Classic Crossing: Catalina to Manhatten Beach Pier

Catalina Classic Race Course: The stuff of legends.

I: Plans Evolve

“If you do that race, I’ll divorce you.” That clear and unprecedented warning issued from DeeAnn’s lips reflexively the first time she heard about the Catalina race from one of my paddling buddies. Catalina isn’t just any race. On the West Coast, it is THE race.

I have no memory of who first mentioned the Catalina Classic to me or when, but it was very likely Mike Eaton, about the time I acquired my first paddleboard from him in 2005.

Not that it was an ambition. By the time DeeAnn's shot was fired across the bow (do paddleboards have a bow?), I had been paddling only about three years and had just worked up to the 12-mile Jay race. Paddling was becoming a significant time commitment. But I had no intention of training out to do a 32-mile paddle. It seemed as ridiculous to me as it did to her.

Things evolve. Not only did I do the race, but DeeAnn supported me in every conceivable way.

In June 2009, I was privileged to meet eight-time Molokai-2-Oahu women’s champion Kanesa Duncan Seraphin. We were introduced by Brian Mullen (where else?) at the beginning of a paddle. As we made our way from Pebble Beach’s Stillwater Clove towards Point Lobos over oil glass and laconic swells, Kanesa mentioned to us that anyone considering the Molo or Catalina races should do, say, the 22-mile Lake Tahoe Classic, “to see how you feel about that distance.”

That’s how I got interested in the Tahoe race. I liked it quite well, thank you very much. In fact, it was over four hours of total stoke. But paddling Tahoe’s early morning placid waters didn’t make me want to run right out and do one of those open ocean 32-mile runs.

A few conversations and paddles with Kanesa over the next couple of years tipped my hand.  DeeAnn could see the progression, only by this time she wasn’t about to stop me.

I set my sights on the 2011 Molo race, mostly because Kanesa was supportive. I got only part way down the road of dealing with the race’s complex and potentially overwhelming logistics when I fractured a bone in my left arm (note to all 58-year-old men: skip the skateboarding – only 14-year-olds bounce off the pavement).

I recovered in time to train for and paddle the Jay Race, Kaui’s 17-mile Napali Coast (thanks again to Kanesa), and my third Tahoe crossing. I also got to relay-paddle the Santa Barbara Island to Catalina race with Kathryn Tubbs and Reno Caldwell. Not a bad year, all told! That last race was also my first experience with a chase boat, and I could not have asked for better with Captain Jon Duff and his oh-so-merry crew. But that’s another story.

As I eased into my 2013 training season, I became attracted to Catalina as a way to see how I felt about 32 miles without the Molo race’s notoriously rough seas. Kanesa’s take was: the two races are just two different kinds of pain. Fine.

Catalina thus won out over Molo. It’s far from logistically simple, but doesn’t involve packing and shipping a paddleboard to Hawai‘i, acclimating to paddling in Hawai‘i’s heat (ideally over a period of three weeks), getting me and my equipment to O‘ahu, then Moloka‘i, etc. etc.

But I did need a chase boat, preferably one I could sleep on (I’m so over sleeping on the ground!). Jon Duff was already committed, but was kind enough to introduce me to Mike Debreceni. Mike, captain of the Orient, accepted my request.

Now, I just had to train out so I could complete the course. I decided to train to 27 miles, back off the following week, paddle a second 27, then taper over the three week lead-up to race day.

I intended to paddle the race course’s last segment at least once before race day. I’d heard of the trip around the R-10 buoy long before I seriously thought about participating. I asked Reno Caldwell if he’d take me out there. He agreed, but it never happened. Instead, we did a short race from Cabrillo Beach. I never got to the R-10 until the day of the crossing. Perhaps it was just as well.

Mike Debrecini and I planned to meet for the first time the day of the Cabrillo Beach event, as his boat is docked a short distance from there. We arranged to meet in the parking lot around six a.m., so he could point out how I could paddle over to his slip. The morning we met, I drove from Malibu, where DeeAnn and I were staying that weekend. When I arrived, there wasn’t a car anywhere in the lot (it was six a.m., after all). But Mike pulled through the gate immediately behind me, followed me in, and parked practically nose-to-nose. We both popped out of our cars simultaneously, looking at each other and saying, “Mike?” Our timing with each other has been equally spot-on from that moment forward.

It was fun arriving at Mike’s slip by paddleboard. I got a good look at the Orient, a 36-foot Taira.

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At 14 feet wide, it has the feel of a much larger boat. The slip next to Mike’s was empty, so I pulled in. I just might be the only prone paddleboard ever to tie up at that dock! I would be staying overnight on this boat the night before the race. I got a tour, then left Mike and the Orient feeling this was going to go really, really well.

The race at Cabrillo Beach was fun. A small group of us paddled about 6.5 miles. Casey Annis won the race (unlimited class). Reno introduced us. I learned Casey was headed up to Carmel for Pebble Beach’s annual Concourse d’Elegance (among the most highly respected classic car shows) and offered to host a Saturday paddle, loaning Casey a paddleboard. He took me up on that and so I got to know him a bit. It was an easy paddle the week before Catalina, and conditions were pure glass.

II: What Makes The Catalina Classic "Classic"

A race with this much history deserves to be called Classic.

It’s a fair bet that every paddleboarder has heard of the Catalina Classic 32-mile crossing from Catalina’s isthmus to the Manahattan Beach pier. Surely most, if not all, have considered it.

Its history is filled with legendary watermen.  Here’s a summary from the event’s website:

1928: Tom Blake wins first mainland surfing/paddleboard race on 120 pound board and [proceeds] to break every paddleboard record that previously existed.

1932: Tom Blake makes first ever Catalina Crossing and beats out paddlers Pete Peterson and Wally Burton, going 29 miles in just under 6 hours.

Early 1950s: enters a new era of paddlers. Surfboard shapers Dale Velzy, Greg [Noll] and Hobie [Alter] refine paddleboard design and begin to stage the legendary Taplin races between city and country lifeguards[.]

1955: Bob Hogan founds international Paddleboard Competition from Catalina to Manhattan Beach Pier.

1961: The Catalina event is cancelled due to dangerous conditions and the sport hibernates for over 20 years, save [for] a few like Dale Velzy who kept building boards during that time.

1982: Gibby Gibson and Buddy Bohn revive the Catalina Race for a field of 10 competitors.

1982 – 2006: Buddy and Gibby yearly bring more competitors to the Catalina Classic and raise the awareness and demand for the sport and equipment.

Tommy Zahn is another legend who, at age 59, took third place, reportedly just yards from claiming second. I have thought of Zahn’s feat often. If he could do that, there are no age-based excuses. So, here I am, age 59, doing my first Catalina Classic. Not that I had illusions about a podium finish!

III: GETTING THERE

 

The Catalina Classic is so much more than a 32-mile paddle. There’s a lot that goes on to arrange it all and to get to the starting line. I’m going to go on about that for a bit to provide a sense of the larger journey that the race is but a part of.

You don’t just sign up for the CC. You must have a chase boat to register for the race (Check, I had that one). Even after you have registered, slots go to previous CC finishers first, then to applicants who have completed a qualifying race. Mine was the Jay Race. I was very happy when I learned that I had been accepted.

Days before the CC, Mike and I cleared up some details about our adventure. I had made a good list of what to bring and started putting things in order.

I also got the chance to visit with Reno a few times, who talked me through many practical aspects. Reno’s experience and willingness to help was huge for me.

DeeAnn and I arranged to meet Mike and Cindy (Mike’s wife) at 7:00 am Saturday. We pulled into the parking lot at the end of Whaler’s Walk. I got out of the car and called Mike’s cellphone while looking down the walkway adjacent to the docks. Mike answered, we said hi, and the Mike said: “Is that you?” just as I spotted him at the far end of the walkway. There was that timing thing again.

Mike told us where to park. The paddleboard came off the car. When we got to the Orient, Mike got on board. Without saying much, we lowered my paddleboard on the ‘foredeck and lodged it between the rail and the wheelhouse. The rail acted like a spring-loaded docking system made expressly for the purpose of securing a paddleboard of exactly the dimension of my Bark. We marveled at our instant success together and finished loading everything else on the boat.

Nicely nestled paddleboard.

DeeAnn joined us for the trip over to Catalina’s isthmus, also known as Twin Harbors. We spotted whales and dolphins. Mike slowed to a speed he said the dolphins like, but we got no takers.

The Lane Victory.

The original Port Angeles Lighthouse, restored to its former glory.

Just as we neared the harbor, the sky began clearing. The harbormaster directed us to buoy M-23, and we tied in for the night.

On the approach to Catalina's Isthmus Cove.

View from our mooring: a competitor loosening up.

All four of us hopped into the dinghy and motored to the dock. Mike checked in, and I headed up to the restaurant, where I looked for and found Jeff, who, with Jon Duff and Mark, were manning the Raiatea for paddler Don Bates.

One of the locals, too preoccupied to greet me.

I suggested to Mike, Cindy, and DeeAnn that we take the walk to the outer (west-facing) harbor. It’s a surprisingly short walk and now the sun was out.

Mike and Cindy treated us to a great lunch on the boat, then DeeAnn had to catch the ferry back to San Pedro Harbor.

Cindy, Captain Mike, DeeAnn

Hanging out on the Orient for the afternoon was one of the best parts of the two-day race experience. The day was perfect and sunny. Boaters with varying skills came and went, paddlers went for paddles, swimmers plied the waters, and our friends from Raiatea came for a visit. The humor was pretty fast and furious, as in hard-hitting. It’s a good thing these guys are friends.

I went for an easy paddle, just because it was simply irresistible.

That evening, a race-sponsored dinner, mandatory check-in and meeting took us back on land. Race rules were announced. There aren’t too many rules.

Two are memorable. One is that anyone arriving at the R-10 buoy in six hours or more will be assessed as to whether completion of the race will be permitted. The other is my favorite:  “Your chase boat must be longer than your paddleboard.” (so, for example, an 18-foot paddleboard may not be accompanied by a 14-foot boat).

It was inspiring to watch so many paddlers connect with each other over dinner. This year, a special trophy was handed to Joe Bark, commemorating his many, many crossings. Joe won the race back-to-back in 1888 and 1989 and hardly (if ever) has missed a race. For many years, Joe has made nearly every paddleboard that will be under nearly every paddler in this 2013 race.

It was at the check-in that I was handed a sticker for my board and a banner for the boat, each being yellow and bearing the number “66.”  So, now I had my first Catalina Classic race sticker in hand. Holding that number was like sealing the deal. To me, it underscored that I’m really here, and I’m about to become part of paddling’s greatest, longest-running tradition – and it will become a part of me.

We all spent the night somewhere on the island. The only hotel nearby is never available. Otherwise, Twin Harbors' accommodations are rustic:

I felt fortunate to be settling down on the Orient for the night. I began thinking about the distance. And the challenges of this channel I had never paddled before. I calmed myself with the thoughts that excellent conditions were expected, that I had come well prepared (except for no R-10 paddle), and that everyone has a first time.

IV: RACE DAY

My iPhone woke me, about two hours ahead of race time. I had a little food, did some stretching, got my water bottles and race nutrition ready, talked with Mike and Cindy, dropped my paddleboard into the water and paddled to shore in the dark. There was just enough light to navigate through the tied-up boats, although I did bang into one buoy!

Once at shore, I parked my board in a starting place and headed for the morning check-in. I did a bit more stretching in the dark, away from the bonfire. A few of my stretches are yoga positions. One other paddler waked by me and chanted: “Oooohmmmmmm.” Then I headed for my paddleboard, checked things over and waited for the start.

As dark as it was, there was no difficulty feeling the excitement and high spirits of the racers. So many know one another and were saying ‘hi.’ This was going to have a fun side. The harbor was pure glass, and hopefully we’d see more of that as we crossed.

The race started in the dark, with dawn barely in evidence, at the sound of a siren. It’s a standing start, meaning all paddlers stand in shallow water next to their paddleboards. Seventy-seven paddlers on seventy-seven prone paddleboards lurched onto their boards, sliced through the waters and slid between tied-up boats.  Our chase boats awaited our arrival about two miles into the race, beyond Ship Rock.

I had the pleasure, privilege, and advantage of paddling out of the harbor with Joe Bark. He’s great company and always helpful. And if you pass Joe, he’s rooting for you. I figured if I passed him today, I’d be going hard too early and would bonk. I fully expected Joe to pull away in the first few miles. He did.

As I approached the waiting flotilla, I wondered how long it might take Mike and the Orient to find me. The answer was: almost immediately. I thought: "We really do have something uncanny going on."

Sunrise. It just doesn't get better. (Photo: Mike Debrecini)

Under way. (Photo: Mike Debrecini)

The race course runs North-Northwest from Catalina, and the prevailing winds are westerly. It’s never a downwind race. But it can be a miserable crosswind race. We had glassy conditions and a following south swell – a rare and fortunate combination.

As we all settled into the crossing, we were bound on either side by two lines formed by our chase boats. The boats made a wide corridor with all of us inside their lines. It lowered my sense of risk. But I also didn’t see that much sea life, such as dolphins.

Photo: Mike Debrecini

No matter. We got sunshine not far into the day. Sunshine on glassy water was plenty inspiring, at least for me.

I could see the north end of Palos Verdes peninsula, and figured that had to be the general direction of the R-10 buoy. With clean conditions, it was easy to set and hold a sustainable pace, mostly prone paddling with some knee paddling thrown in to stay a little looser. I don’t normally use a chin rest, but this time I took it along – and used it.

Part way through the channel, I had drifted from the Orient’s course and Raitaea pulled between us.  I said, “Déjà vu!” Raitaea replied: “Wrong paddler!” When Orient and I reunited, Mike said I was on a course that would take me about half a mile wide of R-10; I needed to turn ever so slightly to my right. I did, and after that took the Orient’s bow as my compass.

Some time after that, I signaled for a break. Cindy placed a fresh water bottle, a fresh nutrition bottle, and a snack in a shallow net. I swapped out the bottles on my paddleboard, took the short snack break, and headed back out. Race rules dictate no more than two minutes next to the boat, and not more than twice during the race.  

As I approached the R-10, I was surprised at my average speed, no doubt enhanced by the favorable following swell and excellent surface conditions.

Things were about to change. 

First, I suddenly felt sick and I knew what was next. As I sat up on my board to deal with the inevitable, a woman on are red stock board started yelling at me: “PADDLE. KEEP THOSE ARMS MOVING. DON’T STOP.” I just looked at her and said, “Honey, I’m about to lose my lunch.”

What was next was like being in a whole different place. This first 23 miles was pure glass. The last 8-plus was like pure hell: crosswinds whipping up windswell coming from my left, rebounding off the shore to take a second swipe at me from my right. This produced an occasional combo that bucked hard and several times spun my board under me to the point that I was now lying across my board sideways. I told Mike I’d be taking a short break after each mile, and we were going to finish this race.

Rounding the R-10 also meant paddling against the California current, which was coming at me somewhere around 1 knot. This meant my pace had to drop dramatically. And taking breaks meant losing ground.

My average pace to the R-10 had been about 5.1 miles per hour. My average pace after rounding the R-10 dropped to under 3.4 miles per hour. I ceased to care about my finishing time, I just focused on finishing.  

But I also knew we weren’t far from home, and that knowledge drove me on. My anticipation grew.

The Manhattan Beach Pier isn’t hard to spot, as it sports a unique architectural feature: the Roundhouse Marine Studies Lab & Aquarium.  It’s a hexagonal building capped by a red tile roof. Once in view, I knew for sure I would finish. On the pier’s deck is the crew that records each paddler’s completion of the race and their time.

The race ends in the water, between a red buoy and the pier. As I paddled in, I was finally going downwind, even if only for a short distance. When the buoy was on my right shoulder, the blast of a Freon horn burst forth to punctuate my arrival. It surprised and delighted me. It was like being given a welcome shot of energy. I got there in 7:00:54, placing 66^th out of a field of 77.

I sat up on my board. I pumped my fists in the air and said to myself, “I did it.” 

Done. (Photo: Mike Debrecini)

What came next took me by surprise. As it sank in that I had, indeed, completed the Catalina Classic, I felt the largest range of overwhelming emotions I have ever experienced, from relief to ecstasy. I started laughing uncontrollably and crying, all at the same time.  I just sat there and took it in.

DeeAnn was on the pier and watched me come in. She took this shot:

7 hours, 54 seconds.

I wanted to paddle back to the Orient and connect with Mike and Cindy. But I wasn’t feeling right, and knew I just couldn’t.  It was pretty much all I could do to paddle into shore.

The first face I saw was race director Francziska Steagall's, who not only greeted me, but took my paddleboard. I was blown away by that. Somehow, a Hawaiian lei of fresh orchids found its way around my neck. That sent a pulse of pure, positive aloha pulsed through me. And there were hula dancers. Really. I’m pretty sure I was not hallucinating.

DeeAnn caught up with me. At this point all I wanted to do was give her a big, wet hug, sit down (I was pretty gray, according to DeeAnn) and guzzle my recovery drink. It amazed me how quickly that helped.

Veteran paddler Kathryn Tubbs was a key volunteer this time.

But not too busy to visit for a minute.

 

Then I noticed Joe Bark. Joe, who had completed yet another Catalina crossing was standing on the beach looking seaward. Holding a wheelchair.  Its owner, Mark Matheson, arrived by paddleboard, and Joe was there to help him out of the water and into the chair. That’s when I realized that Joe’s always focused on what he’s doing now, and then on the next thing that needs to be done. Sort of like taking a stroke, then taking the next stroke, then the next, then the next.  

And the next thing that happened was: we were all called to the pier to take the annual photo. By then I had added my board to one end of the vertical tribute to 2012’s race. I took a place in front of my board and noted that the U.S. Marines color guard was on hand. Turns out there were Wounded Warriors in our race. The inspiration of that took me by surprise.

I reconnected with Mike and Cindy at the awards ceremony that night, and celebrate we did! I arrived still un-showered and salty, as DeeAnn and I shuttled down to Huntington Beach after the race to unite with our new, exceptionally charming kitten, whom we came to call Gracie.

So, what’s next for me? Another stroke, then another …

V: EPILOGUE

DeeAnn and I are still married (24 years this Sept. 16, 2013). And quite happily, too, thank you very much!

After arriving home, I began wondering what to do with the lei, which had survived the trip from Manhattan Beach. Along Carmel Beach, near 11th Avenue, is a small monument to Ryan Field and Alex Robbins - two young surfers who died in a tragic car accident in July 2006. There I left my orchid lei.

More (including results): http://catalinaclassicpaddleboardrace.org/all-time-conditions-make-for-a-fast-race/

The Journey, Not the Destination

It’s 3:45 am. Our car is loaded. Both of my Bark paddleboards were lashed on last night. After the alarm goes off, I do easy yoga-based stretches, eat a light breakfast, fix coffee for DeeAnn, and we’re on the road shortly after 4. We drive to Monterey to meet Paul, who shows up only about a minute after we do. Paul had to work last night and has had little sleep. We all say ‘hi’, Paul crawls into the back seat of our car and after exchanging a few words, I suggest he might like to sleep on the way up. He has similar plans.
 

The drive to Santa Cruz is quiet. We notice some kind of event being set up in Moss Landing. That turned out to be the well-attended annual Antique Fair.

We arrive at Santa Cruz Municipal pier at 5:40 a.m. As we get our boards and ourselves ready, I see a familiar Eaton paddleboard seemingly floating in the dark across Cowell Beach. Phil Curtis is right on time. I call Mike Roberts, who has spent the night with his dad, Dale, on Mike’s boat, Sjøfugl, to let them know we have arrived. Mike lets me know he’s the furthest boat out from us, lights on.

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A Sjøfugl, our boat's namesake

DeeAnn snaps a few shots of us, we do some stretches, and as we pick up our paddleboards, I joke this will be a Le Mans start (involves running to your race vehicle) – a stunt played on us by the organizers of the Bay Crossing in 2010.

Early. Phil's board is faintly apparent.

Paul, unzipping

Waking up. Even the boards are yawning.

Paul Wettereau, me, Phil Curtis

Paul. Ready.

As we get our boards wet, DeeAnn calls Mike to let him know we’re on our way.  He says, "I know, I can see them."

We pause at the boat to check in. Paul and Phil deliver their dry bags with dry clothes for later. Each of us has extra gear on the boat and Mike was ready to take paddleboards on the boat, “just in case.”  

We talk about our planned course, then go.

Days before, we all had a map of the 2010 Bay Crossing Course. The line from the start was straight South to the M1 Buoy near the deepest part of the Monterey Bay canyon. From there, a slight left turn to a South-Southeast heading is needed to land on Monterey’s Del Monte Beach, next to Wharf 2. The line is designed to take into account calm winds early with prevailing northwest winds later. By delaying the turn off the Southerly line, paddlers get the push from the northwest winds home. The total distance is about 28 miles.

Today, we are starting with no appreciable winds, and it gets perfectly glassy as we go. A light Southwest wind was predicted, but the small, short period northwest swell makes the planned route nearly as appealing as when northwest winds are expected.

But somehow the idea of going out south-southwest creeps into our conversation and so we head out. It doesn’t fully register with any of us early on in our paddle that we should not be able to see the Wilder Coast at any time over our right shoulders.

And while we can see coastline over our right shoulders, we can see little past Pleasure Point to our left, due to the haze.

As we paddle, we talk. I’m not the world’s greatest conversationalist, but I’m truly enjoying hearing Paul's and Phil's discussion. The paddle is turning out to be great fun in glassy conditions.

These photos show the glassy conditions, and also how gray and how limited our visibility was.

Five miles into the paddle, we take a break. Paul and Phil swallow a gel each. I gave those up, as they didn’t agree with me. I’m now using something that goes into my water bottle instead, with coconut milk and vitamin C added.  I have already done two 27-mile paddles with this solution in the last months, and it works for me all day long.

The sea life we spot include a whale and a few albatross. Later, we see a sizable flock and watch the awkward ballet that is the albatross’s way of getting to flight. The feet are “running” the whole time, and it seems to take forever to gain enough altitude to make redundant the takeoff and landing gear.

Everything is gray, yet there is contrast. Each of us in turn remarks how deep the water feels. Somebody remarks that Frosty Hesson's character in the Chasing Maverick's movie was right when he called this a "deep blue abyss".  We all agree. I also feel the isolation, the distance from everything familiar. There is a quiet power. This is a whole ‘nother world that seems benign now, but each of us knows better.

Some of our chatter involves calling out headings by three of us. There is a compass mounted on the Sjøfugl, one on Phil’s paddleboard and a page on my GPS.

In spite of our vigilant attention to our indicators, and partly because we can no longer see land, we wind up pretty far west. The only active map we have is my GPS with its tiny screen and roughly drawn map.

I had learned on a previous paddle to be wary of hand-held GPS maps. When approaching Santa Cruz Island on the way to the 2011 Island-to-Island paddle, our boat's crew member with the greatest sense of humor was at the helm when he stopped all forward progress about nine miles before reaching our objective, which was in full sight. When questioned by the captain, the mischievous mate responded: “The GPS says we’ve arrived.”

21 miles into our paddle, I am able to zoom in the GPS map so that I can begin to judge our position relative to Monterey Bay’s southern terminus, Point Piños. I know from many paddles that it’s four miles between Point Piños and Del Monte Beach. At about 21 miles into the paddle, I am getting the sense that the remaining portion of our paddle to Point Piños is significantly greater than that 4-mile final stretch. And we still are not seeing land. And we have seen zero fishing boats. All clues.

Still a little unsure of what I’m seeing, I call Paul and Phil over to the boat. We sit on our paddleboards, Mike stands above on the Sjøfugl.  I show them the map and tell them what I think I’m seeing.  My own vision of stepping onto Del Monte sand begins quickly fading. We agree that, yes, it looks from the GPS map like it’s going to be longer than we have time for, and a south wind is beginning to make the course a little rough.

We all agree to hand two of our paddleboards up to Mike and attach a rope to Phil’s to drag it home. But Paul kiddingly says he’s just paddling back. We all climb in the boat and busy ourselves pulling on dry shirts and coats for the trip home. Mike lashes down the paddleboards on the deck.  Dale moves forward to make sure the front of the paddleboards don’t hit anything.

Our paddle is over at 22 miles.

Next, Paul calls DeeAnn to let her and Lindsay (Paul’s wife) know when to expect us. He reassures her everyone is safe.

“Just in case” has happened. But our friendly chatter never stops. We talk about how we might have gotten so far west. The stories continue to flow. The most impressive part is how positive everyone stays.  The south wind strengthens some. The paddle would have increased in difficulty, but not beyond our abilities. Paul asks if I’m going to blog. I say I don’t know for sure if I will, but deadpan that I might call it “Don’t Go West, Young Man.”

Paul is mindful of Dale and relieves him up front.

Finally, we spot land – the Monterey Peninsula stretching from Point Piños to Pescadero Point. After we pass the Point Piños buoy, a whale breaches near a whale-watch boat. Surface conditions mostly smooth out. We pass Lover’s Point, Hopkins Marine Station, Cannery Row, San Carlos Beach, and round the Coast Guard Jetty. We’re home.

Once alongside Wharf 2, Mike spots a ladder Paul can use for his exit. It’s not an easy approach. Phil’s board wanders into the outboard as the boat comes about. Ouch. Then a commercial fishing boat approaches to unload, possibly needing to take up the space in front of the ladder Mike was aiming for. Mike moves well out of its way and spots another ladder, and has to call off some fishermen with lines in the water standing on the pier above. Then the first ladder becomes available after all, so Mike swings around and heads back. Mike approaches, then he and Phil grab the ladder.

Approaching Wharf 2, Monterey

L to R: Phil Curtis, Captain Mike Roberts, Paul Wettereau

First Mate, Dale Roberts

About 14 miles and 2 ½ hours after we had all boarded the Slöfugl, Paul disembarks by way of that ladder attached to the pier.   He collects his wallet, keys & phone from Lindsay and sprints up the wharf, conscious of getting to work on time.

Had we paddled the whole way, it would have added up to 36 miles – a distance that would keep us out much longer than we had time for today.  And while we didn’t accomplish our intended Bay crossing, we have paddled the waters outside Monterey Bay, an unforgettable blue water paddle.

Now it’s time to head into the harbor for the ramp. After tying up and offloading paddleboards and gear, Mike begins the process of trailering the boat, along with Dale and Kay (Mike’s mom) – no small amount of work.

Kay Roberts. So long!

I walk past Phil on the way to my car with my board. I am inspired to offer: “Phil, I only have one thing to say:” followed by uncontrollable laughter. He joins in.