Monday!!?

I just got word that I will not be able to meet my kayak until tomorrow.  Also, since it is Sunday, everything is closed and I will not be able to buy a cell phone today.

In Spain they Speak Spanish

I Arrived in Spain on Tuesday.

The Flight:

At the check in counter I got into an argument  with US Air people.  Without getting into details, I felt like I was being ripped off for an additional $190.  I was very upset with the manager who was being exceptionally obtuse.  It turns out that, no matter how hard you try, you can't actually vaporize someone with your eyes, even evil airline people.

On the plane I thought that I could make good use of my time by learning Spanish from the little girl in the seat next mine.  Here's an excerpt from the conversation.

Me:  “So 'no' in Spanish is 'no'?”

Little Girl:  “No.”

Me:  “Baahhh.”

By the time we parted at the airport I was able to say adios like a real Spaniard.

Tuesday night I tried to blog, but all I could put down was brain puke.



Days of Preparation:

Preparing for my trip here required that I buy local charts, flares, phone service, gas for my stove, and arrange to meet my kayak.

My kayak arrived late, I mean, later then the later then the late date I was originally given.  I believe that the boat is now in Barcelona and hope to find it tomorrow, though I don't yet know where to look.  There's a communication problem.

Tuesday night my watch went dead despite the brand new battery.

I spent all of Wednesday walking around Barcelona.  I found a man to fix my watch, in coming up with a price he went down from 17 Euro to 6 Euro.

Stove gas I found fairly early on at a camping store.

I had found a list of kayaking stores on-line along with their locations.  I went to all the addresses on my list and none of them had kayaking stores.  The web sight I used was in Spanish.

I found a number of outdoor goods stores and they where not helpful.  Finally I had an Idea.  I made my way to the port area, found a sail boat with a sailor on it, and asked him. He was able to mark my map with four different sailing stores and tell me plenty about them.  Since it was siesta time, I had to wait about an hour for the nearest store to open.

The people there did not speak English, communication was slow and painful, but ultimately successful.  I had my charts and understood that I would need to wait until Sunday to get the flares.

I left the shop.  After a moment I went back to pick up my map of the city which I had forgotten there.  I left again, but then came back again; I wanted to use the bathroom before my long walk back to the hostel.

Coming out of the bathroom the shop owner stopped me.  I wondered why as he finished up his conversation on the phone.  Finally he hung up and excitedly told me the flares had just arrived. They were big rockets, about a foot long and larger then any of the flares I had seen in America.  There was a sailor in the store who could speak English.  He told me that that was the only kind available in Europe, and kindly showed me how to use them.  Thank you Awesome Sailor.

I still need to buy a phone.

Days of Awe:

Wednesday night began the Jewish high holiday for the new year.  I attended a local synagogue and scored an invitation for the festival meals.  The family that hosted me is pious and believes that good things happen to good people in practical ways.  The father, a story teller, gave me much food for thought and belly.

The synagogue I prayed at had two minyannim (Sorry to all of you who are not intimately familiar with the Jewish tradition.) an Ashkenazi minyan and a Sephardi minyan.  I tried praying with the Ashkenazi minyan as is my custom, but calling that minyan Ashkenazi would be like putting a lemon in a Coke and calling it Sprite.  It was too painful so I eventually switched to the Sephardi minyan.

On the Sabbath I prayed with a Chabad minyan (using the Sephardi custom).  After the prayer meeting I got invited over to the rabbi's house for lunch.  Once they learned of my plans, I spent the rest of the meal answering questions about my trip.  The rabbi suggested that I put a picture of the deceased leader of his sect, the Rebbe, on my boat.  I politely said “I'll think about it,” while remembering another idea that was recently floated my way:  I should put a bobbing head Jesus doll on the front of my boat.  I'll think about it.

Saturday afternoon I found a mountain and climbed half way up it before I had to turn around.  I got a great view of Barcelona and the ocean.  Barcelona has some beautiful old Spanish architecture and some ugly newer slums. In the distance, on the side of another mountain, I could see a cool looking castle.

I begin paddling tomorrow, if only I can find my boat.

Ready to Go

I fly to Barcelona on Monday, meet my boat on Wednesday, and begin paddling on Sunday.  Training is over.

I arrived in America June 3rd, three moths ago.  I've probably averaged hitting the water 4 times a week for about five hours an outing.  I had hoped for six times a week for six hours, working my way up to ten as I got in better shape.

I have significantly improved my skills.  I learned to roll, edge my boat, skull, brace. and most importantly, I can pee without pulling over.  My forward stroke is also drastically improved.

I had intended for my diet to be healthy with lots of brown rice.  In fact, I've mostly been eating hot dogs and ice cream.  This worked out fine because I'm in the best shape of my life, and may never have an opportunity again to eat so many hot dogs and so much ice cream.

Beginning next Sunday I hope to paddle ten to twelve hours a day.  I hope I'll be ready.

A lot of time has been spent getting my gear in order.  I'm fairly pleased with most of what I ended up with.  A few things I spent too much on or got the wrong kind, but for the most part, I got a lot of stuff wholesale and did pretty well for myself.  I have during this time successfully tested all of my gear, except for my kayak.

Since I wasn't able to get any sponsors per se, I felt that the least I could do was to not advertise for people who weren't paying me.  So I covered up the logos on most of my gear with my own logo, a stitch put together by me, my mom, and a friend of my mom's, Toby Eizik.  Toby was instrumental providing both great artistic talent and the necessary machinery.

Toby  implied to my mom that she was hoping to be mentioned in my blog, so while I typically try to avoid mentioning people out of concern for their privacy, I'm happy to make an exception for people who drop hints to my mother.  Thank you for your help Toby.

This blog is also something I set out to do during my training time, as a test run for blogging about my trip  This is my first effort at writing, but I have a head start on account of my degree in math which is in many ways similar to a degree in writing.*  I'm pleased with some of the posts more then others.  A measure of my success is that this blog has had over 1000 hits, and that seems like a lot to me.

During this time I have made friends in the NYC kayaking area.  People who have helped me with my skills, and just to have a general sort of good time.  Sunday night the Yonkers paddle club will be having a farewell paddle for me.

There have also been a number of setbacks.

Originally I had hoped to leave from Gibraltar August 15th.  Why Gibraltar?  Because it was a good distance for the semester I'm taking off and I could feel like I was crossing the Mediterranean.

A woman who was employed to clean my parents house once a week when I was a little boy recently got in touch with me via Facebook.  Hearing about my trip she told me that she has a friend in Cadiz that I could use as a base of operations to launch from.  I could stay there for a couple of days while I got organized in Spain and have my stuff shipped there before my arrival.  This was an opportunity I could not turn down, so I changed my departure point to Cadiz, about a 100 miles on the Atlantic side of Gibraltar.

Time passed and I became more and more eager to get in touch with this person in Cadiz, to confirm everything and get an address that I could ship to.   The woman who was helping me explained that she was busy and would get around to getting me in touch with the Cadiz friend soon. About a month and a half before my departure date, after I had bought tickets to fly, she informed me that her friend could no longer help me out.  In the same email she told me that I was impatient for trying to get in touch with this person myself.

Towards the end of July, about two and a half weeks before my departure date I got word from Epic that the kayak would be delayed three weeks on account of troubles with shipping.  So I changed my flight for no small fee, to spend more time with family, and in an environment that was good for my training.

Just a few days ago I got another email from Epic.  The kayak would be further delayed.  If I wanted, I could start only a few days late in Barcelona.  If I insisted on starting in Cadiz, I would have to wait even longer.

The good news is that my contact at Epic is being helpful in every way that he can and is making some of the logistical work much easier for me.

I changed my ticket again.  I'll be flying to Barcelona on Monday, which I would have been in around now anyways had I not been delayed.  I'm no longer going to be attempting to cross the Mediterranean because I'm skipping the first few hundred miles.  But I'm starting on Monday, and I'll still be kayaking from Spain to Israel, I hope.

* editor's note: It's not.

I went back to the Marsh with my friend Link. It was a day well seized.
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Oh Captain my Captain

I was paddling along Manhattan next to a pier that had the words “100 yard security zone” written on it. I'm in the habit of ignoring these signs. I figure they only apply to terrorists. (I'm not a terrorist.) A police boat came from around a corner up ahead and towards me. It was then called over the police boats loud speaker “You're in a security zone, captain.”

So I turned away from the Pier and thought 'Cool, I'm a captain.'

Feeding the Fish Badness and Eating Sand

I had planned to paddle from the George Washington Bridge to Sandy Hook, camp at Sandy Hook overnight, and paddle back the next day.  The distance, about 32 miles, was no small endeavor for my 12 foot boat (as apposed to the 18ft epic I'll be meeting on Tuesday in Spain).

My trip began a couple hours before the current would change and I headed south along the now familiar sights of upper and mid Manhattan.  The Current changed against me around when I expected it to, but oddly, only for about an hour.  After that it was mildly with me for the rest of my trip, which could be attributed to the recent rain.

I stopped on a dock in lower Manhattan to make myself lunch on my stove.  I packed three bags: oatmeal, rice, and lentils.  My bags were preseasoned and the oatmeal bag already had instant milk.  This is how I intend to eat on my expedition.

I searched through my gear to get my lighter for the stove.  I continued to search.  Finally all my dry bags were out on the dock and the contents were spread at my side, my search was over and I still didn't have a lighter.  Apparently, I hadn't packed it.

The dock next to mine had a bunch of identical sailing boats parked at it.  A young woman sat next to one of the boats and was doing some rope work.  I hopped over the fence guarding the dock I was on and approached her. Sure enough, she had a lighter.  I lit my stove, then hopped back over the fence with the burning stove and returned to my gear and food.  About 10 minuted into cooking, my stove went out.  I had assumed that it in an effort to get a simmer I had lowered the gas to off.

Repeating the fence hop stove light drill I was less successful, my stove was out of gas.

Lunch and dinner where only half cooked.  For tomorrow I could soak my instant oatmeal making it edible but not tasty.  I had enough for one and a half meals.  I was not excited about making the trip back on low grade fuel, but I wasn't going to turn around.  As for the half cooked meal in front of me, the pot was still hot so I figured I would let it sit until it cooled off, and then see how it tasted.

I put all my gear back in the boat, mounted the hot pot on top with bungee cords, and continued on my way.

Some time later, just before Battery Park I ate about half the contents of the pot, leaving the rest for dinner.  It wasn't bad. (I found out a couple days later that it was bad, infested by moths.)

Crossing from Manhattan to Brooklyn I had a wonderful view of the Statue of Liberty.  I recalled something about an inscription having to do with taking in tired and weary.

As the day drew on and fatigue set into my being I got to the large inner bay just north of the Verrazano Bridge narrows.  I steered clear of the shipping lanes and the many moored freighters.

Farther south I was closer to the side where cyclists and runners used a path between a highway and the river.  One woman called out to me asking where I came from.  When I told her she was so excited she stopped other people on the path to tell them.  Not wanting to be the source of disruption for the exercisers above I paddled on with a slightly more aggressive forward stroke.

Soon I was under the bridge and began the 10 mile crossing to Sandy Hook.  I couldn't see the hook so this was my first test of taking and sticking to a bearing on the water.  Once upon a time, real men did this without the aid of a GPS.  I came up with an initial bearing by using my compass, a string, and my chart (as I had been taught in the army), just to make sure the GPS-provided bearing made sense.  I then used my chart to figure out the coordinates of the closest end of Sandy Hook.  Plugging that into my GPS I got satisfactory results and headed south.  I rechecked my bearing every half hour or so and found that I was being nudged by the current a little bit east.

I was by now completely exhausted.  The waves, at times several feet taller than I, were exhilarating.

At one point a motor boat was headed straight towards me. I changed direction to get off of the collision course, but so did the boat.  I blew my whistle as loud as I could and changed direction again.  The boat followed, finally he slowed down about 20 feet off my bow and asked me if I was OK. I said that I was and he sped off.

There where a lot of big boats in shipping lane waiting in line.  Fortunately the lane was clearly marked.

Towards the end of the crossing, a combination of exhaustion, choppy waves, and uncooked rice in my belly had me puke up the contents of my lunch.  I rolled a couple of times cleaning off what little of it was on skirt and was back on my way feeling much better.

Making a landing in big waves is not easy.  My experience so far is to ride a wave in, then get out and pull the boat ashore before the next wave comes.  Otherwise the risk is getting thrown over by a powerful wave and having the boat filled up with sand and water. Having practiced the maneuver on that same beach in similar conditions before, I pulled it off without a hitch.  I was on the beach and my long tiring journey of the day was over.  I had been on the water between nine and ten hours.

On the beach, I took stock of the situation. Their was no food in my belly.  The dinner I had left over from earlier that day may have been bad, since the fish were probably already choking on the lunch remains.  I had about a cup and a half of oatmeal that I could make edible if not tasty.  And on top of all that, my radio had stopped working sometime earlier in the day.

If I was in Europe in these conditions I would have paddled to a parking lot, and called a cab to stay the night in a hostel. Fortunately for me, this was training, so I had another option.  I called my daddy.  I figured their was a fifty fifty chance that he would come and pick me up.  If he didn't, it would be rationed uncooked oatmeal.

The phone rang.  “Hi Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“Sandy Hook.”  I answered.

“What beach?”  His voice sounded insistent.

“I'm at the northern end, I don't know what beach.”

“So are we.” he told me.

I didn't believe him because that's the sort of ridiculous thing that me and my dad find funny.  But it turned out that he and my mom were on North Beach, not far away and would be happy to give me a ride home and some dinner.

Back in my boat, I met my mom about half a mile south of where I had first landed. I was paddling very close to the beach talking to my mom as we headed south to where the car was parked.  A wave, I don't know how big because I wasn't watching, slammed into me.  There was almost no water to my right so I tried to to use my paddle to brace myself against the sand and turn out to sea, but the wave was pushing me higher while it pulled my paddle under the boat.  Rather then fight it, I mad the quick decision to roll with it and come up the other side.  As my shoulder slammed against the sandy beach under me, the boat was twisted and ripped away from above me, hurled against the beach.

I sat up unhurt as the wave went back out to sea.  I was still taking sand out of my nose the next day.

Map

In answer to a bunch of questions people have been asking me, below is the approximate route I hope to take.