| From The Sea Canoeist, vol4, 1980
I enjoy canoeing solo on the sea. It's not a thing to recommend; after all, one of the cornerstones of the coaching scheme is "less than three there shall never be", I think it is fair to say that in order to Solo Canoe you have to be in a state of harmony with yourself, your abilities, and with the sea. If and when you judge that to be the case, then you should be quite clear. There is no need to be apologetic about it to the Coastguards or Pilots or Fishermen or Rescue Specialists. The solo sea canoeist is safer than the solo dinghy sailor, and no one particularly criticises the latter. Yet it is the sea canoeist who is less susceptible to gear failures and less vulnerable to extremes of weather. Calms, foggy calms, force nines, not to mention tide-races and approaches to lee shores should all be handled better by the sea canoeist than by the dinghy sailor. (I hope I am not leaking any secrets when I mention that one of the few areas in which we lag behind is that of toilet facilities). Anyway, lots of people are doing it nowadays (solo sea canoeing) and probably always have been. One of them seared a white wake round the Isle of Wight last year, John Lee, who worked at Calshot for a season and now works at Poole and Dorset Activities Centre. He'd just come out of the Paratroops "with muscles like ripcord" and he set a record of 10 hours 52 minutes. For 60 miles (start and finish at Calshot Slip) that seemed pretty good going. He used a B.S.C.A. Cadet, whose design owned a lot to the W.A.Racer. It's fast but it doesn't look like a sea boat to me. (Mind you, neither do some "sea boats"). As soon as I heard of John's time I felt I had to have a crack at it, for the honour of the Scottish Sea Canoeists, and of the Anas Acuta (designed by Geoff Blackford, ex Head of Canoeing at Calshot). I didn't really think John's record was beatable - I just hoped it was. I didn't train very much - one 30 mile paddle and a couple of lesser stints in the ten days before the attempt. I over-ate the day before, drank pints of salty water, and made up a route on the chart with target distances for each hour's paddling. At 4 a.m. on Sunday, September 9th, my old Anas slid away from Calshot Slip. My 17 month old son, Finn, was intrigued by this nocturnal parting. Penny, my wife, told the Coastguards in their tower. As far as she could tell over the intercom they didn't bat an eyelid. In the first few strokes I knew it was on. The paddle was slicing clearly under a fairly clear sky - the invisible ebb was sliding down the line of red flashing buoys. Hurst Light red sector came into view from as far away as Depe. In the first dozen miles I didn't see another vessel. I held to the shipping channel to get the best of the big spring tide. A contrary breeze freshened before dawn and kicked up a jabble off Yarmouth and again through Hurst Race. It was still dark as one or two yachts ballooned through across my path. Then came the red and green lights of a cruiser, presumably heading up to Yarmouth and aiming close in on the island side to keep out of the tide. I altered to starboard. Red and Green. I altered to Port. Red and green again. Starboard and sprint. Either the helmsman's drunk or he's picked me up on the radar and is nosey. The engine note rises, a shape looms, and then a searchlight. I wave to acknowledge. "Get off the sea before you get yourself bloody killed". A Trinity House Pilot vessel. "I've told that ship you're here and I've told the Coastguard". "Thanks very much, the Coastguard already know" (and I'm in Totland Bay, well out of the shipping lane). "And my advice to you is to go ashore right now, before you get yourself bloody well killed". "Yes, that's alright, I have canoed solo round the whole coast line of Scotland and I do know what I'm doing .....". "I don't care what you've ...." "Alright, thanks very much, goodbye". It is unsettling, however. The man is an expert at his job but knows as much about sea kayaking as the average air-bedder knows about off-shore winds. Dawn comes in very abruptly. I count my paddling rate - 66 strokes per minute, and we are at the Needles in 2 hours 17 minutes, with 8 minutes to spare on the target and 45 minutes before the tide turns. All very factual. The taste has momentarily gone. This is the first time at the Needles - a strange amalgamation of sharp outline and soft white texture. No seabirds on the limestone. I really miss my auks and shags, kittiwakes and fulmars. Whitened rock would mean their presence but not this all-white stuff. I have my first stop of the trip just after Scratchell's Bay - a couple of minutes to drink half a litre of orange juice heavily fortified with glucose powder. All paddling comes from the abdomen and tight muscles there wouldn't allow solid food now. I make a navigational mistake, greedily edging to get on the direct line between Needles and St. Catherine's, even when I know that the tide is only in my favour close inshore. Using the SW swell I surf into Freshwater Bay and then turn and slog on. Most sea boats are at their worst in a quartering sea. I reach St. Catherine's without incident at 8.50, five minutes down on schedule and swing out wide to avoid the tidal eddy. Another half litre of this glucose elixir. The next half hour is the worst. You know in advance that there will come a time when giving-in seems the best answer to fatigue, discomfort and lapsed schedules. The crux on so-called physical marathons is always a mental one. Anyway, I plough up to Ventnor through black treacle. Ventnor is a typical Southern resort, all pastel pinks and greens perched on each other like a birthday cake. I have to laugh - and then it's all easier. The trip up to Culver Cliff is simple with hardly any tidal inset to the bay, and the light air is dead astern. By Bembridge it is flat calm and I am 15 minutes up on schedule. I thread through the weedy ledges then stop luxuriously for four minutes to sponge the boat dry. On my way back to Calshot it is practically calm, the tide is slack, then picks up and I enjoy passing the Sunday yachtsmen. I hold to North Channel and sprint the last half hour to make sure of breaking the ten hour barrier. A few twinges in the left shoulder and my first ever case of teno-sinovitus. The conditions have been pretty kind really. I land at 13.49 and the record is mine by over an hour. But for how long?......
|