Trippin' With the Narwhal

Trippin' With theNarwhal

Gomer here folks. Boy o' boy... here he comes again. Says he wants to borrow our 'puter here an' say a few words. He's got a nigh empty wine bottle a swingin' from his thumb... says his name is Faron--Faron Vaughn Bunchauser... boy o' boy....

Faron Vaughn now at the keyboard:

Now I know some of you whitewater aficionados have ended up vacationing at the beach from time to time--like when your nonpaddling Significant Other calls in your IOU chits from the previous winter's creekin' with your buds. It happens to the best of us so don't feel bad about it. Yes, you get called out to THAT beach where the masses go to soak up the uv's, start a jogging routine, pick up pretty seashells, browse the quaint shops... just like in the brochure. But sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

And that's exactly what I did.

But stay with me here; this is a story about kayaking-- a tale worth retelling.

So after eight hours of driving me and my lady were getting close to the Sea Turtle Lodge where we had reservations when we passed this establishment with a sea kayak rocking in the seabreeze from a big sign out front.

I made a note to come back out first thing the next day and check out the Flying Phish Outdoor Emporium.

And that's what I did.

It was 10am before the FPOE opened--beach-people seem to sleep late--and I was its first customer to be welcomed by the magnetic "Ding Dong" of it's door chimes (or was that "cha-ching"). A simple set of small wind chimes would have been nice.

"Good morning" said a skinny boy-clerk straightening up a T-shirt rack. "How may I help you?"

"I'd like to rent one of your sea kayaks for the day," I answered.

"Certainly," he replied. Have you ever kayaked before?"

Ballocks! Bad question.

I thought: You frickking pepperhead! Of course I've kayaked before! I'm a whitewater kayaker, fool! Can't you tell from my swagger? Can't you sense my superiority? Can't you pick up on the fear-o-mones here, dude. I know first hand the crimson moiling mess of fifteen K roiling down the Ocoee! Catch the Chattooga at six feet, chump; that's kayaking! Try the Grand Canyon of the Quijos flooded and with a dead cow or two tumbling by to keep you company; we're talking kayaking here! Brave the West Prong when it's a solid white serpent writhing and snapping at your gonads; done that! Chance the Gorges of the Raven Fork if you dare, slimeball; better have your ship together in that dreadful place!

I said: "Yes, I've kayaked before... just not in a sea kayak."

"Okay... here. Fill out this form and I'll need a major credit card--you know, for a security deposit."

Do you plan on keeping to the inlets and marshes or are you heading for the open ocean?" he questioned.

"The open ocean," I answered.

"Well, be careful out there. Know your stamina and don't go out too far."

Ballocks! Bad reply.

I thought: You pustuled punk! I've got your stamina right here! I'm a whitewater paddler! Can't you tell from my swagger? Can't you tell by looking--read the T-shirt, dwezilnut! Paddle a hundred plus mile marathon and never drop below ninety strokes a minute, fungusface; that's stamina for ya! Get pounded and sleep in the cold and rain for five days at the bottom of a Class V gorge in the netherland, turkey breath; better have stamina stamped on your brain for that!

I answered: "I'll try to remember that."

So we finished our transactions and I loaded the sea kayak--something called a Narwhal--and departed. I followed the signs to the nearest public beach access and parked. I donned my tank-top and hat, sloshed on the sunscreen, uncartopped the boat and threw in the skirt and paddle, then headed down to the sea. Being a world class rodeo boater, shouldering the thirteen plus foot plastic Narwhal was a bit more cumbersome then I'd been accustomed to so I thrust it overhead using both arms to lift it military press style, a technique I knew well from my days as an Olympic weight lifter. As I walked through the colorful garden of beach muffins reposed on their beach towels, lolling in the sun and smelling nectarously of coconut scented Austrialian Gold Dark Tanning Formula, I was careful to flex my pecs and throw out my lats, just as I'd done during the Mr. Universe competitions. Of course being a former student of psychology as well as sociology and anthropology, I knew full well this archaic idiosyncrasy was simply the manifestation of a holdover from the days when hominids hadn't been walking upright long, and my behavior was simply indicative of that having to do with scaring away potential rivals as well as the affectation of being good breeding stock (dudes displaying this semianic shenanigan can still be seen on hot, crowded days at the Ocoee). Boyswillbeboyz well into silverbackdom, some more than others; my research shows it.

But this is a story abut kayaking...

So I launched the Narwhal and headed out to sea. Several waves crashed over me as I paddled through the impact zone, but they were trifling compared to the ones I'd encountered during one rather unforgettable winter's days on the North Shore when forty foot close out sets kept all but me off the water...

When I lost sight of the beach, I knew I was three miles out. After awhile I saw only the top floor of a tall Timeshare and estimated I was twelve miles out... possibly more. I was feeling good.

Then IT happened:

I'd seen the movies when I was freelance film critic: Hunt for Red October and Crimson Tide (both two thumbs up). And, when I was a military adventure short storyist, I'd written about those "whoamomma cold malevolent nuckey-powered projectiles with conntower erections pointin' at the sky slicing 40 foot rabbets at twenty knots through the deep blue of the sea." So picture then 560 badd feet of Ohio Class Tri-Dent mys-syle packing blue steel bulling along at 25 knots and displacing 19,000 metric tons of water ENYOFACE! My first thought was: Flee! And, as a former Storm Chaser I knew the proper angle of escape was perpendicular to the threat. But I was a whitewater kayaker--I AM a whitewater kayaker-- so I charged head-long this steely denizen of the deep. Now I've done some monstrous boofs and splats in my time--some witnessed and therefore renown and some undisclosed and therefore pure--and the megaboof I was facing was in the realm of the ledgendspawners; one that would be laudogized and altercated around the rivergypsy campfires of the hencedecades... that is if I acted upon the notion of going public with it... (and I suppose I now have).

I set my boofline. The sensation of lift was incredible as I ramped up the face of the colossal green pillow that loomed out of the sea in front of me--the G-forces I experienced were like the ones I'd had while in the cockpit of my jet-engine Hoodoo Drag Racer--and I felt my very insides wrap around my backbone! My face contorted halloweenmask-like and the corners of my mouth schlepped back slaverfilled to my jawls! Looking through burning squintslits, I saw the bow of the Narwhal as it leapt skyward, brushing a dark cloud that bore the image of a laughing necromancer, watching the entire tableau unfold...

Now I've pondered the riddles of the Taoists and I'm in chime with that mystic brotherhood ESEA (Easter Squirt Existential Adepts). Therefore I knew I was in for significant DT and ablution of my very boatersoul when my boof plumblined and I looked down into a dreadful roildom that would surely render my molecules "at one with the universe."

I took a final breath amidst aural banshee wails and slid down the seaseam leading into the seasuckhole while riding the back of a Narwhal, of all things.

Heaven help me; the ignominy of it all.

I tucked, and into it I went.

Down, down, down... swallowed in absolutia by the cruel sea...

I felt the deck of the Narwhal shudder in quickbuckles of compression and the spraycover phulmp, struck by the massive fist of implosion, and I hoped to God that it would all hold together. Firey sea imps probed my eardrums with their dorsal spikes while I screamed in silence. Phosphorescent medusae helixed in brilliant vortices and mused not at the spectacle in front of them. Then everything ceased for a moment... until... a blinding effervescence (or was it hypoxic starrush?) took grip of the Narwhal and contrasped it back to the surface in obeyance of some arcane cosmic law.

Heeeeeeeeeeeee!!! I took an autonomic megawheeze of lifebreath while splayed on the back deck of the Narwhal as it exploded to the surface! Then it was over the falls... and back down into chunderdoom. Into the side-surf position I quickly resorted since I knew I couldn't survive another baptism of oblivion DT like the one I'd just experienced. I'd previously poo-pooed the Narwhal as the vehicle of choice by sissies, bird-watchers, poets, and ED'ers, but I now found myself reveling in its thirteen foot length and ninety gallon volume! The immense pourover roared by and I was able to side-surf the remaining 500 feet... out!

Almost

Ballocks! Prop wash.

I was caught in the most incredible turbulence I'd ever experienced: fountains of sea pulsed and mushroomed and boiled and danced and churned out of the bowels of the sub. Being a world-class playboater, I intuitively went into the stern squirt mode and rode it out. Now I've done many 720's in my time and even the rare 1440 (a pure 2160 resides verbally unclaimed on my mantle... and not it does not), but what took place next would be unfathomable to the present day rodeomind: perfect vertical spins measured in time, not degrees...

And then...

Where does the "white" go when all ceases?

Satori... on the back of a Narwhal, of all things.

I paddled back to the landing-- it took two hours-- and neaped exhausted upon the beach. The sun was low on the horizon; the beach muffins were gone. I loaded up and returned to the FPOE where I was greeted by the boy, still waiting on me... smiling.

"Have fun today?" he asked.

"Yeah..."

"Some crazy things can happen out there," He said with a wink.

"Yeah..."

SWACK! We exchanged a high five and I left.

I soon joined my special lady and we took a long walk, hand-in-hand, along the beach. We even picked up a few seashells along the way.

Unaccountable adventures are always the best.

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