Santa Cruz Island

3 Days.  60 miles.  Fracking awesome. (Video here.)

This weekend Ka Nai'a outrigger embarked on an epic journey that many of us have been looking forward to all season: paddling out to Santa Cruz Island.  (A training run for our upcoming race to Catalina.)  For you non-locals, the Channel Islands are a lovely little chain that you can see on clear days off the coast of Santa Barbara.  Roughly 30 miles of open ocean separate Scorpion Harbor (our destination) from our home harbor of Santa Barbara.  (Below, I added a nice little line to this photo to demonstrate our approximate route.)

Questioning our sanity, we awoke obscenely early Friday morning to be on the beach ready to go at 5 AM.  Chris was gracious enough to get up as well and drop me off, with a simple command to have fun and be safe.  The sun was not quite out yet as we excitedly slid the canoes onto the black, still ocean waters.  The harbor was wrapped in mist and fog, giving an eerie glow to the pier and dock lights as our voyage began in full.  Co-workers and "friends" had tried to scare warn many of us in the days prior of recent shark activity in the area, but we were undaunted.  Numbering 17 brave souls in total, 6 in each of our two canoes and 5 in the support boat that lead the way, our excitement far outweighed our collective nerves.

Half way across the channel the wind picked up, and steadily got worse as we approached the island, which loomed illusively in the distance.  It took a little under 5 hours, but we made it across with no problems.  The whoops of joy and pride echoed from the boats into the hills as we came into the harbor, greeted by awestruck kayak tourists who had been ferried out that morning.  (It was hard not to judge them, but I managed to keep my prideful smugness at bay despite their dorky bright yellow helmets and life jackets.)


Our campsite was a small trek from the loading dock, and we forced our aching bodies to haul our double bagged possessions for the weekend over.  We made ourselves at home with tents and a small feeding frenzy of power bars, relishing our accomplishment.  The local red foxes eyed our food greedily, darting in and out of our campsite with catlike agility and little to no hints of intimidation.


After hydrating thoroughly, the day was still young so a few of us took an 8 mile hike into the hills of the island.  The views were lovely, and peering back at the mainland was invigorating.  "Can you believe we
just paddled across that channel this morning?" we kept asking one another in mild disbelief.  The feeling was indeed quite unique and incredible.  Collectively we had done something that few others will ever even think to do, and we could not have done it alone.  (At least, I wouldn't want to try.)

One of the paddlers had taken it upon himself to be the weekend chef, and our bellies were never in want.  From breakfast burritos to home-made salsa and granola, it was a heavenly feast.  I slept well both Friday and Saturday night despite a torrent of wind that swept through the canyons, and relished the company of teammates and the beauty of our surroundings.  There was swimming, laughing, toenail painting, stretching, sleeping, eating, more eating, and good company.


Before we knew it, the time had come to do it all over again.


The return sojourn had some unique surprises in store.  To begin with, the wind picked up early so the first hour of paddling away from the island could have easily been featured in some kind of I-Max film, or at least accompanied by Indiana Jones theme music.  The waves were cresting as I was stationed in seat 1 of the canoe, taking full hits of white water to the face and whooping like crazed cowboy; feeling very much alive and grinning like a fool.  It was a tough run back, and the mainland was encased in a thick cloud of fog which made it incredibly difficult to figure out exactly how far away we were.  Tired, hungry, and low on energy, it was an sensational moment to recognize "the red bell buoy" straight ahead.  Spirits soared and we dug in hard for the last leg, cheered on by a smattering of tourists along the pier.

Incredibly enough, we all had plenty of energy left over to put the canoes away and haul ourselves back to the launch ramp of the harbor to sort out our gear.  Happily, there was also a pile of leftover food to greet us on which we feasted while slapping one another on the backs with gusto, so happy to be home.  What started as an already tight team resulted in something else, something special.  I'm not sure what that bond is exactly, but it's good.  Almost as good as the hot shower I took when I got home.