May 17, 2003

Waltzing the Farm

From the shore there looks to be a stiff current, but it is an illusion of the waves sweeping by. Once my gear is secured I hop down the bank into the water and pull the boat off the shore. Slightly jamming the bow into the bank and putting the stern directly into the waves gives me time to climb in without too much worry from the pounding waves.

I back out from shore and turn north toward the fishing dock. By staying close to shore I get to play in the waves and take advantage of the slight wind break created by the lee shore.

There is only one person fishing on the dock, and rather than disturb him I paddle under the dock near shore. Freestone point looms ahead and with it the much larger wave sets and rebounding waves. In a few weeks I'm heading out to the lower Potomac to support the Potomac River Swim. These waves, although small, give me the chance to freshen my skills for the upcoming open water crossing that weekend.

At best, the waves rarely exceeded a foot or so. But it was a wet ride as almost every one that went by broke across my kayak. A few low braces - not because I needed them, but because this was all I had with which to practice.

As I cross the wide mouth of Neabsco creek the waves grow larger but not nearly as steep. The deeper water and 6 mile fetch made it fun for a while. As the wind continued to blow a cold mist into my face, my cheeks began to sting a little so I took off my hat and pulled the hood of my NRS Over-Sea Tour jacket over my head. I bought this jacket about a year ago and it has by far become my favorite fowl weather paddling jacket. Cut so that it can be put on over a PFD, it is comfortable and a pleasure to paddle in.

My ears appreciated being taken out of the wind by the jacket hood, but my eyes still squinted through the droplets forming on my glasses. I was soon in the mouth of Farm Creek and the wind quickly dropped off to nothing. It seemed as within a half dozen paddle strokes the water had gone from tossing me around to mirror-like, with only the tiniest of ripples indicating the tide was beginning to run out.

As I wound my way back into this creek, I followed one shore than another, twisting my way through the wide turns. A beaver swam out to greet me, but dived once my Sirocco curved gently to intercept its course. A single yellow flower screamed for attention in a sea of green. Farm creek is normally shallow and choked with lily pads - passable from end to end only at high tide during late fall to early spring. Any other time of the year and you risk slogging through deep mud to get yourself out of an area that can quickly drain when the tide turns.

I passed over a peninsula where years ago a thorn had pressed through my thin booties and into my foot. A lesson I still carry with me when shopping for kayak foot wear.

It is somewhat illusionary how this area appears with this extremely high water. Only when I floated across the peninsula did I bang my paddle on the bottom. As geese, ducks, and osprey take flight as I move further up the creek, my Sirocco continues to turn and twist as if by magic, being pulled along into something greater and more magnificent than what I had already seen.

The lily pads became thick and I lifted myself a few inches above the seat to pick the best route through them. The Sirocco danced and turned through the pads as if by instinct she knew where the open water would be. Like two lovers waltzing across the floor, each knowing where the other was going. Neither leading, neither following, and both gliding effortlessly across the room.

It was somewhere in this mist of feelings I began to wonder if this was here, just for me. Created from everything I know to be good and pure, the creek soaked in and soothed my soul as the Sirocco and I continued to dance. I tried and failed to think of a way to describe my experience. The words couldn't capture it and it was fruitless to try. Few people knew about the somewhat hidden entrances to this creek, even fewer have the means to travel it. I was convinced it had been created for me.

All too quickly I spotted the north exit back out to the Potomac, but I chose to stay in the creek a little longer. I paddled as far as I could until running out of water and turned back for the exit. Scraping over logs that would have prevented me from exploring this with even just a few inches less water. The air in here is sweet and trash non-existent; pristine and untouched by everyone, but me.

Near the north exit I again can hear the wind out on the river. I can see the waves working into the mouth of the creek. A mature Bald Eagle leads me out of my paradise and I have to battle my way though the waves breaking across the shallow sandbars at the mouth of the creek.

The wind and waves begin to scrape my experience from my skin as I head south back toward Leesylvania. Pulling my hood back on I can feel the essence of what I had just been through pulled away and left behind. I cinch the jacket up tight in hopes I might retain just a touch to take with me.

The wind and waves remind me again that I wish the Sirocco had a tiny bit more skeg, but I heel the boat over and sit more on the left side of the seat to help counter the boat wanting to turn into the wind. It seems like quite a long paddle back - across Neabsco Creek, past the rough water of Freestone Point, under the dock. But suddenly I'm back to where I put in. It catches me by surprise my paddle is over so soon. Landing and pulling the boat ashore, in what seems like seconds I'm back on the road for home.

Woody