“Sand in my underwear! I wish that’s all I had to worry about for the next year,” Jeff told Ernest.
They joked about my seemingly insignificant worries, and saw my departure from the real world as a great indulgence in the luxury of time off. And it would be. But it would not all be perfect campsites like this and with cold beer and steaks. Ernest knew this. He had suffered enough on his various adventures to know there would be hard times indeed. He would not have traded places with me, and in reality, I doubt if Jeff would have either.
The next morning we reached Cypress Creek landing and Jeff pulled his canoe from the water and wished me luck as Ernest and I paddled away. Black Creek was growing wider as more tributaries like Cypress Creek added their flow. We were moving away from the sandy hills of the pine country and towards the river bottom swamps of the coastal plain.
We paddled under towering oak and beech trees festooned with wild grapevines, and drifted past steep clay banks that seeped cold spring water. Often, as we rounded a bend, a water snake would slip off a stump or branch and disappear beneath the surface. Occasionally, we would hear a sudden crashing in the undergrowth near the bank and look up to catch a glimpse of a startled deer. The only sound of man was the far away thunder of artillery shells exploding on the practice range at Camp Shelby, an Army National Guard base miles to the north. We made camp that night below the next landing at Fairley Bridge, and though we were now out of the national forest, there was no indication in the seemingly endless woods that still hid Black Creek from the rest of the world.
By Wednesday afternoon, we came to a bridge that we calculated to be about halfway between Brooklyn and the coast. Concerned that we might not get to the coast in time for him to drive home on Saturday, Ernest suggested that we paddle on into the night to make up some mileage. The moon would be full, so we could probably reach the confluence of Black Creek and the Pascagoula River before our next camp. Already the terrain was becoming swampy, and numerous cypress trees at the water’s edge suggested that we were nearing the big river and its vast bottomlands.
We stopped after sunset to refill our water containers from a clear spring on the bank, and in the dark shadows of the trees, swarms of mosquitoes emerged to torment us. I saw this as the perfect opportunity to test a new repellant I hoped would work for me in the tropics. It was not really a repellent at all, but rather a bath oil by Avon that had become the rage among outdoorsmen after someone accidentally discovered that it had the side effect of discouraging mosquitoes. Ernest stubbornly refused to try it, being too manly to use such a product, and stuck to his DEET chemical spray, while I applied liberal amounts of the strong-scented bath oil to the exposed parts of my body.
“Hey, this stuff works!” I proclaimed in triumph as the mosquitoes vanished. “And it’s not poisonous like that chemical junk you’re using.”
“Maybe so,” he muttered in contempt as he paddled quickly to get upwind of me, making some crack about me “smelling like a floating house of ill repute.”
I didn’t care what he thought. Nor did I care how I smelled. Mosquitoes and other biting insects would be a constant part of my life for the duration of the trip. I would use anything that would keep them at bay, and after this success I paddled smugly on, convinced that I had found the answer. Little did I know that these docile Black Creek mosquitoes had nothing in common with those I would later encounter in the tropical mangrove swamps along my route. The Avon product would prove to be worthless, as would even the most toxic chemical repellants.
We continued cautiously downstream in the gathering darkness, straining to see and avoid the numerous stumps and deadfalls obstructing the twisting waterway. The last of the light faded within thirty minutes, and the forest swallowed us in blackness, forcing us to guide our kayaks by sound and intuition. We knew that navigation would again be easy after 10 p.m., when the full moon would rise.
Rounding a bend, we were startled by a terrific splash as a frightened beaver dove to escape the kayaks bearing down on him. Through the gloom, Ernest saw a large alligator sink like a lifeless log just as he was about to run over it. Snakes were ever in our minds as we brushed under overhanging branches and were sometimes pushed by the current into the matted weeds and reed brakes near the banks. Ernest slammed into the tangled branches of a large oak that had fallen across the creek, and his boat was quickly pinned to the debris by the current. With difficulty, he managed to extricate himself from the mess after I checked for snakes with my flashlight.
The river grew in width as we moved downstream, and soon we came to a floating fish camp tethered to the bank. The camp was a houseboat of sorts, really just a shack built of salvaged lumber and tin, fastened down to a barge of empty oil drums that floated it just high enough to keep the floor clear of the river. I knew from a previous trip that such floating camps were endemic along the backwaters of the Pascagoula River. Some were permanent residences, but most were used as camps for extended hunting and fishing trips in these wild reaches of bottomland forests and swamps. Its presence was a good indication that there was navigable water the rest of the way to the Gulf, as most of these camps are built in the towns downriver and towed upstream by outboard-powered johnboats. Since there was no sign anyone had been around lately, we decided to stop for a meal on the deck of the dilapidated houseboat while waiting on the moonrise.
The maniacal laughter of barred owls and the eerie screams of screech owls permeated the blackness as we ate cheese, tuna, and crackers while under siege by mosquitoes. My bath oil and Ernest’s chemical repellant was already wearing off, so we applied more and managed to keep the pests at bay. When the moon finally emerged over the treetops, its soft light illuminated our winding path through the jungle-like forest, so we slipped back into the kayaks and paddled on.
We reached the mouth of Black Creek by midnight and drifted into the lazy current of the broad Pascagoula, eager to find a campsite and call it a night. There was an occupied houseboat near the confluence, and two men on the porch talked under the glow of a Coleman lantern, unaware of the stealthy kayaks that slipped past just outside their circle of lamplight. Without a houseboat of our own, stopping here was not an option, because the banks of the lower Pascagoula are not inviting to campers, either being steep bluffs or swampy tangles of snake-infested woods growing right to the water’s edge. We paddled on in search of a spot, getting sleepy with the hypnotic dipping of the paddles like drivers trying to stay awake all night on an interstate highway. I nearly capsized once when I dozed off and woke with a start, forgetting where I was. At two in the morning, we came to a low sandbar, and casting aside good judgment in favor of sleep, we set up camp. Heavy rains brought a rise in the water before dawn, and we awoke to find the river at the door of our tent.
We broke camp in the rain and paddled all day through intermittent showers. Cypress was the predominant tree species here, and gray curtains of Spanish moss hung from the branches and blended with the gray skies that surrounded us. Dense thickets of palmettos on the forest floor lent a tropical touch to the scene, however, and reminded me that sunnier islands were my destination.
On Friday morning, we reached an open area of marshland where the river lost definition in a maze of channels and bayous. This broad expanse of river delta that meant we were near the Gulf. We stuck to the westernmost channel and by noon reached the public boat ramp where Ernest had left his truck. Our night paddling had turned out to be unnecessary. We had arrived a day early. Ernest could spend one more night camping, but now we had run out of river and the only dry land was near the boat ramp and the highway bridge.
I suggested that he accompany me out into the Mississippi Sound to Round Island, my next planned stop on my route to Alabama and Florida. Ernest had never paddled in the sea before, but I assured him we could make the easy 4½-mile crossing with no worries, despite the strong wind that was blowing out of the south. He expressed some doubts when we stopped near the railroad bridge at the mouth of the river and loo
ked out across the choppy waters of the sound at our destination, which appeared as a hazy hump of blue, too far away for its pines and beaches to be discernable. I reminded him that the kayaks were seaworthy, and besides, the Mississippi Sound is protected by the string of barrier islands farther offshore. The waves would not be big enough to threaten us.
After this brief discussion, we sealed ourselves back into the kayaks and set out through the outlying marsh islands at the river mouth. Ernest had never learned any kayak self-rescue techniques, and had never experienced a “wet exit”, which is the kayaker’s term for getting out of an upside down boat without panicking. I didn’t think he would need any of this knowledge, but an hour later, I was to find out how wrong I was.
We passed the last stretch of marsh grass and entered the open sound. I was surprised at how rough the chop was in the 20-25 knot headwinds.
“Nothing to worry about,” I told Ernest, “just enough wave action to make it a fun ride.”
He thought it was great. He quickly pulled ahead, delighted with the experience of paddling a kayak in the sea for the first time. I knew the exhilaration he was feeling, and watching him reminded me of the first time I took my kayak out to sea not all that long ago…
I remembered carrying the boat across a crowded beach in Florida, climbing in at the water’s edge, and plunging out through the breakers to the calmer swells beyond the surf zone. What a feeling of freedom that had been, out there far from the reach and sounds of the masses of sunbathers, beachcombers, and swimmers as the kayak silently carried me out to sea. It was a feeling of utter peace, so different than the busy shore, dancing on waves that shimmered under my hull in the summer sun. A dolphin had joined me for a time, leaping and playing just out of reach. I was soon a mile from land in my tiny plastic boat, but felt strangely secure, the benevolent blue ocean beckoning to be explored…
I was snapped back to the reality of the present by a large wave that washed over my deck and forced me to brace with the paddle for balance. This was not the peaceful blue dreamscape of that other day, but rather an ominous gray cauldron of churning waves that made me feel insignificant in my kayak. Wave after wave washed over the low decks of the over-loaded craft, and I noticed that I was taking on more water around my sprayskirt than normal. When I stopped to pump out the excess, I was surprised that the pool of water inside the cockpit was getting deeper still and creeping up around my waist. The stern of the boat was completely awash, and now I realized that the entire rear compartment behind the seat was flooded. Sea kayaks are incredibly seaworthy small boats for two reasons: One is the watertight deck and sprayskirt arrangement that is supposed to keep all the water out of the boat regardless of conditions, and the other is the segmentation of the hull interior into three separate compartments by watertight bulkheads, which keep the boat afloat even if the cockpit is full of water. Both of my kayak’s defenses had been breached by this nasty chop. I was taking on gallons of water through a failing sprayskirt seal, and the water was filling not only the cockpit, but the entire stern compartment as it was somehow getting past the rear bulkhead. With the bulkhead compromised, the boat was in real danger of sinking if enough water got inside.
I yelled for Ernest, but he was probably 200 yards upwind of me, blissfully paddling into the 3-4 foot breakers and oblivious to my predicament. I pumped as fast as I could with the hand-operated bilge pump I carried on deck. I remembered the loud emergency whistle attached to my life vest, as required by the Coast Guard, and blew sharp blasts on it as I pumped. Whether Ernest heard the whistle or just looked back to see where I was, I don’t know, but when he looked I waved frantically and motioned for him to come back.
He slowly made his way to my position while I continued to pump as fast as I could. Since the stern compartment was crammed completely full of gear, which although heavy, was still lighter than water, the kayak did not take on enough water to sink.
Ernest was having a tough time negotiating the breaking waves. Thanks to me, here he was more than two miles from the nearest land in rough conditions with no knowledge of bracing strokes or kayak handling. And the only person that could help him was in a sinking boat. I watched him struggle as I pumped, then a particularly large wave caught him broadside as he tried to maneuver close to me. The next thing I saw was the upturned yellow hull of his kayak. It seemed like forever before he finally broke the surface, coughing and spitting seawater. He clung to the inverted kayak with one hand and his paddle with the other, a surprised and betrayed look on his face.
Re-entering a capsized and flooded kayak requires a precise and practiced technique, even in calm conditions. Ernest didn’t know where to start, and he was being pummeled by breaking waves, and had lost his glasses in the capsize. This situation was rapidly deteriorating. If he didn’t get back into his boat, and if my boat did sink, we would be miles from land in nothing but our life jackets.
I managed to maneuver my half-sunken kayak along side him, and instructed him to turn his upright. I then handed him the pump and he began pumping his cockpit out while treading water and nervously wondering what might be swimming around beneath him in the murky waters of the sound. When he had most of the water out, I held his boat tightly against mine, and by climbing up onto my stern, he was able to slide back into his seat without capsizing. He quickly pumped out the rest of the water and sealed his sprayskirt to keep the waves from refilling it.
There was nothing I could do about the water in the stern of my boat. I would have to try and paddle it to shore swamped. We stayed close together, fighting a headwind and the breaking waves. I frequently had to stop and pump, and paddling with the stern submerged required all the remaining endurance I could muster. Late in the afternoon, we finally reached the lee of the island and paddled until we ran the bows of our boats up on the sand.
Ernest collapsed on the beach, seasick from the motion and from swallowing seawater. I was exhausted, but immediately emptied the wet gear from my boat and began inspecting the hull to see what damage there was. As it turned out there was no hole or structural damage. The hull was simply too flexible to withstand rough seas when so heavy-laden. The flexing had caused the rear bulkhead to break loose and lose its watertight integrity. The hull was plastic - a type of polyethylene formed into a kayak by a manufacturing process called roto-molding. It is a low-cost way of mass-producing kayaks, but the inherent problem with plastic is its lack of stiffness, when compared to other boat-building materials, such as wood, fiberglass, or Kevlar. I was to find out later that stiffness is everything when it comes to kayaks, not only to withstand breaking waves, but also to allow the energy put out by the paddler to be transformed into forward motion. A flexible boat absorbs some of this energy and is less efficient.
The other problem with the plastic used in this molding process is difficulty of gluing anything to it. Epoxy and most adhesives will not bond to it. The bulkheads in my kayak were made of stiff, closed-cell foam, sealed with a marine sealant. Under stress the seams had easily let go of the smooth surface inside the hull. I could reseal it with the marine goop I had brought for repairs, but it was obvious that if this happened so soon in the trip, it would happen again and again. This time I had been lucky. The waves were nothing compared to what they would be in the Atlantic and the Caribbean, and I had been only a couple of miles from land. I realized with dismay that I had the wrong kayak for the trip I had embarked upon. I would need a more seaworthy model, made of rigid material such as fiberglass. I had a sinking feeling of defeat as I stood on the beach and looked southeast to the horizon I could not reach. Only one week into the journey I had planned for so long, and now an impasse. I didn’t even make it out of Mississippi. I would have to dip deeply into my limited travel funds to shuck out the cash for a better boat.
I pitched the tent and cooked some rice while Ernest remained stretched out on the sand, trying to recover from nausea. There was nothing we could do that night, and no great urgency anyway. The wind still whipped a
cross the island from the south, and with rough seas, it would be out of the question to return to the mainland. The capsize had undermined Ernest’s faith in sea kayaks, so he was not in favor of paddling back.
We ate dinner and discussed my predicament as we sat on the north side of the island that evening and looked at the distant lights of Pascagoula, on the mainland. Ernest agreed with my assessment of the plastic kayak, and thought I would be wise to replace it before going on. After his experience, he thought it would be wiser to not go on at all, but that was never an option for me.
Sometime after we went to sleep, the wind abated, and when we awoke in the morning, the sound was mirror-like. There was not much danger of my kayak taking on water with no waves breaking, so I felt sure we could make it back to the mainland. We quickly loaded and launched the kayaks. The crossing was easy and without incident. Two hours of paddling gave me time to think of solutions to my problem, and by the time we reached Ernest’s truck, I had a plan for obtaining a better kayak.
On the Pascagoula River with the kayak that didn’t work out.
Two: Southbound
A boat is freedom
Not just a way to reach a goal
—Bernard Moitessier, A Sea Vagabond’s World
Feeling out the sleek new kayak and testing its response with a full load, I paddled slowly past the expensive homes and private yachts lining the canals of Apollo Beach. With each stroke the turquoise and white craft surged forward, moving easily despite the 200 pounds of gear, food, and water stashed below the decks. In just a few minutes I left this pricey waterfront community behind and cruised through the cut into the open waters of Tampa Bay. Far across the wide bay to the west, I could see the skyline of St. Petersburg glinting in the morning sun. I pointed my kayak south and fell into a steady paddling rhythm, slipping past the man-made beach at the Holiday Inn.
On Island Time: Kayaking the Caribbean Page 3