfed in the long rollers offshore, ran onto the beach a few times with the breaking waves, and paused for lunch ashore.
Monday . . . Victoria Day . . . "the day set aside by Order in Council for the official celebration of Her Majesty's birthday" . . . it was cold again, and grey, with neither sun nor wind. Nonetheless we launched in mid-morning and made our way down the coast for a few hours, turned about and headed home, then packed up and packed it in. Tuesday's weather forecast was ghastly so the training sessions were declared to be both "complete" and "successful." We were all enjoined to be safe on the water, never to paddle alone and to come back anytime. After much hugging and promises to stay in touch . . . maybe get together to paddle this summer . . . we dispersed homeward late that afternoon. I could hear the Siren call of the sauna and the washer awaiting my return.
As for future results I am looking forward to much more paddling this summer and I am rather hoping that Mona does get in touch and that I can convert her to naturism.
Here endeth the report.
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