Thursday, October 31, 2013

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

It’s a Boy!

10/28/2013


Last night I went to the hospital to have my foot x rayed.

The doctor began by examining the bottom of my foot.  It was filthy.  I offered to go wash it off, but that was not necessary he told me.

“Are you sure?”

He was.

A technician in a white lab coat arrived and smeared goo on my foot.  She then started running a microphone-like piece of equipment over the spot with the glass. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an ultrasound before, but was this as seen on tv.

I asked her if it was a boy or a girl.

The doctor told me that because we were looking for glass, it might not show up on any x ray machine.  Now, if it was metal, then they could find it.

“If there’s glass in my foot and it doesn’t hurt, can I just leave it there?  Do I need to worry about it?”

“It’s not a problem.”  He told me.

The woman was still moving the device over my gooey foot.  I watched the screen.  I couldn’t make out anything that looked like anything.

She said “there it is,”  and pointed to some static that looked like the rest of the static.  I believed her.  She highlighted the static and printed a picture for me to give to my doctor.  

The shard is half a centimeter long, and healthy, weighing in under a quarter gram.

We’ll probably go with a c-section.

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Monday, October 28, 2013

Somewhere

10/28/2013


Thursday night my Chief Logistical Coordinator* (CLC) called me.

“Your kayak has arrived!”


“Excellent!”

As soon as I hung up, I was running the two hundred yards from the boat that I’m staying on to the marina.  I looked around.  I found people, but no kayak.  None of the people had seen my kayak.  It wasn’t there.  

I called my CLC.  “Has arrived where?”

“I don’t know.  The address that you gave them.”

The kayak was lost.  It was not at the address that I gave Nelo.  It arrived somewhere, of that Nelo was certain.

I went to the yacht club next door to ask if the received a five meter kayak.  No, they hadn’t.  Here’s my card, if you find one, please contact me.

“Are you really kayaking across the Mediterranean?”  I was talking to the head of their rowing club.  He had stepped off of the treadmill to help me.  His one piece skin tight exercise suit was dripping with sweat and his six and a half foot trim athletic build made me wonder if I had ever exercised at all.

“Yes.”  I felt puny.  “I’m kayaking from Spain to Israel. ... I’m looking for a partner, would you like to come?”

“No, but if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

That was kind, but he didn’t know where my kayak was, so I left.

My CLC didn’t either, and Nelo was looking into it.  No matter how many times I checked the lot in front of the LNI, an 18 foot crate refused to materialize.

* My mom.  My dad is my Logistical Support Manager.

[caption id="attachment_2282" align="alignright" width="640"]20131025_084511 Not my kayak.[/caption]

Thursday, October 24, 2013

IMG_3053I got a new sponsor, so check out my sponsorship page because they're pretty cool!

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Glass in my Foot and Being Welcomed Into the Tribe

20/10/2013


I failed to get the second piece of glass out of my foot with the tweezers.  I tried the bottle suction method repeatedly with no luck.


It hurt to walk.


So I found a doctor here at the Lega Navale.  He looked at it, poked and prodded, and decided the problem was infection.  So every day for a week I went back to him, he examined and cleaned it and told me it was getting better.  He would take the glass out tomorrow, or maybe it would come out on its own.


At the end of the week he told me it was better.


“But the glass is still in there.”  I told him.


“How do you know?”  He asked me.  “The infection caused the pain.”


The last time I checked it felt like something was in there, as though I had a small pebble in my shoe even when I walked barefoot, and once in a while, the stabbing pain.


I hadn’t walked on that part of my foot for a few days.  My hips, legs, and back hurt from all the hobbling, but maybe it had come out on its own.  So I tried walking, and sure enough, I felt fine. It didn’t hurt.  The wound healed.  


I walked for an hour to pick up my GPS.  It broke when I paddled Oslo fjord, so when I first arrived in Naples, I brought it in to be fixed.  The shop told me it would take three weeks.  I figured I couldn’t start without a GPS and the company promised my kayak would arrive any day, so I went and bought a new one.


Three weeks have passed since then, so I went to pick up my GPS.  Now I have two.


Two days later I felt a stabbing pain and the small pebble that felt like glass in my foot.  The infection left and the skin healed over, but the glass is still in there.  The doctor said I need an x ray and surgery.  He’s setting it up for me.  


When my kayak comes I’ll paddle away, and return by train when I can get an appointment to open my foot up.


I hope my kayak comes.  Most recently they assured me it would arrive October 18th.  Before that it was October first, and before that, they promised and twice promised that it would be ready and in Naples for my launch the morning of September 10th.  Forty days late and counting.


The president of the Lega Navale wanted to speak to me.


“We need to talk.  Let’s sit down for coffee.”


“I don’t drink coffee, but I’m happy to sit and talk.”  I told him, smiling to cover my assumption that I had overstayed my welcome.  If I couldn’t stay here at the Lega Navale anymore, then I would probably give up on waiting for my kayak.  I’d need to get a job.  As it is, even with a free place to stay, I’m spending too much money.


“How long will you be staying here.”


I told him the tear jerker version of my story.  I’m desperate to leave, but my boat keeps getting delayed.  Every day I spend here, while the weather is still good and the days are long, though not as long as they were 40 days ago, is two days I’ll be paddling in February.


“I don’t understand.”  He told me.  “Are you an instructor, with a license, or doing this on your own?”


“Both.”


“Can I see your license?”  He asked me.


I’ve been telling people I’m an instructor for almost a year now.  This was the first time anyone has ever asked to see my ACA level four open water coastal kayaking instructor certification.


“Sure.” I pulled the card out of my wallet.


“I see. ... We will make you a member of the club, and pay you to teach kayaking while you wait.”


“I’ve been teaching for free, in appreciation for you letting me stay here.”


“We’ll pay you.”


And what’s more, they accepted me into their tribe.


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Thursday, October 17, 2013

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Fishing for a Bottle

10/13/2013

It was late.  I was coming back to my sailboat home and ready to hit the sack.  The boat is tied to the pier by a rope and pulley system.  I bent down to grab the rope and pull the sail boat in.  My Nalgene water bottle fell out of my pack into the gently lapping water below me.

I have two one  liter Nalgene water bottles in addition to my three and ten liter water bags.  They are important pieces of my equipment since I can use them both for additional water storage as well as places to put my lunch, keep leftovers from dinner, and even soak beans in overnight.

I needed to get my water bottle back.  I was not excited about a night time swim.  The water was about five feet below the dock.  The bottle was almost full, but refused to sink thanks to a small air pocket inside.

I had some slack rope, one end tied to the pier and the other tied to the sail boat.  I grabbed it in two places, fairly far apart, and threw the slack in between my hands down to the water.  Pulling, I was able to repeatedly roll the rope across the top of the bottle, gently nudging my Nalgene towards me.
I could now keep my water bottle from escaping.

I maneuvered the slack under the bottle, and then flicked the rope up.  The bottle shot up into the air, only a few inches from my face.  Startled by my success, I did not grab it out of the air in time and it fell back into the water.

That was easy, I just needed to be faster about grabbing it.

I tried again, only this time the bottle came just a inches out before falling back in.  I tried again, and again, unable to repeat my beginner's luck.

If only I could lasso it.  But I didn’t have the end of the rope.  It would be cool if I was a cowboy and knew neat rope tricks.

I went back to trying to flick the bottle up.

Wait a second, I know lots of knots.  I may not be a cowboy, but I’m a kayaker!

I made a slip knot in the rope, then holding from either side I lowered it down to lasso the bottle.  With some effort, I got the loop around the bottle and began to gently tighten it from above, using the weight of the bottle to secure the knot.

Just as I thought I had it, the bottle slipped out.  So I tried again, and again.  After adjusting my knot severall times, and nearly losing the bottle to the sea before calling it back a few more, I managed to combine the techniques.

I did not need to make the lasso tight enough around the bottle to pull it up.  Every time I tried the bottle slipped out.  But I was able to get the loop around the bottle tight enough, so that when I flicked up, the bottle shot out of the water and landed behind me.

I saved my Nalgene, and I didn’t have to swim.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

The Cheese Pilgrim and the Buffalo God

13/10/2013


Mozzarella is meant to be eaten fresh.

“The best Mozzarella in the world is at Costanzo’s in  Arzano.”  Corrado told me.

“I love Mozzarella.  I’ve even made it myself a few times,” I told him. “Not the real thing of course, from cow’s milk.  They don’t have fresh buffalo mozzarella in America.”

“When it’s made from cow’s milk we call it fiordilatte which means in English flower of the milk.”

The next morning I began the three and a half hour walk to Arzano.  I had three options.  I could wear my neoprene booties, my dilapidated vibrams, or go barefoot.  I decided to wear the vibrams while I was downtown, and once I got away from all the broken glass I would switch to barefoot.

About an hour in, I took the shoes off and felt liberated.  My feet were free; I could feel the ground, and walk the way I was meant too.  Five minutes later I passed a discarded bloody syringe.  I put the shoes back on.  When I thought I was out of the broken glass area, I took them off again.  There was a lot of broken glass, the whole way.  Sometimes I would walk around it, sometimes I would temporarily wear my shoes.

Most of the walk was along traffic filled streets through rundown neighborhoods.  Besides the broken glass, I passed overflowing dumpsters and piles of clothing and junk that was undoubtedly assembled by people who had nowhere better to keep their belongings.

Two hours in I felt a small rock in my shoe.  I took the shoe off, but couldn’t find the rock.  I returned my shoes and kept on walking, but the rock was still in there.  I repeated the process, with no luck.  I walked some more.  A stabbing pain screamed out GLAAAAASS, and I understood that another one of the little suckers had found its way inside my foot.

For the rest of the walk, I stepped carefully, with only the occasional glaring pain.  I wanted to taste the best cheese in the world, and I didn’t have that much farther to go.

I arrived, only Costanzo’s wasn’t where I thought it would be.  It was another hour of wandering before, tired and highly demoralized, I found the place.  A big white and green sign lifted my spirits up, Costanzo’s.  

I entered the small clean shop.  A glass counter crossed the room, and under it were all sorts of buffalo cheeses.  Sorely tempted, I was there for one thing.  The woman behind the counter smiled and said something welcoming in Italian.

“Mozzarella.”  I asked her, rolling my z’s and r’s as if the word were a prayer which, if said properly, was the gateway to happiness.

She pulled a white lump out of a bag behind her then scooped up the liquid the cheese had been soaking in and packaged it all in a plastic bag, then handed it to me.

Three euro.

There was nowhere to sit, so I walked out of Costanzo’s with my prize, and saw a farm at the end of the street.  I headed towards it, the glass in my foot all but forgotten, and found a spot to sit and eat surrounded by green fields.  It was the first time since my walk began that I was out of the sludgy suburbs.

I struggled to open the bag.  Why was it so hard, it was simple plastic bag tied with simple knot.  Arg.  ... At last, free.  I lifted my cheese out of the whey, and looked at the fat white disk that was about the size of my fist.

I bit into it.  The slightly tangy creamy flavor burst in my mouth, the whey dribbled down my chin hair, and I was in heaven.  It was as though, I had taken a bite out of a slice of angel, it was that good.*  The best Mozzarella in the world?  An understatement, the greatest of God’s gifts under the heavens, a start.

One small bite at a time, I savored every every squishy flow of goodness as I praised the glorious buffalo god who created such amazing happiness in this world.

And then it was all gone.

I looked up on my phone how to take public transportation back to the marina.  It was about an hour walk to the bus that could take me to a train.  The way, oddly enough, wound through the farmland.

So I walked down a small dirt track and around a gate. Orchards surrounded me, and the world was beautiful.  And the air, it smelled fresh and like a farm.  I could pick out the distinct odor of bovine which I pleasantly associated with kibbutzim.

I saw the corral.  Those were no cows. They were buffalo.  They weren’t just any buffalo, they were the buffalo who had made my cheese.  They were the buffalo gods.

I paid them homage. I thanked them for their cheese.  When I got close they stuck their heads through the fence and looked at me.  They did not moo, the buffalo burped.  

I had been guided there by a higher hand, and it was glorious.

I floated the rest of the way home, which was a good thing because it would have hurt like hell to walk on the glass in my foot.

The only trouble I had was finding the 162 bus, on account of the sign being upside down.

*I imagine mozzarella angels are something the heavenly equivalent of cows here on earth.

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Monday, October 14, 2013

Real Men Don't Pluck Their Eyebrows

My shoes now have a serious rip across one of the soles, so I've started walking barefoot.
This makes me a little bit of hippie, and tough - tough as nails, but not quite as tough as the tiny piece of glass that lodged itself in my heel last night.

I couldn't see it. I could barely make out the break in my skin that it had come through. And most of the time when I walked, I couldn't feel it. Then it would remind with a stabbing pain.

The obvious solution, to hop everywhere, seemed like it would put me at risk losing some of my cool, and while I have plenty to spare, it seemed like there should be a better way.

I whipped out my Swiss army knife and some alcohol pads. I prodded and cut. From time to time I felt my knife scrape against it. I accidentally nudged it and felt the pain, again and again. I tried to get the tip of the blade underneath it, but I still couldn't see it, so there was only more nudging and scraping.

I looked up online how to get glass out of your foot. For all of you who have been chuckling at my expense, apparently there is a whole community of people out there with glass in their feet, and so I found some sage advice.

GroovyGreas: Just leave it. It'll come out on its own.

BarefootBandit: I have three inch scar from when I left a toothpick in my foot and it got infected. Eventually it was surgically removed and they almost had to take the whole foot.

GroovyGreas: Skin replaces itself. It'll fall out. You'll be fine.

RealMD: You can suck it out. Don't use your teeth because it can scratch the enamel.

BarefootBandit: Soak it in hot water.

BeerLord: Use a beer bottle! Heat it in hot water and then place it against the glass. As the bottle cools the vacuum will pull it out.

I decided to go with BeerLord, and quickly found an empty wine bottle in the Lega Navale. I used my stove to boil water, then put the empty bottle in. After a few minutes, I removed the bottle and placed it against my foot.

It didn't work so I tried again ... and again. Maybe I wasn't getting a good vacuum. It seemed like it should have worked, if for no other reason than because it would have been cool.

I tried soaking my foot. This, too, did not work. So I walked, on my toes, to a pharmacy and asked for tweezers, trying to imitate what tweezers look like with my fingers.

"Pince?" The pharmacist asked me.

"Ci, ci, pince."

He imitated plucking his eyebrows just to make sure.

"No, no." I would never pluck my eyebrows. That's unmanly. "I have glass in my foot." So I'm tough.

He walked out of the shop with me and pointed to a makeup store.

In shame, I walked to the makeup store.

"Pince?" I asked.

"To pluck your eyebrows?" The woman answered me in English.

"Ci." I said defeated. "Economica." Cheap.

"Ci." She told me and took out some tweezers from under the counter. I inspected them.

They didn't look sharp enough.

"You see, I have glass in my foot. Maybe you have something sharper?"

"Ahh, you want these." She said, taking the expensive ones off the rack. "Afterwards you can give them as a present to a girl." She began folding them in tasteful wrapping paper.

"I don't think anyone would want tweezers that were inside my foot. And besides, this is probably not the last time I'll need to remove glass.

Six and a half euro later, I hobbled back to my boat. Tweezers in hand, I pulled the shard out of my foot and threw it into the sea.

The Cable Train and the Milanzana

10/9/2013

I went out to buy a little keyboard so that I could blog from my phone instead of hauling my computer across seas with me.

My phone rang. Yay, that means somebody is thinking about me. It was Corrado, who has generously taken me on as his project until my kayak arrives.*

"Where are you?" He asked me.

"I'm shopping." I asked the clerk what street we were on. He told me, I tried to say the Italian street name and failed. So I tried a few more times and with the clerk’s patient guidance I repeat the street name on the phone.

"I'll be there soon." Corrado told me.

By some miracle, the people in the store let me try out the keyboard before I bought it. The buttons don't always match up to what they do, so I still haven't found the delete, but overall it seemed like it would do the job. In the mean time, I'm using backspace.

My transaction complete, I found Corrado arriving just outside the shop.   He was there to invite me over for dinner with his family.  He had done quite a bit of research, and was ready to bend over backwards to make it kosher.**


 We walked towards his house which was on the top of a big hill. When we got to the bottom, we boarded the cable rail. It's a train that gets pulled up steep tracks by a cable at the top of the line. The car itself is built to match the angle of the climb with stairs running down the length of the aisle.

Walking along the top of the hill we had an awesome view of the island of Ischia. The sun was setting while dark spots of storm clouds lit the horizon up with lightning.

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"They say that whenever it rains over Ischia, it rains here half an hour later." Corrado told me. Half an hour later, five minutes from Corrado's house, it started pouring.

Corrado's wife, in honor of my coming, made the dishes that everyone is always asking for. I will describe one of them here, because the world would be a better place if more people would make food this good.

Milinzana means eggplant, and this was an eggplant dish: First, it's baked in the oven. Then the eggplant is peeled and mashed. Add basilicon (basil), pretzemelo (parsley), wova (eggs), parmegano, and pane (bread).
Form the stuff into small balls, bread it, and then deep fry.

Make a lot, because it'll go quickly.
They also fried up some small tomatoes, basil, onions, and mushrooms and served it up in a pool of olive oil. And another eggplant dish that my hostess recently discovered on some islands off the southern coast.
Dinner was one of the tastiest experiences of my life. And the quality of the company and conversation matched.

Corrado was especially pleased with the French fries, since his wife never makes the beloved potatos for him. I said that of all the wonderful things on the table, I was least interested in them because we get them in America. Apparently that was the reason they had been made, so that I would feel at home.

*Good news - this should be any day now. Bad news - this has been the case since September 9th.
**Using kosher ingredients and thoroughly cleaning and boiling water over the tops of utensils and skillets and self cleaning the oven.

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Sunday, October 13, 2013

Sailing, Teaching, and Losing a Key

10/8/2013

I’m still in Naples, but not to worry, my kayak will arrive October first.

Four people showed up for my most recent class at the Lega Navale and I continued to work on skills towards rolling. While none of my students have rolled yet, I think we’re getting closer, and more importantly, by the end of the day there were no emergencies and everyone had a good time.

I even discovered that the reason one of my students was having trouble was because, under no circumstance,was she willing to put her head underwater.

The next day I showed up for another session, but only Corrado was there.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re too sore.”

“Good, that means that they were learning and having fun.”

“Yes. They want to come next week.”

“I hope I’m gone by then.” It’s now next week. I’m still here. “But if I’m not, I’d love to run another class.”

“You want to go sailing?”

“Absolutely! You’ll have to teach me. You see, it’s my dream to live in a sailboat instead of a house, but I’ve only been sailing once.” It was with Charlie, who I went kayaking with in the Monksville Reservoir the same day I lost my sunglasses. I blogged about it.

We went sailing. And I learned a lot. I got to pull on the doohicky, and release the shmidgick. I even got to turn the lever thingy. I think I could do it all again, but I’m not sure if I got the names of all the whatdoyoucallems quite right.

Afterwards, Corrado invited me to stay in the cabin of the sailboat while I wait for my kayak to arrive. I thought about it for almost a full half second, but I didn’t want to impose.

“It would be cheaper. Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

It was not trouble. But he wanted to show me how to work the toilet.

“Actually, my parents taught me how to use a toilet when I was young.”

It turned out to be complicated. There are two levers. The flush lever and the seawater intake lever. When the seawater intake lever is open the water comes into the toilet, and the lever needs to be closed in order to stop the flow. The flush lever works similarly, only the water goes out. They are not allowed to be open at the same time. Oh, and no toilet paper is allowed, but there’s a hose I can use to wash my back side. I guess I didn’t learn how to do it when I was young.

I went to check out of the hostel, but I lost my key. I had given the hostel my Israeli license as collateral against the key that I lost. If I left them my license, it probably would have been for the best. I could pay them ten euro to get my license back, or I could borrow a key to get back into the room and maybe look again.

I decided to borrow a key and go look for the one that I lost in a shop that displayed a giant fluorescent key over the door. I waited for forty minutes for the shop to open half an hour after it was supposed to. When they did open, I think they felt bad about my waiting.

Fortunately, they had the key that I had lost, but they would only give it to me for a euro.

“Hmmm, do you take plastic?” I showed the proprietor my empty wallet.

He didn’t understand until I took out my credit card. No, he wouldn’t take plastic and said something to me in Italian.

“No capito Italiano.” I said apologetically.

“Gratis.” He answered.

“Grazie, Grazie!”

I took the two keys back to the hostel and redeemed my license.

Now I’m living in a yacht, and hopefully my kayak will arrive any day now.

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Saturday, October 12, 2013

Day 70

Saturday night I looked at the weather.  Sunday morning was expecting perfect kayaking weather, Sunday night, a storm.  And in between, the glassy morning waters and idyllic conditions would dissolve into chaos.  




At first I wasn’t sure if I would go out at all.  The calm before the storm is no time to mess around.  But it would be calm, or so the forecast insisted.  And as for the storm, I have mad skills so long as I have the energy to use them.  I could leave early and paddle for a few hours, that way I would most likely have smooth sailing and if not, I wouldn’t be out for so long that my body would go into calorie debt leaving my mind in the dark places and my skills in the dust.  Also, while proceeding days of the storm would bring a headwind, Sunday would bring a tailwind so it was now or Thursday.


The mayor had told me he would find me a place to stay the next night also and I thought, Pisciotta looked good.  A distance of about 10 nautical miles was just right for a half day.

“I can help you for Marina di Camerota.”  He told me.

I looked at my map.  Marina di Camerota was 20 nautical miles away, if I hugged the coast, farther. I would most likely finish with a substantial tailwind.  I would make great time, but be exhausted ... when I arrive at my hotel.

My alarm clock goes off at 5:00am every morning.  But in anticipation of the trials ahead I woke at 4:20 and I was in my kayak paddling two hours later.

The sun rose behind clouds over mountains.  I passed a shadowy tower that stood over a dark fallow. Then I left shoreline to cross a bay about five miles out.

At first small waves and wind came from the mainland land with an occasional set of larger swells coming from the sea.  But gradually the frequency of the swells increased and the wind joined them.

There was about twenty minutes in the middle where the forces seemed to be even and the water was glassy smooth.  Then another set of swells came.  The wind picked up, and more swells.

From there on I had my tailwind and waves shoving me along.  I was able to surf some.  And before long I was at the cliffs at the end of the bay.

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Tall, sheer, and vibrantly black, grey, white, and orange, they were covered far above me by wild grass and a few trees.  Tough bushed clung tenaciously to there rocky faces.  There were at least four or five sea caves large enough to invite a kayak, but conscious as I was of the worsening conditions and weary of the dangers of a large swell catching me inside, I passed near but did not enter.

 Around the corner the wind was powerful and coming off off the cliffs in what I suspect was a vertical eddie.  The blast grabbed the top of my paddle repeatedly and wrestled with me for control.  Bult I held strong and pushed forward.  Once I was around the point, the wind died down substantially.

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I was tired, oh so tired.  Maybe I had been a little lax and not eaten quite enough.  In anticipation of the weather I ate my pasta first and switched to my chia seeds as the conditions worsened.  I guess it was important that I switch off every hour mixing things up to maintain a more even calorie intake.

 The last few miles I passed jagged black and white rock formations on the shore and islands.  The sea changed from a dark blue to a light blue and a steady tail breeze helped me into port.

 I spoke with Stephano and he made some calls.  The city of Marina di Camerota was happy to put me in a hotel for the next few days of storm.  Never did I imagine that I would be kayaking in such style.  For now, thanks to Dr Bronner’s, my clothes are clean, my pots and nalgenes are clean, and I smell nice.  I have a warm bed.  How can life be so good?  How long can expect it to last?

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Nautical miles paddled: 20

Miles since Naples: 90


Current location: 39.999495,15.37572

Day 70

Saturday night I looked at the weather.  Sunday morning was expecting perfect kayaking weather, Sunday night, a storm.  And in between, the glassy morning waters and idyllic conditions would dissolve into chaos.



At first I wasn’t sure if I would go out at all.  The calm before the storm is no time to mess around.  But it would be calm, or so the forecast insisted.  And as for the storm, I have mad skills so long as I have the energy to use them.  I could leave early and paddle for a few hours, that way I would most likely have smooth sailing and if not, I wouldn’t be out for so long that my body would go into calorie debt leaving my mind in the dark places and my skills in the dust.  Also, while proceeding days of the storm would bring a headwind, Sunday would bring a tailwind so it was now or Thursday.


The mayor had told me he would find me a place to stay the next night also and I thought, Pisciotta looked good.  A distance of about 10 nautical miles was just right for a half day.


“I can help you for Marina di Camerota.”  He told me.


I looked at my map.  Marina di Camerota was 20 nautical miles away, if I hugged the coast, farther. I would most likely finish with a substantial tailwind.  I would make great time, but be exhausted ... when I arrive at my hotel.


My alarm clock goes off at 5:00am every morning.  But in anticipation of the trials ahead I woke at 4:20 and I was in my kayak paddling two hours later.


The sun rose behind clouds over mountains.  I passed a shadowy tower that stood over a dark fallow. Then I left shoreline to cross a bay about five miles out.


At first small waves and wind came from the mainland land with an occasional set of larger swells coming from the sea.  But gradually the frequency of the swells increased and the wind joined them.


There was about twenty minutes in the middle where the forces seemed to be even and the water was glassy smooth.  Then another set of swells came.  The wind picked up, and more swells.


From there on I had my tailwind and waves shoving me along.  I was able to surf some.  And before long I was at the cliffs at the end of the bay.


Tall, sheer, and vibrantly black, grey, white, and orange, they were covered far above me by wild grass and a few trees.  Tough bushed clung tenaciously to there rocky faces.  There were at least four or five sea caves large enough to invite a kayak, but conscious as I was of the worsening conditions and weary of the dangers of a large swell catching me inside, I passed near but did not enter.


Around the corner the wind was powerful and coming off off the cliffs in what I suspect was a vertical eddie.  The blast grabbed the top of my paddle repeatedly and wrestled with me for control.  Bult I held strong and pushed forward.  Once I was around the point, the wind died down substantially.


I was tired, oh so tired.  Maybe I had been a little lax and not eaten quite enough.  In anticipation of the weather I ate my pasta first and switched to my chia seeds as the conditions worsened.  I guess it was important that I switch off every hour mixing things up to maintain a more even calorie intake.


The last few miles I passed jagged black and white rock formations on the shore and islands.  The sea changed from a dark blue to a light blue and a steady tail breeze helped me into port.


I spoke with Stephano and he made some calls.  The city of Marina di Camerota was happy to put me in a hotel for the next few days of storm.  Never did I imagine that I would be kayaking in such style.  For now, thanks to Dr Bronner’s, my clothes are clean, my pots and nalgenes are clean, and I smell nice.  I have a warm bed.  How can life be so good?  How long can expect it to last?


Nautical miles paddled: 20


Miles since Naples: 90


Current location: 39.999495,15.37572

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

When It Hits the Fan

10/1/2013


Corrado asked me if I’ve ever been scared while kayaking.  

“Sure,”  I told him, and shared amazing stories that you can read about in my book.

This morning I met Corrado again for a 2nd rolling lesson.  This time, he brought another student.  So we got our gear together and headed out.  

We had two sprayskirts between the three of us.  The boats were 12 foot fiberglass kayaks, sufficient for all of our needs except maybe in that they did not have front bulkheads or any kind of flotation, only in the back.  Sort of like the boat that I swamped in the Hudson all those years ago, except that one at least had some foam in the front.

I brought a bilge pump and my Greenland Storm as a spare paddle.  I mentioned while putting in, as part of the lesson, the importance of having a spare paddle in any group.  There was no tow rope which should also be in every group, so I didn’t mention that.  

We all had life jackets but Corrado had his stuffed in his cockpit with him. I gave Corrado a hard time about it, and he explained to me that it chafed his neck.

I didn’t want to be too pushy because, after all, I was a guest and they go kayaking here all the time in their own fashion.

I was wearing one of the two sprayskirts and Corrado’s friend was wearing the other, though it was entirely ornamental as it lay limply on his lap.

We paddled out of the Lega Navale port (40.834496,14.255398) and swung a right towards Castel Dell'Ovo.  The castle sits on an island separated from the mainland by a short bridge.  On one side of the bridge there is a small harbor where the water was completely flat, protected from the wind and waves by the island.

As we paddled under the bridge we found the other side (40.829013,14.247298) exposed to the elements.  There were both giant rocks at the base of the island and the pier, and a line of partially submerged rocks that thundered with the pounding of the waves.

I went through first, then turned around to make sure my students navigated it successfully as well.  After that, while the swells were sometimes high, there were not breaking waves away from the pier and we had smooth paddling to the beach we had decided to train at.

The training went well.  Corrado, now on lesson two, was progressing smoothly and his friend was learning about hip flicks with great commitment.

A few hours passed and It was time to go back.  I was not wearing a spray so that both of my students could have theirs.  I looked over; at least Corrado was wearing his life jacket.

We began paddling back.  We were tired from all the learning.  The waves had gotten higher.  Corrado went through the rough spot before the bridge first.  He got side whaled by the sort of wave that would have capsized me when I was first learning support strokes.  He stayed upright as the breaking wave passed into, and then under him just a couple of feet from the rocks.

Then, on the backside, he capsized.

I sprinted to him.  In the kind of surf he was in, the right move was to tell him to grab one of the boats, hook on my tow rope, and get him the hell out of there.

I didn’t have a tow rope.  Plan B is called a contact tow.  I could tell him to hold onto my boat while I rest my weight on his bow to paddle us out while holding his boat in my armpit.  With no front bulkhead, his bow had take on a lot of water and might not support my weight.  I also have trouble leaning over without taking water into my own boat.  I pulled his boat onto mine to get the water out.  A wave hit us.  I threw his kayak aside as I watched Corrado get thrown perilously close to the rocks and my own kayak was moved substantially in that direction.

“Corrado!”  I called.  “Grab my bow.”

“No,”  He said.  “Go for the boat.”

“Get out of the water.  Can you climb up on that rock?”  I yelled over the surf.

He began to climb as I turned around and went for his boat.  The front of half of his boat was now entirely swamped and underwater.  Over my shoulder I saw Corrado was not able to climb onto the rock.

I went back for Corrado.  First we’d get him safe and then worry about the boat.

Corrado saw that I was paddling towards him and then began a powerful front crawl in my direction.  I put my bow right next to him so that he could grab it.  He swam right past me towards the sinking kayak.

A young man on the sea wall was ready to jump in and help us.  “Stay right there.”  I yelled.  “We may need your help in a moment.

Corrado, his kayak, and I were now slightly removed from the thunderous spot of doom.  We needed to get his bow on top of my kayak to get the water out of it.  His stern floated above the water pointing towards the sky and his bow speared straight down.  Getting it near the surface wasn’t too hard.  But getting it above the surface was impossible.

Ordinarily I could put my combing underwater and then scoop his boat up while righting myself, but without a skirt I would swamp my own boat.  We tried to lift his boat for a moment longer before I decided that our priority needed to go back to getting Corrado out.

“Corrado, get out!”

There were now a couple of young men that had climbed down the rocks.  When he swam over they helped him out.  He turned around, and got back in to grab the boat from a couple of meters away.

Through a colossal feat of strength, the three of them managed to get the water out of his boat.  Corrado explained to them that they only need to lift by the bow and could brace the stern against the water.  If I wasn’t so freaked out, I would have been proud, because I taught him that.

He got back in his boat saying that he was fine.  His paddle long gone, I handed him mine and pulled out my Greenland Storm for my own use.  We paddled under the bridge where Corrado's friend waited for us.  He had the lost paddle.

Corrado was fine.

“Remember how you asked me if I’ve ever been scared paddling?”

“Yes.”

“Just now, that’s the most scared I have ever been.”

The Chief Rabbi of Southern Italy

Friday night I set out to look for the synagogue here in Naples.  I had examined on Google Maps its location and the way there was fairly simple.


I walked to where I thought it was.  I was at the top of a cliff.  Huh, I didn’t see that on Google Maps.  The building looked like any other.  I went to open the door.  It opened a few inches and then jammed from a chain.  I could hear someone walking towards the door and calling to me in Italian.

A middle age heavy set matron opened the door a crack.  What little I could see looked like a house and not a synagogue.

“Dove synagogue?” I asked, trying to pronounce synagogue like I was Italian. My pronunciation wasn’t close enough and she sent me away from her home like the lost american tourist I was.  I walked five steps when she called to me.

“Ahhh synagogue!”  She sounded Italian.

She explained to me that it was just under the cliff.  I would have to walk around.  She gave me a bunch of directions in Italian.  

“Capito?”  she asked.

I hadn’t understood a word.

“Emmmm, ci ...”  I didn’t know how to say ‘sort of’ so I said “Sort of.”  She tried again, but then a fellow came out of the house who spoke a little bit of English.  He explained to me that I needed to take a left, go down the stairs, and then follow the block around.

Easy enough.  Easier said than done.  I spent half an hour looking for the stairs.  The street that I was on was about five stories above the crossing street that I eventually realized I needed to be on. Once I made that determination, it was only another ten minutes before I found the stairwell down.  I walked along a pedestrian avenue with lots of trees and less garbage than most in Naples.  

The cleanliness, the trees, the smell of pastries, pizza and gelato, and the bright shops in the evening created a Friday night festive atmosphere in the air around me.  I could see it in the way people held hands.  I could see it in the way they walked and smiled.  

I took a left heading towards the bottom of the cliff, and not surprisingly, got to a dead end.  I asked a guard at the entrance to an apartment buildings courtyard “Dove synagogue?”

“Qua, ... chiuso ... domani.”  Were the words I could pick out.  The synagogue is here, but it’s closed.  Come back tomorrow

I tried to ask if services were over or if they didn’t happen Friday night.  But the guard didn’t speak English so I couldn’t get an answer.

I tried “Tempo Domani?” Time tomorrow?.

“Nove.”  He told me. Nine, good.

The next morning I knew where to go, and I got there at 9:30 which was a little earlier than I like but not all that bad.  I don’t like to get to services on Saturday mornings on time since they’re so long.  But I got there and found they hadn’t started yet.

The chapel was beautiful.  Wooden floors and a high white ceiling created a brightness that was made formal and holly by the intricate work on the ark and the alter.

After services the rabbi invited me to lunch in a reception room with the other foreigners.  There was one couple there that had been on a Mediterranean cruise until their ship broke down.  Everyone was interested in everyone’s adventures and we all had stories to tell.

The rabbi appreciated that there were so many guests and that we had all gotten there so early.  Usually it takes much longer before they have enough people to start.  Rats, it meant that if I’m still here next week I need to arrive on time, and not even later.

The rabbi also wanted to get me on Italian tv as a Jew paddling from Naples to Israel in support of our people as opposed to the flotilla which had passed through Cyprus in support of Hamas.  I’m not sure if I’ll make it all the way to Israel, but that would be pretty great if I do.

I was invited back for the next week also, oh, and as for Friday nights, they don’t usually have enough people for services, but I should definitely come by.  At least they’ll feed me.

The rabbi here was also one of the founders of the service I had attended in Rome.  Apparently he was an integral part of building a culture of hospitality there, one which I enjoyed a great deal.  He is also trained as a physicist,  involved in getting hotels in southern Italy to have kosher kitchens, and building an eruv and mikvah in Naples.*  Even more interestingly, he has arranged with the local public transportation companies that Jews will be able to travel for free on the Sabbath, when they are forbidden from handling money.  In other words, he’s a righteous dude and I think he should be made chief rabbi of Israel.

*Making it much easier to have a devout Jewish family in the city.

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