Back on the Water

I'd like to add one last thing about my little break.  I got to spend time with a real friend; I haven't seen a real friend in a long time.  That is the hardest thing about this trip.

I spent the Sabbath couch surfing just outside of Genova.  My host was extremely friendly and a kayaker himself.

Day 42:

By the time I got to my boat and had it in the water it was noon.  So today I paddled to Nervi.  The weather was just as I'd left it, cloudy with a headwind.  Though the headwind wasn't as bad as it had been.

There is a seawall running parallel to the mainland for several kilometers in front of Genova.  It effectively creates a long wide lane of calmer water for large cargo ships.  I asked one of the mooring men at the port I was leaving if this lane had an outlet at the far end.  He assured me that it did but said that it was closed to smaller vessels and that if I went that way the Coast Guard would have a conniption.  He reiterated several times that it would be dangerous for me to take the path.  So far* I hadn't been able to attract the Coast Guard’s attention, even when trying on my radio.
I launched. Passing the entrance to the path, I thought it wouldn't hurt to take a look.  The lane was wide enough for two tankers to pass side by side and still leave room for a kayak.  I took the lane, and it turned out to be the biggest mistake I made today.

What started off as a weak current against me quickly turned into a strong one.  The large concrete walls effectively created a wind tunnel effect, so that while I was not paddling directly into the wind, as far as the current in this place was concerned, I was.



But other than my slow progress and my industrial barbed wire view, it was fine.  A boat did come in the opposite direction, but it wasn't much bigger than mine.  At the first opportunity I was out of the lane and onto fairly flat open waters making much better time, though my view of land was still of a large seawall.

There are many moored tankers in this area, and the view of the seawall and Genova's towering industry behind it made this to be a less pleasant place then most others.

I forgot to set up my new lure today, so naturally there were lots of fish splashing around.  At least one of them was a few feet long.

A whole school jumped over my boat, or at least tried.  Many of them thunked against my hull and fell back into the water.  One of them hit my arm, and a few lucky ones made it over.  I wonder if this was the kayaking equivalent of hitting a deer on the road in the night. If so, I'm terribly sorry.



Finally past the wall, I was rewarded with a great view of the residential section of Genova which is very pretty.  The Italian pink and yellow old homes atop short cliffs and old stone walls were very scenic.    Frequently beaches with many paddle and sail boats promised me a place to pull over as the day began to come to an end, but I wanted to make it to a port where I'd have a shot of getting some gas and a chart tomorrow morning.**

I had seen that Nervi had a port on Google maps, but I hadn't plugged it into my GPS and it wasn't on my chart, so I asked an old fisherman on a rowboat for directions.  It was the first old school rowboat I have seen on this trip, and I thought there was a certain comraderie between us non-motor mariners.  But he didn't speak English and started paddling away as I attempted to question him about the area in Italian.

Finally I got to the port I had been aiming for.  I would find the offices, tell them my story, and maybe score a place to sleep and a shower.  Except the port was almost empty of boats.  There would be no office or showers, this was a public port used only by a handful of fisherman this time of year.  The port was surrounded on three sides by Nervi.  Cliffs with small staircases winding up them or bars and restaurants.  At one end it was fed by a stream.  Atop one small steep boat ramp there was an old stone arch and open gate.  On either side of the arch a kayak was mounted on the side of the rock face.  The gate was open.

I found in the kayaking club a couple of kayakers who had just finished an afternoon paddle.  They kindly invited me to use the club’s showers and sleep here overnight.  The Nervi kayak club rocks!

Later I attempted to find an Internet cafe, asking in a bar if they had

“Wi – fi?”

I was told “This is Italy!” rather rudely and I couldn't expect people to speak English.  In my defense, I had looked up on-line how to say “Wi-Fi” in Italian and was assured that it already was.  Apparently the woman didn't know about wireless Internet.  It seems to me that obnoxious people should be required by law to dunk their heads in a bucket of cold water.

*One notable exception.

**Everything is closed on Sundays.

Bucket List

I realize the last blog was a little vague. I will now open up to questions.

Q: Can I have your autograph?

A: Yes. Questions about my trip please.

Q: Is it true that the girl who sat next to you on the train gave you her phone number without being prompted?

A: umm, yes. How do you know about that?

Q: Heh heh.

Q: Where were you headed on Tuesday?

A: Good question, I was headed to Geneva, Switzerland. I spent a few very pleasant hours exploring the snowy city. I enjoyed walking along its picturesque waterfront, a tree-lined street above an enormous blue lake. From there I got on another train to Morgins, Switzerland. I spent Wednesday and Thursday skiing in the Switz Alps.

Q: While skiing, is it true you fell …

A: Yes.

Q: … off of the ski lift?

A: ummm

Q: Twice?

A: If you already know then why are you asking. Maybe I had better just tell my story.

Q: If you must.

Flashback:

I was in math school. It was my last year and I had by then unsuccessfully asked out all of the girls who were showing up to the senior courses. This class was Measure Theory. The professor wrote on the board, line after line of proof and there might have been one student in the first row who was able to follow. Not only did she have a boyfriend but she told me this as he was sitting next to her in the library when I made my move. My mind wandered on to daydreaming on another subject.

There was a new chick sitting behind me to the right. Oddly, I hadn't seen her before. How to go about it? The professor droned on, and occasionally I would make a vague effort to figure out what was happening up at the board, but it was hopeless. I would have to learn the material on my own some time later.

The class was over, and I heard her talk to another student, in English! Nobody ever spoke to each other in English. She didn't speak a word of Hebrew, not only would this give me a conversation opening “Hi, I'm Dov and I'm American.” But it would mean that helping her translate things would give me an excuse to spend endless time with her. There is not a lot of English in undergrad courses at Hebrew U.

And so it was. While we never did hit it off romantically, Pocahontas and I are still good friends. Pocahontas is not a native American but a Swiss exchange student, and while talking amicably one day I learned that her parents had a country home in the Alps. I was invited to spend a week there skiing with her if ever the opportunity should present itself. A vague sort of invitation that I filed in the Cool Stuff to Remember part of my mind. (A much better place to store things then the Important Stuff to Remember section.)

I skied quite a bit while growing up in Albany NY, downhill and cross-country, and while I never got to be any good, I was adequate and I loved it. This was over a decade ago, I have not been skiing since I moved to Israel in 2001.

About a year ago we made plans. I would go with her to Switzerland for a little over a week during winter break and we would ski. They had all the equipment I might need and their cabin was a five minute walk from the lift. But it was not to be. At the last minute, the plans fell through.



Now, passing through Geneva, I remembered these plans. I might never be closer toSwitzerland than I was, and Pocahontas was there too, visiting her family. I was invited to go skiing with her Wednesday and Thursday. So I took the train and blogged last while on it.

On the train I was thirsty. I had with me my water bottle, but my lunch was in it. I don't like to be thirsty. I found the restaurant car and asked if I could get free water. No, I was being silly. If I wanted water I could pay four euro for half a liter of it. Their were sinks in the restrooms on the train with signs saying “not for drinking”. I tried tentatively, tasting the water first. It tasted fine. I wondered why the train would have undrinkable water on it. Where would they get the water from to put on the train? Was their soap in it? I didn't know, but I was thirsty. I drank.

 

The next day Pocahontas and I put on our skis, and took the lift up the mountain that overlooked the little village. The lift was a bench with a back suspended from a wire. It had a bar that came down in front, and a second bar to rest the skis on. The weather was in the upper 30's and the mountain was covered with snow. The view was stupendous.

 



I was confident I would remember how to ski. Coming off the lift I discovered that I didn't. Seeing my predicament, Pocahontas suggested we start with the bunny slope. I was pleased, only to discover that this “bunny slope” was a Wild Descent of Death. Nothing like the gentle bunny slopes I grew up with. I made the descent twice and felt confident that I had a handle on things and was ready for something a little more challenging. After that bunny slope I could handle anything.

 

Good god, I was both right, and wrong. I had a lot of fun, but Pocahontas's idea of easy was harder than anything I had ever done before in my life. And I learned to ski. By the end of the day I had not only reclaimed my previous skills long untouched, but I may have been skiing better then ever before. I had to.

 



One trail after another on the top of the mountain, the runs and the rides back up werefairly short. At the end of the day we took one long narrow path through the woods and along cliffs until we found ourselves back at her village. It was fantastic.

Pocahontas' family is very nice. Her father, a neuroscientist at the University of Geneva assured me that alcohol does not kill brain cells while they are in your head. On a petri dish, sure, but not while they're in your head. My reason for not drinking was thus fantasy.

Her sister just finished medical school to decide she wanted to get into film. Following a dream is something I can appreciate. My own had just got me a day of skiing in the Swiss Alps, a day I will remember for a very long time.



The next day we were on a different mountain. The trails were not so wide and open asthe day before. Longer and not as hard, it was even more fun, though I might have thought that impossible. Through the woods, over bridges, and down the mountain. We sped* down great white slopes from Switzerland into France. We had a view of the tallest mountain in Europe and admired the occasional old cabins and tiny villages that dotted the white peaks. Some of the cabins had been turned into restaurants for the skiers.

Most of the lifts were not chairlifts on this side, but long poles that came down from cables. At the end of the pole was a small disk you put between the thighs and it serves as half a chair. The cable would pull you forward as your skis found their way along the snow. It was like skiing up.

Sometimes, if there was a sudden hill you might find yourself airborne for a moment, a scary feeling that was not meant to be. Other times a sudden jerk might pull you quickly forward, or a little to the right or left. Occasionally it would stop and I once found myself slowly lowering with my rear almost meeting the ground before my skis went backwards and I was again standing.



My skis went along the tracks as I was pulled up and I looked, a little concerned, at theledge to my right. It was very close to the tracks my skis were moving along. I tried to steer a little to the left, and was then pulled back to the right over the ledge.

“OH SH*T” escaped my lips as I dangled perilously in mid air. Pardon my French. I tried to hold onto the pole but I was dropped down to beneath the path and beaten against the snowy side I had just fallen from. I let go and found myself on a ski slope. There was a fair sized crowd of people who had stopped to watch the spectacle and were laughing at me. Pocahontas had heard my expletive and came down to get me. We skied down to the lift and tried again, this time and for the rest of the day she was behind me in case I fell again.



The weather was just right and we stopped for lunch at a pleasant place a ways down themountain that still had the amazing view. We sat on our skis to keep the snow from freezing our bums. She told me how in the summer she would come hiking in this area, and about how beautiful the now white lakes were. Their were a fair number of dogs at the slope, I think they belonged to the people working there. They walked around and seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as everybody else. One man was sledding with his.

Up on the mountain there were people snowshoeing and cross-country skiing and snowboarding. Their were many different kinds of skis, and the ones that I had, borrowed from the neighbors, were apparently the latest and the greatest. They were much shorter and wider than the skis that I had grown up with. While Pocahontas was a master, when we were on the lift people assumed that I was the expert of the two of us. We spoke to each other in English so others assumed we didn't speak French. Thus we became privy to there conversations about us.



I was on a different lift, much like the one I had fallen off of, when a little girl in front ofme fell. They stopped the lift until she was back on and gave a thumbs up. It started again. Farther up the lift pulled us on a small path through the woods when I lost my balance and went down. I forced my skis back under me and made a miraculous recovery, only to fail at the last moment and go down again. Rather then pull myself upright, since I couldn't seem to stay there, or continue to let myself be dragged up on my side, since I didn't think this was good for my coat, I let go and scurried off the track into the woods.

Pocahontas, the ever patient, was soon beside me wondering what we were going to do. We could ski down through the woods, probably not a good idea, or go up. Up was a short ways, and with my cross country experience I might even have been at a slight advantage. Fifteen minutes later we were at the top.

 

We skied all day and almost never skied the same trail twice. The lift at the bottom of one path would take you to the top of another. It was a truly amazing time, and a wonderful thing to have on my bucket list. I can't check it off though since I want to do it again.

*I was the slowest person out there, but Pocahontas waited patiently for me.

Detour

Yesterday I got ready to paddle and then went to run a few errands in Genova. I had tobuy food, get a lure if I could find one, pick up a couple of gas cartridges, and above all, I needed a chart. I was about to be off my current chart and I wouldn't be able to find one in a small city. Waterproof navigational charts are hard to find, but necessary for the mariner who occasionally finds his boat upside down.

It was a long tiring day of exploring the huge port and downtown area in Genova. I found at least six closed marine shops, and got directions to more that I couldn't find at all. One shop that was closed for inventory let me in, but their charts were not waterproof and their gas cartridges were neither of the two kinds that I can use.



Genova has a nice port area with an elevated highway stringing through what would otherwise be a neat downtown area. Their was a small playground where the swings had seatbelts.

By some happy chance I did walk by a large fishing store and they sold me a lure that they assured me the fish would burst for joy at the thought of getting caught by. In fact, the lure was so great, fish would take one look at it, hop into a pot and serve themselves on a plate with a side of tastyseaweed. This was good, because if I ever do catch a fish, I'm not sure I'll know what to do with it.*



After my failure to get a chart I went to the marina's offices and asked them it I couldleave my boat there until Sunday, “You kayaked from where!?”

“Barcelona.”

“You brought your kayak on a plane from Barcelona.”

“No, I paddled from Barcelona.” I said.

“Yes, yes, you can leave your boat here. Have some chocolate.”



Genova is the northernmost city on my trip, so early this morning I got on a train for myspecial detour. My train ride is not a short one, and it's taking me through the Alps. I just passed a large mountain lake with an island. On the island was a picturesque village that is probably hundreds of years old. A great white ridge of mountains passes beneath me to my left and brittle brown and white giants shoot above me on my right. Forests of leafless brown skeletons standing out starkly against the snow covered slopes where they meet.

Elsewhere, the ground is shades of brown and stone gray. Here is a waterfall, half frozen pointing perfect icicles towards the ditch beside the tracks.

I pass a village with empty fields separating the houses and a great water fall coming off the cliffs behind it.



Higher up now, everything is white. White pine forests with a hint of green, whitemountains. We are stopped at a station and a plow clears fresh snow off the platform. Having lived in Israel since 2001, it's been almost a decade since I've seen this much snow.

A man in a plaid shirt and brown jacket showed me a badge and asked to see my passport. I guess I crossed another border, and am now out of the EU. I asked him if I could take his picture for my blog, and he said it's not allowed. Sorry.

I am disappointed I won't be paddling for the next few days.  But I don't think I'll be suffering too much here in the roof of Europe.

* Scale it, gut it, clean it.  You'll need a suitable knife.  I'm sure there are instructions on Youtube, Dov.  Cook it in a pan & use the bones & some of the other parts to make broth for cooking lentils or rice, too. ~ ed.

Lost in a City

Last night the Scout Master invited me to his home to shower and use his computer. He and his wife were very kind and gave me a chocolate bar and some homemade apricot jam from the apricots that had grown on their trees. I couldn't say no.

I checked the weather and saw there would be a strong north east wind. I thought that maybe if I stayed close to shore I could keep out of the worst of it. I would check the weather again in the morning at the port.

Day 41:
I was unable to check the weather at the neighboring port since it's closed on Sundays. Given the bad report I had seen the night before I decided I would not paddle today. After I finished my morning chores I was bored, so I put my stuff in my boat and paddled to Genova.



 

I had a solid tailwind, which left me with a problem. I could follow it out to seastraighttowards Genova, and if it held up I would be there in no time. If however it changed to the predicted northeast wind, then I would be in a bad place to deal with a bad wind. If I stayed close to shore then I would not enjoy the tailwind and might not even notice if it switched to a northeast wind. No risk no gain, and I wouldn't even know if I made the right decision. I didn't want to not know, so I took the tailwind on a course directly to Genova. It held up for about an hour before I had to desperately struggle back to the shelter of the cliffs.



The rest of the day was rough. When I had shelter from the wind, it was OK, but oftenI didn't. It was also very cold. I arrived at the first port in Genova late in the day, exhausted and cold. Banjo had given me a number to call for someone that would host me. Only they lived near the other port.

So I hitchhiked and took a bus and tried to call them but they didn't answer. Finally they did, and told me that they couldn't host me after all.

The size of a city has nothing to do with how many square miles it takes up or what its population is. It has to do with how scary it is. Genova is a scary city at night on a bus when you can't find anyone who speaks English. What's more is that asking directions for the port, that I thought but was not sure was next to the airport, was difficult since nobody knows it exists. I needed to get back to my boat and people kept giving me directions to the wrong port.

Eventually I found my way.

current location 44.415283,8.8376

Going For A Hike

Day 40:

Friday morning I was woken up by my new friend Banjo.  He told me to try to make it to Celle Ligure and gave me a number to call when I got there. The winds were good, which was nice because not everybody at the marina I had been staying at was happy to have me there.



The sky was overcast and I got drizzled on.  This was no light overcast either.  It wasthekind of overcast that blocks out any understanding of the time of day and hides the tops of mountains.

I began with a good clip but as soon as I was around my first corner (44.181342,8.409176) the current picked up against me and I felt as though I was inching forward.  Once past the pressure point I took into the bay and was again moving at a comfortable gait.

For the most part I was moving into a headwind, but not a strong one.  Sometimes I would have a small tailwind.  At one point (44.313347,8.502903) while I was paddling along a tall seawall, the water around me suddenly splashed up in a hundred tiny ways in the space just ahead of my boat, as though a school of fish just below the surface was spitting up.  The water in the place was kind of nasty looking, with goo floating about, I don’t blame them. This happened a few more times.

I passed an island with a lot of seagulls and pine trees.  Bergeggi Island, there was a cave at one end that had a small seawall on either side of its entrance making it perfect for pulling boats up into.

Later, a large tugboat was heading straight towards me, moving fast.  They were still a distance aways but I though it would be best if I used my radio to warn them about my presence.  Moving into the bay I had made a security announcement, but that was an hour earlier.  “Large white tug boat this is solo kayak, do you see me?”  Nothing, I tried twice more and was now running out of time.  I let go of my radio and sprinted to safety.
As I approached the destination I had programmed into my GPS, a Boy Scout's clubhouse off of a beach, I grew concerned that I had put in the wrong coordinates.  There were only cliffs to my left, no beach.  Finally, only a few feet away, I was around a corner (44.336373,8.543072) and the beach was there.



When trying to make a beach landing it is important that my boat not get dragged on the sand.  The trick is to paddle in just behind one wave but before the next.  At the right moment when the water is shallow, I release my sprayskirt and get out, hopefully without falling on my butt in the cold wet and before the next wave comes to wallop me and fill my boat up with water and sand.  If successful, the boat not being full of water and sand, I lift it out of the water and carry it ashore.



All of this worked except for the last bit.  In the morning I can lift my boat up with littletrouble, after an energetic six hour paddle, I could not lift my boat.  And as I tried it got hit with a wave and took on water, though not so much sand as it was a pebbly beach.  After that, it didn’t go so well.

Once on the beach I found the clubhouse which would be my home for the Sabbath.  I called Banjo’s friend who was happy to hop over and show me around.  The beach was loaded with kayaks and small sailboats.  The one room clubhouse had  small loft and a heater.   It was perfect.

The Sabbath:

The sky was overcasat and their was a light drizzle.  I have heard it said that Ukraine is the armpit of Europe.  Italy may be wonderful but at that moment it felt like the place where the sun don’t shine.

Friday night I had a small Sabbath dinner with a few supplies I had picked up in town and slept.  Saturday I went for a walk.  I walked on a sidewalk along the beach, and then above the cliff for a while and watched the big waves play against the rocks, some times shooting spray twenty feet high.

I then headed into the Beigua Mountains.  I walked along the road always going up.  Each street in the village was at least one story higher then the previous one, and one row of houses between them.  Soon the houses gave way to a slightly more spread out country side.  Olive orchards and small farms now used what side of the mountain they could.  The green that was everywhere was fresh wet green, the smell of the sea left behind I could now smell wood stoves burning and the mountain forest ahead.

I arrived at a parking lot after which the street became too narrow for cars and was crowded on both sides by pink and yellow Italian houses.  The shutters and doors were green.  A small yard filled one of the few spaces between the homes.  A big German Shepherd was there.

“Hello, I’m cold and wet.”  He told me quietly.

I nodded understandingly and put my hand through the gate to scratch him behind the ears.

“I love you.”  He told me leaning his snoot into my hand as much as he could.

I put my other hand through the gate to give him the full service that every dog is entitled to.

After the small village I was on a dirt road heading into the mountains in earnest.  The woodsy air that surrounded me was fresh and exhilarating.  Mountain streams were abundant, it’s been raining, and the sound of their rushing water and the cool sweet air that surrounds them brought a full happiness to my being that I hadn’t felt since I’d been kayaking.  I could see the sea, and the village below me, and more mountains in the distance.  I was walking on dirt roads and small paths through the clouds and the woods and everything was wet and fresh and good.

Kissing Into Italian

I'm in Finale Ligure. Yesterday was too windy to paddle. I met a member of the local kayak club who has told me that he will attempt to help me find places to stay for every night between here and Sicily. Currently he has me covered for the next four stops. I will call him Banjo.

 

Banjo doesn't speak a word of English, and I speak only about 17 words in Italian (and counting!). So we talk in front of my computer and use a translation program.

For example:

English: it's raining it's poring the old man is snoring

Into Italian and back into English: rain that the old man is snoring

after a round through Hebrew and Afrikaans: rain, the old man is snoring

Finally, translating it through some languages that I've never heard of including Azerbaijani:

I got: rain, old men kiss

Needless to say, I have a little bit too much free time on my 2^nd day off. And it's raining out.

This morning the receptionist told me that I could stay if I wanted to, but that I should try paddling away and see how it goes. I don't think he liked me. Maybe if I stay close to shore, he said, I would be OK.

The forecast called for a 23 knot NNE wind. A direct headwind. Some time ago I came up with the rule for myself that I don't paddle into 20 knot winds because it makes me miserable. While the receptionist was appealing to my more energetic side, I've already made the mistake of not following my better judgment too many times. I would not be convinced now.

But I was already suited up so I did some laps in the harbor and then thought about practicing some techniques that would get me wet. As the air temperature has been frigid for awhile, this being an unusually cold winter, and a result of my initial month long delay having me much farther north then I had hoped to be at this time, I wasn't sure what good a dunk would do for me. The idea of testing whether or not the water would make me hypothermic didn't seem too bright. When people recommend clothing for these water temperatures they recommend a dry top. I had a neoprene jacket and a splash top.



I paddled over to be next to the ramp and rolled. The water was cold, but exhilarating. I did it a bunch more times until I felt that I was on top of my game, and then went to take a hot shower.

When my gas stove's canister runs out I start on the backup canister and pick up a newone at the next opportunity. I haven't been able to find one in some time. Fishing shops also seem to be closed for the season which is why I still haven't replaced my last lure. I'm not far from Genova, hopefully my fuel will last and I'll be able to replace my canisters there.